Falls

Oh. The sound that escapes the painted stallion is scarcely louder than a whisper, but more powerful than any shout. And Ariah feels herself echoing it with a throaty hum as he pulls her closer, a noise that is somehow both objection and assent. In the end, the latter wins out— from the moment their shoulders touch, the snow-white mare surrenders to the selfishness of her need. Curling into him, she tucks her chin so the ash-colored veil of her forelock tumbles across both eyes. It feels safer there, like her own little sanctuary into which no one else can see. But when the stranger speaks, she cannot help but to peek out at him, clouded eyes curious and soft. It’s okay, I was a little chilly anyway.

Is it only her imagination, or does her companion truly seem to welcome the touch of her skin as much as she has welcomed his? Throat aching, she dips her head again and leans into his tall figure even more heavily, as if testing whether it will be enough to make him twist away. But he doesn’t, and the sound of his laughter that follows— even tense and timorous as it is— warms her almost as much as his body’s heat. Forgetting both herself and her doubts, she lifts her head slowly, slowly, and stretches out her neck until her muzzle is cupped in the hollow curve of his withers. While she is doing this, the ivory-and-gold male is saying something— his name, she thinks— and Ariah’s ears even flick back to catch the syllables from the frigid air. But it is a moment before her brain can assemble these fragments back into the words they’d been. A moment before she is composed enough to speak herself, and even then her voice is soft, breathless. “Ariah. That is, my name— my name is Ariah.”

The exchange of names is a reminder of just how little they know each other; a reminder that the intimacy she has presumed is hardly appropriate. But the stallion’s— Suleiman’s— voice was not (not yet, anyway) harsh with rebuke, so the grey mare stays where she is. If her reprieve from solitude is doomed to be short, then she will steal as much comfort and contentment as she can in the moments she’s given. For once, she is giving up on being selfless and good. For once, she is acting as she wants, and letting the fates decide as they will. “Are you warmer, now?” She finally asks after a long and silent moment, as if that has always been the intention of her embrace. Her voice is not the sultry purr an experienced stallion might expect— beyond this act and her brief time with Oberyn, Ariah is every bit as pure as her coat— but bashful, coy.

If not for the time and loneliness that have made her bold, she would be the first to pull away. Instead, she leaves that burden (or perhaps gift, if she has read his unspoken signals wrong) to Suleiman. Over the broad expanse of his back, she can see the skeletal shapes of the fall-bare trees, can watch the colorful blurs of their leaves drift slowly to the ground. Humming again, she lets her eyes drift briefly closed, listening for the beauty that she will someday be unable to see. The leaves’ dead, dry rustle brings her no pleasure, but the fluttering beat of her companion’s heart does. As does the sound of his voice— enough that the pale woman probes for it, murmuring another question just to hear his answer.

“Has the cold always affected you so strongly?” From another, the words might be taken as a jibe, as a subtle means of insulting him. But Ariah’s curiosity is genuine, as much because of her own struggles as because his answer might tell her more about this place. Perhaps it is not usually so cold here. She has heard of places where there is no winter at all, but a summer that never ends. Of course, heat can be every bit as cruel and oppressive as the cold. But not the sort of heat that she has found here.

Not the warm glow that has swelled within her, leaving room for nothing beyond the simple joy of the present.