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Avalokiteshvara had had an agonizingly long time to think on her way back to the defenders. She thought a lot about Shrivatsa. She had left the young mare as the alpha of the herd when she left and knew that it was early, far too early. It pained her to thrust responsibility onto her beloved great-granddaughter's shoulders but saw that she had little other choice in the situation.

What she hadn't told Shrivatsa was that she didn't think that she was physically able to lead the herd to safety. Her old legs no longer worked as they used to. She, their leader, had been barely able to keep up and then lost even that ability. How could she run and guide them to safety if she couldn't run? Rather than force them to move at her plodding pace she had cut them loose, then slowly making her way back to where the battle was being fought.

Oh Haya, oh Scythe... These names she repeated over and over in her mind as she made that journey. Those two were her most beloved, those that she cherished above all else in the world. She didn't just want to be beside them, she felt a driving need. When she finally arrived at the nightmare of the fight, she realized why.

Haya lay on the ground, locked in a deadly grapple with Samsara. Scythe wasn't too far away from them, but he was beyond her help. The one that she could save was her son. She had given him life once when she had birthed him and would give him life once again.

"BEGONE, YOU DEMON!" Angry and protective, she sounded akin to an ancient goddess shouting down from the heavens. Vara, who had never before attacked someone out of either self-defense or anger, ran at Samsara.

Silence hung over that land of death. Haya wanted to scream but could only draw enough air in to give a wheezing whistle. Samsara stood with her horns embedded deeply in his mother's chest. When she drew back there was a spray of red. She fell and Samsara raised her head high, crowned with the blood of his mother. She was a dark queen, baptized in murder.

Even if Haya had been able to breathe he would have had no words to say. There was nothing that could express that shock and pain. Vara was mortally injured but not dead yet. Haya met her eyes. She mouthed something at him, silent but with clear meaning.

Haya, please don't. Please don't.

He didn't know what she meant, but then suddenly he did. A feeling he hadn't felt in years was bubbling to the surface. It filled him with fire and a burning hatred that a skinwalker would have been proud of. It was time to kill Samsara.

Turning his back on his mother's final wishes, Haya roared like a wounded animal and flew, jaws wide open, at Samsara's face.

Rosiotti practically reveled in Padma's blood as it splattered against his face. He felt a bloodlust coming over him. All he could think about was sinking his teeth into her again and spilling more blood. And she seemed to be making it so easy for him. She was distracted. By what? He didn't know, nor did he care. His mind was so completely focused on killing Padma that he was oblivious to the carnage going on around him. He hadn't felt or seen Nirvana's light, hadn't seen Zulian end the half-angeni's life and mortally wound the old stallion. He was so zeroed in on Padma that he didn't even witness Samsara murdering her grandmother. He was too busy planning where to dig his fangs into his opponent.

But just as he was about to make his move he heard something he never expected to. Samsara's scream. Suddenly all of that attention he had directed at Padma went straight to his leader. Surely it was a cry of victory....right? But the sound...it was nothing like victory, it was more like agony. When he finally caught sight of her, head locked in her father's jaws, he was horrified. That stallion was going to kill her! Rosi couldn't let that happen. If Haya killed her he would have no purpose any more. He didn't want to go back to that pathetic thing he had been before. His ears pinned back flat against his skull and he bolted straight for Haya, completely forgetting about Padma.

Vara cried softly in pain and sorrow. Her dear son was losing himself to anger, just like the demon skinwalker wanted. Her dear lifemate was bloody and broken. She rested her own head on Scythe's neck and shut her eyes so she wouldn't have to see the injuries there. "I'm still here," she whispered. "But not for long." She could no longer stand and doubted that anything short of an elder unicorn would have been able to heal her wounds in time.

"At least we're together," she murmured into his mane. "But, Haya..." Her voice broke with grief and she could continue no longer. If she was leaving this world she wanted to know that those she cared about were safe and happy. She couldn't imagine leaving Haya while he was at war with himself, but it was not her choice to make. She just wanted them to... them to...

Her eyes shot open. Her mind was fading. It was too soon. She couldn't let herself slip away just yet. There was still so much she wanted to say...

"Oh, Scythe..." She wept and gazed upon her love, fixing his image into her soul.

Samsara was back in the air before Haya had a chance to attack her again. Blood oozed from her torn eye and from the puncture wounds all over her face. She had never felt so much pain since she first was cursed to be a skinwalker. She wasn't screaming anymore, instead emitting strained and tortured snarls. With her one remaining eye she sighted Vara and Scythe. They embraced each other but death had a far tighter grip on them. Both of them were dying. Her father's loving parents would be no more. Haya wasn't dead, but she had won.

More so than killing him, she realized, this was the most fitting revenge. She had lived life with no true father and now had inflicted the same thing upon him. Slowly she rose higher in the air. She was well out of his grasp now and almost flying at the level of the treetops, as high as she could go. With her father bellowing his rage after her, all that she could feel was... nothing.

A sense of completion washed over her. A burden was lifted from her shoulders, one that she had carried so long she had forgotten what it felt like to be without its weight. It was finished. There was no more rivalry with her father. She would never again need to try to kill him or spend a long night cursing his name. She had injured him deeper than his own death ever would have. It was done. There was no more she could or needed to do to him.

She turned her bloody face upwards and inhaled deeply of the clean winter air. At last, she was free.

She opened her mouth and gave three barking cries, the signal for withdrawal. After a moment she gave them again. With wings still beating their steady pace she looked down at her father with her new one-eyed gaze. "Goodbye," she murmured to him. There were still so many other soquili out there in the world, so many potential victims. She would still maim, torture, torment, and kill, only now she would do it on her own terms. She was Samsara, outcast of the Padmapani, no longer. She was a terror in her own right, and she would make sure that people learned that.

Giving the withdraw call once more, she left.

It wasn't as easy for Svanbjorn to extradite himself. The son of the dead half-angeni was attacking him viciously enough that he was worried for his life. Ever since Nirvana died, Svanbjorn had been doing all that he could to not be the next body decorating the ground. It wasn't helping that Carmilla was barely doing any better so close by. She really wasn't born to be a fighter and he was surprised she was doing as well as she was. She was returning the crazy mare's attacks blow for blow and even looked like she was enjoying herself.

When the withdraw order came it didn't stop Glissando from attacking him. Svanbjorn didn't dare try to fly away in case his wings were attacked and damaged irreparably. He ended up having to awkwardly back away enough until he could make a quick sprint. Even then, the stallion almost caught up with him. Thanking his lucky stars, Svanbjorn shot after Samsara and away.

Carmilla was close behind him. Exhilarated from fighting for her life, she felt like a newborn filly again. Life was still so full of surprises coming from the most unexpected of places.

She was getting away! Haya roared his rage to the sky and to his daughter's dwindling shape against the clouds. It tore him apart to have been so close to victory only to have failed at the last moment. She lived while his parents were dying. He held onto his rage because it was the only thing keeping him from having to face his grief and sorrow. He couldn't even look at Vara and Scythe for fear of drowning in a maelstrom of despair.

"Haya... Haya, please," murmured Vara.

With tears in his eyes, he turned to look upon his parents. Just as he had feared, the fury left him and sadness took hold. He shuffled to their side as if walking through deep snow. "Mother, Father," he breathed. "I'm so sorry. This shouldn't have happened. She came here because of me." That was the heartbreaking truth. Samsara was only here because of him. Because of him, they died.

Scythe was left, unable to raise his head to speak to his son. His breathing still very labored, he left his head on Vara's body as he spoke.

"Haya...." he took in a breath, "Revenge is not...." it was hard, but he had to get this message out. "Not sweet.... Pro..." he gasped for air, "Protect them," he reference the herd. Haya was now the only official protector the herd had... Scythe was unwillingly finally giving over the position fully. "Love....them..." He closed his eyes, trying to hold on as long as possible.

He could hear the sound of Vara's heart becoming softer and slower. He knew that she wouldn't be able to hang on much longer either. He took in another deep breath, he had to tell her... One last time...

"Vara..." she spoke to her softly, "You...." he cringed as a pain hit him, but he struggled through, "You saved me." Tears began to roll down his cheeks onto her coat beneath him. "My life....." he took in another breath. "....always for you...."