vraska
Air burst from the mare's nostrils like billows of steam from a furnace. The animal grunted her displeasure and Vraska urged her onward with an unkind kick to the ribs. "Come on!" she growled. Frothy sweat collected on the mare's back where Vraska sat and her bottom was thoroughly soaked in it. She hadn't had time to saddle the mare, you see. When the stable guards had come to investigate the commotion, it was then or never. She leaped atop the palfrey's back and was off, her departure heralded by the long bellow of a horn and a cacophony of eager hounds roused from their sleep.
She hadn't stopped to consider how foolish she was just yet. Under her breath she cursed the animal between her knees, angrily whipping the reins over and under its neck as she demanded every last bit of vigor from its flesh. She should have known better: this was not one of her father's horses.
Hot tears burned down her wind-whipped cheeks. She could barely see what lay ahead of her, the snow so thick and vengeful that the trees appeared only as dark phantoms in a cloud of blustery white, their disembodied howls biting deep into her flesh. The sounds of gnashing teeth and human voices calling after her had long since fallen behind. Surely they had given up their chase given this monstrous weather, but Vraska hardly seemed to notice.
Onward she insisted, paying no mind to the increasingly precarious footing, the rocks buried beneath layers of white. A gloved hand was raised to wipe the moisture from her face but it was thoroughly soaked and burned her skin. She grit her teeth and whimpered, no stranger to cold but not immune to its cruelty.
The mare complained. "Oh, what is it? You noble's palfrey, never made to work in the cold and soot!" Another kick, and a hearty groan came from the horse's throat. Vraska had all but forgotten herself. She could think of nothing but her father laying there so pale and weak, thin breath puffing from his discolored lips; her mother sobbing at his bedside like a coward. It was her - she had sold the rest of their horses, the last thing Vraska cared about in the world.
The unkindest cut of all: she sold Crow among them, to some bastard in plate armor who meant to ride her into battle! She —
A snap —
A jolt, a cry of pain. Vraska's heart leapt into her throat. The mare took a few jagged steps forward, neck bent down as she struggled through the knee-deep snow, stumbling all the while on the rocky earth beneath, then collapsed at last, crumbling like a clod of dirt between Vraska's fingers.
She was thrown a few feet away and the snow did surprisingly little to soften her fall. For a moment she lay motionless and winced against the ache in her bones. Blood throbbed in her temples and tears still spilled down her cheeks, mingling now with a fresh dusting of bitter snow. She sat up, looking over at the crumbled animal beside her. "Oh, no." Vraska stumbled to her feet, clumsily running over to the mare and collapsing to her knees at her side. The animal's lungs heaved as tired legs flailed uselessly in front of the trembling body. One of them was bent where it should not have been. "Oh no, no no —" Grief struck her suddenly. Regret, cold and heavy, sat down in her chest, and shame - white hot shame - burned deep in her gut like a heap of angry coals.
She grabbed up the mare's head and laid it in her lap as if asking for forgiveness, though she knew that she deserved none. In the mare's eyes she saw Crow staring back at her, cold and accusatory. "You fucking fool." She took off her gloves and stroked the mare's face as she slowly gave in to exhaustion and the life shuddered out of her, which took longer than Vraska could have guessed.
And then she fell back into the snow, warmth spreading all through her body as she waited for the frost to set down into her bones.
She closed her heavy eyelids, lashes beaded in frost. Let the mountain take her in her cold embrace; bury the foolish child of a woman in snow as deep as guilt and rage like another one of her endless secrets.
It must have been more than she deserved.
To her bitter surprise, Vraska opened her eyes to the sun brooding behind a thick, gray shroud of clouds. A burial shroud. She did not feel alive. She did not dare to think that she was even as she breathed deep into her lungs, still burnt with the memory of frost. Sitting up, her hands skimmed the ground. There was no snow, only black dust, like the ashes of a funeral pyre. She grabbed up a clump of it in her fingers and let it sift between them, imagining the life of the mare as she crushed it in a tight fist and flung it to the side.
Dead. There was no life in the air, just a haunting stillness. This is what she deserved, she supposed. She cast her eyes to the overcast sky, wondering if the gods were there looking down on her in pity and hatred.
Defiantly she rose to her feet. "I may be a fool, but I am not a coward," she muttered to the heavens. I am not like my mother.
She hadn't stopped to consider how foolish she was just yet. Under her breath she cursed the animal between her knees, angrily whipping the reins over and under its neck as she demanded every last bit of vigor from its flesh. She should have known better: this was not one of her father's horses.
Hot tears burned down her wind-whipped cheeks. She could barely see what lay ahead of her, the snow so thick and vengeful that the trees appeared only as dark phantoms in a cloud of blustery white, their disembodied howls biting deep into her flesh. The sounds of gnashing teeth and human voices calling after her had long since fallen behind. Surely they had given up their chase given this monstrous weather, but Vraska hardly seemed to notice.
Onward she insisted, paying no mind to the increasingly precarious footing, the rocks buried beneath layers of white. A gloved hand was raised to wipe the moisture from her face but it was thoroughly soaked and burned her skin. She grit her teeth and whimpered, no stranger to cold but not immune to its cruelty.
The mare complained. "Oh, what is it? You noble's palfrey, never made to work in the cold and soot!" Another kick, and a hearty groan came from the horse's throat. Vraska had all but forgotten herself. She could think of nothing but her father laying there so pale and weak, thin breath puffing from his discolored lips; her mother sobbing at his bedside like a coward. It was her - she had sold the rest of their horses, the last thing Vraska cared about in the world.
The unkindest cut of all: she sold Crow among them, to some bastard in plate armor who meant to ride her into battle! She —
A snap —
A jolt, a cry of pain. Vraska's heart leapt into her throat. The mare took a few jagged steps forward, neck bent down as she struggled through the knee-deep snow, stumbling all the while on the rocky earth beneath, then collapsed at last, crumbling like a clod of dirt between Vraska's fingers.
She was thrown a few feet away and the snow did surprisingly little to soften her fall. For a moment she lay motionless and winced against the ache in her bones. Blood throbbed in her temples and tears still spilled down her cheeks, mingling now with a fresh dusting of bitter snow. She sat up, looking over at the crumbled animal beside her. "Oh, no." Vraska stumbled to her feet, clumsily running over to the mare and collapsing to her knees at her side. The animal's lungs heaved as tired legs flailed uselessly in front of the trembling body. One of them was bent where it should not have been. "Oh no, no no —" Grief struck her suddenly. Regret, cold and heavy, sat down in her chest, and shame - white hot shame - burned deep in her gut like a heap of angry coals.
She grabbed up the mare's head and laid it in her lap as if asking for forgiveness, though she knew that she deserved none. In the mare's eyes she saw Crow staring back at her, cold and accusatory. "You fucking fool." She took off her gloves and stroked the mare's face as she slowly gave in to exhaustion and the life shuddered out of her, which took longer than Vraska could have guessed.
And then she fell back into the snow, warmth spreading all through her body as she waited for the frost to set down into her bones.
She closed her heavy eyelids, lashes beaded in frost. Let the mountain take her in her cold embrace; bury the foolish child of a woman in snow as deep as guilt and rage like another one of her endless secrets.
It must have been more than she deserved.
To her bitter surprise, Vraska opened her eyes to the sun brooding behind a thick, gray shroud of clouds. A burial shroud. She did not feel alive. She did not dare to think that she was even as she breathed deep into her lungs, still burnt with the memory of frost. Sitting up, her hands skimmed the ground. There was no snow, only black dust, like the ashes of a funeral pyre. She grabbed up a clump of it in her fingers and let it sift between them, imagining the life of the mare as she crushed it in a tight fist and flung it to the side.
Dead. There was no life in the air, just a haunting stillness. This is what she deserved, she supposed. She cast her eyes to the overcast sky, wondering if the gods were there looking down on her in pity and hatred.
Defiantly she rose to her feet. "I may be a fool, but I am not a coward," she muttered to the heavens. I am not like my mother.
WOW I didn't expect this to get so long. Have at her y'all
