Falls

Motionless, numb, Kvothe watched the large stallion approach their son from somewhere outside the pain-wracked prison of her body. Slowly, the dark muzzle followed the arch of Aslan’s neck— the curve that was twisted in a way that flesh and bone should not be capable of. Gently, the lips that had once traced patterns over her skin pressed themselves to the boy’s muzzle. And Kvothe, still frozen, still floating somewhere above herself, could only watch as the faint spark of hope in Tyr’s eyes went out. As grief washed over him— and then found her too, dragging her beneath its turbulent waters even as she struggled to claw her way out of this terrible dream.

Kvothe…. I’m sorry. He is...he’s gone.

No.

No, no, no, no. The single syllable tumbled endlessly through the maelstrom of her thoughts, just as Aslan’s body had taken forever to fall, to— “No,” Kvothe finally managed, suffocating on this single word. Choking on the tears that suddenly flowed, hot and blinding, down her face. “He— he can’t be. He’s just— he—” Without warning, the red Friesian’s speech dissipated into a wordless wail. Into a sound that was half-groan and half-sob, and that— once freed— continued to claw its way from her in shuddering convulsions. She’d done everything that she could for her son, given everything that she had to protect him. And in the end, it didn’t matter. In the end, she was left with nothing of the life she’d paid for in her own blood and tears.

Nothing.

Dimly, Kvothe became aware of the yielding wall of Tyr’s body, of the gentle warmth of his touch. Without a thought, she surrendered herself to both. Pressed her face into the pale curtain of his mane, inhaling ragged gasps of his familiar scent. Curled her slender form around his, holding herself to him so tightly that one body was indistinguishable from the other. Clung to the chimeric male as she would a boulder in the midst of a storm-wracked sea, desperately striving to hold her head above the water. But with a single sideways glance, her dark eyes found the unmoving figure again, and Kvothe briefly let go.

She sunk, thoughts and heart dipping beneath the cold sea of her grief, and did not resurface for a long time.

When she finally did, it was not Tyr that brought her back. Nor was it the growing ache in her belly, or the burn of her dry throat. When the chestnut mare rose again, it was a series of ululating calls that lifted her— a chorus that she knew all too well. Trembling like one of the ember-colored leaves that still clung tenaciously to the branches overhead, she looked up into her companion’s eyes. Pleading with him for— for something. For mercy, for release, for the power to take back what had happened. But the second set of calls were closer, more urgent— intensified by the scent of the blood that trickled out of Aslan’s mouth in a thin line, out of the scrapes and scratches that marred his tawny hide. Run, Kvothe’s instincts screamed, tensing the muscles beneath her ember-red coat. But she did not move, beyond turning to face the lightening shadows with a strange, hollow sort of courage.

Stay, her heart begged her.

Stay with your son. Chase him into oblivion.