Again and again the instinct to drive the horns forward, to shatter something with the fist of his skull. But he is disconnected from himself. Rage and its expression severed.

A sudden memory of lush summer pasture. The sweetness of virgin grass singing on the tongue and juicing the throat, as the sun bakes the meat under its black leather.

But the blood spreading over his shoulders is warmer still and settles in the dust like beads of mercury. Muscle bunches against muscle as he twists to find the source of pain. Steel blades flash at the edges of his understanding. His shadow dances next to him.