Falls

He lay quietly. His sides rose evenly with each breath, a rhythmic counterpoint to the steady hammer of his heart against his ribs. His eyes, firmly closed, held captive a world of dreams. In that realm, he was surrounded by them, his loves, his muses, his lifeblood. Siobhan, his spotted crimson love, her vibrant coat a blazing beacon in his memories. The Norns had always drawn him back to her, their invisible threads weaving a tapestry of fate that bound them together. His strong, independent Tigerilly, her beauty a radiant force that pulsed through every fiber of her being, a mesmerizing balance of grace and power. And Ylva, her kind eye reflecting a gentle soul, her beauty a luminous glow that warmed his heart.

He felt their touch, the caress of their fur against his dusky grey coat, the warmth of their breaths mingling with his own. Their voices, etched deep within the darkest recesses of his mind, whispered promises of love and loyalty, echoes of a past that bled into his present. They were apart of him, woven into the very fabric of his being, a symphony of love and longing that played on repeat within his slumbering soul.

He awoke with a start, the faces of his companions fading from his mind like whispers on the wind. The world around him rushed back in, a myriad of sounds and smells, and he blinked back the remnants of the dream, drawing a ragged breath across his whiskered lips.

The realization hit him with the force of a crashing wave – he was alone. Only one remained on the Isles. Ylva's face, etched in his memory, immediately surged to the forefront of his mind. Just days before, he had pulled her from the precipice of a windswept sea cliff, rescuing her from a life on the brink. She was just as he remembered her – kind, soft, and radiantly beautiful, a beacon of light in the darkness. The thought of returning to her side, of burying himself in the warmth of her embrace, sent a thrill through him. His heart quickened, fueled by a longing as vast and deep as the ocean that surrounded their island home.

Tiredly, the aging stallion pulled his legs beneath him and stood. His tail swished across his white haunches and with a shake, dispelled dried leaves and dust from his coat. A lifetime of battles and seasons had etched their mark upon him – the deep lines around his eyes, the subtle tremors in his powerful legs, the scattering of grey hairs that had begun to mingle with his dusky coat. He paused a moment, letting his glacial gaze, seasoned with wisdom and indifference, wander across the few pairs of horses who found themselves beside the calm pool. Their youthful exuberance seemed to hold no interest for him. He was no longer a contender for the mares, a fact he acknowledged with a stoic resignation.

He pushed himself from within the dense thicket and into the rays of afternoon sunlight, his ancient body moving with a measured grace that belied his age. The air was thick with the scent of earth and sun baked grass, a familiar aroma that filled him with a sense of peace.

Bjorn stumbled to a halt, his steps abruptly halted by a sense of dread that coiled icy tendrils around his heart. An all too familiar figure emerged from the shadows, her silver hair a beacon in the bright light, her presence a chilling echo of a past he had desperately tried to bury. The woman, sleek and slender, her silver hair cascading down her neck and shoulders like a waterfall, stood at the edge of the pool. The years had etched their marks on her face, just as they had on his, but her eyes, the same deep, fathomless pools of obsidian, held a familiar, unsettling intensity.

He could not escape the echoes of their past, the promises broken, the trust shattered. His heart hammered against his ribs, his breath catching on his whiskered lips. "Well, well... it seems the gods have quite the sense of humor," he spat, stepping closer, his neck arched, his glacial blue eyes flashing.