Falls

As Ylva drinks deep, with eyes closed and mind as clear as the pool of cold water before her, memories skulk among the shadowed edges of her consciousness. At first their presence is quiet and gentle as the whisper of the fir trees, but as they encroach on Ylva's awareness, their whispers crescendo into voices. Behind the darkness of Ylva's eylids there's the flash of a familiar red coat. A charming smile. A ticklish whisper in her ear.

They stand mute, a sharp coppery tang in the air—between them, a small, cold body.

Ylva's throat tightens and she is forced to pull away from the water, tears brimming in her eyes as she half-chokes down the last of her drink. In her peripheral vision, the dark bathing stranger moves—first out of the water, and then in her direction—and Ylva keeps her gaze averted to let them quietly pass. Loss swells like a wave within her, strong as any tsunami, and her posture stiffens in an effort to keep it contained. No unsuspecting stranger needs to see her lose composure.

Then, a touch on her shoulder, and an ear-splitting cry of surprise.

A breath rips from her.

That voice. That scent.

When she turns, her eyes are glassy and her ears are twisted back against her crest. Before her is what she can only assume is a delusion, a figment of her grief-shattered mind, for the Errant she knows is most certainly dead. Yet here he stands, a dark mass with wet fire-tipped curls plastered against his skin, sleek and shining from the water. He is so real she can see the individual hairs on his face, the many scars littering his skin. She can count his eyelashes. She could even touch him, if she wanted to.

Ylva gapes uselessly, the air strangled from her throat. She takes one step backwards into the shallows, then another, and then a rear hoof slips on a rock slimed with algae and she stumbles, kicking up a spray of freezing water against the sensitive skin of her belly. Her gaze, when it refocuses upon Errant, is sharper with clarity, yet there's a quiver to her bottom lip she finds her voice—a tender, raw half-whisper—at last.

"My knight."