Ofelia had heard tales of lands made pure with the blanket of winter, and had always imagined such a scene would be beautiful. But the landscape beyond the bitterly cold beach was not something that she marvelled at. No, the pallid scene was naught but an exquisite necropolis – the trees skeletons, the ground cold as ice and hard as iron. Even the blanket of snow seemed sinister, beckoning her to settle and succumb to a slumber from which she would never wake.
He came to her out of the grey, a creature of ash and smoke whose dusky hide was stark against the bleak, snowy vista. A ragged gasp of relief billowed around her muzzle, and Ofelia’s eyelids fluttered against the biting cold of the air. She staggered towards him, this unknown stranger who had become saviour to her. He cleaved through the wind and the snow, and when they came together, Ofelia cleaved to his side, grateful beyond words. The little red mare trembled along the length of the grullo male, and leaned into him, seeking warmth and needing support.
“Thank… Thank you.” The words were whisked from her muzzle by the gusting wind. Closing her eyes momentarily against the numbing cold, she raised her muzzle, pressing gently at his neck, nosing through the cold strands of his mane. “I will go wherever you lead,” she promised, bolstered briefly by his very presence, and his encouraging words. She was not alone, and she had been given hope that she would see this winter’s end. But as they moved off, Ofelia following the stallion’s direction, a dark possibility made itself known to her and demanded to be acknowledged. “O-Ofelia, I am Ofelia,” she gulped, fear of the future – or possible lack there-of in her case – was like a noose around her throat.
The paso fino was so out of her depth, so alone and at the mercy of the elements. Perhaps her father had been right when he said it was foolish of her to leave the safety of her home now of all times, but Ofelia had rebelled still, and there was no changing what was past. However much she yearned to be free from his cruel control, no matter what solace she might find, she still resisted the idea of death. Until the very last, she would hold on. But, in case she could not break free from the chill that threatened to spread from her bones and slow the beating of her proud and fierce heart.... More than death itself, the thought of dying in a foreign land with no-one to mourn her passing, terrified the tremulous and tender little mare. The words she spoke next were naught but a weak whisper, breathed close to the stallion’s cheek, her amber eyes blazing like embers.
“Remember me, if I fight and fail.”
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