A Horse of Memories

**Warning: There is some horse death :'(**

*This is a expansion of the widow in A Horse of the Deepest Abyss and follows the same general events, it makes more sense if you read A Horse of the Deepest Abyss first*

Faiza sat staring out at the fields. She could almost see the black warhorse prancing up the hill, bells jangling as Phill beamed from its back. She could see him kicking the mare into a trot as soon as he saw her walk out. A perfect moment as he dismounted and swung her into his arms. The memory was vivid despite the passed time. It was still perfect despite all the grief, the only one that still was. She turned away to the kettle, it was screeching for her attention. Her wrinkled hands didn’t need to be told how to make tea, sometimes her brain did. But her hands always knew. The sound of hoofbeats brought her out of her tea filled brooding. She peered out the window at a black horse trotting up the hill. It wasn’t black like a horse should be, it was inky black, as though a pen had spilt all over it. A black that belonged deep within caves beneath the ocean trenches, not here in the daylight. A man sat upon its back. He dismounted outside the door and gently knocked. She scrambled to open it, Faiza craned her neck to look up at him. He bowed with a smile, “Good evening fair maiden, I was wondering if I could spend a few nights at your house for I have nowhere else to stay,” She blushed and curtsied back for lack of anything else to do.

“You may stay the night, dear sir. The kettle just boiled if you would like some tea.” With that she showed him in. The man shook his head,

“No thank you. I just drank,” She showed him to his room. The man thanked her and that was that. He stayed in the room for the rest of the day, only going out once to pat his horse who stood in the pen where the warhorse used to rest. She watched him from her window, he whispered to his horse and stroked it, brushing its black mane until it was perfect. She smiled, a memory clouding her vision.

A young boy was in a paddock, running with a dark foal. A white foot was stark against its black leg. They ran together, the boy laughing as the foal kicked out its legs. A mare watched them dully while chewing on a biscuit of hay. The sun lit up the grass, making it glow with life. She watched from behind a tree. The boy paused as he noticed her, the foal taking the opportunity to beg him for a scratch. The boy absentmindedly obliged, he was staring at her, a blush forming on his cheeks. Faiza stepped up to the fence, she felt her own cheeks reddening as the boy continued to stare. “H-hi. I’m Phill.” She smiled at him.

“I’m Faiza,” They continued to stare at each other until his attention was diverted by the foal leaving for milk.

The memory faded and it was just her in the stuffy old house, watching a stranger pet a grown horse of velvet shadows.

She walked into town, clutching a handful of orange blossoms. She felt everyone’s gaze on the back of her neck and turned to check more than once. The utter lack of attention proved that everyone was keeping a close eye on her. Faiza opened the church gate with a sad little squeak. She placed the orange blossoms in front of a polished gravestone. She sat with it for a while, letting the memory of the boy and the foal play in her mind, letting the tears clear the small amount of dust off the stone.

Faiza stopped at the bakery to buy bread, she stood in line when she heard her name whispered. Someone was gossiping about her; she felt her cheeks burn as she caught the general flow of the rumour. They kept going and she could hear others in the small room talking about the same sort of gossip. Everyone was talking about her. Tears were brimming in her eyes as she stood silent in a sea of gossip all aimed at her, a sea of ‘Really!?’s and ‘But that’s not all, so and so says that…’s all crashing against her will and nerves. She caught the quick glances people gave her before they continued their little chats. Once the bread was safely in her arms she stormed from the bakery, cheeks as hot as the pits of hell.

She sat by the orange tree, breathing in the sent to the blossoms. A stone was hidden beneath the leaves of the tree, she brushed them away to read the letters carved into it: Mi caballo del viento, my horse of the wind. She brushed dirt from the stone and got up, walking wistfully inside. The man was in his room when she knocked. He was asleep but it was easy enough to wake him by banging on the door frame. He looked wild eyed at her, and she grimaced. “I’m sorry, sir. But I’m afraid you must leave,” He nodded silently, getting up without fuss. She left, guilt tangling her stomach in painful knots. After a few moments, the man came out looking rougher than usual. He donned his hat to her and walked out the door. She watched him saddle up and ride off.

She watched Phill saddle up the new horse the army had given him. He was grim as he put the saddle on, not nearly as carefully as he had with his black mare. No, this horse was a smaller thing, not properly trained. He never ran with it when it was a foal, he didn’t know what this horse would do when the bloodshed started. He looked back at the house one last time, the last time he ever would see the house, though he didn’t know it, before mounting and riding off. Faiza raised her hand to her eyes as the memory faded, it came back wet with tears.

Faiza saw them kill the horse of darkness. As the blade slashed into it, it became just like a normal horse. Not a Creature of the night. Just another dead horse. She protested but was silenced by the men who dragged the man to the post. The men to tied him there with silver string and brought the torch towards him. She began to cry.

Then he turned into nothing but a shadow crying over his dead horse.

She saw Phill walking up the hill, blood and mud on his face. He stumbled into her arms as she ran forward, he dropped a bridal band onto the grass. She picked it up, it was the warhorse’s she closed her eyes against the tears and brought him inside. He cried as soon as his body allowed him to, he cried because he would never run with the warhorse again. He cried because a part of his heart had been killed.

They buried the horse, all with sheepish looks on their faces. They didn’t put a stone or a plant for it, burying it right where they had taken its life, they couldn’t be bothered to move it. It was beautiful, a thing of joy and life, now it was a thing of grief and death.

Phill told her they had eaten his horse once it was dead. They had taken her legs and rump, using it as rations. They would have killed the warhorse themselves if the bullet hadn’t done it first. He had fought them about it before and the mare had only lived longer than the other horses by his will alone. He told her they didn’t even burry what they couldn’t eat. They just left the mare in the mud and dragged him away.

She took the bridle band off the bridle that lay with the man’s stuff. She dug up some of the orange tree, placing the bridle band next to a rotting strip of leather that was hidden beneath the dirt. She took a rock and carved letters into it: Un caballo del abismo más profundo, A Horse of the Deepest Abyss.

She worked with Phill to burry the bridal band and plant an orange tree over it, with a stone marking the spot. Phill hugged her tight and they stared at the small orange tree. “When I die, I want my grave to be beneath an orange tree, I want the blossoms to fall when they fall on her grave.” He was smiling sadly; it was better than the tears at least.

They never let her plant a tree by Phill’s grave but she made sure the blossoms still fell.