Falls

The wind rises. Brown leaves, crisp in death, scitter across the ground and huddle against the roots of trees; naked branches sway, creaking like old bones. The thick, cream-colored fur of Ylva's coat is parted as though with invisible fingers, and while a tremor wriggles down her spine, the cold hardly registers in her brain. Already she is numb, from the tip of her ears to the bottom of her hooves. It's as though a cocoon has enveloped her: a cocoon to shield her from the world and protect her frayed nerves from unravelling further.

With her eyes screwed shut and her knees locked to keep her upright, Ylva shudders and moans against the tidal wave of grief assaulting her. Her breath becomes fast and shallow, clouding around her in the frigid air like smoke billowing from a wildfire, until a gust of wind rips it away from her and nearly buffets her off her feet. Her red legs snap out to catch her and her eyes flutter open; surprise snatches her breath from her.

In that instant, her cocoon partially melts away, and the world returns to her in semi-sharp clarity. Her legs tickle as fallen leaves brush against them; the heavy scent of damp earth hangs in her nostrils. She blinks away fresh tears, and one red ear twists back against the blonde tangle of her mane to catch the fading rumble of Errant's words. They are heavy, almost primal in their earnestness, as if the water spirit that lives in the falls has taken host of his body, filling him with the necessary boldness to speak his truth. They worm their way into Ylva, filling her and choking her with their weight. Her nostrils flutter as she struggles to steady her breathing.

There is a gentle squish: the sound of one cautious step in the muddy earth. In her peripheral vision, the tall, dark shadow of Errant's silhouette looms, and though Ylva does not look directly at him, neither does she turn her head so that the stallion disappears entirely. She lets him linger on the threshhold of her awareness, briefly closing her eyes as more hot tears quietly slip down the soft hair of her cheeks, and listens to the last of his plea.

"I could never deny you, but if you can bear it, let me hold on to the last thing left I can love in peace."

The weight of his words sits in her chest like an anchor, threatening to sink into her and swallow her from the inside-out, but something hot and volatile rises to meet it, pushing against it with fierce determination. Ylva spins on her heel, her ears laced against her crown, to stare into Errant's face with a wild, glassy-eyed expression.

"Errant," she snaps, her voice high and thin as the wind in the trees, "You were dead. You were dead and I— I—" Her eyes briefly drop to the ground as though the right words were scattered among the mud and leaf litter. When she continues, her voice is smaller, weaker. "I grieved you, Errant. What are you? What are you now? A ghost? A spectre come to haunt me for the rest of my days? What am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to react?"

She takes one step backwards.