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charlierainfordsso · 50 minutes

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✫ The Pond ✫

My fic for the @ssoblrbigbang 2024, organised by @froggistain! I was partnered with the talented @natduskfall, who made this beautiful piece of art!

6k+, art by @natduskfall

Your parents used to warn you not to go down to the pond. It made sense, even though you might not have felt so at the time. To you the water didn't seem deep at all, and one could easily keep an eye out from the house.

But then you were very little. And perhaps a bit accident-prone. And you didn't know it yet, but father was having difficulty moving down slopes; and mother didn't like water very much, no matter how shallow.

It was funny in hindsight, how you'd sit at the chicken coop all moon-eyed, straining to catch a glimpse of creatures in the water. A sheltered child, projecting all this yearning for the outside world onto a tiny pond.

Your horizons did broaden over the years, of course, as they do for all. Clinging to your mothers hand you found the lake behind the pond, and then the village and its people beyond the lake.

Over time you started to recognise those who came to visit, traced people to their nooks within a larger world. And inevitably, memories from young childhood clicked into place.

There was the pretty girl who had come to help out on the farm each summer. Her strong build had fascinated you, as had her way with animals. She would always indulge you for the season, answer your incessant questions.

With every late autumn you'd forget of her existence, and you hadn't even realised she wasn't coming over anymore - until you found her again, settled down with a woman at the edge of town. It answered some questions and brought up new ones you hastily shoved aside.

There was the young man from far away. He'd come every winter, and he too had your questions to endure. He was a bit less patient perhaps, something you easily forgave. After all he and your mother had serious things to discuss.

What you found harder to forgive was when he asked your mother to join him for his months away. Your clear discontent led to perhaps the first proper talk you ever had with your mother.

She told you of suddenly being ripped from all she knew, of her time on a rickety ship, of desperately staying afloat. Of the home and the people she missed.

She said that no one else in these parts would know many of the words you had taken for granted. Told you for the first time which nicknames had their roots in dialect; seemed surprised you didn't intuitively know these things, but how could you?

You cried silently as she left, gripped all you could until she really did have to go. Her warm hand stroked your head one last time and your chest squeezed painfully; a small frame struggled with feelings too big for it to contain.

Then there was the old lady with trembling hands. She had always been around, came over for tea far more often than anyone else. Before long she started handing over the medicine for father in plain sight, told you how to get to her shop.

She walked the path with you a few times that summer, just for good measure, and after a while it turned into something more aptly called meandering. You had a chaperone to keep you company, she had a stronger arm to hold her up if needed.

With her you rediscovered the pond.

The sun had set and left you in a dim twilight, and you had to squint to make out what the apothecary was pointing at. It took you a while to see it for what it was. Its banks were overgrown, what little you could see through the yellowed reeds covered in lily pads.

You moved on. Father would be worried if you arrived much later. Still, you spent the way back quietly musing on old times, exchanging stories of childhood and waters and longing for a wider world.

That night in bed you decided to return there soon. The stone walls around your farm had been erratically added onto over the years so there was hardly a view to pretty up, but maybe the pond could do with some clearing.

A few days later you informed father of your plan as you packed up your late lunch. He happily sent you on your way with his leather gloves, a worn book on plants and a stern reminder to slowly and thoroughly announce yourself as to not startle the wildlife.

The hill was steeper than you’d thought, your boots not particularly secure on the slippery grass. You ended up carefully winding your way down, eyes on your feet and hands clutched on your basket to keep it steady. At the bottom you heaved a sigh of relief and finally assessed what work you had ahead of you.

The day was overcast and grey, the pond still and rather dreary looking. You were pleasantly surprised to spot a path through the reeds though, opposite of the side you’d arrived at.

You made your way over as you leafed through your thin book, basket awkwardly hooked on your arm. Right as you made it to the gap, you found some pages with illustrations that seemed to be water plants and their flowering periods. There was even a little schematic with indications of how common they were and which parts were edible.

It didn’t seem wise to clamber over the trampled reeds with the basket swinging around, so you set it down and tightly grasped the book. You were glad to have the free hand when the litterfall shifted underfoot at your cautious first step, it gripped a fistful of reeds before you’d even fully processed what had happened.

You made it over slowly but safely, stepped in a damp spot somewhere along the line and scratched your palm open, but your ankles remained intact and untwisted. When you crouched at the water’s edge you were pleased to find the lily pads had a wide triangular notch in them, which matched the somewhat crude drawing you were looking at.

It was marked to be in abundance, and though this information was clearly old you figured not much would have changed, not with how these were growing. They were only just beginning to flower though, so you didn’t want to indiscriminately rip out anything that seemed unimportant. Only out with the visibly dead, then.

You carefully pulled a larger patch towards you and got to work plucking all decomposed flowers and stems out of the thicket. Once or twice you accidentally ripped a pad loose, one even coming out of the water with soil at the bottom, but you managed to not damage any of the flowers themselves.

Some of them already were damaged though, you couldn’t help but notice. It seemed an animal had nibbled on them, a few leaves were just bitten straight through with broad teeth. When you looked more carefully you also found that several of the larger plants were oddly tangled, their stems weaved into knots as though they’d been sloshed around in the water. You left them as they were.

Working your way through just the part in front of you took ages and you resolved to come again on a sunnier day, maybe wade through the pond as you cleaned up the waterlilies. The water was surprisingly clear after all, your hands only really dirty from the rotten leaves themselves.

Once you were done for the day the pile next to you had grown so big, you would have difficulty carrying it with two fatigued arms. Your poor knees creaked loudly as you straightened up and you laughed to yourself at the state your body was in.

You were glad not to have taken your fathers’ gloves with you for this particular cleanup, they would only have been ruined. But as you slowly teetered back to your basket you thought your future self might thank you if you cleared the path a little, and your hands were still a bit scratched up from your earlier panicked grab.

So you dumped your pile on the ground, thoroughly wiped your hands, put the gloves on, noted and admired the darkening sky for a while, and turned back to the pond.

There was a horse in the water.

It was a lovely white, lounging among the lily pads as though it had always lain there. There was an odd shine to its face that suggested it had just dunked its head underwater, you could even see some algae stuck in its mane. It gave off a strange sense of familiarity – this horse was undoubtedly a friend.

Its soft blue eyes just barely peeked up above the water’s surface, facing you head-on, and though you shouldn’t be you felt unsettled. There was an unease that came with the certainty of its good intentions. It had you rooted to the spot, unsure of most everything, so you just stared at it in bewilderment.

This horse did not belong to anyone in the area, you were sure of it.

Then it stood up and broke your impasse. It moved slowly and heavily, bespeaking a familiar strength you were used to from lumbering draught horses. The water around it barely even rippled, just seemed to part for it in advance.

It was headed straight for you. The first snap of fallen reeds was what finally broke you out of your stupor and you quickly stepped back. You hadn’t encountered many wild animals in your life, but mother had made sure to impress on you the importance of never crowding any one, regardless of size.

Unfortunately the horse seemed to not have been taught this lesson. You were moving away slowly, unwilling to turn your back, and its long legs meant it was catching up to you fast. You decided to accept your fate.

It was even larger up close. You made sure to look just to the side of it and anxiously twisted your fingers in your clothing. Aside from a slight tremble you were stock-still when you felt the first hot breath hit your face.

Its muzzle was velvety. It was nudging you, those puffs of hot air tickling you and displacing small hairs. You absent-mindedly admired the gradient of grey on the snout and its softly tapered ears, though you still dodged eye contact in your apprehension.

At a particularly harsh huff you chuckled lowly, out of genuine amusement and a desire to test its limits. The horse remained calm, it mostly seemed curious, and so you took a deep breath and lowered your shoulders.

You wanted so badly to move up a hand and pet it, but your gut told you to just wait this out. So you did. You waited and let the horse investigate, watched its ears and flank and feathering that still glistened with water, and grew increasingly fond of the creature as you stood there.

The warmth it radiated was more than welcome in the quickly chilling evening air, but it was also a reminder of the passage of time. It was late, and climbing up the hill would be no easy task in the dark. So even though you didn’t want this moment to end, you stepped away once again.

The horse looked at you, head slanted to the side and eyes oddly intelligent, and didn’t follow this time. You felt almost compelled to step back to its side, warm and comforting, but your eyes snagged on the gloves on your hands and thoughts of a worried father brought you back to reality.

You moved around it in an arc, giving it space to move away, but looked back when you reached its hind end and found it looking back at you, ears pricked forward in interest. Careful not to startle it and wary of its legs, you fully extended your arm and stroked its sloped croup in farewell.

A strange and childlike delight filled your chest when it snorted and lowered its head with a little shake. It seemed to have understood the gesture for what it was as it trudged away, flicking its wavy tail.

You gathered your stuff with a stupid grin on your face, it only fading with a pang of regret when you realised you wouldn’t have the time to clear the path. That would be first on the list next time, then.

This had been fun. Getting your hands dirty somewhere other than the farm was invigorating in a way you hadn’t expected. And with a bit of luck your companion might show itself again.

You came home sweaty and excited, munching on the lunch you had completely forgotten about during the day. Your father indulged your tales with a gentle smile and questions at just the right time, and your sleep was content and filled with dreams of waterlilies.

To no one’s surprise you went again the next week, earlier in the day this time. Your previous cleanup had wiped you out completely, body tired and aching, and you’d only just managed your daily tasks. But now you were raring to go, energy levels back to normal.

You started with the path of felled reeds, methodically ripping out any that were still rooted. Your previous pile of mush was gone, which was a shame. Your father had indicated he might find a use for detritus, and though you’d been a bit sceptical you were happy to indulge.

When you felt a presence at your back you smiled happily, and even at the risk of looking foolish you started talking to the assumed horse. You kept your voice low and soothing, discussed nothing of importance and enthusiastically agreed whenever it made a noise.

After a little while of patiently standing behind you it evidently decided enough was enough and levelled some more of the reeds, carefully shouldering past you as it made its way into the pond. There it splashed around a bit as you worked up a sweat.

It was nice to have the company. The horse was lovely to look at whenever you got out of breath, its coat shimmering in the sun and the mystery of its strange eyes fun to ponder. It even seemed to understand what you were doing, moseying over and yanking on some reeds with its teeth.

It didn’t do much, they were so slippery even you had difficulty getting a good grip, but it got a startled laugh out of you and this was apparently reason enough for it to keep trying. You took pity on it after a short while and moved on to the next task, chucking off your shoes to join it in the pond.

As you made your way into the water you considered the nagging unease you felt whenever the horse moved away.

You’d wanted to dip your toes from the start, it had even been the plan before your fateful meeting last week. You were in no danger, and so you continued on your chosen path.

It was interesting though. The horse was strange, that much was obvious. It moved just that bit too silently, and you had never seen such glassy blue eyes in an animal that could still see. And there was a tugging in your soul, telling you things you already felt but slightly to the left.

You weren’t usually this moved by gut instinct, which was the main oddity really. Surely nothing you couldn’t handle.

All of that was forgotten in the pond. You and the horse played around, splashing and nudging and clearing up. It was remarkably effective at weeding, though it also had a penchant for eating healthy plants.

You even dared touch it without gloves, very casually stroked its neck and shoulder when you got the chance. It was softer than you’d imagined, coat silky and strong muscles rippling under your hand. You wondered how long it had been without human contact when it leaned into you, seemingly unaware of its own size.

It was difficult to tear yourself away from its side.

Time got away from you very quickly after that, as you alternated between weeding, petting and generally splashing about. When the soil and your toes grew icy cold you looked up to find the sun was already down, so focused had you been on your patch of pads.

Your companion had left some time ago, as it had done for short periods throughout the day, so it seemed you wouldn’t get to say a proper farewell. You only hoped it had simply decided to leave on its own terms, and wouldn’t come back to find you gone.

You stood up and stretched your arms up high, taking a moment to admire the evening sky. The sickle moon had already been visible during the day, now the thin silver crescent was due to set any moment.

As you waded out of the water you found your feet were far too dirty to put your boots on, so with barely contained glee you decided to walk back barefoot. Father was always strict about wearing footwear, but you had a good excuse.

You softly hummed under your breath as you gathered your things and looked around one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the horse. You were rather curious where it went off to – if it spent its nights outside, under the stars, or had a home to get back to.

It took you a while but you thought you spotted a familiar blurred shape over by the lake, so you decided to make a slight detour. As you moved closer you found your suspicion had been right, and you felt some pride at being able to recognise it from a considerable distance.

Your pride promptly shifted to terror when the horse walked straight into the water.

You knew this shore – there was a steep drop down only a few meters in, part of the reason you’d been warned never to swim there. You let out a strangled shout in your bewilderment and stumbled into a panicked run, not thinking past the need to get to it.

Luckily it heard you. It stopped moving and looked back at you, eyes patient and ears relaxed – seemingly just waiting for you to join. You cursed it in your mind’s eye as you desperately splashed into the water, only hoping you were strong enough to get it to move back to shore.

When you reached it you put your hand on its croup once more, the spot you always used to steer the working horses, and tried to soothingly pat it. Your hands were shaking horribly from a combination of adrenaline and cold, but –

Your hand was stuck.

You stared in shock at this incomprehensible turn of events, dread violently taking hold of you. Your hand was glued to its coat, you weren’t imagining things. No matter how you tried to pull it seemed to only sink further into the suddenly adhesive hairs; had its coat always been this thick?

The horse snorted softly and your head snapped up, eyes wide in panic, fear only increasing when it looked ahead at the dark water. It stepped forward and you stumbled along, completely mute and embarrassingly pliant.

You sagged in relief when the horse stopped just before the drop-off, turning back and nuzzling at you. You half expected it to lift its lip and reveal razor-sharp teeth, but instead you had to tear your eyes away when you noticed the weird angle of its neck. With your heart in your throat you murmured nonsensical reassurances.

Then it nudged your hand, and just like that you found you were released.

All you could do was stand there, stunned, as the horse slipped down into the deep.

You came home tired and shivering, unwilling to tell your father what had happened. He might have had his suspicions and worries, but he only made sure you ate a hot meal and slept soundly. When you checked on the animals the next morning you found them well taken care of and promptly went back to bed.

Despite what had happened you needed to go back. You dodged more of your fathers questions and didn’t dare ask the apothecary what and if she knew, decided you were unable to gather information without causing unrest. There was no surefire way to predict consequences, but you felt strongly that discretion was in order.

You almost missed your fathers growing apprehension, but when you next asked to go to the pond it was unmistakably there. He didn’t deny you, perhaps more aware of the rift it would have caused than you were at the time.

So you went, sure to show your father the red twine around your wrist before you left, and whenever the horse showed you wore your gloves. It hadn’t changed its demeanour and, as luck would have it, didn’t seem particularly keen on dragging you under, so you slowly unwound again.

You had wondered just how intelligent the presumed water spirit was, considering how purposeful the reveal of its nature had been. Over the next weeks it behaved like a normal horse however, if a bit more careful with touch, so you chalked it up to the intellect you often saw in animals.

Summer changed to autumn and your cleanup was done, but you regularly went down to sit at the pond’s edge on your way back from town and admired the bright yellow waterlilies. The horse kept you company, always a welcome warmth at your side.

The gloves came back off. It was inevitable really, fear over what could happen had never been strong enough of a deterrent for you. You obediently took them with you still, to give your father some peace of mind.

The red twine stayed, for whose sake you weren't sure.

When your hands started trembling it didn't come as much of a surprise, though you were far too young. It was odd not to have your mother there for what like such a fundamental change in yourself. Any version of you she pictured would be steadyhanded.

You tried to imagine how her hands would have changed and found you couldn’t.

Your world shrank again, slowly but surely. You couldn’t walk the same distances you once had, energy zapped in a way that was frighteningly familiar in hindsight, and you were lucky to make it to the settlement once a week. Before long father was the healthy one in the household.

A child from a sizable family came to live with you, to aid on the farm whenever needed, and after a few months of miserable existence you begrudgingly accepted that things would only get worse from here. So you officially excused yourself from obligatory housework and tried your best not to get snippy with what in your most cynical moments felt like the spare heir.

You fled whenever you could, anything to avoid the hushed whispers during the apothecary’s visits and the melancholy look on your father’s face. Soon the pond was the only place you could reach, the horse your main companion.

Father asked you not to stay out too long during winter, but more often than not you’d sneak out well into the night. The moonlight would guide your slow journey down the hill, and as you walked down you’d see your friend move the now well-trodden path to the pond.

There you’d meet, and with a content snort it would lay down next to you, and you would press yourself into its side where you stuck like glue, finally rid of your full body tremor.

One moonless midwinter night the horse nudged you further onto its back, ever so gently, as it made to stand up.

You moved to lay with your arms around its neck in a warm hug, desperate to ward off the cold creeping into your very being.

And so, with full trust, you melded into one.

There was a song in the air.

It was sweet and sorrowful and heavy, and it couldn’t be, because he was in a crow’s nest and the wind should have whipped away any sound before it reached him.

Being up there hadn’t been the punishment it was meant to be so far, seasickness yet to reach him, but now there was a sudden lurching in his gut. He swallowed down a horrid mixture of bile and cold air and clutched the railing, the splintered wood grounding in its familiarity.

His frozen fingers fumbled for his spyglass and he hastily scanned their surroundings, but there was nothing so see – the shoreline was still dark and far and tranquil, no movement there. No other seafarers around either.

The moon was low on the horizon, its reflection a thin strip on the wide ocean. The night was bright, easy to navigate, and he once again cursed his lot. One of the younger ones should’ve been up there.

His head whipped around when he thought he saw something – there, a shape in the water, near the ragged rocks closer to shore. He squinted, forgoing the spyglass in favour of keeping an eye on it – if it was a spirit it could disappear any moment.

There was a shuffling and low shouting down below, his fellow sailors undoubtedly roused by the siren song. Though he’d been at sea most of his life he’d never had an encounter himself, only heard the tall tales – he was suddenly grateful to be up here, to not be in the midst of the dogged determination to get away.

He whistled low under his breath in hopes of a good air current, but to his horror the tune shifted and melded into the one on the wind.

At his wits ends he sank down, unable to stop whistling and unable to do much else. His palms burned from where he’d scratched them on the futtock shrouds on his way up and it was a peculiar thing to focus on, but that’d hurt like hell if he ended up in the briny water.

The song had turned harrowing in its grief, and when he heard a horrible shrieking underneath him he knew they were doomed.

The village is the same as it has always been.

You marvel at the way time seems to stand still here as you move down the cobblestone road. Even the shop is offering the exact same saddle pad you bought a few months ago, though the windmill seems a bit more quaint now that you see it with fresh eyes.

The beehives are abuzz, the sun is warming your skin and you don’t think you’ve ever been so happy to be somewhere. You knock on the green door in your usual pattern, and you’re greeted with a bright smile pretty much immediately.

“Well well, look who’s finally back!” Pamela says as she ushers you in, apron covered in flour.

“Just in time, apparently. Apple pie?” You neatly place your shoes by the door and shuffle past her into the kitchen, where you’re welcomed by the delicious smell of cinnamon and sugar.

“Hmm, had to make good use of my first batch. I had the craving of a lifetime yesterday. Stick around for 15 minutes and you’ll get a slice.”

“I could do with some comfort food,” you say as you sit down with a heavy sigh, “and in the meantime I’ll get right to the important stuff, if you don’t mind.”

“Yes, we probably should,” Pamela says, tone subtly shifting. “I was worried you’d have difficulty finding your way back, G.E.D. have been spreading out across the entire mountainside.”

“Yeah,” you say with a wry smile.

“Ah,” she hums, “of course. Couldn’t go through Stormgarden, huh? Jian locked the gates a few months ago to keep them out, kind of forgot that happened after you left.”

You look at her imploringly, and though she rolls her eyes there’s a kindness to accompany the teasing edge in her voice when she continues.

“I’ve only spoken to Ming Yue a few times, she spends most of her time over in the fields or at the old house. I just bring them supplies when needed and make sure they’re really all right. It’s a bit awkward talking through the fence, and I’m not acrobatic enough to attempt a break-in.”

“Fair enough,” you huff. The walls are higher than they look, and some of the stones deceptively loose. “Anything exciting happen, other than that?”

“Not really. I just held the fort down as usual, while you were off doing whatever it is you do,” she says with a sly look. Pamela knows not to pry, but she never turns down a riddle or allusion either.

“Things went surprisingly smoothly,” you concede with a tired but satisfied grin, a bit shy to be the sole messenger of a group’s effort.

“Oh!” her eyebrows shoot up, “well that’s news worth celebrating!”

Pamela bustles around the house for a bit, getting you a drink and an assortment of gifts she’s made you in the time you were away; candles, honey balm and your favourite hand soap, which she gathers up in a picnic hamper.

You sit and bask in it for a moment, the safety of lounging in your friend’s cozy kitchen, and let it sink in that you really did succeed, and now you’re home. A home beset by G.E.D., yes, but that’s a problem you’ll solve another day.

Pamela gives you a plate with the best apple pie you’ve had in months and you exercise the restraint of a lifetime by not just wolfing it down.

“Anyway,” you say through a mouthful, “how’s good old Diogenes?”

“Being his usual grumpy self. He disappears into the swamp daily, gets back covered in insect bites and mucus. He’s not camping out though, so if you’d like you can just crash in my guest room.”

You consider her offer, despite your first instinct to politely decline. Hayden’s place is nice enough, but also really just one big room. There’s not a lot of privacy, which is fine when he’s away, but gets bothersome for both of you when he’s constantly in and out.

Your mind is made up. “That might be nice actually, your place is probably the homeliest option I’ve got.”

“I try,” Pamela laughs.

“And succeed gloriously,” you nod sagely.

With that you get yourself settled, putting your meagre belongings away and quickly washing off the dust from your travels. When you get back to the kitchen Pamela has gotten started on a vegetable stew to last the next few days, so you help her cut some and chat a bit more.

Frederik’s campaign against swamp water is still going as strong as it did when you left, which is to say not very, and there’s been a bit of hubbub around a new vet that moved in, a refugee from old Hillcrest apparently. Pamela has slowly been getting to know her and thinks she’s a good candidate for CHILL, what with the obvious grudge over what happened to her home.

Pamela’s clearly excited for you to meet her, but also tactful enough to realise you’ve got plenty on your mind.

You excuse yourself early in the evening, only to restlessly sit in your dark and silent room. After you’ve spent entirely too long zoned out you reach for your bag and blindly grab your red string, twining it around your fingers and untwisting it again in a calming little ritual.

On a short trip to the bathroom you catch a glimpse of the waning moon, and the sight lures you out into the cold night. You want to burn some energy – besides, no one other than Hayden tends to be out at this time, which means there’s no one to scold you for unwise decision making.

You set a brisk pace and keep fiddling with your string, unwilling to part with it if you don’t have to. Without thinking you walk up the hill to Stormgarden and are faced with a closed gate, as expected.

For a few minutes you just stand there pathetically, staring into the dark, then turn around and stomp back the way you came, eyes burning with something you can’t put in words just yet. You need to move.

And you do. You wander, not caring where your feet take you, so of course you end up in the forsaken swamp without even the excuse of a wisp having lured you.

You’re miles from town now, and there’s a noticeable shift in the air. It’s humid and stale, a heavy fog curling around the weeping willows as if trapped underneath them.

It’s comforting though. It’s like a blanket around you, pressing in, accompanied by a wall of noise – random splashes, croaking frogs and a low buzz from flying insects. The night doesn’t feel so lonely like this.

You heave a sigh and with sore arms dab at the sweat gathered on your face, settling against the trunk of a tree that’s leaning dangerously over the river. The entire bank is covered in reeds but there’s a bit of a gap here, and you blankly stare out into the wetland.

It gets harder to keep your eyes open after a while – you’re honestly not sure whether you’ve nodded off or not. Your string almost slips out of you hand, so you make sure to tie it around your wrist and triple-check the knot with bleary eyes. You wonder if she still has hers.

You dazedly jerk up when there’s a hollow snap just on the other side of the river. You just glance over, ready to dismiss it as a figment of your overtaxed brain’s imagination, but do an incredulous double take when you see a fucking horse.

It’s got a long shaggy coat, a pure shimmering white heavy and dripping with water. You’re hit with a wave of worry when you realise it’s way too thick for this time of year, the poor thing must be overheating. No wonder it dipped into the relatively cold waters, an array of aquatic plants comically draped over its back the definitive proof.

You’re shaken out of that specific worry when you take a closer look though; there’s a sickly green tint to either its undercoat or skin, you can’t really tell, but it looks wrong – and then it turns its head, and moonlight glints off empty blue eyes.

You freeze, breath caught in your lungs and heart hammering in your chest. You’d counted on a mere wisp at most, this is something far worse. Your eyes meet.

Its sclera turn inky black and it fluidly lunges back, thundering into the river without making so much as a splash – the water simply opens up to swallow it into its depths.

“What the fuck,” you whisper, so softly the volume barely rises above the sound of your own uneven breathing. Then for good measure you whisper it once more, with feeling.

And then, of course, your reckless spirit overtakes you and you sidle down the river bank. You blame your fried brain and the undoubtedly dangerous swamp fumes, but really you just have to know, have to touch the water in the hopes it’ll somehow ground you in reality.

You crouch with a flinch at your loudly creaking knees, and blink in awe when you look up and find the change in angle has suddenly shifted the moon into view once more. It peeks through the clouds and bathes the water in light, so bright compared to the surroundings it has you squinting to adjust.

You still can’t reach. So you scooch forward, hands slipping on the warm mud behind you, and try again. Your fingers lightly brush the moon’s reflected light, make it ripple. The water is cool and soft to the touch, and you put your flat palm on the surface as if to stroke it, loose end of the makeshift bracelet around your wrist dipping below the surface.

Then the moon disappears behind a cloud and you flinch, bodily jerk back from the glassy water because there’s pale round eyes staring back at you.

It’s just there, silently floating right where you had your hand, a dark shape with its lip pulled back over glinting needle-teeth.

You scramble back up the riverbank, foot slipping and water rushing into you shoe, and you don’t look back once you’re on the road. You clutch the wrist with your damp red string tied around it and dig your thumb into the pulse point, match your breath to the stupid squelching of your boot.

You stare at the moon as you march back home.

The next morning you’re notably absent-minded, Pamela has to bump you out of the way several times as she prepares for a visitor. The vet, you think, the name went in one ear and out the other when she told you during breakfast.

Camilla, apparently. Pamela insists on having lunch outside, so the three of you settle down on a big plaid picnic blanket underneath her apple tree. You force yourself to snap out of your dazed mood, because the spread is absolutely lovely; a lot of effort has gone into this.

You chit-chat for a while, stick to safer subjects. Pamela masterfully redirects any questions about your whereabouts for the past months, for which you’re grateful. The main distraction is goat’s cheese, surprisingly – you spend maybe half an hour discussing grazing options for hypothetical goats.

You only slip up once.

“The weather’s finally reached a point where I might risk a dip in the lake later,” Camilla says, theatrically fanning herself, “I’ve never been one to swim, but at this point I’m desperate to cool off, if even just a bit.”

You balk in a horribly obvious manner and Pamela shoots you a baffled look, but luckily picks up the slack immediately.

“Not a good idea, we don’t swim in these waters,” she cautions, voice stern in that way only Pamela can be.

“Why not? It looks just fine to me,” Camilla says worriedly, side eyeing you – which, yeah, fair. You’re mentally reconciling what happened last night with what you know of the area, so quite frankly you’re miles away.

“There’s a dumping ground for G.E.D.’s toxicity just past the lake,” Pamela says, unable to resist the snide pun. “Their, ah, actual toxic waste, I’m afraid. Likely leaks into the lake as well, best not risk it.”

“Oh,” Camilla says, “but don’t you have your animals graze nearby?”

And just like that you’re back to animal husbandry and grass quality. As the picnic winds down you only barely manage to conceal just how badly you want to be alone for a while.

You help clean up and affirm Pamela in her decision to induct Camilla, managing to sound convincingly enthused about her vast knowledge when it comes to both human and animal health. And you do mean it; you’re just really not in the right headspace to be social.

You find an out by telling Pamela you’d like to visit Hayden today. She’s always glad to, in her words, let you drag him out of his shell a bit, so she send you on your way with a pot of honey to butter him up.

To your surprise you actually encounter him – he’s on his way back home, packed like a beast of burden, and you manage to corner him on a bridge to lend some credence to your excuse.

“Hmpf, you’re back,” he says, and it’s more of a welcome than you were counting on.

“Since yesterday,” you answer his unasked question. It’s always best to be brief, spare him the socialization neither of you are very keen on. “How is the marsh today? Calm waters?”

He hums and eyes you shrewdly, gaze drifting down to your one muddy boot, and you’re suddenly hit with the suspicion that he knows.

“Calm, yes,” he mumbles. “But the waters here have never been safe, not even back in my day.”

With that he shoulders past you, clearly done with the conversation, and mutters a last little “youth”, just loud enough for you to hear and fondly huff a laugh.

You continue on your set path, not even all that surprised when you see a white shape over by the moon spring, half submerged in the water. Its feathering is idly flowing around its legs, its ears twitching restlessly.

Water doesn’t part for you the way it does for the creature, so there’s some unceremonious sloshing when you wade in to stand beside it. You twiddle with your string, twine it around your fingers.

The horse looks back at you, something wild and imploring in its gaze, and though everything in you screams that you really shouldn’t –

You slowly reach out.

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