Warhorse. Panting, straining, muscles rippling as he runs into the battles of man. Into the battles of man. Why? He is prey, built to run away from the enemy, fly with the wind, fleeing for his own life. He is not a predator. He has no fangs, no claws, no lust for blood. Yet he runs into the roar of death.

Built to flee, taught to fight. He throws himself on the sword even as human soldiers do the same. His thoughts are concentrated and his loyalty is unwavering. He will run until he dies, serving his master. He will shy from nothing, spare no valiant act.

He will overcome the nature of himself. Everything he is as a horse, he shall leave behind in the warm stables of peacetime. He shall stride forth a strange creature, in limbo between predator and prey, hunter and hunted. Like the men, he must forget how it feels to give in to fear, must learn courage. Must learn to strike rather than to run, and to never look back. He is a poor beast, a twisted version of what he once was, but proud, an angel woven from barbed wire.

Just like the men who ride him, once he has been turned he shall never be the same. Even when he returns to sweet hay and green pastures, he shall not forget the blood-slick ground and desperate cries. He will never truly be a horse again, the uncomplicated runner he was. There will always be fight in him, an edge no soft touch can tame.

Yet he is not to be looked upon with guilt, remorse over what he has become. For, though at a great price, he has grown, morphed into something quite more amazing, more valuable, more rare than a simple horse, knowing only the art of running to save himself. He has his shadows, yes, but with these stains he possesses wisdom, courage, strength. He has shed the trappings of his small mind and small world. He has become a warhorse.