07-31-2015, 11:28 AM
what is dead may never die;
but rises again
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