Valiant

Chapter 36: Loss

The night wears on- an impenetrable haze of shadow. A cloud about my eyes that permits only the subtle moonlight above and the crimson tint of the grass to penetrate its musk. A symphony of crickets, the occasional hooting of an owl, and my horse's footsteps are the only sounds to give me direction. The mare is swift and tireless, trotting along the trail for what seems like hours before she finally begins to slow. 

The air is humid and damp, clogged with the heady scents of haygrass and of the fertile earth beneath the Bloodplains. But, when I drop off of the saddle, the scent of rain is carried to me by a brisk, west-bound wind. Over the seas of red vegetation ahead and to the right aways, a storm brews. Gigantic, dark clouds pour black rain onto the plains, and lash out in distant blasts of dazzling power. The roar of thunder that follows makes the hairs on my neck prickle. Choosing a relatively flat boulder as my resting place, I withdraw a strip of beef and three stems of parsley from my pack.

The next blast of cool, energetic air that throws itself against my face brings with it a warm memory. I would often sit by the willow tree when storms such as these broke around the mountains, and marvel at their sheer intensity. They reminded me of great, prowling beasts that stalked the sky like wolves, uncaring of insignificant humans, or of anything except their invisible missions. Many times I would watch the wolves play, and wonder what it would be like to run with them. To fly and soar, doing as I pleased, with the whole of the world beneath my canopy like an anthill beneath my boot.

Tearing myself away, I shake my head, and bite a chunk out of my beef. I know what it is like to have others in my power, and it is not all that pleasant. I recall bitterly the face of the young barbarian with the spear that I had gutted. And besides! What new wonders would flying have to offer? I can ride like any other man, and it would be awfully cold up there in the sky.

I take a leaf of parsley gingerly between my teeth, grinding it slowly to release every ounce of its impossibly fresh flavor to my tongue. My legs are sore, and I can feel blisters forming along my thighs. I've needed a good ride. And I need to get moving again, I acknowledge, noting the fast-approaching storm cloud.

Drawing the hood on the cloak over my head, I shove the remaining beef down my gullet, trying my hardest not to choke, and climb back onto the mare. We are off again, and the scents of rain and impending moisture dominate the wind that slaps against my face. The singular purpose is set stubbornly in my mind, not moving for the guilt of stealing, the shame of leaving my friends, or the fear of what is yet to come. Her fiery blue gaze illuminates my mind's eye, and her endearing jibes bring a pang of longing to the forefront of everything else. 

She does not deserve to be left behind, no matter what my trainers think. I did not ask to go to Ocean Province. In fact, it was the last thing on my mind! But adults have this funny notion of thinking they know what's best, and when they make a decision, they stick to it like a fly to a trash heap.

No matter, I tell myself, flicking the reigns. I am already on my way. The Vale is about a day and a half's ride from here, but at the pace I am riding, I should arrive around dusk.

The storm ahead dissipates before my eyes, breaking itself apart on a conflicting wind. Before long, the black of night gives way to a grey hint at the horizon, which fades into a sleepy shade of purple. Then, a spark of yellow touches that, and the sky shatters into bolts of red and orange. The Blood Plains appear in full glory, their rouge hues clashing and blending into a shaky mirage of a dancing flame. The crickets quiet down, and now the chirping of birds can be heard, as time lapses before. The first sunrise I have beheld since being imprisoned, and it could not be more perfect.

Almost as soon as the shallow, sluggish River Castellan comes into view, I arrive at a bridge, crafted of spare, clay brick and stony mortar, worn down with years of use, and held up with wooden support structures and pure stubbornness. It is here that I decide to take my next break, oozing off the saddle onto the grass. My legs are positively throbbing now, and my back is aching like I had been slapped with a frying pan. A tired moan escapes my lips as I sink down on my backside, letting the sensations wash over me in wave after wave while the mare rests. I simply lie onto my back and listen for the birds.