he giveth and he taketh away; round i - closed, tersias in.

[a demon]

You sleep, or you don’t.

It matters not.

Come morning, nothing remains of Beqanna; scorched earth spreads out before you as far as the eye can see. The handful of survivors mill around, sobbing, muttering, sniffling—they’ve all lost something or someone, just like you. And the lot of you make the tall mountain your home for the next few days. You have nowhere else to go, after all. Not yet. There is still the dead to mourn and bearings to regain. In the meantime, some go about finding edible food and others look for water nearby. You make yourself as useful as you want to. Over the next few weeks, you make friends and enemies; inevitably, you all become lost in the day-to-day struggle and it seems the mountain is going to become a permanent home for your new makeshift herd.

At least, it would have. If not for what’s stirring down below.

It starts with one.

A horse, or what seems to be a horse, comes crawling out of the ash; hairless, charred black, there is dark magic at work that calls to the corpse and the other corpses. It makes them rise. They do not speak—but they do seem to communicate; guttural growls and shrieks draw the undead army together. They do not move naturally, but their jerk-and-twitch motion seems sped up, somehow; they’re much, much faster than they used to be, at any rate. It takes them less than a day to devour every animal unlucky enough to escape the fire.

They can smell you, too. You and your little group that thinks they’re safe high up on the mountain. Eventually, their hunger gets the best of them and they begin to make their way up, up, up—a putrid stench proceeds them and their approach is hardly silent. They have no need for silence, not when they can so easily run you down and rip you apart. Your only hope now is being faster than someone else.

Tantalize has been eliminated. Instead of ending up on the mountainside, you chose to head to The Beach.
Naoi has been eliminated. Instead of ending up on the mountainside, you chose to go to a meadow.

For failing to respond to this round, Tersias has been eliminated and will receive a defect. Everyone else, stay tuned. Your results will be posted soon.

Tersias, you have received Wormskin – You are now encased in thick, slimy brown skin and a fat ring of orange covers your neck. You no longer have hair and will crawl on your belly for the rest of your days. Slime tends to mark your trail and birds will certainly enjoy trying to have a go at you. Burrowing during daylight hours will come naturally to you, due in part to the fact that if you spend too much time in the sun you are sure to dry up.

I'm sorry, darlings.

• You must write about the weeks that have come and gone since your character ‘woke up.’
• What have they been doing? Who have they met? How is life on the mountain?
• Your character must make a total of three ‘friends,’ no limit on enemies in the group. There are thirteen horses, your character included, in the entire group. One friend must be gray, one must be chestnut, and the last one must be black. Name them whatever you want.
• When the horde attacks, you must decide which one of your new character’s ‘friends’ gets sacrificed to the horde to save the others. Choose wisely. If your character decides to sacrifice itself, stop your post before the horde actually gets to them.
• How they/your character are/is sacrificed is entirely up to you.
• You have 48 hours from the time my post hits the board. The round will be over after 48 hours or after all participants have replied. You may withdraw from the quest within this time to avoid a defect. Failure to respond or withdraw within 48 hours will result in a defect and automatic elimination.

This round, you will be judged based on creativity and the general flow of your post (poor grammar, sudden changes in tense, etc, will be huge no-nos). A non-participating owner will be consulted if you decide to contest the results once the round is over. One horse per round will be eliminated until we get down to the final three.

[Drow]

If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together

He tried to care.  He did.  The sobs of the few survivors mourning their dead, the whimpers of those who had escaped the flames with only a few horrible burns…he…well.  He couldn’t find it in his hollow, aching, empty chest to give a damn about any of them.  They were no more real to him than the half-lives he’d made in that other world, drawn up out of the dirt with another dead man by his side.  He couldn’t heal them.  He couldn’t help them.  He couldn’t put their world back together.  And he couldn’t seem to care.

He’d felt a lot of things before.  Rage, hatred, agony, despair, but never this absolute numbness, as though there were nothing left inside him to feel anything at all.  It had all died in the fire, right alongside his brothers, his sisters, the only mother he had left.  Because she would have found him by now.  She would have come to him, if she were still alive.  She would have found a way to wrap herself around him and sing that dirge she’d sung when she lost little Noctem, when they’d curled up around the twins, one living and one dead, and held them both while their strange little angel had sobbed for her dead brother.  When the Sun had buried him inside the Moon’s ribcage, nestled him up close where her heart used to be.  She would have sung it again, for all her newly-dead babies.  If she hadn’t finally found a way to join them.

And you’re Nothing without them.

That sick, insidious little voice had made its comeback; the fire had burned away whatever box it had been sealed in inside his head.  Sibilant crooning, slithering its way around his brain and reminding him that everything that had ever mattered to him was gone, gone, gone.  And even the fire didn’t want you, did it, precious?  Even the fire left you behind, not even worth devouring.  Poor little love.  Poor little Nothing.

He’d always been able to rely on his body before, to drive away the seductive murmurs and vicious whispers through focusing on his senses.  Well.  Hearing had never really helped much.  There was a difference between the sound of the world around him, the sound of other voices, and the sound of That Voice.  But trying to feel it out, trying to sort out the difference between what his ears heard and what he perceived made him feel like his head would split in two.  Smells were a good one, but all he could smell was smoke and ash, charred earth and charred flesh and the remnants of world destroyed by fire.  Taste had never done much for him, not when he was like this.  Touch, though.  Touch worked.  Any physical sensation, really, but the firing of pain nerves had always, always helped.  But with all of them gone?  He could have bashed his own skull against a sharp rock and he would have still felt…Nothing.

Sometimes it helped to focus on what he saw, on what was right in front of him.  But all he saw was his fellow survivors, if they could really be called that.  They were a fucking ragtag lot, the twelve of them.  Thirteen, if he counted himself.  He wasn’t inclined to count himself.  Perfectly ordinary in coloring aside from one older man who was the green of the jungle, of heat and humidity and endless growing things.  Battle-weary, like he’d seen it all.  But then, most of them had that faraway look in their eyes.  

They ranged in height from pony to behemoth, the largest a few inches taller than Drow and the smallest not even reaching his belly.  Four girls, and though he’d always had a soft spot for girls he couldn’t bear to look at them.  One of them tried to attach herself to him.  Wanted a big strong male to protect her, he guessed.  Used those pretty brown eyes of hers, batted her lashes and pulled out her best husky voice, even ran her lips along his shoulder.  And maybe if he hadn’t been so numb, he’d even have tried to take her up on that offer, as unappealing as it was.  Just to be touched.  Just for the heat of skin on skin, just to get lost in someone else’s body for a little while, even if…but he’d just lost Jay, even if he didn’t know if that world had been real at all.  And he’d never been able to bring himself to feel that way about any girl, not even Noellen.  Besides, he saw the way she cringed when she looked at him, saw the way her eyes never quite met his, lingering instead on all his scars.

It took the girl all of five minutes to give up and find someone else.  Not the behemoth, who would have crushed her.  Hell, Drow probably would have too.  No, she found a lean, lithe type, built for speed instead of blunt force.  Bay, with a sick glint in his eyes that Drow recognized a little too well.  She’d get her protection, if he was capable of giving it.  But it would come at a price.

He might have cared, once upon a time.  Might have stepped in, nudged her toward the gentle old grey with sorrow in his eyes who looked like he could use somebody to comfort him.  But who the fuck was he to tell the girl what she wanted?  He couldn’t even keep his own family alive, couldn’t even keep his own world from burning to the ground.  If she wanted to self-destruct at the end of the world, who was he to stop her?

Two of the girls kept mostly to themselves, one set of wary brown eyes watching the men for a hint of threat while the other stared blankly off into the smoldering ruin of her old home.  The behemoth eventually took the two of them under his wing, along with a couple of young guys who were looking a little shell shocked themselves.  The fourth girl?  She actually did make her way over to the old grey, all bright eyes and sweet smiles despite the tragedy.  She coaxed the old man back to life, gave him a reason to keep going, even told off the bay when he tried to push her grey around.  Oh, she was all sunshine in the light of day, but she had her moments.  Especially at night, when the darkness swallowed up all of her sunshine and left her curled up into old grey’s side, shaking as he murmured in her ear, stroked her back, held her close.  And even with her vulnerability, she drew the old man out of his shock and isolation, helped him start to find the man he used to be.  They were good for each other.

Green was pretty indifferent to the bonds forming at the end of the universe.  He kept to himself mostly, and Drow got the impression he’d been around longer than the rest of them put together, lived through things the lot of them could never have comprehended before the world burned to the ground around them, maybe even then.  And the other two were…well.  The tiny one, the one that barely came up to Drow’s belly, he glued himself to the sadistic bay’s side, devoted himself to the role of toady.  He scrounged for the best places to grab a few bites of grass, hunted down water supplies, tried his level best to sass and push people around and keep them out of bay’s way.  Little fucker never tried that shit with the behemoth or green, though, and only once on Drow.  Drow just stared him down, didn’t even lift a single large, menacing hoof even if he could have snapped the tiny bastard’s spine with one stomp.  Apparently the whole silent stare-down routine was enough, though.  Teeny tiny scampered off to his buddy’s side, never to bother Drow again.

And the last one.  He was tall, broad, black, just a little smaller than Drow, but there was something off in his eyes, a wrongness in him Drow couldn’t put into words.  Something dangerous, ruthless, bloodthirsty.  It wasn’t the sadism lurking in the bay’s eyes, nor tiny’s sycophantic arrogance.  It was…it was like and unlike the volcano inside Drow, like and unlike the fire just below the surface.  But where the heat that brewed beneath Drow’s skin unleashed itself on him, he was pretty sure danger’s took out everyone around him instead.  And he was just as sure that danger liked it that way, reveled in the chaos and the devastation he left in his wake when he erupted.  He was the only one whose eyes weren’t even a little hollow with horror, the only one who had walked away from world’s end untraumatized.  No, he fed on it, loved the desperation and the desolation, lived for the pain and the sobs and the muffled moans of agony in the night.  Drow steered the fuck clear of that one.

At first.

Behemoth was the first one to try to reach out to him.  Quiet green eyes watched him even as his little herd settled into apocalypse life, working together to find resources and start making a life.  The boys flirted with the wary girls, young enough to be thinking of one thing even after the world had burned away and still just young enough that it was cute instead of obnoxious.  And behemoth watched out for the four of them, made them feel safe, made them feel like it wasn’t all over no matter that they’d lost everything.  He tried to extend that sense of safety to Drow.

“There’s a stream a bit of a wander North,” the chestnut giant rumbled in his deep bass voice, tossing his head toward the trees and inviting Drow to follow.  Drow could survive a lot longer than most without food or water, but he wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the drink when it was presented to him.  Even if he would rather wind up dead and join his family, he didn’t quite have it in him to give up.  That was one damn promise he’d made to himself when the Moon had killed herself, and he still couldn’t manage to break it.  Not even with everyone who had ever mattered to him dead and gone ahead.  They’d damn well wait.

“So what’s your story, kid?” behemoth asked as they ambled toward the stream.  Drow didn’t respond.  He’d never been much for words, and it was nobody’s damn business but his own what his story was.  Behemoth wasn’t one to take silence for an answer, unfortunately.  “This isn’t your first encounter with the darker side of life, I dare say.  With scars like those, you’ve got a lot of history, huh?”  Like it was somehow his right to make it up his own damn self.  “Battle scars?  Not your typical ones, though.  Some of those are from predators, looks like you got in a rumble with a big cat or ten somewhere along the line.  And tangled with a few—“

“My scars aren’t your concern.”  The first words he’d spoken since the fire came out full of more gravel than usual, almost a growl even without the anger at the damn giant’s presumption.  “My history isn’t your concern.  Thanks for the tip about the water.  But fuck off."

The behemoth laughed.  He fucking laughed.  “For someone telling me to fuck off, you sure have manners.  You’re welcome, of course.  Survivors have to stick together, after all.”  Drow snorted, shaking his head.  Survivors.  What a damn joke.  “No, really.  Far as we know, we’re all that’s left.  That makes us family.”

“We.  Are not.  Family.”  This time the growl was deliberate, a warning rumble of the volcano coming to life in his chest.  “Family is blood.  Family is so much more than circumstance.  Don’t you fucking dare call yourself my family.  You haven’t earned the right to the word through years of being there, of hurting together and healing together and hurting all over again, of surviving everything this goddamn world can throw at us because we’re stronger when we stand side by side.  You’re not my fucking family.”  My family is dead.

Behemoth saw the words in his eyes.  Drow could tell by the way his softened with sorrow.  With pity.  He snarled, shook his head again.  “I don’t need your pity.  I don’t want it.  I’ll take your damn drink, but keep your family.  I already had mine.”

They walked in silence until they made it to the stream.  They drank in silence, a few small mouthfuls to sate the thirst of running from the raging fire.  And they walked back in silence, until they were in sight of the clearing that had become their makeshift home.  And then behemoth broke the silence with a shot aimed to break his heart.  “I know they’re dead, boy.  Mine are too.  But we aren’t meant to do this alone.  We’ve got to make the best of what we’ve got, even if it’s a dozen strangers when the whole land’s been burned right before our eyes.  We’ll be here when you change your mind.  Don’t wait too long, son.”

The word hurt.  It fucking hurt, like the bastard had kicked him square in the chest with those giant hooves.  And the hurt was good.  The hurt was the first thing he’d felt since the fire.  The first glimpse of an escape from the Nothing.  But there was no one left to hurt him.  And he knew without bothering to try that he couldn’t do it himself.  Not this time.  Just like when the Moon had knocked herself out of the sky, nothing he could do would be enough.

So he stopped steering clear of danger.

Pressure built inside the volcano, heat tearing him apart in search of an escape.  Finding cracks and fissures kicked into him by that one little word.  Son.  It burned in his eyes as he followed all his self-destructive instincts straight toward the one person left on earth who could trigger him, the one person left who could set him off and watch him burn.  He stalked over to danger, rammed his shoulder against the other man’s side as he walked past, and then kept right on walking into the shadows at the edge of the clearing, deeper into the woods, higher up the mountain, danger right on his heels.  

He didn’t need words, didn’t need to talk about whether danger was interested.  Danger lived for shit like this, for finding people on the edge of ruin and giving them that extra little push.  Danger would hurt him.  Not because he wanted Drow, not because he got off on it, but because Drow was so damn close to losing himself, back on the edge of madness after twelve years of sanity, and this time with the right push he might not shatter.  If danger was lucky, this time Drow might twist into something like him, something that loved to watch the world burn.

- - -

The rest of the first week passed in flashes of sharp agony, sweet and delicious and so fucking alive, mingled with blurry hours of that hollow, empty numbness that were so much harder than playing with danger.  Drow knew pain, knew how when it sharpened to a knife’s edge it was indistinguishable from pleasure, came alive in the moment they became the same thing.  He could pretend he was keeping danger occupied, could pretend he was in some way looking out for behemoth’s people, wary eyed girls and charming young men, and old grey and his lady joined them too somewhere in the blur.  But he wasn’t that altruistic, not anymore.  If he’d ever been, it had been swallowed up in the fire like everyone he’d ever loved.  No, he did it because he wanted to break, wanted to feel, wanted to ride out the Nothing that was devouring him from the inside.

Oh, and he gave as good as he got.  Drow wasn’t the only one of their fucked up little pair that walked away bruised and bleeding, hurting in all the right ways.  Danger was just as addicted as he was.  One rough shove with a shoulder as either of them walked past the other was all it took at first, but it wasn’t long ‘til a snarl, a glare, a pinning of the ears was enough to send them stomping into the dark and tearing each other apart.

The rest of them ate and drank and played their little games, behemoth’s group bonding and bay’s making a general pain in the ass of itself when girl number one wasn’t getting off the same way Drow was.  No, they would never have worked, even if he’d been straight.  Both too desperate to hurt themselves just to feel anything, and there wasn’t enough fight back in her.  She wanted all the pain and none of the conflict and for him, the fight was so much more important.  Besides, he could never have given her what she wanted.  Even if she wanted it, even if she begged him to, he couldn’t hurt a girl.

During one of the blurry times, the old grey came up to him.  Big brown eyes framed in pale lashes stared up at him, full of concern.  “Hey,” he said softly, using the same supposed to be comforting tone his girl had used on him that first day.  “I…I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through.”  He glanced away, clearly a little uncomfortable with the thought of just exactly what Drow was going through, what he had instigated, where all those lovely new marks were coming from.  “But…but you don’t have to…to go it alone, you know?  I know we’re not family.  I know we’re not blood.  But…but we’re all we’ve got, and…and we need everyone we can get.  We need you.  We’ve got no claim on you, I know that.  But family or no, there’s a place for you.  If you’re willing.  And I hope you’re willing.”

Drow just stared, mismatched metallic eyes empty.  He would have cared once.  He knew he would have.  But he was Nothing.  Without his family, he was Nothing, and Nothing couldn’t care about strangers who thought they needed him.  Danger was the only one of the lot of them dark enough to make him feel anything at all, and he couldn’t give that up for a place in their happy little family.  With a sigh, the old grey left him alone to stare off into the ruins of his old life until he was ready to go find danger again.  It never took too long.

- - -

The second week passed in much the same manner, with more visits from behemoth and the old grey interspersed throughout the blurry-empty-numb hours that weren’t playtime with danger.  And as the week passed, Drow dove deeper and deeper into danger, sought him out more and more, desperate for a fix when the haze got to be too much.  Danger did his best to break him, and Drow did his best to draw out the pain just to remember what it was to feel.  And he wasn’t the only one escalating.  Danger was just as hooked on him, needed the fight as badly as he did.  It wasn’t like it had been with Zurry, where the rage and the fight shattered into something delicate and beautiful and sweet.  Drow didn’t want to curl up against his lover, didn’t want to lie in his embrace and talk about what they meant and how they felt and where they’d come from, or just listen to his labored breathing ease and his heartbeat coming down.

Drow never wanted to listen to another heartbeat again.  They kept each other going, needed each other, fed off each other, understood each other, but he would never press his head against danger’s chest and feel like he was home.  Home was dead and gone.  He needed the rush, needed the release, needed to let out some of the pressure that kept building in his chest and threatening to erupt.  Nothing more.

By the third week, Drow hurt enough that even the blurry hours were starting to sharpen again, and the sharp ones were starting to blur.  Behemoth kept watching him with those quiet green eyes, taking turns with old grey to try to engage him, try to win him over, try to fucking save him when they were all so far beyond saving.  Bay and his bitch kept mostly to themselves, convinced they were king and queen of the new world order, with toady running interference on the evangelists.  Green kept his own company though sad-eyed girl managed to score a few minutes of his attention now and then.  Somebody else had a bit of a soft spot for a sad lady too, it seemed, no matter how much of a hardass he pretended to be.  

The others mostly spent their time trying to build a life out of the smoldering ruins of the old world, the lads teaming up to woo the wary girl with a charm he’d once wielded back when he’d believe the world was safe and life was good and there was a point to any of it.  Foolish, naïve little boy that he’d been, he’d had his own unconscious charm.  Once upon a time.  And it felt like a story, too, felt like a tale he used to tell himself on lonely nights to chase the ghosts away.  A song about the Sun and the Moon and their happy little Stars.  Well he was the only star left in the whole fucking sky, and there was no point pretending the world was anything but over.

“You’re probably getting sick of my face, I’d guess.”  The behemoth was back, quiet green eyes and a big wide blaze on his chestnut face making its way once again into his periphery.  Drow quirked an eyebrow, though he wasn’t even sure if it was in agreement or defiance.  “Look, I don’t expect you to suddenly change your mind and call me family okay, kid?  I know you lost people.  We all did.  But something else I know is the seven of us, we’re doing okay.  We’re healing.  We have food, water, a safe place to sleep as long as we’re looking out for each other.  We have a herd, even if we don’t have family.  And there’s still plenty of room for more.  You can’t keep going like this, kid.   Not if you want to come out the other end still you.”

Drow sighed, his hard eyes softening a little as he finally spoke.  “Who said I want that?  There’s no coming out the other end of this.  Look, I know you’re trying to help me, because that’s who you are.  You and the old man, you’ve probably spent your whole lives looking after anyone who comes your way and might need you, it’s your nature.”  The Sun had been that way too, until she couldn’t handle losing anyone else.  “I get that, okay?  But I don’t need looking after, I don’t need saving, and I’ve got nothing left to give you.”

Behemoth sighed too, reaching out and brushing Drow’s silver-white forelock away from his face, baring countless scars with one little touch.  Just like the Sun used to do.  “Son, you don’t have to give us anything.  Just let us in.”  And he shattered, because that voice was so much like hers, soft and gentle and full of acceptance no matter what Drow had gotten himself tangled up in or how he was fucking up his life this time.  He’d never hear her voice again.  She’d never sing to him, never hold him and croon those songs to him and tell him they were going to make it through this together.  She was gone, they were all gone, and he was N—“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” behemoth murmured, wrapping Drow up in his embrace.  “I’ve got you, son.  It’s okay.”  Another touch, and old grey was there too, wrapping around him and adding his voice to behemoth’s, gentle words of comfort to soothe the lost little lamb.

He was no lamb.  And the moment wasn’t meant to last.

Something stirred in the ashes below, where nothing had moved for weeks.  Behemoth and the old grey’s murmurs ended instantly, cut off by a shriek that split the sky, the sound of savage hunger coming from a throat that couldn’t function, not by any laws of nature that had ever existed.  Three sets of eyes snapped to attention, watching as the ash stirred and something crawled out, a dead thing out of a nightmare.  Burned, blackened, charred, its hair singed off, barely recognizable as equine, its movement was jerky, spasmodic, as if the nerves were all fucked up from oh, say, being dead for three weeks.  

And it wasn’t alone.  Of course it wasn’t alone.  An army of them crawled out of the ruins of the old world, growls and snarls and shrieks shattering the stillness that had fallen over the world in the weeks since the fire.  They were clumsy as they crawled out of the ash, but their awkward, twitchy, jerking motions sped up to the point where they defied logic, if logic had ever entered the equation when the walking dead started to stir.  They were fast and they were hungry, devouring everything in their path.  The thirteen of them seemed safe enough at first, but it didn’t take a day before there was nothing left and they turned toward the mountain.

Any illusion of safety they’d managed to hold onto was gone, chased away by the smell of burned flesh, death and decay as they came.  Fast, so fucking fast, even with a whole mountain to climb.  Their ragtag little almost-herd didn’t have a damn chance.  “Go.”  Heads jerked toward behemoth, toward the steel in his voice and the resolve in those quiet green eyes.  “Get out of here.  Go.”  Bay and his pair were the first to listen, running the second the order left behemoth’s lips.  Danger stared at Drow, jerked his head expectantly, but Drow didn’t move.  

“They’re coming, dammit.  I’ll do what I can, but you have to get moving.”  Shouts of protest died beneath the shrieks of the horde that drew ever closer.  And his little family deserted him, obeying his command as if it weren’t the stupidest, most suicidal thing anyone had ever said.  Even old grey left, chasing after his lady and making sure she kept moving, kept running, fought to get to safety.  Behemoth turned to him, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to protest.  “Go, boy.  There’s nothing you can do but run.  I’ve got a little firepower, and I’ll keep them distracted, maybe even long enough for a few of you to survive.  Get the hell out of here.  Do your best to take care of my family.  Go.”

“Come on,” danger growled as the horde drew closer still.  “Get a fucking move on, we’ve got to go!”  Drow met those steady green eyes one last time, nodded once, and left behemoth to die.  There was no saving behemoth’s family, no protecting them from an army of the hungry dead.  But he pretended, if only to make the man feel better about his sacrifice.  They ran after the others, he and danger, leaving the chestnut warrior behind.  Hope he’s got more than a little to fight with.  Worst case scenario, they’ll be busy for a little while devouring him.  A few more days, and he might have fought, might have stayed right alongside the other man.  Might have cared enough to try to save him, try to persuade him.  But there was nothing he could do to save any of them.  They were all going to die anyhow.  Might as well let him go out thinking he was making a difference.

Even if it was a lie.  Nothing was getting out of here alive.

Watch the flames climb high into the night

Drow

[heartworm]

this one goes out to you; my little h e a r t w o r m The world burns. She’s watched one world crumble and burn and turn to ash and now, there is another. From the mountaintop, they watch. They listen to the screams of those who were not fast enough to outrun the sea of fire. They breathe in lungfuls of acrid smoke. No one speaks, not yet. Low sobs echo out, but Heartworm does not weep. Not yet. Night comes, and for the first time in a long time, she loses her flesh. Her skin becomes looser, drips onto on the ground. She doesn’t notice, at first. She is thinking of the lands lost, of castles with diamond walls, a small girl’s smile that could melt your heart. She does not mourn Beqanna overmuch – there was little there for her – but she mourns the other world, her dream world. She mourns Iris most of all, and thinks of how real it had felt, kissing the girl’s dirty brow as she said goodbye. A larger chunk of flesh drops, hits the ground with a nauseating squelch, and she realizes. Her curse is back. Beqanna might be gone but the ill magic that was bred in her is not. It does not take long before she is a skeleton, walking among them, and it must looks like she’s dying, to watch her. No creature should survive the loss of its flesh, its heart. She seems like a thing made of dark magic, and certainly her bloodline promises it, she is the result of an incestuous breeding between a dark god and his undead daughter, of course the thing they produced is doomed. Some of them shy from her. One woman (a chestnut mare, whose name, Heartworm will later learn, is Judea), shrieks that she is the devil sprung forth, the last drop of Beqanna’s magic, and that she should be sacrificed back unto the land. The others do not listen, fortunately, but Heartworm wonders if it will last. She cowers and waits, afraid to sleep, counting the minutes until the sun rises and the flesh regrows across her bones like bacteria (no longer flesh eating but flesh giving, an odd reversal). Familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt. And this is no different. The days pass, and the nights come, shadows crawling over the ruined wasteland that was once their home (not mine, she thinks, flesh falling from her bones, my home is with Iris). Night comes and she turns to a skeleton again and again. Judea is the first to scorn her, but others follow soon enough. Judea notices the symbols carved on her bones (drawn there by a priestess Heartworm once knew, when she was her acolyte, when she thought there was a path for her), and it is all she needs. She does her best to make Heartworm the pariah, to turn them against her. Though they all come from a land where magic once flowed like water, where the horses were all colors of the rainbow, it seems forgotten, here. No mythics had escaped, and the colors of the survivors are the traditional ones – blacks and bays and greys, a few chestnuts and one leopard appaloosa. Heartworm, with her melting skin and skeleton night-form, seems to be the only remnant of Beqanna’s magic. Three follow Judea, at first. Three believe her fervor, that somehow Heartworm is the cause of this (or at the very least, that she is wrong, not meant to survive as they had). At first it is not so bad. Hushed whispers, sidelong glances. They don’t speak to her, but that doesn’t bother her. She can go weeks without speaking. One horse befriends her instead. A mare, gray like she is, named Cara. She asks Heartworm who she lost, when it burned. Heartworm lies and says her daughter. Cara lost her children too – several grown, and one newborn. They bond, in this way. Cara tells her about her daughter, the one lost. How her name was Celene, named for the mark on her head like a crescent moon. Heartworm does not tell Cara about the birds, or the castle, or the way Iris looked peering out from flowers as big as she was. She does not say how Iris was a rainbow. Instead she says other truths – she was kind, she was loving. (She wasn’t real.) Cara does not shy away when the transformation takes her. She watches with fascination, and asks if it hurts. It doesn’t, but so much else does. Time passes, and they eke out a living on the mountain. There isn’t much foliage and her belly always aches, and what little water they find is ashy and bracken, but they drink anyways. She always feels a little ill, and doesn’t know if it’s from circumstance or simply her mind, longing to escape. She doesn’t dream, anymore. She doesn’t notice this at first. She wonders if it’s because she’s used up all her dreaming. It hurts, though. She wonders if Iris is there, in the dreamland, waiting for her. Cara befriends a stallion and brings him into the group. His name is Zebah, a burnished chestnut stallion. He had been a loner, like her. Heartworm watches them together, the easy way they move and even smile. She is glad for them even as her heart hurts. She watches the seeds of romance be sown and planted, though neither admits to it. She is not an outcast long. There is another, a black mare, Eve. She is muscled, a warrior. They ask where she is from, who she lost, and Eve says, it doesn’t matter anymore. Eve saves them, in a way. She finds them what sustenance she can, and eats less than her share. She is rangy and has a dangerous look to her, and perhaps it keeps Judea and her lot at bay. Judea’s group grows from three to five, five to seven. They begin to spit at her feet, to whisper curses under their breaths. They argue that she should be cast out, a sacrifice to Beqanna (as if the land had not taken its fill). “Renewal means sacrifice,” Judea says to her group, who stare on in their own glass-eyed devotion. She is a port in their storm. Where they are lost, adrift, families and kingdoms made ash, Judea is there, with fevered words and a scapegoat. A plan. A promise, however ludicrous, of salvation. It all seems like so much foolishness, until The Day. No one notices the stir, at first. They are too busy surviving. Most of the days are dedicated to finding food, water, to establishing shaky relationships, remaking themselves into a society, a kingdom. Kings of the mountain. But what is a king to a god, and when the first thing is birthed forth from the ashen canal, their tenuous society crumbles to whatever dark god brought the creature forth. It is not a skeleton, though it might as well be. The skin that is stretched tight across haphazard bones is burnt; in places it is gone completely, exposing the pristine white of skull or scapula. There is no mane or tail. Some do not have eyes. Of the ones that do you wish they did not, because there is a spark in the eyes, a hunger. An animal cunning. The first one watches as the others rise up. They assemble. It opens its mouth as if to speak but instead there is only a gibbering howl, a noise felt in the marrow of their bones. The others reply in kind, their own gibbous shrieks added to the cacophony. They seem to love the sound of their voices, and are never quiet. The world is full of howling. Up on the mountain, they watch in mute horror, listen as the howls and screams rise up. They watch the dead reawaken, bodies jerking forth from their ashy graveyard. They watch them assemble. They watch them hunt. The creatures have no right to move as fast as they do, but all rights were long forsaken as the fire consumed the world. The hours pass and they hunt the few forest creatures that had not taken shelter on the mountain and tear them apart like wild dogs. There is a horse who did not escape to the mountain. Heartworm watches as they drive it from the cave, fell it, descend upon it. Their shrieks and howls have a new tang to them as they take their meal. Heartworm thinks it might be something like delight. “We’re safe up here, right?” Cara asks. They are pressed together in numb horror. Zebah and Eve come, too. Her friends. They are not like the birds, not like Corsair, certainly not like Iris – but they are all she has. “Look at them,” Heartworm says, “they don’t move right. They can’t make the climb.” She’s lying, she knows she is, but she wants to prolong this moment, keep them together. She may not be dead, but she has been a skeleton, and she knows there way ways to make such a cursed body move. “They want a sacrifice,” Judea says to her congregation, her eight (another has joined, and they are all against her now, all save for Heartworm’s three). “Give them the freak.” “Return all the magic to Beqanna, and ze will release us and call zir…things off,” she says. It almost makes sense, and for a moment, Heartworm wonders. What if none of the magic was meant to survive the fires? She does not call her curse magic by any means, but it is something impossible, and perhaps… She does not bring up the idea to her three. They are her only touchstones left. She loves them, in a different way than she loved Corsair or Iris. She loves them because they are filthy and because they are survivors. Loves them because they think no less of her as a skeleton, and do not question the symbols carved upon her bones. They remain on the mountain, a house divided, the nine zealots and the four forsaken, as the creatures below gibber and feast on Beqanna’s carcass. A fool’s hope, really, that they would be safe, but aren’t we all fools, sometimes? The creatures do not come immediately. They continue to hunt what easy prey remains. They do not discern what, or who, they feast upon. The howling does not stop. Heartworm wonders, for once ludicrous moment, if they ever stop to draw breath. And then she remembers what they are, and laughs until her laughter sours and begins to sound all too alike the creatures below. Judea continues her preaching. It is no secret they want Heartworm sacrificed, to pour back the last drops of mythical blood into the earth. And it almost starts to make sense, and she wonders whether it’s truly logical, or whether she’s going mad. She wonders which of the two she would prefer. They hear them coming, long before they see them. The gibbous shrieks foretell their coming, the noise grows louder and louder until they have to shout to be heard above the noise. The smell comes, too, a putrid stench of decay and rotting meat. The path up the mountain is not wide, and some of the creatures tumble off the side. Heartworm mutely watches one creature fall, watches as splinters of bone pierce the skin from the inside out. Watches as it rises, stumbles, howls. Before the undead reach her, there is another horse. The eight, led by Judea. The eight who think she is the reason for the creatures, the last drop of Beqanna’s magic. “You must,” says Judea. She almost sounds kind, “ze will not rest until ze has your blood.” Heartworm thinks they will force her, drive her forward to the mouth of the pathway, but instead they retreat. “Don’t,” says Eve, “don’t, you know she’s mad.” She doesn’t sound sure. There is a goodbye note in her voice. Heartworm doesn’t blame her. “Don’t,” says Zebah, but he says nothing else. He does not expect her to listen, she sees. He does not want her to listen, perhaps. They go, too, and there is only Cara. The first friend. Her confidante. “Oh, Heartworm--,” she sighs, but before she can say her goodbye, the first creature arrives. Up close, they were infinitely worse. Their bodies took on a puzzling contour from death and decay, and Heartworm felt sick and enthralled simultaneously as she beheld them. They were all shapes and sizes, and near the front was a smaller creature, the size of a newborn foal. She was hairless with drawn skin like the others, but on her forehead was the outline of a marking, one like a crescent moon. Heartworm sees it, and Cara does, too. “CELENE!” shrieks Cara, running past Heartworm, running full on into the herd, “oh, Cele—“ The words are cut off as the small creature rips the mare’s throat out, and the horde descends. They have their blood sacrifice, the blood spilling out of Cara’s body as they tear her asunder, and Heartworm, ever a coward, turns to run.

[Hermia's Gold]

Hermia's Gold


She was just young. A whole two years experience to claim to the world. Yet she felt old. Aged far beyond simply two whole years. The great escape from human imprisonment, then centuries as a ruling monarch, and then waking up to fire and feeling like nothing was real. Was it centuries? Just a dream Hermia..... Just a dream. But why does it feel so real?
The dream world felt more real then reality.
Now this chaos.
Everyone seemed to have their own opinion about what to do next.

“Rebuild here!”
“Move on, find better.”
“Wait for survivors! Someone else has to have made it out alive!”
She wasn’t opinionated about anything.
I just got here.
The land burning below didn’t hold strong emotion. It wasn’t home. It wasn't a life she had been born into or a life that she had even began to build. It was a life she had began to dream about. Wide open spaces to carry her away on adventures. Meeting of new horses. Touch. Most of all she had begun to dream of the simple act of touching other living beings. Something that had been forbidden to her all those years.
“You start off with your mother and other mothers in a field with other babies. Everything is perfect. Everything has four walls. Then they come and tear you apart and leave you alone with one other filly. Then one day she is still on the ground. Whatever makes up a horse suddenly gone leaving more a tree log then a foal behind. Never again are you allowed into four walls with another again. Humans call the shots. Put you outside. Bring you inside. You cant see other horses but you can never touch them.”
She whispered in the dark of the night to a shadow lacking any white markings who said his name was Black Bear. He was a small, sporty type. Anything but a bear appearance, more like a compact cat. Muscle mass was firm but no one would call him a body builder. He seemed worried about everything, like he expected the devil himself was after him.The faintest shift in the shadow had him whirling about like a scared teenage girl, but he was kind with a heart of gold that made her drawn to him like a moth to a light. Sometimes his burning fear causing more panic to them both out weighed the benefit of the security of his kindness.
If only he wasn’t so on edge.
He mourned a family, a herd of mares, of foals. His security blanket ripped away from him. He was completely alone surrounded by strangers in a strange environment. She couldn’t hold it against him for being paranoid, but her patience with every spook was growing thin. He wasn’t consolable.
She never had felt the same sense of belonging. Her world before and the short time at beqanna had felt distant. Not hers. It was dreams and fantasies she mourned. Certainly not anything solid. There was one creature down there she mourned but she did not know him. Didn’t even understand the world he was from. The endless free space. The soft sands. The endless blue of ocean and sky. Yet, still, there was a sorrow in her heart for what could have been. Young mind running away with thoughts of a handsome black knight and his strength and steadiness. A romance that could have been. A family that could have been. Fillies and colts running through her mind of her dreams creation. Her children.
They aren’t real!
Yet still she felt more like a mother that could no longer see or touch her children again, then a two year old who had only experienced the brief love of her mother. Every small cell of her body longing for something that was no longer real. A great black stallion. Gone. A beautiful child-stallion: Hamlet. Gone. White sandy beaches. Gone. Endless sky. Gone.
-
No one truly slept that first night. If someone was mentally sound or detached enough from the fire to sleep, some, who certainly were not, sure ensured no one else would sleep. They wailed like their guts were hanging from their bodies. A sort of noise that pierced into the strongest of minds and demanded to be heard. It churned and twisted in Hermia’s guts and made her vomit silently in the night. The pure exhaustion of having to feel someone else’s emotion taking its toll.
Some just sobbed in dark little corners, pressed firmly against tree and ground as if they hoped they would just melt into the bark and dirt. Seeming to pray they joined the earth before it took them as well. Wanting to quietly disappear before the sun rose to claim the legitimacy of the passing event. Little ghosts hoping to burn away into ashes with lost loves but too clung to life to take those last steps away from living.
Some were just too exhausted. They were listless. Not cowering away from the flames though nostrils flared with anxiety and eyes darted from burning valley, to drama queens, to the black blanket of unknown forest.
Some were injured. Tejango’s right eye swollen shut where burning branches had slashed out. Vie held a swollen left hind foot off the ground. It resembled more like a club then a leg. Albert sported bone bruising to the left front. Chiara laid flat out on the ground, majority of her body covered in still boiling burns, her breathing fast and labored. She wouldn’t make it through the night. Ohla’s front shoulder flesh dangled to the ground lamely while blood flowed down in rivers onto the ground pooling around hoof. Her own stubborn will keeping her from collapse.
Bellinda, in contrast, stood out on the open, accepting she wouldn’t catch a glimpse of sleep through the drama of others and watched the burn. She watched the flames as if she had created it, not fearing it, not loathing it, not mourning or even happy. It just was. She just was. She stood out in contrast to the rest. A lone white figure at ease and even peace admiring the view. Appreciating the power of life. Understanding the make of the world.
Maybe she had once lived with the gods.
It was from this white figure Hermia’s Gold drew strength from to make it through the night. She huddled against Black Bear, whispering gentle stories back and forth but the waveless energy of Bellinda kept her from falling completely into the hysteria of the night.
-
Morning brought forward a whole new set of characters.
Chiara lay dead on the ground, her burns having consumed her soul all but silently.
Tink, who had tried to soothe this mare’s pain had broken through the last bit of sanity and now stood at the edge of clearing swinging head back and forth muttering nothing coherent.
Ohla at the first sight of light had finally collapsed to the ground and now lay without care in her puddle of blood. Though she still managed to stay slightly up, legs tucked neatly under her and head bobbling in struggle to stay conscious.
Serenity, who had been the loudest, down right craziest of them all had gone silent looking out at the burnt land.
Bellinda had finally turned toward the herd, calculating.
The light had brought silence. The light had brought a sense of calm. No longer was there shadows to jump at. No longer was a big black mountain looming above and below. It was just a bunch of shocked horses in the day light that in the security of the day and under the exhaustion of the night breathed a moment’s of relief. Thus Black Bear and Hermia’s Gold finally slept. Not a deep sleep, but a sleep then jolted one awake every few moments thinking they were late for a meeting, or that dragon was upon them again raging angrily. It left them anything but rested. Emotionally no one could brag stability as much as they might believe they were. Many others had slept, or at least dozed. A false sense of security blanketing over them, as if the sun was on their side and standing at guard. The body demanded to be heard, demanded to be given the nutrients it needed, and what everyone needed was sleep. Sleep allowed the brain to process what the mind and soul could not. Maybe it would bring forth level minded creatures.
Or maybe not.
“DEATH! DEATH EVERYWHERE!”
Ohla as if on cue jerk in her last battle for death. Legs stiff out, eyes rolled back into her skull, compulsions in argument to her body’s failure. It felt like a century passed before she lay still once more. Whoever said death was peaceful was a liar. Hermia stared blankly at empty body. The second mare to die within the small group.
“We need to go back.”
Demanded Serenity, the fiery red head who had kept the herd awake all night, from out of the shadows. The lose of another life proving that no where was safe. It wasn’t safe here. It wasn’t safe below. If they were alive here, and unsafe, then someone had to be alive down there as well.
“No. There will still be hot spots. The ground and forest will be unstable. You could fall through, or something could fall on you. We need to worry about establishing our selves. Find food, water, get to know the land better. We aren’t the only animals to make an escape. Soon everyone will be hungry.”
Bellinda responded cooly without menace, resembling more of a mother answering the thousandth question of her filly.
“We can’t be the only ones to make it out alive! You know it yourself! There are caves! Possibilities! We can’t just forget about them!”
Hysteria clear in her voice.
“We can’t take the risk of losing even one of you. We have already lost two. Our best chances are in numbers, once we have a better understanding of where we are we can try to find lost loves.”
“Oh, listen everybody. The queen of Beqanna.”
Piped in Tejango.
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
Screamed Tink as she rushed at Tejango. He backing a pace off caught off guard by the outburst.
“I’m trying to protect you.”
Snapped Bellinda with annoyance, eyeing Tink’s outburst.
“SHUT UP! SHUT UP!”
She lunged at Bellinda who only blinked in response.
“I don’t need protecting! I’ve been protecting my self all these years. Some stranger isn’t about to start calling the shots in my life!”
Shot back Serenity moving in beside Tejango.
“How are two of  you going to bring back any survivors?”
“I’ll go.”
Came a voice from outside the circle. Rupert, a tall muscular blood bay. Tink now moved slightly to the side, swaying her head back and forth, but now a clear pattern in her chant.
“Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up.”
“Four of us! sounds like a party!”
Came from an elegant dappled arab mare, Prim, who broke away from staring at Tink in bewilderment to slide against Rupert like a flirting cat.
“Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up. Shut. Up.”
“Or a crowd.....”
Mumbled Serenity rolling her eyes for Tejango’s view.
“What was that?!”
The arab responded with an air of ignorance, playfulness and warning.
“Nothing.”
Grunted Serenity.
“Be nice.”
Mumbled Tejango as he began to snake down the mountain side after Rupert who had already started off like a solider with his mission.
“Before you get any ideas, Rupert is mine.”
The arab hissed at the mare.
“The only idea I have is finding my family.”
Growled Serenity before they disappeared.
“Some rescue group that is.”
Grumbled Black Bear in annoyance.
“They’ll figure it out. For now lets go find some water.”
Hermia nudged Black Bear in reassurance.
At least I hope they will.
Her throat was hoarse and dry from smoke inhalation. She peered at Bellinda seeking permission, who still was looking at the empty space the four had once occupied. Gently she nudged at Bellinda’s shoulder, who ruffled Hermia’s mane.
“Yes. Be careful I can’t lose you as well.”
A sadness was easy picked from her voice that Hermia felt a desire to ease, but instead she turned and continued off after Black Bear who had already began to lead the way out of the clearing, lost in his mind.
-
Two weeks passed. Bellinda with the help of Vie and Albert pushed the two bodies of Ohla and Chiara off the plateau to a rocky grave where animals had began picking away at their bodies. Flesh being ripped from flesh. Bones cracking under powerful jaws. Growls over a certain tasty piece. Fights occasionally breaking out over a leg, liver, heart. The noses of arguing predators provided little comfort to the band, but the silence that faded into the air was worse. A sign that only scraps were left to pick at.
“It is only a matter of time before they are finished with those two and come after us!”
Cracked Vie tearfully.
“The others still haven’t returned we can’t leave until they have come back.”
Grumbled Black Bear. He had grown more and more angry over the days. The longer the four were away the more unrealistic of ever being reunited with his family became. Without faith he was crumbling into a shadow of a creature. At first he had spoken at all hours with Hermia of his family. Something about tragedy pulling people together allowed memories hard to even think about easy to share. Maybe it was the knowledge that soon all they were going to be were memories thus forcing him to keep them alive through others. He, quickly after the sixth day drew into himself. At first it started with the others. Vie and Albert through their injuries having come together were the first to be cut out of his circle. Bellinda, who was the first to point out that it might be best to start to accept loved ones as dead was the scape goat. Any suggestion she held he played devils advocate to.  Hermia’s Gold held his attention til the tenth day, where one day he finally turned on her.
“JUST KEEP YOUR DISTANCE OK?! YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. YOU HAVE NO ONE TO MOURN OVER! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT IS LIKE TO LOSE ANY THING OUTSIDE OF YOUR DELUSIONAL DREAMS!”
Dumbstruck, she had only back away. His words cut into her like a Japanese blade, leaving a mark like an iceberg: little to the unseeing eye but a great crater under the surface. Losing a friend was one thing, but he had also ripped away all rights to feel the way she felt. It left her feeling broken and lost.
Maybe he is right. I don’t have a right to feel the way I do. I had no body. I can’t begin to understand how he feels.
Bellinda, thus, had taken Hermia under her care. Nudging her awake at dawn, leading her to the best skirts of grass, cooing her to sleep and listening to her fears, anxieties, stories of the nightmare that plagued her and bubbled over in the night.
“This is Beqanna love, if you feel your dreams were real, then they were real. They have impacted you, changed you into something new. No one can say what is real and what is not. Maybe we will all wake up tomorrow under the ocean breathing water instead of oxygen and some black fish will tell us this dream isn’t true. Don’t let someone tell you what you can and cannot feel. You are worthy of your emotions. Feel them.”
-
Another week passed now everyone was restless. Everyone, except Tink, who barely moved. Had barely moved over the past three weeks. Hermia had taken to herding the mare from place to place.
“Lets go get something to drink.”
She would whisper and prod her along to the creek then back to the others. Tink was lifeless. A functioning body, better put together then the rest who all sported some sort of burn or scar, but her life was gone from her.
Every man dies, not every man lives.
One certainly could understand this statement even regarding Tink. Her eyes were dull though seeing. Her movements were mechanical. She lived only because her heart still pumped blood.
In a complete contrast to Tink were Vie and Albert. Bodily they were broken, but the two chestnuts had become flirting love birds. If there was loved ones lost they did not show it. They encouraged each other, supported each other and brought light to the small group. Soft giggles in the evening. Love whispers in the night. Cheerleading during the day. A breathe of fresh air for everyone else.
“We need to move to higher ground.”
Interrupted Bellinda, Vie perking with satisfaction.
“No! We wait!”
Snarled Black Bear from his solitude.
“We have waited long enough. They are smart animals we will leave signs for them to follow but we are too in the open here. Cliff side is not where I want to be caught with my guard down.”
“I think it’s a perfect idea!”
Vie perked in merrily.
“We can’t just abandon them!”
Serenity flew in at that moment, looking worse for wear. Her coat was blotched with ashes and  bite marks like never scene before litter her flanks.
“We have to get out of here!”
Tink had drifted from Hermia’s side and now overlooked down into the abyss of beqanna.
“Witches. Witches. Witches. Burn the witches.”
“Where are the others?! Did you find anyone!? There were survivors weren’t there!?”
Black Bear lunged at Serenity, mad hope in his eyes.
In answer a screech from the smoking ruins.
“Oh there was survivors alright. You just stick around to meet them! I sure as hell am not!”
Rupert followed closely behind by Prim rushed past, blood dotting their entrance and exit as they flew beyond the group.
“RUN!”
Serenity smashed at the ground then followed after the two leaving the small herd blinking at their exit.
“What the hell was that.”
A be-founded Albert puffed, looking from horse to horse as if they might have witnessed something different.
“Tink, what are you lookin a-”
Hermia came to join the old mare’s side who once more was raving on to her self. She never finished her sentence as through the haze of the distance stepped forward something definitely more dead then alive. The flesh was melted, caked onto the bright white of bone. Not a inch of hair was left. Eyes balls were black holes that dug deep into brain that rotted inside head. It moved with swinging legs, joints obviously fused together yet somehow it could keep pace with a cheetah. Mouth opened once again in a howl that ripped into bones and turned them into ice. Each tooth was jagged, as if filed down to perfection to kill. A grunt answered by its side, a large mass that could be recognized for a draft except every inch of the body was bubbled and more like brain then flesh as if proud flesh covered every inch of it’s body. One blood filled eye ball hung lamely from skull. Another shrieked grunting figure approached weaving drunkenly about at a rapid pace that resembled more shark swimming through air then horse. This figure was nothing but blackened bone.
“Holy. Mother. Of. God.”
Slowly the words escaped Hermia’s mouth. She was frozen. Unable. To. Process.
What the fuck am I looking at?
Head flung to ripped at her own belly.
Wake up time.
But she did not wake. She was not removed from this new nightmare. Another creature merging with blackened bones protruding with rotting flesh that flapped with every step. Loose, proud flesh smacking against ribcage. Smacking against bone with every step. They were moving in a pack she could see now. A bunch of rotting corpses hunting something... Something. That something was Tejango.
“FUCKING. JESUS. CHRIST.”
As if on cue they dug into him, eating him alive with movements that were anything but natural. Grunts that resembled demons raising to meet her petrified ears. Grunts that she knew were joy but made her head spin. His body was quick to vanish. Not a morsel was left behind and the sound of crunching bones rung in her ears. Others had come to her side, witnessed and followed Rupert’s flee, but she was oblivious to them. All there was her, and these things.
Walkers? Zombies? Demons? Voodoo?
This was what old fairytales were made of. Stories passed down to keep children in line. Horrors to tell around a dark night with friends to see who was the bravest. This was not real.
This isn’t real.
They locked in on her with her thought raising to the challenge of proving her wrong. Thus began their ascent. So unnatural. So strange. Oddly mesmerizing.
How do they move?
She was completely detached. There was only one way to keep the mind from losing all control and that was to refuse to accept this as a truth.
They were running. Why was she running? She couldn’t remember. She could remember the smell of rotting flesh. Or maybe she could smell rotting flesh. Everything was blurry. There was a noise. Grunting? Howling? Maybe stone rubbing on stone.... She couldn’t figure it out. Couldn’t identify what her senses were telling her. Or maybe wouldn’t. All there was the ground landing under foot and smells that tightened and choked the throat. She was panting. Fear? From the exertion of running up hill? The world was caving in around her. Everything was black except the next tree ahead to dodge.
Why am I running...?
Tink was leading.
How strange.
Crashing through the woods like a bull to her left was Vie and Albert.
That is going to hurt.
Behind her, urging her forward was Bellinda. Each 5 paces a nip to her rump.
Where is Black Bear?
Eyes darted around.
No Black Bear. He wasn’t running.
Where. The. Fuck. Is. Black Bear.
Crunch. Noise. Something breaking. The presence behind her urging her forward disappeared and with it replaced the noises of spilling blood. No. The smell of spilling blood. Then crunching bones. Ripping flesh. Bellinda was dead. The first to be taken. Certainly not the last. No one could outrun something that wasn’t meant to exist.
Reality sucks.





No more yielding but a dream

[Rhonan]

Hours pass. Maybe days. He watches the fire rage below, consuming Beqanna in its orange jaws. Cries taint the crackling of the fire. Horses, wolves, monkeys. Inside the fire, they all sound the same. They sound like static. Like the langoliers at the end of the world. But of course, this is the end of the world.

He watches the snow that isn’t snow billowing in the sky. The wind that carries the ash also feeds the flames below. The ground, even up on the mountain, is gray with the papery remains of flesh and bone and trees.

Destruction looks and sounds the same. In the end, it doesn't matter what you are.

He watches until his eyes burn from sleep deprivation or smoke or both. He watches until he cannot keep them open anymore. When he closes his eyes, the screaming has died to nothing. There’s nothing left. Just trees and grass and wind to feed the inferno. The crackling becomes his lullaby, and he sleeps.

A nose pokes him awake. He jumps and tenses, ready to fight whatever has found him, though he knows nothing of fighting. His eyes are still raw, and his vision blurry, but he can tell the nose belongs to another horse. In fact it's a boy, around Rhonan's age. Though the boy's coat is chestnut and not pretty pretty princess gold like Rhonan's.

This boy looks impossibly clean. Either he’s been living on the mountain all along or had found somewhere to take a bath. The boy grins. “Oh good. You’re alive. Had to check.” Rhonan remains silent, staring at the boy. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to stand here and stare at the destruction. Horror and fascination called him to peek over the mountain and look. Despite his present company, he did so anyway.

Beqanna is gone. Completely gone. Rhonan thinks decades must have come and gone. So much destruction cannot happen overnight, can it? But of course he knows that it has. The sun is low in the sky but growing brighter. Dawn. Only one night has passed, but that one night took Beqanna with it. The boy comes to stand beside him, looking over the edge of the mountain. “Yea,” he says, because that is the only thing to say.

Rhonan turns to look at this boy who has decided to stick around. Then he turns back to the destruction, but something gray catches his attention on his other side. He turns to look, and there’s another boy. Who came out of fucking nowhere. Okay, not actually nowhere. But it sure felt like it. Rhonan jumps, knocking into the chestnut kid and almost tumbling down the mountain. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses. It is the first thing he’s said in days, and the words hurt. His throat's as raw as his eyes, and he swears it must be bleeding. Blood trickling down his throat. Would he be able to taste that?  

The chestnut laughs in a good-natured way, but Rhonan glares at him. The gray colt stays silent. “I’m Gero,” the chestnut boy says. “And this is Noah.” The gray boy just nods once. He is the opposite of the chestnut. Gero appears composed, head high. All calm and cool and collected. Especially given all that has just happened. Noah doesn’t look one hundred percent real. More like ninety-five percent real. His head is down, his eyes are dark and bottomless, and he just stares ahead at the destruction. It looks like a breeze could spirit him away at any given moment.

“Rhonan,” he finally says. His voice is all gravel and rough edges. Maybe the smoke destroyed his vocal chords. Would he sound like this forever? He has no idea. And he doesn’t care. He figures they are dead already. There’s nowhere to go, and from the look of the mountain, there’s no food. Maybe some water, but hell, maybe the fire destroyed all the rivers too.

“Since you are alive and all introduced now, lets go. There are others.” Gero turns to leave without waiting for an answer. Noah follows, and Rhonan finds himself compelled to follow as well. Others? There are others that survived? He’s already amazed there are three of them. Children nonetheless. Maybe they had the distinct advantage of being short enough to avoid the worst of the smoke. Or maybe they were just damn lucky.

Though he wonders if Gero was ever in the fire. The boy looks like he knows the mountain well, like he’s spent actual time here. Not just one miserable night of smoke inhalation. And Noah? He sort of thinks Noah just appeared here, and that was that.

His newfound companions are strange ones. Are they trying to be his friends, or are they going to butcher him and use him as food? The latter seemed more plausible. Rhonan with friends? That was just laughable.

But Gero leads him down the mountain just a bit, and there they are. The others. Some mill around, looking as lost as Rhonan feels. A few sniffle, one of the mares sobs. There are a shocking number of children up here. He sees two more colts not far off. One bay, one bay splashed with white. There’s also a disproportionate amount of males, and just a few females. Well, if they are going to be repopulating the earth, it’s going to take forever. And half the stallions will kill each other trying to do the honors.

Gero leads them to a blue roan mare. She appears to be holding court. There’s a buckskin stallion with her, nodding at whatever she’s saying. A bay stallion waits a few feet away. They draw closer, stopping a respectful distance away. “Yes, thank you Harold,” the mare says. Harold?  What kind of name is Harold? Rhonan snorts, drawing a quick glance from the mare and a bump on the shoulder from Gero. Oh, stuff it. Rhonan rolls his eyes.

Harold nods to the mare and heads down the mountain. The blue roan looks over to the waiting bay stallion and says, “Give me a moment, will you?” He nods, and continues to wait. The mare turns her attention on the three boys with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Rhonan can't blame her. The world just burned to the ground. How anyone can manage a polite smile is beyond him. Then again, Rhonan has never managed a polite smile; even when the world was peachy keen.

She holds herself like a Queen, like giving commands and running a rag tag group of horses is normal. Perhaps she was a Queen in their last life. Beqanna feels like a distant memory now. His crow feels altogether like a dream.

“You found one,” she says to Gero, nodding in Rhonan’s direction.

“I did. His name is Rhonan. Though I think he might be the last one.” Gero replies. Last one what? Last survivor?

The blue roan sighs, her smile fading. “I was afraid of that. Though I suppose thirteen survivors is a good number for a disaster of that size. Still…” She trails off, looking toward Beqanna. Well, the smoldering remains of it anyway. From here, it’s harder to see the destruction, but not impossible.

In the distance, everything is black. The ash-choked sky meets the land with an inky kiss. There is nothing to see out there anymore. Still, they keep looking. Maybe out of hope. Though he thinks it’s because it’s impossible not to look. Like picking a scab. It hurts, but everyone picks anyway. There’s something captivating about watching it bleed.

The mare shakes her head, and turns her attention back to Rhonan. “I’m Malene. We each have jobs here, if you haven’t picked up on that yet. Gero and Noah were scouting for survivors. But since there likely aren’t anymore, I suppose you boys need a new job.” You boys? What, is he stuck with them now? He’s not sure how he feels about that. Rhonan prefers to wander on his own. He flies solo. All that jazz. But then again, he knows nothing about this little herd, and Gero seems pretty confident. Noah just seems to be along for the ride. Rhonan can live with that vibe.

“Why don’t you join Azula?” Malene asks. Though it’s not a question. It’s a polite command. “She went down the mountain about an hour ago. Said she was heading west. I doubt she got far. If the four of you work together, perhaps you can split up and cover more ground.” Gero nods like this makes perfect sense. Though it doesn’t. Rhonan has no idea why they need to cover ground. What ground? It’s all charred. Unless they want to live in the ashes. He will not be joining. Actually, wait. He’ll roll around enough to hide his pretty pretty princess coat and then he’ll leave.

Malene turns to the bay stallion that’s waiting. The signal is clear enough without her saying. Dismissed. Again, Gero leads. They head down the mountain, which seems like the stupidest plan to Rhonan. “Where are we going?” he finally asks. Gero stops for a moment, looks at him, and then continues walking forward with a sigh. Like Rhonan should know. Like this is the most obvious answer in the world. “We are going to scout for somewhere to live.”

Oh.

They find Azula down the mountain, in the west, as Malene said. At least, Rhonan assumes this is Azula. She’s young, though not quite as young as the boys. He’d guess a year older than them, making her three. Though then again, what does he know? She’s not beautiful in a traditional way, but she is mesmerizing. Her coat is black, but parts of her mane and tail are blue. Her mane sticks up in random places. Her eyes are blue as well, bright and vibrant against her black coat. Her look is eclectic rather than beautiful. Though Gero, and even quiet Noah, seem to appreciate her.

“Azula,” Gero says, nodding as they join her. “This is Rhonan.” Rhonan was definitely the last to join the party. Everyone already knows one another. “We’re here to help you scout. How’s it going?”

Azula looks Rhonan over, appraising him before turning her attention back to Gero. “Terrible, as predicted. I haven’t found any path off this mountain that isn’t burnt to a crisp. And there’s not enough food on the mountain to sustain us for that long.”

Gero and Azula talk about where she’s been and a strategy to cover more ground. Noah and Rhonan stand semi-listening, semi-sleeping just a little ways off. At one point, Rhonan can’t help but look at Noah and roll his eyes at this whole conversation. It’s been a solid ten minutes of strategy. Noah rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

“Hey,” Rhonan finally says, breaking into the endless conversation. “I have a plan. I’m going that way.” He nods his head to the right and then starts walking. Noah follows without a sound. Gero and Azula pick their own direction, he assumes. He hears their footsteps fading away behind him.

They spend the better part of the day walking. Noah is a silent companion, and Rhonan finds himself growing rather fond of the ghostly boy. Every time Rhonan turns around, he swears Noah ends up somewhere he wasn’t a second before. Rhonan must be the worst ever at paying attention. Because the boy just small, not actually a ghost. Right? He thinks so, anyway.

The path they are on begins to smell of ash and smoke, and his eyes water. The land before them turns black, and there is nowhere to go. So they turn around, and try again.

The next few days are much the same. They trek down the mountain. They pick new paths. Rhonan and Noah walk in silence All four meet up at the end of the day and return home empty handed. Gero and Azula walk faster, both with purpose, and Rhonan and Noah lag behind. Noah because he is nothing on his own, it seems. Rhonan because he doesn’t see the point in moving any faster.

Some number of days pass. Two? A week? They all blend together and Rhonan doesn’t keep track. There’s an unspoken rule in the herd not to talk about the fire. Not to mention how many days have gone by. Not to talk about lost love ones. Or mention kingdoms, or Beqanna, or anything from the past. At night, sometimes he hears muffled sobs or whispered conversations. But during the day, they throw themselves into work. They pretend as though this is the only life they have ever known.

Rhonan has lived three lives already. How many more would there be? His crow. The fires. His three improbable friends.

Today, whatever day that may be, the two colts he had seen on his arrival are not in their usual location. Today, they are right in his path. In a moment, the colts flank him. Rhonan looks around for Noah, but the gray boy is already gone. Coward, Rhonan thinks, but keeps his mouth shut. The one colt is solid bay, and the other bay tobiano. They look alike, and could be brothers. Maybe twins. Like Rhonan. Though he doesn’t know if he counts as a twin now. If his twin is dead, what does that make him?

“I’ve been watching you,” the bay one says.

“That’s creepy, man.” Rhonan says without thinking. Both of the boys are older than him. They are actually stallions, not colts at all. Rhonan considers them boys anyway. Something about their demeanor, the gleam in their eyes. He knows who they are, if only through conversation. The bay is Kav, the bay tobiano Tanner. Their job, as far as anyone knows, is to stand around and do nothing.

“You should be flattered. We think you’re worth our while.” Rhonan is not flattered. The bay tobiano, the obvious lackey, scoots in closer. What? Cause Rhonan’s going to run somewhere? Up the fucking mountain, sure. And then where? There’s no escape, so he just keeps walking. They keep walking with him. “You hear me? I’m telling you you could live like a king. Like we do.”

At this Rhonan stops. He turns to face the bay colt/stallion. He’s debating if he wants to hear more or kick the boy. But he has no chance to decide, because the boy's already talking. “There’s food. And not that paltry chicken scratch Harold found.” At this, Rhonan's interest stirs. Harold had found food, but the pickings were slim. He hadn’t felt full in days. Or was it years? It felt like years.

“I’ll show you tonight. Just go to sleep like normal.” Kav says, as if Rhonan had agreed. Though he hadn’t refused either. And he did want to know. Where was this food?

Night doesn’t come fast enough, and Rhonan finds that he’s almost too anxious to sleep. Which is strange for the boy that doesn’t give two shits about anything. But food. Oh, he longs for food. He dreams of food. And that is what he does, when sleep finally comes. He dreams of endless, green grass.

Someone noses him awake. Rhonan jumps, ready to fight, until he makes out the shape of Kav, hears the familiar chuckle. “What is it with you people and this waking me up shit?” he grumbles. He’s not enjoying this way of waking him up. Maybe he should just quit sleeping. At least then no one could scare the crap out of him. He has no sense for someone coming up on him. No flight skills against a predator. He sleeps like a rock.

“Eyes closed, fresh meat. It’s a surprise.” Rhonan does as told. He doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t take direction. But here he is following Gero, following Kav. What the hell is wrong with him? Oh right. Beqanna burned to the ground and he’s just trying to survive till tomorrow. Or get killed fast. Either option is cool. Slow, drawn out deaths are not on his cool list though. He’s trying to skip that one.

Kav and Tanner flank him, shoulders brushing his. They lead him this way, one foot and then the next. He tries to peek, but Tanner slams into his right side every time his eyes flutter. So Kav is leading, Rhonan is following Kav, and Tanner’s actually just staring at Rhonan’s face. What a sight they must be. Thank god it’s the middle of the night, and no one else is looking.

They walk for hours. In reality, maybe twenty minutes. But with dickhead and ass wad on either side of him, it feels like hours. He doesn’t like either stallion, but they are necessary. They have food. He has no idea what either of them sees in him. Did they hope Rhonan would be malleable? Another lackey? Cause that’s not gonna fly, boys. The pretty pretty princess is his own man.

“Alright, open ‘em.” Rhonan opens his eyes and oh holy hell. It’s beautiful. The moon is bright overhead, shining through a hole in what he thinks must be a cave. Rock surrounds him. But inside the cave there is bright green grass, small bushes and a gurgling river. Kav holds himself like the king he professes to be, a wild grin on his face. “Eat,” he says.

Rhonan eats without question. The grass is too beautiful to resist. It shines in the moonlight. There’s no ash in here, no charred flesh in this food. He swears he’s never had grass so good. Though of course this is just any old grass. But compared to the crap they found on the mountain, garnished with burnt horse, this is heaven. He can’t even remember what grass before the mountain tasted like.

“Why don’t you bring everyone here?” Rhonan asks. Kav and Tanner are smirking at him. He must look stunned. Or amazed. Or just like the biggest fat kid ever. Whatever. He’s in love with this grass.

“Look around. This is a small space. How long do you think this would last with thirteen horses eating?” Kav says, taking a lazy bite of the grass. “I’m only sharing with those of us that can survive this horror.”

He doesn’t know how he feels about that. What made Rhonan worth more than Gero, or Azlua, or Noah? What made him more likely to survive than any of the others? Or Malene, for that matter, who kept their band together and functioning. What would happen if she died? But the grass here, oh, it’s so good. He can’t bring himself not to eat. Not even the guilt in the pit of his stomach can make his stop.

They lead him back the same way. Tanner and Kav flank his sides, and no matter what he does, he can’t peak. He has no idea where the cave is. No idea what direction they’ve gone in. No one else has found this place in their exploration. Well, at least no one has told anyone about it. Though he suspects that no one else has found it. Only Kav is shitty enough to hide it from everyone else.

Well, Kav and Rhonan.

The next morning, Rhonan doesn’t tell his friends about the cave. Rhonan tells himself that he’ll try to learn where the cave is. Then he can share with his friends. But Kav’s words echo in his head. It won’t last with too many of them. And Rhonan doesn’t want to starve. That night, Kav brings him back to the cave, and they live like kings.

The days go on like this. They search the mountain for alternate places to live. Once they exhaust their options for a new home, they start searching for more food. Anything and everything. The ragtag herd is starving. Rhonan can see Noah’s ribs.

It’s becoming more and more obvious that Rhonan, Kav and Tanner are not wasting away like the rest of them. Everyone eyes the three boys with suspicion. Some of the others try to corner them, particularly Rhonan. Try to force him to show them where he’s found food. But they are too weak to fight, and he isn’t. He doesn’t answer. He shoves past them and disappears down the mountain every time.

Even his friends don’t treat him the same. They give him long, hard stares. Gero and Azula look angry. Noah looks betrayed. It’s Noah’s downcast eyes that pick at Rhonan’s conscious.

Then, one morning, Gero collapses. Rhonan can’t turn a blind eye anymore. He can’t pretend he doesn’t care about his friend. He can’t feast while the rest of them die. The sun isn’t even up when Rhonan shoves Kav awake. “Dude, you’ve got to do something. Can’t you rotate who you bring? They’re all gonna die.” Azula and Gero and Noah are going to die. The only three horses that have ever stuck around him. The only three horses he actually does give two shits about.

“So?” Kav blinks the sleep from his eyes, unimpressed with Rhonan’s little speech. “They’re all going to die anyway. Best cut their suffering short. And then when they are gone, we are the kings. Though I suppose we should save one of the mares. Maybe Azula.” He licks he lips. Actually licks his lips at the mention of Azula.

Rhonan snaps. He rears, lashing out at the bay stallion. Rhonan is shorter and smaller and weaker, but he has surprise on his side. His hooves connect with Kav’s neck and the bay screeches. “You little shit.” Rhonan doesn’t have time to land, let alone run. Kav plows into him, his head hitting Rhonan’s chest. Rhonan reels over, landing on his back. Hooves pound both his sides and he rolls on the ground, trying to get up. Tanner must be here, because he’s surrounded.

His sides are screaming, skin splitting open, blood pooling beneath him. He remembers his dream horn as it crashed against his skin. Remembers the blood that ran down his leg. He remembers the screams of the animals as they burned. He refuses to scream now, but he knows he would sound like them. He is no King. He has never been a King.

In his dreams, his world falls apart. In his life, his world falls apart.

He should stop pretending. He is just a boy that looks like a pretty pretty princess. Just a boy with a mother that ignores him and a father that’s dead. Actually, they are all dead now. He’s nothing and no one. Fuck them. Fuck them all. He doesn’t want to be a King. But he doesn’t want to die. Not by Kav’s hooves, anyway.

He screams, but the sound is angry, not pained. He rolls to the side and kicks. Hooves collide with his stomach, and he groans, but he keeps kicking. Until his hooves don't connect with anything. Until he realizes one side of him is free. He scrambles to his feet. Kav is staring behind him, and Rhonan looks around. There's Noah, standing over a crumbled Tanner. What did he do?

In a heartbeat, Kav takes off in the other direction. Rhonan stares at Noah, and Noah stares back. “You okay?” Noah asks.

Holy balls he talks.

“Aren’t you mute? “ Rhonan asks. Noah chuckles. Tanner groans, though he doesn’t move from the ground.

“Yea, you’re alright.” Noah says. Which isn't exactly true. Rhonan is definitely bleeding, but he could move. Cuts and bruises liter his sides, but nothing life threatening. Yea. Alright. He's fine.

“What, might I ask, is going on here?” Malene had come to join their little party. Rhonan hadn't heard her arrive, but his heart is still hammering in his ears. Harold and some of the other adults stand behind her. Like her secret service or personal bodyguard or something. Noah gives Malene a weak smile and a sigh. “Kav and Tanner were bored, I guess. They decided to practice their fighting skills. But it’s sorted now. Though I think Tanner needs some help.” Noah steps away from the still crumbled bay tobiano so the adults can see.

The adults rush to Tanner. Noah and Rhonan take the opportunity to disappear. When they are out of sight, Noah stops. “Now, you want to tell me what's going on? And then we can decide whether to tell Gero and Azula.”

So Rhonan tells him. About the cave, about having no idea where it is. About how damn good grass tastes when there’s no dead horse in it. He tells Noah every detail. But he doesn’t tell Noah that he was trying to find out how to get to the cave so he could share. Because he knows that’s a lie. He isn’t sure if he would have shared or not.

And then they tell the others.

“So what do we do? Azula asks, once Rhonan has told them everything. Noah’s gone silent again.

Gero rolls his shoulder in a shrug. The boy looks shaky, but at least he's standing. “Rhonan, do you have any idea where the cave is?” Gero says.

“No damn clue. We could just kill Kav.” Rhonan says.

“And kill the only horse who can find food?” Azula asks.  

“So we get him to show us, and then we kill him.” His friends glare at him. They didn’t share the same mindset as he did. Also, Rhonan’s idea is stupid. Kav wasn’t going to show them anything.

The silence spreads between them. What could they do? Maybe Rhonan shouldn’t have gotten mad. Maybe he could have smuggled grass out of the cave. How the hell he was going to get hoof-fulls of grass was beyond him. Maybe he could have hid it in his cheeks. Didn’t chipmunks do that? Gross, but starving horses wouldn’t care.

Damn him.  He should have thought it out. Should have come to his friends. Hell, there’s a lot of thing he should have done. Too late now, Rhonan, he tells himself. Way to be an ass.

Guys? Do you hear that? Azula is whispering, eyes wide as she looks around. They’ve all been silent, but somehow, they grow even quieter. It feels like they stop breathing. Because now that she’s pointed it out, they do hear it. The sounds are animalistic, but there are no animals left. Guttural growls and crunching of half burned leaves and twigs. Rhonan is the first to spot them.

Once, these creatures were horses. Not anymore. Their shape is horse. A head, though the eyes are dead or gone. Four legs and four hooves. But their movements are rough and jagged. Drunken, almost. But fast. So damn fast.

“Run!”

They run. Up the mountain. Which he knows is stupid, stupid, stupid. Where will they go when they get to the top? They can only go back down. But what if the monsters are coming up on all sides? He can’t even call them zombies. There’s no rotting flesh or semblance of life left. They are just charred, burned, impossible creatures.

They reach the top, Rhonan at the back of the pack. His sides scream from the bruises, his breathing ragged. The assholes must have bruised his ribs. The cuts pull wider with each step. Blood flows from his wounds. He can smell the blood. The monsters must smell it too. He’s so screwed. He smells like blood and meat. He smells like dinner.

The horses at the top of the mountain are frantic. He sees Malene, trying to keep them calm. Trying to figure out what to do. “Gero! You’re here. You’re okay. There are zombies. Or something. They’re coming up the mountain over there. She gestures in a direction opposite from where the four of them have just come. Rhonan’s heart sinks. Is there any direction they can go?

He starts circling the top of the mountain. The monsters are everywhere. Divide and conquer. How did they know how to fight? He hears Gero in the background, something about the monsters from their side as well. Rhonan isn’t listening though; he’s trying to find a path down. Somewhere, anywhere.

The river. There is a river. He bolts to that part of the mountain and he sees it. The monsters aren’t here. They seem to be staying clear of the river, though he doesn’t know how long that’ll last. But the path down is clear. They have a shot. A terrible one, but it’s the only one they’ve got.

“Here! Over here!”

He’s hardly gotten the words out before half the herd is barreling down the mountain. Kav spots him standing there, murder in his eyes. The older boy slams right into him. “I need a head start, fresh meat.” Kav growls as he races down the hill with the rest of the herd. Rhonan’s knocked off balance and tumbles, landing in a heap a few feet down. Just in case he didn’t hurt enough already. He needed a few more bruises.

He drags himself to his feet. The monsters are spilling onto the top of the mountain. “Rhonan!” Azula screams. He spins around; his friends are already well ahead of him. And he runs. His whole body feels like it’s ripping apart. Muscle peeling from bone, skin from muscle. He just wants to quit.

Maybe he should stop. Maybe if he lets the monsters eat him first, it’ll give the others time to get away. He can hear them just behind him. So close. Their footsteps thud against the ground and jar his bones. He can feel their rattling breaths like the tickle of a breeze.

He could give up. He could give himself up. And maybe he wouldn’t die without reason. Because he’s going to die. Can he save his friends? He owes them that much.

He stops and turns to face the scorched creatures. But Noah is there, facing Rhonan. He smiles, just the corners of his mouth turning up, as the monsters bear down on him. “No, Noah!” Rhonan tries to throw himself between the creatures and his friend. But the monsters are already there. Their teeth are already in Noah's back. His gray, ghostly friend disappears into the mass of black.

“No!” He wants to fight them, wants to tear them away from Noah. He wants to be five seconds earlier, not five seconds too late. He wants to do something.

But he knows there is nothing else he can do. He hears Azula screaming his name from somewhere down the mountain. He knows that if he stays, Noah will die for nothing. He knows that there’s been too much death. He knows that Noah cannot die in vain. Rhonan has to try. He has to run.

And so he runs. He forgets the pain in his legs and his side and his ribs. He forgets the fire. He forgets even the crow. He remembers Noah now, with the smile on his face. Noah before the monsters took him. And he runs like hell is chasing him down. Because it is. Because despite everything, he has to live.

rhonan.

[Aletheia]

what is dead may never die;

but rises again

The night burns, and she watches. Silent as stone, a hillside sentinel, a quiet white witness to the end of the world. They burn like signals in the night, like heralds of a new world, and although she can't see the old world, she can hear it falling in every crackle. She can hear the death in every scream. She can hear the world fall apart, and if she were any other horse, she'd probably be terrified.

This is what every youngling fears is waiting under their bed. This is the horror you imagine in darkened corridors. This is the thing that goes bump in the night. But there are no parents here, not anymore, and even if there were it wouldn't matter, because nothing will ever make it all right. No amount of tucking in will protect you when the monsters are real.

She watches the world burn all night. There are others here on the mountain, but almost to a fault they don't want to see. They go to bed and only she remains, a silent white ghost, backlit by the red of the dying fires.

She is standing, watching, when the other finds her. She can't tell the girl's coloring in the dark, but Aletheia can understand what it means when the girl walks over to her and plants herself with a mute nod. She can understand, because then they are two, sentinel, to watch over the destruction of the world.

They do not speak throughout the long night.

Morning comes, and the fires are ashes. As the sun climbs higher into the sky, Aletheia looks toward her companion, finally able to see the girl. She is chestnut, small, with the same kind of wide eyes that Aletheia has (although this girl's eyes are brown, where Aletheia's are an icy, frigid blue). The girl is clearly young, but Aletheia recognizes a kindred spirit: like Aletheia, her eyes are wide and wary, but there is no terror at the new situation. Like Aletheia, she knows in her bones that the long night has changed everything. And not only does she know it, she accepts it.

"What's your name?" Aletheia asks the girl. "Shiera." comes the quiet answer. The girl's voice is soft and shy, but Aletheia hears strength beneath it and the girl does not quail underneath her gaze. "You?" Shiera asks. "Aletheia." the grey mare answers. "I was from the Valley, once." she says, speaking of the Valley the way one might speak of their alma mater, or a city they'd long since moved away from. There is nothing wistful about it, and no hope of ever returning. "Dale." Shiera answers, in much the same way.

Perhaps they would have talked more (although that isn't certain) - but the other horses are waking up and not all of them are handling their new situation as well as Aletheia and Sheira. The two girls fall into companionship easily enough, already moving according to some kind of unspoken code, as though they'd formed an alliance with nothing more than their names and their former homes.

The small handful of other survivors clusters further back in the clearing, well back from the edge where Aletheia and Sheira kept their vigil. Before the pair is even in earshot the anxiety is evident in the little herd. Aletheia wonders for a moment if any of them know each other, if any of them have developed an overnight accord like she and Sheira have done. Even if they have, she notes, it seems to have done little good – their posture is on edge and nervous, and although some are more so than others, the overall pattern is noticeable.

Aletheia offers a nod as she approaches the group, and sees Sheira do the same. The others look at them, as though taking their measure, as though sizing them up with blank, horrified eyes. They have all seen too much, even Aletheia and Sheira – the grey girl and her chestnut companion simply have the benefit of handling it far better than most.

A tall, burly bay stallion steps forward as they approach. "Hello." he greets, but it's a guarded welcome. His voice is not friendly. "Hello." Aletheia returns neutrally. "You two didn't come to sleep with the rest of us last night." He says casually, but there is an obvious undercurrent of disapproval. He doesn't like either of them, Aletheia realizes. He doesn't like her, and he doesn't like Sheira. "No, we kept an eye on the rest of the world." she explains, watching him with icy, impassive eyes. She watches Sheira from the corner of her eye, keeping her gaze fixed on the stallion throughout. The other girl is as neutral as she.

"Why didn't you stay with the group?" he asks pointedly, and while his voice is not hostile, his question is pointed. She understands the subtext – he's not asking them why they hadn't stayed with the group, he's asking them why they had dared to be different. Aletheia returns his gaze dispassionately. Perhaps if she were more socially savvy she would try to soothe him, to ingratiate herself with him. But she has no patience for fools, and in her mind judging someone simply or being different is foolish. "What if something had changed in the night?" Aletheia asks it like a genuine question. She is not defensive – she has already decided she doesn’t care what he thinks. "What if there had been other survivors?" Sheira adds from Aletheia's side. There hadn't been, true, but there could have been.

The stallion snorts. "Well, we're stronger when we're together. Just don't forget that." His voice is gruff. Aletheia is quite sure that he does not care about the group for the group's protection; he cares that they cluster around him for his own protection. He turns back to the group, and she watches him go with eyes of ice. Sheira looks to her, and Aletheia can see the exasperation in her eyes and on her face. Both of them do not relish the idea of being in this place with that stallion, but both know that it is by far their best opportunity for survival. When he'd spoken about safety in the group he'd really meant his own safety, but he wasn't wrong about the group being the safest place. They couldn't leave, not even with two of them. Not until they had an understanding of what had happened and why, and what the fallout would be.

The muscled stallion calls them all together then. He seems to have adopted the role of leader, and Aletheia cannot help wondering how. She certainly would not follow him – did the rest of the group not see how self-centered and selfish he is? She does not doubt that he leads them for his own goals, for his own reasons, and for his own gain. It has nothing to do with helping the herd.

"Good morning to all of you." He begins, his voice odd and scripted, as though he's reading from a prompt, or falling back on words and phrases he was taught long ago. The effect, at least to Aletheia's ears, is that he sounds insincere and hollow. "It is an honor to meet you, although I wish it were under different circumstances." He pauses, letting his voice sink in sadness. But it's too scripted, too choreographed, and it rubs Aletheia the wrong way. The rest of the group doesn't seem to react, but so many of them seem shellshocked. Are they even really hearing what he says? "No words can make sense of this horrible tragedy. Nothing that I can say will bring back those that we have lost, or the lands that died with them." Too flowery by half, she thinks. Will he ever get to an actual point? But some of the horses around her seem to be touched by it. She can hear quiet crying from somewhere in their little band.

"But we will not be defeated by our sorrow." His voice surges with strength, in that way that all speakers seem to surge with strength right when they hit the point of their speech that is meant to be most inspirational. "We will never forget Beqanna. Let us live to honor our friends." A small cheer comes up from the group. Aletheia and Sheira look at each other. "In fact, I think we should appoint someone an official steward of the legacy of Beqanna. Someone to talk to everyone here, to learn as much of the history as possible, someone whose job it is to know all the things that the rest of us are going to forget. Someone with no other duties but to protect our heritage." There are a few cheers from the crowd, but they don't seem fully convinced.

For her part, Aletheia can hardly believe what she's hearing. With such a small group, they can't afford that luxury. "Excuse me." She speaks up without hesitation, stepping forward, out of the group. Her voice is calm, cool, and clear as ice. "But I don't see how we can afford to have anyone skipping out on watches and foraging. Look at how much food there is here in this clearing, and how many of us there are. Once we know we can survive, then we can see to the legacy of the dead."

She bay stallion watches her flatly, but she can see the anger in his eyes. His dislike had been tentative before; now it was full blown. "Our legacy means so little to you, that you would simply throw it away?" his voice is rising, ballooned by anger. "No, she's just not a blustering idiot like you." This is a new voice, brash and strong, and Aletheia looks for the source. She doesn't have to wait long before a grey pony stallion steps forward. He is a large pony, around 14 hands, and he's got the strong musculature of a welsh or a Haflinger, although there's little doubt he's as much a mixed breed as the rest of the horses in Beqanna. His gaze is even as he looks at the bay stallion. "We can't afford to think about anything but staying alive right now. It's like you said yourself – 'let us live to honor our friends'. It's pretty hard to honor them when they're dead." The group murmurs, seemingly undecided now that there seems to be a debate. Aletheia is amazed by it: she's never seen empty, political promises like this before, and she cannot believe how easily these horses seem to fall under the spell. Even shell-shocked as they are, how can they not think through the logistics? How can they not see that the promises are so empty, that there is no way it could ever be as the bay stallion describes? There is no magic here – or if there is, it's in the husks of the burnt trees that blanket the whole rest of the world. It is against them, their antagonist, and it will not bend to their will.

"And besides, shouldn't we all be stewards of our legacy?" Aletheia asks, shifting her gaze from the grey pony stallion to the larger bay. "No one horse could ever truly hold memories for all of us." The bay's lip starts to curl in anger – she can see that by now, he hates her. She suspects it is not so much for her opinion as for the fact that she dares to challenge him. For her part, she thinks him stupid but holds no ill will. She meets his gaze evenly, her blue eyes ice cold and her expression entirely neutral.

Their little group is poised for argument, but the argument never comes because something else arrives first: a small black filly, entirely alone. She announces herself with a crash from the woods across the way, so weak and tired that she careens from tree to tree. At first, it's impossible for the group to see the girl within the copse of trees, and the crashing sound she makes is outsize, almost impossible considering how small she is. All of them save Aletheia, Sheira, and the pony stallion are backing away from the woods when the small girl finally stumbles out into the sunlight.

She catches herself, avoiding falling, but she's clearly the worse for wear. Her small legs are wobbly, and she has to splay into a wide stance to avoid falling. Her head is down, as though she's trying desperately to keep her balance, but only having middling success. But apart from exhaustion and some scrapes and cuts, she seems more or less okay – nothing bleeding too badly, nothing broken. She limps a little as she gathers herself and approaches them, but that seems more from strain than anything else.

Most of their group still shies away from the girl, including the bay stallion who had been so adamant about the importance of legacy and history. Here is another piece of living history, just like them, and he won't lift a finger. All talk, and no action. She snorts, and she, Sheira, and the grey pony stallion start moving toward the filly almost at the exact same moment.

Shira places her chestnut muzzle on the girl's shoulder, offering silent, wordless encouragement. Aletheia knows better than to do that; in this place, her power is as strong as it has ever been. She'd sap the girl's strength, not help her. "It's okay, you're safe now." She says instead, hoping that it's true.

They reach the group and the small black girl seems to visibly relax. The bay stallion still seems worried, as do some of the surrounding group. Aletheia cannot believe it – less than 24 hours have passed, and they're already acting like an insular society. Grief and loss are funny things, she thinks, and is glad that she is one of the seemingly few immune to the chaos they cause.

"My god, she's nothing to be afraid of. She's in no shape to be hurting anyone." The grey pony stallion snaps at the bay, speaking the words on Aletheia and Sheira's minds as well. The bay's ears flatten back for a moment, but he manages to pull himself together and approach the girl. Coward, Aletheia thinks, and makes no effort to let the bay stallion through. If he ends up brushing against her, he richly deserves the tiredness that her lifesteal will bring. He doesn't touch Aletheia, and he doesn't get too close to the dark filly either. But when he speaks to the newcomer, his grin is wide and clearly (at least to Aletheia) , obviously fake. "Welcome to our home. You are welcome here."

Aletheia has her doubts.

The meeting breaks up after that, entirely disturbed by the arrival of the new girl. They are 13 now, an uneven and unlucky number. They cluster around Aletheia, Sheira, the grey stallion and the black filly, watching as Sheira and the stallion help sturdy her so she can eat. Blessedly the girl seems able to stomach grass; she'd just been too terrified to stop and eat previously.

As the day drags on, the observers lose interest one by one, fading off into the edges of the meadow. From the corner of her eye, she sees the bay stallion move between them, working them like a politician works a room full of donors. Smooth, smooth like a snake.

The girl gets stronger once she's eaten, but they insist she rest. "We'll keep an eye on things. You'll be safe." Aletheia promises, and the girl finally agrees to lie down for a little while. Aletheia is reminded for a moment of her dream-bower, where she and her friends had found gentle refuge during the nights. How long ago that seems – like a different life, even though it had only been a dream from yesterday.

"So what's your name?" the grey pony stallion asks Aletheia and Sheira when the small girl has finally drifted off to sleep. "I'm Conn," he adds before they can respond. "I'm Aletheia," she replies evenly. "And I'm Sheira." The chestnut nods. And so their happy little band forms, clustered around their mutually adopted daughter, the little black filly who had the misfortune to come upon them a few hours later, after the others had had time to get scared and set in their ways. "I'm Spiar." The black girl says through a yawn, and the adults exchange small smiles for the first time since their world had burned.

The days pass, and the girl gets stronger. And impossibly, against all odds, as she gets stronger she regains that bright, bubbly nature that the young so often have

Aletheia cannot understand it, but then again, she's never been either bright or bubbly herself. If she didn't know better she might have thought that the girl was simply dealing with the trauma through hysteria, that her young mind had been shattered, that she exists in a state of strange denial, blocking everything out. But the young girl makes it clear that such is not the case. She remembers her old life in a quiet herd land with perfect clarity. She recalls her mother and father (a stallion and one of his beta mares) and knows that they are both dead. She even recalls the moment when they died.

"We were escaping together." The tiny black girl's voice is high, sweet, and tremulous. "But the path was narrow through the woods, and there was fire on every side. My parents made me go first, go through before them. And then the fire roared and cracked and…a big tree fell across the path." Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper. "But it didn't fall on them. They didn't die. But they were trapped – burning branches on either side. They couldn't dodge the next tree that fell. They screamed at me to go, to run, to leave them…and they'd made me promise to listen, so I had no choice. I did."

And then they died, Aletheia and Sheira and Conn and the girl all think, but no one says.

It's not long before the big bay calls them all together for a meeting. Their little group of four hangs together, and she notices that others have found little groups as well. There are thirteen of them in total. Thirteen. An unlucky number, but then, what about them could be called lucky?

"Thank you all for joining me here today," the bay says as though they have a choice. There is nowhere else to go, nothing but thick forests as far as they've explored thus far. And worst of all, there is little grass in the forest. Their current location, and their current food supply, won't sustain all of them forever. She wonders if the bay has noticed.

"We are lucky to have so many dedicated, hardworking horses here." He doesn't look at Aletheia or her group as he says it, and she does not fail to notice the implication. They pull their weight, but his dislike of them had been sealed that first night when they'd watched the world burn rather than sleeping. There would be no coming back after that. "Thank you all for everything you do."

"Unfortunately, I need to call on you to do more." The majority of the groups look to him with blank expressions, listening, prepared to accept whatever he will say. She is past wondering why - it's some blend of his charisma and empty promises and their desperation. "We need to start sending scouting parties to find more food. This meadow, this wonderful, beautiful meadow, isn't meant to feed as many as we have here. We must either find more food, or some of us will need to starve." He stares directly at Aletheia as he says the last bit, and she has no doubt that he would starve their little group first, and the others (downtrodden as they are) would simply let it happen.

"Scouting will be done in pairs. Each pair will go three days out of the week, with a day off in between." Pairs, Aletheia notes – conveniently, there's an odd number. She has no doubt who will be left out. "I will work nonstop to coordinate all of the scouting missions. I will miss out on the opportunity to discover our new home, our salvation, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make in order to ensure the success of our teams." Of course.

From their little group, Aletheia and Sheira pair up, and Conn and Spiar. But they more or less ignore the bay stallion's rules about days off, and choose to spend their whole time scouting the area and learning more about the woods as a foursome. It's surprisingly enjoyable, a slightly more structured wander through the woods. Aletheia is their undisputed leader, deciding what direction they go, how they will get there, and guiding them whenever they get lost. Sheira is her staunch second, always on alert and always ready to help if called for. Conn, brash and harsh, is softened in the presence of little Spiar, and becomes a quite able companion for the young girl. For her part, Spiar is starting to recover from the trauma they had all endured. Where the adults still have that haunted look in their eyes, that darkness lurking just beneath the surface, Spiar is starting to regain her joy. She even laughs sometimes and delights in the small creatures that they find on their earlier expeditions. The resilience of the young is a wonderful thing.

But delightful as they may be for Spiar, the woods seem unfortunately endless, and precious few of the trees within those woods are edible. They often return hungry to the small meadow, despairing of what will happen when the grass eventually gives out, or when winter comes. Assuming there are still winters in this world.

They are scouting together when she smells it. Not Aletheia (not at first), but little Spiar. She wrinkles up her still small nose, looking at the adults around her with confusion. "What's that smell?" The inquiry is innocent enough, but all three adults are immediately on edge.

Aletheia is the only one who recognizes it. In another life she'd known it well, the scent of death and putrefaction. In another life she'd let Infection trace undead kisses up and down her neck, making her reek of it just the same as him. But this was so much stronger, borne on the breeze, and she knows instantly that it cannot be him. It cannot be even just one of them – it is too heavy a scent.

And it's coming toward them.

"We have to go back. We have to warn them." Aletheia speaks urgently, and they don't hesitate to listen to hear. They can hear the words in her voice, the quiet command. They run then, even Spiar, their hooves pounding on the ground. But although they are as fast as they can be, they still are not fast enough.

They reach the clearing only moments before the monster, with just enough time for a frantic, wordless warning. And then it is upon them.

It is a horse – well, was a horse. It moves with a sick, unnatural motion, as though its bones and muscles no longer work even remotely as they used to (or as they are meant to). Its skin is hideous, charred, like the surface of a hot dog left over the fire for far too long. It is emaciated, as though some of the muscle and flesh had been burned away. The only distinguishing feature on its face are its teeth, which it snaps together again and again as though imagining a feast. It emerges from the forest, and a ripple of fear passes through the thirteen.

That ripple of fear turns into full-blown panic when the creature lets out a strange shrieking growl, and the woods are suddenly alive with the creatures, all of them heading right for the little band of survivors, and moving fast.

The horses (the living ones) turn tail and run.

Time seems to slow down as they emerge, their voices a dull roar. They drag and twitch and jerk, but it doesn't seem to slow them down. They come like a tide, and Aletheia knows that there is nothing and no one in the group capable of stopping them. There is no choice now, just like there had been no choice in her dream, with the cliff and the fire. Now, as then, there is nothing for her to do but accept her fate.

She remembers how Infection had reacted when he had touched her. Her lifesteal seemed to do something to even him, the undead. Perhaps she could use that to her advantage here, to suck away even a little bit from even a few of them. Perhaps she could use her condition to save them all.

"Go," she breathes, so quietly at first. She stops running. "Go, go, go!" she screams then, resolute in her decision. Her friends stop too, Sheira and Conn and Spiar staring back at her with frantic eyes. "We can't just leave you!" Conn is the first to speak, and she shakes her head. "You can, and you must. I can stop them." The lie comes easily to Aletheia. It will be so much more simple this way, they won't fight her nearly as much. "I can stop them, but if you don't run, I might hurt you in the process."

She can tell that they don't believe her. They don't speak, but she can see the wheels in their mind turning, the way they try to find the way to tell her they know, to call her on it. But they cannot – they've seen the way she makes the plants wilt. They know not to touch her. And so they cannot argue, they cannot tell her not to.

"Dammit." Sheira's voice is bitter. "Thank you Aletheia." Conn whispers. There are tears in Spiar's eyes. She wonders if they'll tell the rest of the herd, the bay stallion and the others. Naturally, he'd been the first to turn tail and run. She is quite sure he'd never thought of trying to fight, or even trying to protect them.

"Go." She says it one final time, but it is a command, not a scream. Once again, she is content with her fate. She has accepted it, as she's accepted so many fates before. She is no longer afraid to die, and she does not begrudge them her sacrifice. She is just doing what must be done.

They wheel themselves around, wrenching themselves away, and take off for the woods.

Aletheia watches them go for a moment before turning around to face the oncoming horde. It's not so different from the fire, she thinks. And she does not hesitate to stand her ground.

aletheia

harder and stronger

[Jaide]

Beqanna is a raging inferno beneath the survivors, and they are helpless to do anything. All they can do is watch as the fire rolls like waves down and across the valleys. All they can see is the path of destruction the unchecked wildfire leaves in its wake. From their height atop the mountain, the trees look like dandelions. But instead of wind catching their seeds and sending them flying off to pollinate, the fire incinerates the branches, sending only plumes of smoke into the sky. Eventually, the smoke grows so dense that it’s impossible to see through it. It fills up every space and crevice below until it connects as a single, black cloud covering the lands they once knew as home. The cloud stops its heaven-bound advancing some dozen yards or so underneath of the survivors, like soft terrain they can venture down onto if they so desire.

All they can hope is that there are other places, other mountains, maybe, where other survivors have found. They can’t see any from where they’re at, but it doesn’t mean they don’t exist elsewhere. Jaide pulls her gaze away from the fires long enough to count the horses alongside her on the mountain. There are twelve, thirteen including her. Thirteen horses left in a land that had been full to the brim with equines before this latest catastrophe. It had been full of other life, too. The swamps that are now dried out had been teeming with caiman and piranha. The forests that are now crisped were once a refuge for fallow deer and timber wolves. She thinks of her Jungle, invisible now through the smog. All of the kingdoms are gone, but this loss of biodiversity from the Amazons will be unparalleled. The Sisterhood knows and appreciates life more than any of the others, perhaps. Its loss hurts her to her very core.

She watches long after the others turn away.

There’s nothing to see, but she finds herself rooted to her spot. She stands until her legs shake with spent adrenaline and loss of energy. She stands until her eyes start to flutter from exhaustion and smoke. The occasional crack or sizzle echoing from below jerks her to attention every time, the sounds of the dying land a torturous alarm. She is grateful, in a completely sickening way. She thinks someone should be here at the end of everything; someone should remember the apocalypse. At one point, the wind shifts, bringing a load of smoke to waft over onto her spot. The young mare breathes it in and chokes on it before she is forced to turn away. As she walks and coughs, her throat tastes like ashes and death. It coats her tongue, making it heavy as she sweeps it across her lips, trying in vain to rid her mouth of the taste. A horrifying though occurs to her, and she shudders when she realizes how many plants, animals and horses flavor it.

It’s impossible to distinguish the heat of the survivor’s bodies from the fire’s heat all around, but she manages to find the others in the dark. She can hear their breathing, can distinguish the different cadences of each horse. One breathes deeply, restfully, fully unaffected by the raging inferno that could reach them at any moment. Another inhales and exhales rapidly, as if they can’t wait to get to the next breath (as if they are worried each might be their last). Jaide moves towards this one, intending on comforting them, until another sound catches her ears. It’s soft and steady, almost a mewling carried on the charred breeze. She leaves the group and heads up the mountain a ways, stumbling at the incline in the dark. The sound is much closer now, originating somewhere off to her left. When she pushes past a bush (burrs catching all along her sides) she finds the source.

The creature lunges at her, and in the inky black, she is unable to see to avoid it. It pushes its muzzle into her shoulder, nuzzling against the crook of it, and she sighs. A small colt, not even a yearling, leans against her. “It’s alright,” she says, trying to push her words past the lump of soot in her throat. Her voice is as smoky as the air around her, but she’s glad. It makes her sound older than the barely three years she’s lived; it gives the boy some semblance of comfort, of authority when he’s surely lost the one who’s supposed to give it.

~

It’s uncertain when the sun rises, exactly, because it doesn’t happen like she’s always remembered it should. Instead, the sky simply lightens, a red-orange haze where before it had been black, punctuated only by firelight. The survivors are quick to wake up as the filtered light hits their eyes. Jaide and the colt move down the mountain to join the others who are still largely arranged in their tight cluster. A few stand apart from the group, and it’s these that the blue roan accesses most critically. One looks almost embarrassed to have taken up with the others overnight, her eyes dart between the rest of the horses accusingly, as if it had somehow been their fault. The chestnut seems almost to want someone to challenge her, but none rise to the occasion. Many have the shell-shocked look of war victims. And while the night seems to have killed the active flames of the land below, it seems to have also stolen the fire from some of the survivors’ eyes. They are defeated, and that is no good. It’s impossible to build anything without some materials to begin. Jaide knows she has her work cut out for her – they all do.

They pull together at the urging of an older stallion. He calls to the thirteen survivors, his voice a deep bass that echoes in the still air around them. Jaide moves into the circle, the black colt pressed firmly against her side. Only the chestnut mare – Rouge, as she names herself after much prodding – lingers outside the group. Alpha, the stallion with the deep voice, wants to make hard and fast rules right away. It’s clear from what he says that he thinks he will make a fine First King After Civilization. The others drink in his words as if they are sweet nectar, as if they are the balm that will heal everything. Jaide is not so sure, and she notices with some appreciation that Rouge is scowling as well. When Alpha says that the rest of the stallions should begin searching the wasted land below for life and leaving the mares safe with him, the once-Amazon steps in.

She shakes her head and looks at Alpha, making it clear she doesn’t agree with his plan at all. “We shouldn’t split up. We need to stay together.” She looks at the rest of the group then, seeing the fog lift from some of their faces as they realize there is a choice at all in the matter. “There’s safety and strength as a group. Nobody should go anywhere alone.” “What are you so afraid of? There’s nothing out there, not anymore.” The older stallion glares at her, trying to draw the crowd back in his favor. Their eyes follow the conversation back and forth, desperate to cling to whoever comes out ahead. Jaide swallows, not really wanting to lead the group but seeing no other way to avoid what will surely be the Alpha-show if not. “Look,” she says, shrugging openly, “none of us know what started this fire, is all I’m saying. Could be natural or it could be a magician who expected a clean slate after everything burned.” It’s clear most of the horses hadn’t considered it by their shocked expressions, but she presses on. “If so, we are the only blips left to clear on their radar. Let’s just work together, okay?”

When everyone comes around, that’s exactly what they do.

That first day post-apocalypse is as difficult as expected. Jaide is a collaborator, not a natural leader, but with only one other strong contender, she finds herself giving orders midway through the day. It’s easier because, until only yesterday, she’d been a goddess. She wishes she still had that power, that fire of an entirely different nature. She wishes she could call on the plants to fix themselves, to dig deeper into the charred soil and find the water running hundreds of feet below. She thinks about all she could do if she was still that woman. A mage and a mother, a healer and a friend to the world she’d created. Now, she is just another one of few. One of the last of Beqanna’s dynasty.

She tries to put what she could do out of her mind. She remains firm in her belief that they should never go anywhere alone and sends a bay stallion and two grullo mares up the mountain, assuring them that there should be a stream originating somewhere above. She has no real basis for such a thought, having grown up in the relatively flat Jungle, but she relies on gravity to fill in the blanks. If there is water anywhere above, it will have to flow down at some point. In their clearing, the fire has left evidence of its existence. Where they walk, they leave hoofprints in the ash. It’s a good way to keep track of the comings and goings of their crew, but not so healthy overall. Jaide warns the others not to drink from any pools they might find, as they’ll surely be polluted. It’s inconvenient to trek up the mountain each time they want to quench their thirst, but it’s safer in the long run, she knows. It’s unfortunate that she has to think so far into the future, that they will likely have to sustain this small population for as long as it takes for life to once again blossom below, but it’s the hard truth. She only hopes there is enough food to last that long.

To that end, Alpha, the older buckskin tobiano stallion, sends a pair of mares around the mountain to find all the available grasses. Jaide is rather useless in this regard. She can spend hours listing both the edible plants and the poisonous plants in the Amazons, but here, she must learn as much as the others. She finds the two mares at the end of the day and spends time hearing the information from the direct source. One’s named Vert, a pretty amber champagne with green eyes. The other is a sturdy palomino named Jaune. Yes, there is plenty of meadow grass on the other side of the mountain. Yes, it should sustain them for at least a month after all the roots have been pulled up here. Yes, the path to get there is across a narrow face of granite and unimaginably dangerous. She gulps when she hears this but smiles for their sakes. They aren’t much older than her, and though some part of her is surprised they defer to a younger mare, she doesn’t resent the responsibility it implies. Their faces are earnest and their energy electric as they relay the news. They’d forged ahead, putting the group above their own safety. Jaide thinks they would have made excellent Sisters, if the Sisterhood still existed. “Wonderful, you both did wonderful.” She worries, but she hides it well.

The one bright light is the black colt. “I was Noir,” he finally tells her as the hazy sky turns from dark gray to inky black, “my mom called me Noir.” It’s the first words he’s spoken since he ran into her the night before, and he cries as soon as they leave his mouth. His dam couldn’t have been a typical Beqanna mother, couldn’t have been neglectful or abusive or even absent. She must have loved him, as he clearly loves her, and it will only be worse for him because of it. “Shhh, shhh,” Jaide pulls him close, feeling his velveteen muzzle tuck into her chest as she does it. “You are still Noir and always will be. I’ll keep you safe.” She brushes the top of his head with her lips. He doesn’t believe it yet, but in time, he will come to. The warm body is enough comfort so soon after the fires.

The stars do not come out that first night.

The sky seems to boil with its billowing, grey clouds that blot out the heavens. It takes almost a week for it to clear and Jaide thinks that it’s alright, for it has taken nearly that long for the crew to come together, anyway.

The general confusion and unrest calms as they settle into a pattern. In groups, they go out and forage in sparse, small meadows along the mountainside. The food isn’t particularly tasty – in fact, it’s rather tough and bland – but it will keep them in weight for a while. At least, until they are forced to venture to the mecca place of grass. She keeps it in the back of her mind at all times, a last card she is unwilling to put into play just yet, despite their discomforts. It’s good, she thinks one day, catching Rouge’s distrustful eye in the distance and walking by, this is how our ancestors eked out a living. If they could survive off of scrub grass and thistles, then so can we. The water more than makes up for it, clear and cool as it is up the mountain. She makes the trek many times a day as they all do, and the path is already becoming worn from use. She takes her constant shadow, Noir, and a quiet gray mare named Gris.

Gris is very old, but despite her appearance, it hardly shows in her movement. She is surprisingly spry even with the most swayed back Jaide has ever seen. She moves up the incline with the practiced ease of someone who’s lived on one their whole life, her feet finding purchase even when the blue girl thinks there is none to be found. Oftentimes, she asks the mare where to put her own feet. She asks other things, too. She asks for tales from before, from the woman’s past and for advice now. She likes her black and white take on things, but they disagree often, too. “Mares should always obey their stallions,” Gris says candidly as she always is, “you should listen to Alpha. He’s only trying to follow the natural order of things. And I think he likes you.” Jaide rolls her eyes at this, grinning at Gris but taking her words with a grain of salt. She knows enough to respect her elders, but on this matter, they will never agree. She believes in teamwork and equality; Alpha believes in himself and the subservience of women.

She tries to share her beliefs with Noir as the first week spills into the second post-apocalypse. He can make his own decisions, of course, but she is secretly glad he’d unknowingly chosen her that first night. Alpha draws more and more of the other mares closer to him every day, building a following that is hard to deny exists. He doesn’t try to, to his credit. If there’s one thing he’s always been, it’s transparent about his ambitions. The others still follow her idea of pairing off to perform tasks, but some seem to do so begrudgingly now. One day, Jaide reminds a young girl to take a friend to one of the meadows. The mare looks past her to Alpha, who has come up behind her. “I’ll be along shortly, go on ahead.” She flounces off, and when Jaide turns to confront the paint stallion, he smirks in triumph.

For once, the black colt is not by her side. He has gone with Gris up to the stream, and the blue girl finds herself alone with Alpha for the first time. He steps closer, sensing her apprehension. She isn’t scared of him but knows that he will try to push his agenda on her. “You know, you don’t have to fight me on everything.” His deep voice is so close that it reverberates in her ribcage. It’s jarring, and she wonders how the other girls find it so enticing. “You’re very beautiful.” He presses against her, negating all the space that had just been between them. “Leave me alone,” Jaide jumps at his touch, her eyes narrowing to almost nothing. He tries once more, moving in even closer and grinning. “It’s the end of the world. It’s over, really. This is what we are supposed to do – this is why we survived. That’s all I want…to make life again.” His teeth find her neck and she jerks away, stunned at first, then running as soon as she has a mind to.

She runs blindly at first, desperate to escape the clearing. She doesn’t know if Alpha is following or not, but she doesn’t really care either way. Jaide climbs higher up the mountain than she’s ever gone before. The terrain that was once slippery now only slows her down marginally – Gris has taught her well. She hikes until the breath strains in her lungs and her heart races dangerously, and when she finally stops, she realizes how foolish it was. The more energy she expends, the more food she will need. Their supply is dwindling as it is. She vows to bypass her evening graze as she catches her breath, staring out at the expansive, depressing view below. All of Beqanna – all of what remains - is spread out as far as the eye can see. The snow-capped peaks of some northern mountains are just visible on the horizon, and in front of that, the land is an indistinguishable palette of blacks and sooty grays.

“He tried to get you, too, didn’t he? The lilting voice startles her in this desolate, empty space, and Jaide turns quickly. The chestnut mare Rouge stands just behind her, looking almost hesitant in the shadows of the mountain’s pinnacle – like she hadn’t want to reveal her hiding place. Come to think of it, Jaide can’t remember the last time she saw the skulking mare – has she been up her over a week now? Her words strike a chord in the young blue girl, and she immediately understands and nods. Rouge looks down but moves forward, her eyes lifting at the last minute. “He wouldn’t let me leave. I – I tried to escape, when the fires first reached our herdland. But he’s stronger than he appears.” Her eyes flash then, that same old spark she’d first had, as if daring Jaide to question her ability to leave.

“Oh Rouge, I’m so sorry. I didn’t understand – if I’d have known…” She moves to embrace the fire-red mare, ever the consoler, but Rouge shifts to avoid the gesture. Up close, she’s rather strikingly pretty, despite the many scars and bite-marks that cover her. Or maybe because of them, Jaide thinks. She’s not disappointed that the mare refuses her, and she’s about to apologize when the chestnut moves right by her, her eyes focused intensely on the ground far below. Jaide turns, too, wondering what’s stolen Rouge’s attention so quickly.

“I thought I saw something moving… Yes! There.” She tips her muzzle, indicating a spot just before Survivor Mountain. Jaide can see nothing at first – only another patch of defeated, dusty earth – until it shrieks, revealing its location. It’s vaguely equine in shape, but it’s so gaunt that she doesn’t know how it can be alive, much less moving. And moving quickly, she notes with increasing confusion. Surely nothing can have survived three weeks down there without food or water? It lifts its nose into the air as it runs, scenting the air for something. But what? It moves sideways across their line of sight at first, but then it seems to pick up on a smell. The two mares watch with dim understanding, and then it turns towards them and stops. “What in the hell? It pauses for a very long time and then slowly, its head begins to lift as if it can see them perched atop the mountain. The bony creature lets loose a wild, blood-curdling cry and Jaide’s stomach drops within her. “We have to get back to the others right now,” she says, but Rouge is already moving in wordless agreement.

As they walk, the once-Amazon watches as the ramifications of the creature’s sighting and subsequent call become clear. A horde of the animals descend down a hill that had been blocking their view of them. The women move faster, not caring anymore that the rocks skitter beneath their feet, threatening to topple them at any moment. They reach the clearing in no time at all. It’s relatively peaceful still, untouched by the trauma that will likely be in their future. Gris ambles over slowly when she sees Jaide, her dark eyes showing no hint of knowing what is to come, of the horror the two mares have just seen. She doesn’t want to tell her, and she’s glad there’s not time enough to even if she did. “Gris, there’s no time to explain. I need you to take everyone further up the mountain. Use the stream trail or find a better one, the water isn’t important right now.” Seeing some sort of excitement building, the two ambitious girls – Vert and Jaune - race over, their eyes lit with the notion of adventure (of anything outside the boring nature of their survival). They are the only two not yet swayed by Alpha’s advances, and in this moment, Jaide is so grateful they’ve resisted. “You two, help Gris. Convince Alpha’s mares to go with you.” Rouge pipes up then, “and if you can’t convince them, make them.”

The three nod in understanding and move off. The blue roan is pleased they so willingly follow orders without knowing the full extent of why they are doing so. It’s better this way, she thinks, and puts them out of her mind for now. She has only a mind to find Noir, and her eyes scan the clearing before she finds the buoy of black bobbing in a sea of browns and greens. Thank Goddess. She races towards him with Rouge quick on her heels. A sudden smell like rotting meat reaches her nostrils, almost forcing her to a stop. The sound of a lot of moving bodies follows then, but far unlike any bodies in her mind’s lexicon. And while she can sympathize with almost anyone or anything, given the chance, she feels it will never be possible with these creatures. Because they burst out into the open then, and her instincts are now as hot as the kingdoms had been as they burned. They tell her to abandon Noir because she is running perpendicular to the charred animals. They tell her to turn tail because he is in their cross-hairs and she will never make it to him in time, as impossibly fast as they are.

A deer bounds out of the sparse trees at exactly the wrong time, its aim for the downward slopes of the mountain. Two of the hellish creatures break from the pack to intercept it, their jaws working hungrily even before they make contact with the deer’s soft hide, anticipating the kill. It’s decisive and swift when they collide, overrunning the helpless herbivore and tearing into it instantly. The deer’s head rolls away when one of the creatures becomes too overzealous with its gnawing. Jaide’s stomach turns, but she keeps moving. The lines have been drawn on both sides; the stakes have been realized. In trying to save Noir, she will likely die (he will too, she thinks, unless I can distract them long enough). To her credit, Rouge runs right alongside Jaide. Her mouth is set in a grim line but her eyes spark in some sort of happiness. It doesn’t make sense, that happiness in this scene of death, but there is no time to question it. “When we get to him, you take him to safety, Rouge. Understand?” The chestnut looks at her blankly for a moment before nodding. “Okay. Yeah, of course.” She will die for the boy, of course she will. He’s lost enough in his short life (she has too, her mother and father likely wisps of smoke in their respective homes, but losing him would be far too much).

“Jaaiide,” Noir wails upon seeing her, upon seeing that she will not make it before they do. He’s backed against a tree, his brown eyes reflecting more fear than she’s ever seen or wishes to see again. It might be easier if he’d accepted his fate by now, but he still struggles for his life, still cries for help when he surely knows it’s not going to be in the cards for him. Alpha suddenly appears on a rise just above the boy, accessing the scene quickly before calling out to the mares. “Come on, you both can still make it if you leave him!” Jaide spares him a glare but neither make a word or a move towards him. The buckskin tobiano scowls and disappears into the bush, not looking back at Noir once. He’s safe for now, but probably not for long, she thinks.

The horde clatters and chirps as the two lines draw together at a point – at Noir. The creatures reach him first, but Noir moves alongside the tree line, scraping his sides against the branches as he runs. It’s a small reprieve as he heads towards the mares – one charred corpse yanks a good portion of his tail away – but he makes it to them. “Go!” Jaide plants her feet when the three horses finally align, intending to be the launching point for Noir and Rouge’s retreat. She breathes in the rot and ash and thinks how much she doesn’t want to die. But seeing the young lines of the boy’s face, of a face he will grow into because of her, makes it easier. Seeing the abject terror shining in his eyes that will be replaced by joy and life someday makes it all worth it. “Go,” she says more gently this time.

Rouge does, but in the wrong direction.

She darts forward into the oncoming horde, her scars like dazzling armor in the post-apocalypse light. They will do little to save her. The creatures stop for a moment, unused to willing prey, but then they unleash themselves fully. “NO, ROUGE!” Jaide screams, but it’s too late. It’s obvious they will decimate the chestnut mare and pull her apart in no time. The blue girl realizes that Noir has seen it all – is still watching, dumbfounded – and urges him away. There’s nothing they can do for the mare who has survived so much only to go out like this. The barely-mare and colt run. Safe for now, but probably not for long, she thinks again, an echo that will not leave her. But the fire-colored woman has given them a chance, at least. And maybe she has saved herself, too – maybe what awaits the survivors now is starvation or the continued advance of the dead-creatures. “Thank you,” she breathes into the wind, not caring if they are still doomed later down the road. Nothing can diminish Rouge’s sacrifice; nothing can take away from what she’s given up.

Jaide

girl of fire and ice

[Tyrna]

Tyrna If we don't make it alive, well it's a hell of a good day to die The ash is deep at her feet and the air is much colder now. Small gusts of wind blow the remains of Beqanna into the air clouding vision and making it hard to breath. The most troubling thing isn't the clouds of smoke and the stench of death, it's the silence. Though the small band she finds herself with cries and whimpers, calls out for loved ones, and screams in despair, all around them is quiet. No longer do they hear the chirps of birds or the gentle rustle of life in the forest. It is only the sounds of each other that keeps the group company. Well, in her case she has the wolf. Initially silent during the exodus to the mountains, the beast had come back in full force. Constantly cackling in her ear at the loss of everything she held dear, it was starting to drive her mad. It so casually reminded her of all she had left behind in her blind escape from her home. Hell, you didn't even look back. It scared how much she was listening to the depraved wolf, but what did she have left to lose? She had lost her home, her family, her friends, and the glass boy that had kept her anchored. Maybe the wolf was right, maybe she should just give up. It wouldn't be that hard, just wade out into the sea of ash and drown in the sorrows threatening to crush her anyway. Alas, the steel girl wasn't quite ready to give up. Not until she saw the splinters of glass bones a ragged paper hide with her own eyes. Tyrna waits as time flows around her, staring out towards where the Falls once stood. She is torn between self preservation and caving to the weight of her grief and the wolf's insistence. She knows that she will never make it on her own, she isn't strong enough. The loss she feels is too strong and it is all too easy for her to fall prey to the misery. With a sigh and a shrug she closes off that piece of her heart for the time being and assesses the small herd of survivors. The most striking of which is a tall, pale gray stallion. He has a thick build hinting at draft ancestors. Tyrna makes a mental note to talk with him more since he seemed to be taking charge. A sultry black mare stands at his side looking terribly bored for someone who just ran for her life. The black sees Tyrna watching and gives her a nasty scowl before positioning herself further in front of the gray, sending a clear message. It seems that most of the small group that has gathered on the mountainside is female, and Tyrna can't help but wonder if that was random happenstance or not. The only other male besides the gray, is a stocky chestnut pony. He is by far the friendliest, and it doesn't take long for him to approach Tyrna to make his introductions. "Why hello there darlin'!" The red pony called out as he sauntered towards her. "My name's Sundance, but you can call me Sunny, and ya'll should count yourself lucky that ya'll have stumbled into my good friend Butch's territory." On hearing his name the handsome gray glanced over at the duo. With no subtlety whatsoever, his eyes crawled over every inch of Tyrna's gunmetal coat and left her feeling dirty. When he was finished, he smiled possessively and gave her a wink before turning back to address the black mare, whom Tyrna assumed was his lead. A cough near her knee pulled her attention back to the pony, and once satisfied she was listening, he continued. "As I was sayin' ya'll are in Butch's territory now, so if ya’ll like, ya’ll are more than welcome to come with us. We're goin' be movin' here real quick so ya'll best  join the rest o' them before we do. Go make yourself comfortable and he'll be seein' to you shortly." Without waiting for a reply the pony swaggered back toward the other timid mares that were clustered together in small groups. All around, the others all seemed to have the same blank, sorrowful stare. All that is except for Butch, Sunny, and the black mare. It almost seemed like they were enjoying playing house at the end of the world. Traveling with a group of psychopaths and their victims was the last thing she wanted really, but the thought of being alone with her memories was enough to send her walking in the direction of the others. It's true what they say about safety in numbers. The wolf was thrilled. So many new playthings once she let her guard down just enough for it to wiggle to the surface. It couldn't wait to sink it's teeth into the sad and scared. It made the taste so much sweeter. Within the hour they were moving. Headed further up the mountain where it seemed the fire hadn't spread. Tyrna couldn't stand to listen to Sunny's idle chatter, or Butch's wandering eyes, so she kept quiet and stuck to the back of the caravan as they traversed the rough terrain. That was why she noticed the lone figure trailing behind them. Like a phantom, the equine form had risen from the ash without a sound. From this distance she was hardly sure it was real. It just stood there unmoving, not even bothering to shake the ash from it's pelt, before it started to look around. Tyrna watched it intently, pausing on the trail she was following to see what the horse would do. Bloodshot eyes lock with hers and it starts to move. Slowly it shambles towards where she stands, though it is down in a field and she is up on a mountain, with little regard to what could be in it's way. She doesn't know why shambling was the first word to spring to mind in the description of its movements, but there is something unnatural in its movements. It never moves any faster or slower and keeps its eyes firmly locked on her position. That is until it startles a rabbit from it's hiding place in the sparse gray underbrush. Tyrna had never seen any living creature move that fast. Like a cobra, the ash horse ran and snatched the poor rabbit off the ground faster than her eyes could track. So sudden was the movement that she actually jumped and skidded on loose rock, making enough noise to draw the unwanted attention of the others. She sheepishly gives an apology and turns to look back at where the ash horse had been. Seeing nothing but dark spots in the ash, the incident is shrugged off as an anomaly and she continues up the path. ... Their first week together is spent in quiet determination. Everyone being to tired and scared to find the words that they each want to say. The steel girl hears them at night, whimpering in their sleep, crying for friends and family left to the inferno. She wonders if she does the same. She still sees their faces when she closes her eyes. First it's her mother's, all smiles and laughter. Tyrna wishes she had said how much she loved her. Then she sees the face of the child that never was. It can't have all been a dream. She remembers so vividly the feeling of childbirth and nursing a tiny life form to strength. She remembers his tiny body pressed into her side as they slept, and his eyes, so full of hope before he was swept away in a river of magma. The last face she sees each night before sleep takes her is the most bittersweet. She sees paper wings and fragile skin. Delicate hooves and gentle eyes. She sees Contagion. He was her world, at least in her dreams, and now they wouldn’t have the chance to see how things could have been. She wakes each night with a scream trapped in her throat and the sound of shattering glass and demonic howls echoing in her ears. The herd’s days are filled with scavenging for meager blades of grass and sludge filled pools of water. They traveled in a loose herd, gossiping among each other and following the dashing gray stallion. Tyrna stayed towards the back unwilling to share the hurt that hung heavy along her shoulders. Her grief was her own and she selfishly hoarded it so she wouldn’t have to pretend to feel sorry for the others. She followed because it was convenient and little more. The wolf inside her howled and cackled constantly waiting for the prime opportunity to come forth, picking out who would be the easiest prey. It had locked onto a sickly blue roan and plagued her constantly with visions of ripping flesh from bone. She trailed even further behind the group after that started. One morning as they crossed through a narrow valley, the black mare that she had assumed was the lead mare decided to walk with her. They walked together in companionable silence for most of the morning before the black spoke to her. “Cassidy, my name’s Cassidy. I know you didn’t ask, but I thought you should know. I’ve seen you at night and I know you aren’t like the others.” They continued for several miles before Tyrna replied. “You can call me Tyrna.” That was all they said to each other that day, but the pattern continued for several days. Cassidy would join her at the rear and they would walk in silence. Little by little a friendship blossomed. Eventually Sunny started spending time chatting with them when they were stopped for the night. His friendly disposition and charming smile disarmed her, and after a month of sorrow, the wolf girl laughed. Two months later and she felt herself enough to discuss where they were headed with Butch, and in time became a valuable asset in reconnaissance. The wolf still needed to be let free every now and again, but this time it had a purpose. She made a deal with the wolf that as long as it scouted the area ahead it was free to hunt what little game remained in the area. It was a Faustian bargain but it helped them find safer paths through the treacherous mountainside. Days faded to weeks. Weeks became months. The seasons passed and so did the shyness that clung to everyone. They were finally a real herd. They encouraged and comforted one another. Each small step forward felt like a victory. Tyrna had grown quite close to her little band. Cassidy and the silver girl became inseparable. Butch held her in high regard and Sunny was the only one capable of making her laugh til her sides hurt. She never forgot the pain but she was able to start healing. Like all good things, the peace she had found was doomed to end. It was while scouting the branching pathways towards a level looking ledge for the herd to camp on that she heard them. Tyrna had gone several miles ahead of the main herd to try to find the safest route. After spending so much time together, Butch and a handful of the younger mares, Cassidy included, had decided that now was as good a time as any to start the re-population process. Come the spring there would be at least three new faces joining them. The downside was that they were forced to lower ground to ease the journey for the pregnant mares. The little band had been stopping more frequently and resting for longer periods of time. Lately when they had been able to find a decent water source they would spend entire days before moving on again. First it was just the occasional skitter of loose stone heard faintly in the distance. Then it became a gentle creaking like branches in the wind, though all the trees were gone. By that time she could smell them. Ash and rot, burnt hair and flesh. Death. Climbing higher, the wolf girl was finally able to see them. They appeared on the horizon as a large cloud of dust. Large eddies of ash and grime dancing in the air churned up by something large and approaching quickly. Tyrna hazards creeping closer, climbing higher, desperate to get a better view of the potential enemy gaining ground towards her new family. She hides among the rubble and boulders just long enough for the first creature to come into view. It doesn’t take her long to turn tail and flee back to warn the others. Even after all these months she vividly remembers the savagery lurking behind those bloodshot eyes. They must have spent the time since the fire gathering and feasting on what was left of the other horses and critters of Beqanna. Fear lends haste to her mighty limbs as they tear up the ground in an attempt to reach her herd before they run out of time to flee. She knows that is a battle they are sure to lose. Her hooves slide on the rocky terrain and several times she stumbles, nearly snapping legs and twisting ankles, but still her pace never slows. Her eyes are wild and panicked with only one thought echoing in her head. Not again She had lost so much already the thought of of losing anyone else was enough to send her racing blindly through the mountain pathways she had become familiar with. As she nears their last resting zone she begins calling wildly. If she can alert them now maybe they would have enough time before the horde was upon them. She turns a bend and enters a shallow gully where the rest of the herd stands gathered, alert due to her frantic whinnies. Skidding to a stop she nearly collides with the impressive bulk of Butch. “Tyrna, what is it that has you in such a fuss?” The gray stallion asks coolly as he takes in her sweat soaked skin and heaving sides as she catches her breath. “To the north, I saw... I don't know what I saw. So many of them.” Tyrna panted out, gasping for air. “Saw so many of what?” His tone is less calm, sensing the fear in her voice. “So many of the dead” , her voice grows quieter, “They rose from the ash with a hunger in their lifeless eyes. We cannot stay here. We need to flee higher into the mountains. I have seen  what they are capable of before and we won’t stand a chance.” Tyrna levelly meets his eye allowing him enough time to see her sincerity. “Butch, you know I wouldn’t risk the well-being of your children if I wasn’t certain of the danger.” Butch glances around at the faces of those bearing his young and a grim determination sets in. “You’re right Tyrna, I trust you” Without further discussion he turns and addresses his harem. “Ladies, listen up! We will be traveling back up to higher ground. Don’t ask questions just yet. Trust me and all will be explained once we reach a safer altitude. Everyone pair up. Use the buddy system to help each other and we will all make it.” Once his speech is finished, the herd becomes a flurry of activity as the mares move towards the trail at the far end of the gully, opposite from where Tyrna made her entrance. Butch and Tyrna work together to shepherd the others towards the embankment. Cassidy, even in her advanced pregnancy leads the way, carefully picking her path up the unstable ground, a black beacon to guide them to safety. Sunny for his part keeps morale high. The chestnut pony is quick with a smile or an encouraging prod to the rear. Whatever it takes to expedite their departure he tries. Of all of them, he is the one that seems the calmest, like this happens all the time. Even though he is several heads shorter than the rest of them, the mares listen and take his kind words to heart. There are only a couple of the older mares left standing around when the first of the ash beasts makes it’s appearance. The entrance to the gully was maybe a half mile away from the mares making their exodus. Short enough for the zombie-like horses to catch up to them with their unnaturally fast movements. Tyrna and Butch came to the same conclusion simultaneously. Both were standing at the rear urging the frail old ladies to pick up the pace and attempt the climb. Tyrna was the first to broach the uncomfortable silence. “They won’t make it in time.” She whispered gently for her friends ears only. Butch turned to her, a stern look in his eye,”I know.” “They need a distraction, something to buy some time,” A deep sigh escaped his tightly drawn lips, “I know.” There was a resigned air to him. She could nearly read his mind, so clearly did his expression convey his thoughts. He wouldn’t quite meet her eye and seemed to lag back as though he had already given up and accepted that it would have to be him. Well not while she was there. Tyrna pressed herself against his side and whispered into his ear. “When you see your children, well name one for me eh?” With a smirky grin she cast one last glance towards her friends as they scaled the path she had laid out for them. Kicking up her heels she cantered towards the approaching horde, leaving no room for discussion. She heard him shout behind her but it was too late and he knew it. Tyrna was able to easily reach the halfway point between the ashen mob and her little herd. She cast one last look over her shoulder to see that Butch had not wasted anytime and had nearly gotten the last mare up. Smelling fresh prey before them, mob sped up. Tyrna could hear the gnash of broken teeth and smell the putrid rot that wafted off of them. It wouldn’t be long now. She closed her eyes turning her thoughts towards the loved ones she lost, and stood casually, squared off to meet them head on when she felt a rush of air against her leg. Opening her eyes in surprise she saw Sunny galloping valiantly forward to meet the monsters. A gleaming flash of red in the gray landscape. By the time she realized what was happening, Tyrna was too frozen in shock to react as she watched her tiny friend face the horde. At the last second he looked back, winked at her with his signature grin firmly in place, and yelled out to her. “Live a good life lass! And never forget old Sunny!” She never got the chance to reply as he collided with the lead ash beast and was swallowed by the mob. A strangled sob was all that she could force out as she watched the slaughter. Never again would she spend her nights talking with the pony about the past, or listening to his poorly timed jokes. Never again would she see his smile as he encouraged them all to walk that extra mile or find a particularly nice place for a nap. She had failed again, and lost someone dear to her. Unwilling to waste his sacrifice, Tyrna once more turned tail and fled. The sound of ripping flesh and snapping bone followed her all the way back to the herd. Silver dapple sabino|Mare|Andalusian Hybrid|Falls

[Nadya]

Nadya did not sleep that first night. At first she just assumed that it was the shock and awe of it all that was keeping her awake.  The first night on the mountain she spent wordlessly watching the fires eat away at everything she knew, washing away everything in a sea of heat and flame and ash.  Nadya watched as the light began to trickle across the horizon, illuminating the true breadth of the destruction.  It caused the air to leave her lungs in one loud woosh.  She staggered, falling to her knees from the overwhelming exhaustion and grief that consumed her.  What have you done? What have you done? The thoughts echoed in her mind, compounding the grief even further. She eventually gave into the exhaustion and laid down in the very spot she had spent the night gaping at the scene below.  She spent the day watching as the fires continued to burn.  Nadya did not want to admit it, but she was truly watching to see if any signs of life still existed in Beqanna.  She was alone on this mountainside, but was she truly alone in the this world?  Had she truly brought destruction upon everyone?  Was she doomed to watch all that remained burn away into nothing while she sat tucked away on a mountainside? Shock kept Nadya awake that first night.  Guilt kept her awake the second.  She was held hostage by her own thoughts which refused to relent in their own attack against her weakening resolve.  She spent that second day much like the first.  Watching.  Waiting.  Thinking.   The third night passed.  Sleep did not come. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, had relegated the grey blue mare to nothing but a blemish on the side of the mountain.  Nadya assumed she was alone up here on the mountainside.  She thought this was her doing, so she was doomed to be the one witness to the end of all things until it was her time to join all of those she had unknowingly sentenced to death. This was her fate.  Her reckoning. She had little desire to do anything to change it now.   It was finally when night fell the third night that Nadya finally succumbed to the mental and physical exhaustion and fell into a dreamless sleep. That was until she heard something.   Not just something, someone. She craned her neck around and caught movement out of the corner of her eye.  Nadya did not think she had hallucinated the voices, but considering she'd slept only a few hours since the disaster she had very little trust in her own senses. It was pre-dawn, and the lighting was low, but she could clearly pick out not one but two distinct shapes in the darkness.  The idea of other survivors was both terrifying and beyond encouraging to Nadya; she couldn't help herself from calling out.   She was so tired, she couldn't even drag herself to her feet, but the others had heard her.   Nadya couldn't contain her surprise when a little chestnut filly came bounding through the underbrush, quickly followed by a small grey mare.  The filly had a white face set with wide blue eyes - eyes that held the demons of the last four days within them. Nadya couldn't help but wonder if she was the one responsible for the ghosts in the girls blue eyes.  The thought sent a wave of pain through the blue mare. "Mama, I think it's hurt.  And look…she's blue," the little girl said to her mother in what she thought was a whisper.   "That's enough, Hilde.  You wait here.  I'll see if she needs help.  You can't go running off like that," the gray mare scolded her daughter.  Then the little gray approached Nadya. "Hello.  I'm Cecila and this is my daughter, Hilde.  Are you injured?" The mares voice was kind and held far more warmth than the situation called for.  Didn't she know this was the end of everything? Nadya said nothing, but shook her head no. The gray continued. "There's a group of survivors gathered not far from here - about a dozen of us.  You should come with us.  There's safety in numbers, you know?" she offered, with a smile. Hilde decided she had waited long enough and that the strange was no threat.  "Yeah, you should come with.  It doesn't look like as much fun here, anyway.  Come on, we can help you up.  Up up up!" The child giggled, and Nadya felt her soft baby-nose against her flank.   "How did you get so blue? Can I be blue? I got sort of purple once when I napped in a blueberry bush.  Hey, have you seen any blueberries here? I love blueberries…" Hilde rambled on until she caught her mother's disapproving gaze and then flashed the pair of mares a sheepish glance in apology.   In the end it was Hilde's gentle touch, not Cecila's comforting words, that convinced Nadya to follow the pair.  She pulled herself to her feet and took a few steps forward, testing her footing.  Pain lanced up her right foreleg and Nadya sucked in a breath.  Her eyes flicked downwards to find the source and she found and angry burn wrapped around her foreleg.  The hair was blackened where it wasn't burned away entirely, but it was missing from midway up her cannon bone to just below her knee.  It was good that the joint itself seemed to have escaped damage, but the wound itself was filled with dirt and debris and had turned black over the past few days.   Cecila, wondering what was causing the hold up, turned back to find Nadya examining her foreleg.  "Oh," she murmured, with a frown.  "Im sure I can find something to put on that.  I'm pretty good with plants and herbs.  In the very least I can give you something for the pain." "Mama is very good with booboos," Hilde affirmed, proudly. "The others are this way.  Don't worry.  We'll go slowly," the kind grey mare offered, and turned to continue on their way. Nadya couldn't help but wonder how long the grey mare's kindness would last if she knew Nadya may have been the catalyst behind all of this destruction. --- Altogether, there were thirteen survivors.  Nadya, of course, stood out with her unnatural coloring.  It seemed she was the only of Beqanna's oddly colored population to make it up the side of the mountain.  The remainder of this new band were all the colors you would expect to find - shades of bay, brown, chestnut, gray, and a few paints to round out the herd. "We need to find water," a bay stallion muttered.  He was perhaps the largest of the group, and it was obvious that he was keen to take charge. "Ten of you split up into groups of two, two will stay with me," the stallion continued. "There's snow on the top of the mountain, so hopefully there's runoff somewhere that's either flowing down the mountain or has pooled.  We just have to find it." He seemed comfortable with giving orders and no one seemed to have the energy to argue with him.  It was clear that many of the survivors knew this stallion. Nadya caught his name via the murmurs that rippled through the little group.  Carter.  The others were mingling and splitting up directions when Nadya felt a nudge on her shoulder.  She turned to find a lanky black stallion, perhaps a few years younger than herself standing patiently at her side. "Hey there," he drawled - his voice somewhat accented, "I'm Orleans.  You game to go look for water with me?" His big brown eyes were honest, and though she could see the shadows of the destruction in them, he seemed to radiate a sense of natural comfort. "Um," she started, hesitantly, "Sure. You lead, I'll follow? I'm Nadya, by the way," Nadya did her best to offer him some semblance of a smile.  He countered her attempt with a large grin and beckoned her to follow with a flick of his head. Orleans seemed to recognize the fact that Nadya wasn't much for talking, and they traveled in comfortable silence for a time.  It was only when the pain from the burn on Nadya's leg made it difficult for her to keep pace with the lanky Orleans did the black stallion speak again.   "That burn looks like it's gotten infected over the past few days.  First thing we should do when we find water is try to get it as clean as we can," there was concern in his voice, but not pity.  Nadya appreciated that fact. Nadya nodded, looking down at the ugly, weeping burn on her leg.  She knew that she deserved so much more than just a potentially infected burn on her leg.  Orleans decided not to push the blue mare, and instead did his best to match a pace that Nadya set.  She wasn't able to engage in much in the way of small talk, everything was just too raw. It didn't seem to bother her companion all that much. They walked for a few hours when a peculiar scent caught Nadya's attention.  She immediately turned to Orleans. "Do you smell that?" she asked, her tone revealing her distaste for the scent. "Yeah, we should check it out," he answered, and was already moving in the direction of the scent before she could answer.   With every step the odor grew stronger.  Nadya became weary when a thin veil of fog became visible in front of them, hanging eerily in the clear mountain air.  The pair slowed, uncertain of what was hiding behind the fog.  They made their way forward cautiously, and were surprised to find that the when the fog touched their skin it wasn't cool - it was warm. "It's not fog.  It's steam," Nadya murmured as the true breadth of their discovery came into view.  It was a sulfur fueled hot spring nestled into the side of the mountain.  The sulfur explained the smell and there was clear fresh water everywhere just bubbling up out of the earth.   Orleans grinned and looked back at Nadya. "Well it's not the healing waterfalls, but a warm bath has to be the next best thing for that leg!" --- The pair returned to the meeting place that evening with news of water and the herd relocated closer to the sulfur springs shortly thereafter.  Nadya was pleased to find a different sensation flowing through her upon leading the group back to the place she and Orleans had discovered; satisfaction.  In the midst of all the death and destruction - she had been able to offer this small group something to make life a little easier, even if just for the day.  A little of the weight lifted from her shoulders with this revalation, but the burden she carried was still so close to breaking her. The next morning, when she awoke, she was surprised to find a little pile of what looked to be tree bark neatly placed before her.  The next surprise was Hilde.  The girl came bounding out of the trees wearing a wide smile. "Look! Mama found tree bark for your leg!  You eat it!"  She bounded to a halt and cocked her head. It was obvious that Nadya did not react quickly enough for Hilde's taste, so the girl continued. "I said you eat it.  Come on, give it a try!" The girl said, gesturing wildly to the little pile of bark.  Nadya, unwilling to disappoint the girl, took a few pieces into her mouth and chewed.  The bitter taste was surprising, but not particularly unpleasant.  She chewed and swallowed before looking back to Hilde.  "Happy?" she asked, with a silly smile.  Hilde just nodded, and bounced away, looking for someone else to bother. It was then that Cecila made her way through the trees, and the grey mare seemed pleased that Nadya had found her gift.  "You found the bark!  Good.  Unfortunately it won't do much for infection, but it will help with the pain.  The best thing to do for infection is to keep it as clean as possible - and the springs will be best for that.  Quite a discovery you and our tall, dark, and handsome friend made yesterday," Cecila offered, with a conspiratorial wink. Nadya, for the first time since the disaster, laughed. --- Life continued to fall into a new routine for the mountain band of thirteen.  Carter had fully stepped into his role as de-facto leader.  Nadya, Cecila, and Orleans had taken to calling him King of the Mountain when they were out on scouting trips.  They were careful not to use the nickname around Hilde, who seemed to lack a filter of any sort.  The last thing they needed was to be cast out of the little band of survivors with a child, an injured mare, a concerned mother, and a lanky stallion with a questionable sense of humor.  They'd survive, but it would be difficult.  So they did their best to keep their heads down and their mouths shut.  Cater was not unbearable, he was just cocky.   However the big bay stallion's intentions seemed to be in the right place - he was bound and determined to keep everyone in the group alive, even if it was clear that they weren't among his favorites. Over time, Nadya found it easier to open up to her new companions.  Orleans seemed to have no qualms with revealing his life story.  By the end of the first week, Nadya felt like she knew everything about the lanky black stallion:  his parents, his birthplace, the names of all three of his siblings, and all of his his hopes and dreams. It was clear that this disaster had not broken Orleans' spirit, and for that Nadya envied him.  Cecila was nearly as forthcoming with the details of her own life, but it was evident that she carried hurt closer to her own heart.  She described a simple life with a close family and a mate she had known since childhood - Hilde's father.  She didn't have to elaborate on his fate, the answer was in the little grey mare's eyes.  The fire had claimed him.   It took two weeks before Nadya felt comfortable sharing more than vague details about her life.  Between foraging trips and long hours by the springs she began to open the door to these two individuals who had come to mean something to her.  She told them of her family.  She told them who her parents were and all of the horrible things they had done.  She told them of the siblings she had never met but longed to.  She told them about how she had nothing to lose in the fire, not really.  She had always been alone.   It was the simple words of a child that filled the void in her heart. "You're not alone! You have us now!"  Hilde said, as if the fact was the most obvious thing in the world and Nadya was foolish for not having realized it sooner.   The blue mare smiled in return. Yet she did not tell them about her dreamworld. --- Her heart grew lighter as days continued to slip by.  Nadya was pleased that opening up to her friends - for they truly were friends now, not just companions - had not effected their treatment of her.  Quite the opposite, really.  They had all grown closer.  Laughter was easier now.  Orleans and Hilde were engaged in a much dramatized game of tag while Cecila collected a few off-white flowers from the base of a solitary pine - Nadya simply watched, treasuring this gift she had been given.  It was a second chance, perhaps, to build a life.  A life that meant something at the end of the day - independent from the legacy her family name bound her to. How strange in the face of all this destruction, Nadya had never felt more free. Her leg seemed no better, but no worse.  It seemed that the warm water is helped keep away the worst of the infection, along with Cecila's various plants, but the wound wasn't healing well.  The leg remained swollen from the knee down, and Nadya certainly wasn't moving at a normal pace.  The joint was functional, however, and the blue mare wasn't in any immediate danger.  She could walk and run, if need be, but she knew she was lucky to have friends looking out for her.  This wasn't an opportune time for weakness, to say the least. It was then that the bushes just concealed by a pair of saplings caught her eye.  A grin made its way across Nadya's lips and she called Hilde away from her game of tag to show her what she had found.  Blueberries. --- Things on the mountain had become routine.  But the destruction was unwilling to be forgotten.  This was the end, was it not?  The apocalypse would rise again and rise it did, quite literally. It started as another normal day on the mountain.  Cecila, Hilde, and Nadya were dispatched to find more edible plants and healing herbs that Cecila seemed to have so much knowledge about.  Orleans, unfortunately enough for him, had pulled guard duty and was stuck close to the springs for the day. The trio elected to explore a part of the mountain they hadn't been to in some time - the place were the mother and daughter pair had first stumbled across Nadya.  Nadya was unsteady on her burned foreleg, but was able to keep up well enough.  They spent a few hours looking for any plant that may potentially have medicinal use, but weren't having much luck.   The wind had picked up, blowing from the south, and Nadya hoped that the weather would hold.  The wind brought with it more concerning omens than the weather.  It was little Hilde that noticed the smell first.  She complained to her mother that there must be something dead nearby and wanted to return home so as not to stumble on more death.  It made Nadya's heart break a little each time Hilde referenced something terrible she had seen in her short life.  The child had truly lost all that was left of her innocence in watching her homeland burned and ravaged.  As the trio turned to return to the herd, something caught Nadya's attention. A strange sound coupled with movement down in the ruined lands below.  She made her way to a clearing where her view would be unimpeded and what she saw was almost beyond comprehension.   It was an army of something and they were destroying all that remained in the burned-out lands below.  Nadya knew in her very bones that these creatures would bring more destruction and would try to tear apart every shred of reality that was left.  It seemed like the creatures were locked on to where they were standing and would move heaven and earth to get to them.  The monsters were drawn to them like a magnet.  Nadya understood.  They were being hunted. With wide eyes Nadya turned back to Cecila.  Hilde was hiding behind her mother's flank, shaking. Cecila seemed frozen in shock. Nadya knew what she had to do.  "Run. Take Hilde and run.  Go to the sulfur springs, take as many as you can along the way - Orleans, if you can find him, but don't take too much time. The sulfur will mask your scent."  Of course Nadya didn't know this for sure, but she hoped.  Oh, she hoped. Her voice then turned more frantic.  "Go now.  Don't turn around. Don't look back no matter what you hear. Just go. GO."   Nadya knew with the state that her leg was in, she would only slow the two of them down.  She didn't want to lead these…monsters back to the others - even to Carter the asshole King.  She had an opportunity to try to keep them safe.  She owed it to each and every one of them to try.  For a moment, her thoughts flickered to Orleans - the stallion who had become the closest friend she'd ever had in such a short time.  She hoped that Cecila would find him on her way - that he'd be safe.   She wanted him to live, but she found herself wishing she could see him one last time.  Before she had nothing to lose, now she had so much more.  She watched as Cecila and Hilde disappeared through the trees, fleeing in the direction of the hot springs. Nadya took a deep breath and prepared herself for what was next.  She took a wobbly step, and then another.  She then ground her teeth together and took off in an uneven, clumsy gait in the opposite direction - towards the oncoming hoard. Their putrid scent burned her nostrils, but she didn't care.  She screamed out a battle cry - one comprised of equal parts anguish for the situation and physical pain that was tearing through her leg - and moved to face her destiny head on.  The hoard grew closer and she drew herself to a halt before them, only this time in the face of her destiny she didn't close her eyes and wait for the end.  She could not help but realize just how much this scene before her echoed her dream-death…the one that had started all of this.  Maybe she was fated to meet her end this way. She met her destiny with her eyes open and her head held high. At least this time around, her death would be worth something. N A D Y A

[leiland]

L E I L A N D
Destruction.
Devestation.

Two words that perfectly described the end results of the fires that had swept through Beqanna.

******************** ( Alone )
Throughout the ngith the remaining embers lit up the smoke filled evening sky and cast a soft orange glow of the small remaining group up on the mountainside. Throughout the night, ash fell through the sky, dotting the blackened land in what looked like foot upon foot of gray colored snow.

Standing slowly Leiland found himself making his way throughout and around the unknown faces, watching them all as they sobbed away theirs sorrows and wallowed in their woes for the losses they had acquired throughout the time of the fires. Hours had already passed and he had tried to conjure up the ability to cry more, but he was unable to do so. The numbness that shock brought on had overtaken him. Then not soon after followed the lack of emotion and then the lack of fear.

Mothers and fathers were without their children. Sisters and brothers without their siblings. Even children without parents. That's what they all were. They were a remaining few without anyone familiar to seek out comfort from.

All they had left was each other.
That was what they would have to come to terms with.

********************
It came all too quick. The excruciating heartache and realization that they would never hear their loved ones voices, or feel their kind touches ever again. Most of them shuffled around endlessly, constantly shedding their tears of sorrow and instead of joining them he stood back and watched over them all. It was an almost endless sorrow that flowed through the group. He watched them for weaknesses, for their strengths. He knew that soon he would need to band together with either all or few in order to survive and he was determined not to make the wrong the choices.

********************
( The Gray Stallion )
Elijah, the man of smoke and cloud.

He had first caught Leiland's attention because he too stood off to the side, watching the others. Words never left his lips and when others approached, seeking comforting words or solid advice, he chose to stare at them all and then walk away into the patch of trees that still dotted the mountainside.

It took the first week of Leiland watching just him for the silver boy to find his way over. With sure steps and a blank face he stood next to the man without a word, glancing over at him a time or two before relaxing slowly. Days passed and Leiland continued to do this. Approach and stand, then separate. Over and over the process continued until finally one morning Elijah looked over and spoke with a deep voice, lacking of any emotion. "You think you're different then the rest of these other assholes. Well, news for you kid, you're not."

With a quirked brow and a slight smirk Leiland found himself slowly looking towards the man and without reaction, he found himself whistling through his teeth. Slowly he turned his head back to the milling group before speaking up quietly, "Maybe not. But I will make it out of this alive."

Maybe this had been the answer that made Elijah look over at the younger boy with an understanding mind. Maybe it was the way he handled himself in high moments of stress. Maybe it was the way Leiland reminded him of himself when he was younger. Either way after the boy had answered so boldly, he found it upon himself to allow the boy to remain at his side. And as the weeks passed he allowed a small friendship to grow. Quietly looking after him and teaching him where to go in order to find food and water.

Over time their friendship grew.
The older man became a father.
The younger boy became a son.
Together they began to work as one.

********************
( The Black Mare )
Juliet, the woman of sugar and spice.

It was during one of their scavenges that Elijah and Leiland came across the dainty beauty. Somehow she had managed to free her coat of all the ash and grime. She shone with elegant grace and when she turned to look at them her broken smile held a dazzle that made Leiland's heart skip. For the first time in weeks he had found beauty in the darkness.

Glancing at Elijah, he stepped towards her and spoke a soft and lingering "hello."

"Hello," she responded in a sing-song voice. Dark eyes following the silver boys movement, she stepped towards him muzzle outreached and soon they came together, blowing softly in unison into each others nostrils in a common greeting amongst their kind. With a grin he turned back towards Elijah and gestured for the father-like figure to join him. Yet when he turned around he was no longer face to face with just the black mare, but another man. Fury set in his stony face.

She was the sweet and sour.
She was his every desire.
He was her rock.
He was her fire.

********************
( The Chestnut Stallion )
Elliot, the man of copper and hate.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" The copper man rumbled quietly, "don't you know boundaries?" Leiland stared at him in faint surprise before wiping his face completely of any and all emotion. He barely noticed the quick approach of Elijah while he first looked to Juliet and then to Elliot. "I was just saying hello. Wouldn't you think it strange if I were to just ignore a woman who was alone while our home is in the state it is in? I have no ill intentions and I am sorry if you got the wrong impression." With a slight huff he made eye contact with the man, refusing to break it. He waited for what seemed like hours until finally he saw Elliot relax and the tension, for now, left the air surrounding them.

"Just watch yourself boy," Elliot stated in a matter of fact tone. Turning away from Juliet, Leiland, and Elijah he made his way towards the tree line. "I'm going to patrol our little area. I will be back soon."

He was a mystery.
He was an Enemy.
He was the devil's right hand.
An extremely jealous man.

********************
( Together As One )
He wasn't sure when or how it happened. But the four of them had somehow come to the conclusion to stick together. Their small band had become a united front and even though occasionally tensions ran high, mostly between Elliot and the rest, they found themselves working alongside one another in peaceful unison.

Day by day they grew stronger. Allowed their wounds to begin their healing process, and brought laughter and joy to one another. Though Leiland soon realized that it was all too comfortable. It was all going too well. That if there was one thing his mother had taught him while growing up, it was that when things became too perfect so to say, that was when a storm was brewing. He knew things would soon change and so did Elijah. But instead of voicing their concerns, they shared knowing looks in order not to worry Juliet and Elliot.

Leiland felt like a spring that was wound too tight. He could feel it in the air, pressing harder as the days came and went. It was coming. It was coming. It was coming.

Yet what it was, he wasn't sure. He found himself next to Elijah, body tense, his heart racing before he forced himself to speak, "It's not over." As soon as they spoke is when they heard it. That first blood curling scream. Exchanging glances they burst forward and into the trees away from the safety of their little clearing, running side by side, followed close behind by Juliet and Elliot.

Here and there they darted around the unsuspected bush or tree until finally the burst through the treeline. They quickly came to sliding halts when they saw the other groups gaping out at Beqanna. "Stay here," Elijah growled at Elliot and Juliet, "You boy, come on." Nodding, Leiland helped Elijah to force through the crowd until they came to the ledge and looked out in search of what the others were seeing. "What in the hell?" Leiland muttered and Elijah shook his head slowly in disbelief. For once he didn't have answers for the silver boy that had become so much like a son.

********************
( Run )
The earth began to break and crack and out of the ash and bone rose creatures like anyone had ever seen. Their twitch like movements and quick pace were something told in the horror stories Leiland heard whispered through the Amazons by the warrior women. The smell they brought with them was worse than that of rotting death. They carried it with them as they rose by the hundreds, seeking out any living creature that remained below.

In horror Elijah and Leiland watched them rip the tiniest of creatures apart and devour them quickly before moving on to the next and then the next until finally there was nothing left.

Then it was though the devil himself had pointed at their mountaintop. In complete sync they all began to turn towards the trails that led up the mountainside and suddenly Elijah's voice ran through the creatures guttural screeches and screams. "Boy. We must run!" Backing he rammed himself into Leiland, knocking the silver boy out of his trance as he watched them creep and crawl up towards them all. "We must get out of here." With a nod Leiland spun on his back legs and began to run, once more pairing with Elijah in a burst of speed as they ran through the panicked group of other horses towards Elliot and Juliet. "Run!" Leiland shouted. "They're coming! Run!" Ears pinned, he snapped his teeth at the two and watched them both turn.

Soon they too were running, darting back into the trees further up the mountains path. As they ran the sound of crushed bone, painstaking screams, and tearing of flesh filled their ears. It was nothing like they had ever heard before and it was nothing they would ever forget for as long as they lived. It seemed like hours that they ran but it was only minutes before the horde began to close in and with burning lungs, Leiland found himself glancing behind. The air was full of their putrid stench and ever stronger now. They were coming. They weren't going to make it. And he could feel himself slowing. The scabs over his burns were tearing apart and blood was beginning to drip down his legs.

The smell of it seemed to drive them to go faster. Inch by inch they began to close and with desperation he pushed himself harder, focusing on the sound of Elijah's hoofs heating the solid earth beside him and the figure of Juliet's frame bolting ahead of him alongside Elliot.

"Elijah!" He gasped. It took only seconds to realize the gray stallion had come to complete halt yet Leiland found himself yards away before he could stop himself. Turning around he yelled desperately inbetween coughs, "What are you doing you stubborn fool?!"

With a smile Elijah nodded sadly to Leiland before calling out with care, "I am old, my son. I will do the best I can. But you must go." With shaky legs Leiland took a step towards Elijah, watching as the horde moved closer. "Run boy. Go." Calm was his voice when the gray man turned towards the horde, and before Leiland could see him taken down by the oncoming wrath, he turned quickly, and began to run. He ran harder than he ever had before, following the instructions of man who had became more of a father than he had ever known. The only one he had felt true familial love for in so long. It took only minutes before he heard the grunts and kicks of a fighting warrior, before he was taken down in forced silence. Then Leiland forced sound of the gray man being torn apart to be blocked from his ears as he continued to run. Soon he came alongside the other two, a look of pure rage written across his face.

Anger. Hate. Despair. Loss.
It all drove him harder.

He used it to push Elliot and Juliet on. "Don't stop!" he shouted. Together they found themselves darted through through trees and towards their only escape. What would happen next they didn't know. All they had to do was keep running. Maybe then, maybe, they would find themselves able to escape.

Maybe Elijah's sacrifice made of love for the silver haired boy would be enough. Or maybe it wouldn't. Only time would tell.