The Payment

He didn’t know how long he’d been running now, but he had to draw it away; away from the herd, away from Illyrica, away from her. It was his fault - his weakness had brought it down upon them and now all he could do was run as he had done so many, many years before.

It had been a mistake - he had never meant it to happen - but her warmth and her scent! It had been too much; he should have waited, he shouldn’t have told her, he should have told her before or after or never at all but he should not have told her then, when every fibre of his being had wanted her and she had wanted him and now it was too late for anything because the deal was broken and the storm had come.

There was no voice, no warning: they had lain asleep together and had been woken by the sudden crashing of thunder - lightning striking - fire, screaming - the scattering of hooves on the mountainside - the noise of his coming death…

He had known then. It was coming for him. He had betrayed it, broken its trust, and it would not allow this to stand; this was no gentle summer breeze, no winsome zephyr: this was the storm, this was the hurricane he had pretended he could master and now it came for its share of the bargain.

His magic was useless against it. It was his magic, turned against him by the spirit of death and chaos; he had betrayed it and the storm did not forgive. The thunder was its laughter as it watched this foolish stag try to escape; as it watched the traitor flee - he could not flee, the storm was everywhere, was everything.

He faltered, his body failing; lightning struck behind him and he struggled on, hooves scattering on the slick path: they had no purchase, no grip… no ground.

The mountain fell away.

The lightning arced.

The storm took its payment.