Common

Long after the others had moved on, the buckskin stallion stood vigil beside the lifeless figure ragdolled in the snow. In death the coyote was a piteous sight, so far removed from the terror it had invoked in the meadow’s creatures that Jaskier struggled to juxtapose the two images in his mind. Struggled to conceive how this piteous creature— its ribs sticking up like dunes in the beige sand of its fur— could have faced down the five larger and stronger horses so fearlessly. Against insurmountable odds it had thrown itself in their midst, lips curled back in a hideous snarl and froths of white foam flecking its lips. As its sickly-sweet scent flooded his nostrils, the slender brindle was briefly aware of his own mortality, afraid of it. Afraid that he would die to the slavering demon dressed in lupine skin.

By now, both adrenaline and fear had bled from his veins, but something else now lingered in their place. Something unnameable, but no less tangible— a strange combination of reverence and revulsion. Though it had proven self-destructive, Jaskier could not help but to admire the predator’s courage in its last act. Instead of fleeing from the inevitable, the creature had faced it boldly; had fought against the world itself with every shred of strength left in its failing form. Tilting his head, the stallion touched his lips to the death-stiffened body in silent eulogy...and in farewell. Then he turned away, letting his cold-numbed limbs carry him forward and away.

Beyond the borrowed life granted by his passage, the Crossing was deathly still— as bleak and breathless as what he’d left behind. But the golden male plowed forward regardless, foundering through drifts of snow that were deep enough, at times, to brush the broad curve of his belly. Weary though he was, Jaskier was driven by something deeper than both instinct and conscious thought. The constant motion of his body was a tribute to life; to his life and the lives of others, to the life of spring that would soon lift the little death of winter.

Until his body failed or the sea rose to meet him, he would have kept going— save for the erratic path he stumbled across on his way.

Jaskier turned again when he met it, trailing along in the wake of the hoof-scarred snow as if that had been his intention all along. Drifting through the night, he chased without knowing what it was that he chased, only dimly aware of the dull ache of his muscles and the ragged burn of each breath. These discomforts were nothing to the hollowness in him that begged to be filled; to the hunger not for sustenance, but purpose. Meaning. And then— as if the world had felt his need, and could not help but to respond to it— suddenly, it was there. She was there, the pale points of her coat so bright they were like slivers of moonlight amidst the darkness.

By comparison, the wiry male was a shadow, save for the skeins of white that striped his ochre coat. Exhaling his breath in a soft whuff to announce his presence, Jaskier paused a single body’s length away, quiveringly gently. But when he spoke— when he lifted the silence that might have threatened to crush him only seasons ago— it was in a voice that was steady, unafraid. And warm, despite the cold that threatened to claim them both. “What are you waiting for?” He wondered aloud, black-rimmed ears cupping forward to catch what her answer would be. Once, he’d waited too, watching life eddy and swirl around him. Once, he’d been no more than a piece of driftwood waiting for the wave that would bear him away. But now? Now, he was the tide, rising with the tug of his bright yellow sun.

Now, he would be happy to sweep this stranger away at the beckoning of a single word.