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Last Rites

Snow blanketed the sweeping hills, suffocating the land in a heavy, icy blanket, chilling all clutched within its lethal embrace. Though there was sunlight brightening the expanse, it was weak, futile and could not bring a ray of genuine warmth to the barren heart, beating, beating: beating without rhyme or reason. It could have been a wasteland, so quiet was the countryside in the early morning; many brave souls had yet to venture from their heavy blankets, the groan of snow weighing on the eaves dissuading one from the outdoors. Only one, entirely solitary figure could be considered a living participant in the sculpted act, breaking the ice to change the scene. A slim-bodied chestnut horse trudged slowly but surely through snow drifts, following a barely discernible path bordered with pine trees, though the protective spread of their branches did little to ease the going. The mare ducked her head, well wrapped up in a red, padded coat, and toyed with the pink, woollen scarf trailing from her neck, fingers digging into the weave as if to anchor herself in an unfamiliar world.

Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch: that was something of a familiar ilk, the compression of snow beneath her hooves, cold seeping into her bones. What business did she truly possess in a foreign world? Or, quite simply, foreign to her eyes and experience. The country she traipsed through was as unknown as the last page of an unread book, residing on a dusty shelf waiting for its story to be uncovered, if ever fully told. It was the final page of this novel that sent shivers down her spine, the cliché chill of apprehension against something far greater, uncontrollable. Breath frosting before her muzzle, she tucked her mane into her hood, focusing on the action and catching herself in the same moment, hooves slipping on a hidden sheet of ice. She cursed aloud. There was no one to hear. After her deal was concluded, she would never again return to this haunted land.

Tilting her head back, she studied the skeleton tree branches that traced dark patterns in the washed out sky, which was as bleak as tepid water. Snow did not dare cling to the branches, as every needle had long fallen from the pines. She shivered: it was unnatural. Pine trees were coniferous - they did not lose their needles in winter. The mare almost laughed, but the mirth choked in her throat, emerging as a hacking cough instead. To think that she was debating the differences of coniferous and deciduous flora at such a time! It was absurd and besides the point, as she already knew why the pines waved bare arms. She only could not acknowledge it openly, lest she bring the demons down. Shaking her head, she dug her teeth into her bottom lip, scraping across the dry, chapped skin in a nervous nip. No, she was in no fit state for a battle of wills.

It would have been easier with someone at her side, would it not? She snorted, puffing out a breath of frosted air, dragon's breath. Once upon a time, she had joked about dragon's breath with her grandfather, pretending that she was a roaring beast snorting curls of treacherous smoke. Those were the days. Those were the days when she had not thought of the distance between herself and others, before she had pushed friends and potentials away, the pressure of pretence breaking her day by day. She could no longer smile and say that she was fine, just fine, putting on that daily brave mask so that no one would question or criticise. Yet it came to the point that company was all she craved, all she needed to make those final few steps out of the wasteland.

You have to move on. That's what friends told her, or those around her often enough to be considered friends. She owed them a lot, if she was honest with herself, though it was as hard to tackle the truth at times as it was to slog through snow drifts. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her arms around herself, leaning forward and grunting as the struggle of progress strained her muscles. Good, she thought, ears pinned flat to her skull. Let them fucking hurt. Move on, move on, move on, move on. Make it sound easy, why don't you.

Anger gave her strength in the weak, winter sunshine. She staggered and swore, casting her eyes to the sun and reminding herself that it was the same one she saw back home, where she could not wait to return. Or to her home country, at least, if not the house itself. She was becoming confused. Banishing the brooding thoughts, she let the sun warm her chestnut coat, caught by the nip of wind stirring ice crystals around her legs. Her jeans were swiftly becoming soaked to the mid-calves, but it was one thing, as before, that she would 'daresay' survive. The path snaked ahead and she shaded her eyes to see more clearly, cursing the light glancing blindingly off the white world.

And there it was. Her destination had crept up upon her, so focused had the mare been on the journey. Mid-step, she paused, doubt clouding her mind. A church was not what she had expected, even if she was quite used to rural churches near home; perhaps the other world was not so different from hers, as she trekked. It was near pleasant to explore without the crushing weight on her shoulders, bearing her down into cold, hard stone. The equine rolled her shoulders as if in memory, taking in the details of the building, the shape, the small spire and bare bones gated perimeter, iron wrought and painted a peeling black. It was certainly in disrepair. She glanced back over her shoulder, wondering for a brief moment whether some elaborate prank had been orchestrated, that she would wake up any moment with someone laughing, dragging her to morbid reality with no resolution, no closure, no mind.

Forcing herself into motion, she drew resolutely closer, fortifying herself with every scrap of energy she still possessed. Details, take in the details, she told herself, tracing her gaze over the brown stone, which was weathered and beaten by the elements of many decades, crumbling into ruin. On the other side of the fence, she could discern the sinister lines of grey headstones, crowned with snow. She giggled, clapping a paw over her muzzle: the gravestones were wearing_hats_. Her mind really should have warning signs.

Looking back at the trail she left behind, she shuddered to see that her hoof prints had already been wiped out as if her living, breathing body was as insubstantial as a ghost. Though she understood that some natural phenomena was the cause of her leaving no trace of progress, it chilled her more than the weather and she reached out to the gate, running an unclad paw over the top, brushing off white powder. Vaguely, she noted that there had been less snow coating the gate than the remainder of the twisted, warped metal fence, so another fur had passed through within recent hours. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she trembled and took a deep breath that she instantly regretted, wincing as icy air rushed into her lungs, claws tearing at her insides. Casting her eyes down, she opened the gate slowly, holding her breath.

Unnervingly, there was no ominous creak of rusted hinges, the only sound that of her pulse pounding in her skull. Adrenaline coursed through her veins and she fought down the urge to spring into motion, to flee the graveyard and all the secrets it contained, buried in shallow graves. She curled and uncurled her fingers, working up the courage to place a hoof over the boundary, lifting each one high enough to clear the snow as she warily edged between more ancient headstones, ears swivelling to catch no sound but her own. There were not even any birds singing. Sending a quick prayer to any gods that happened to be listening (she supposed it should have been the Catholic god, considering the nature of the church, which was decidedly Catholic, despite the broken, stained glass windows), she crunched around the oldest stones. They bore no interest to her, memories of times long past.

Her target was far more recent.

Every step seemed obnoxiously loud, betraying the peace and drawing attention from invisible beings. She shuddered, taking short, sharp breaths that raked her throat sore, imagining souls turning restlessly in their graves, beings that she had once known. But she no longer wanted to know. That was why they lay in graves. There was one more to lay to rest and the thought of doing so terrified her. Go back, go home, the snake hissed, slithering to the forefront of her mind. What good do you think it'll do? You never do any good.

Fuck you.

Growling under her breath, the mare shook her head vehemently as if to clear water from her ears, wishing that it could have been so easy to silence the snake forever. Scouring names that had once held deep meaning for her, the mare tugged at her scarf, pulling wool loose that she would later regret, though it distracted her from tearing at her nails. Not much longer, she could do it. Every headstone was a tangible reminder of certain failures but, surprisingly, success. Reminding herself of the challenges she had overcome, she traced familiar names with her fingertips, smiling and frowning at respective memories that would never again be spoken of. Death was not only of the living body, she thought, but also of the memories held of that individual. And perhaps death of memory was the cruellest of all, yet inexplicably inevitable.

If she had gone... She shook herself. No, she could not go back to those thoughts, she was past that time. Besides, the end was near - the good end, not the final end. She was confusing herself. It was...the end of this chapter; that was more fitting and brought the ghost of a smile to her lips. There it was, on the gravestone ahead of her, a typical, black slab with angular corners, ugly in its uniformity. It was, as yet, untouched by snow and, though her heart beat painfully within her ribcage, she carefully read the name once and then twice for good measure, to be sure. Her whole body trembled and she lifted first one hoof and then the other, shifting her weight in preparation to flee. Instinct was a bastard at times, but she forced herself to take it in, absorb it. There you are then, she tried to reassure herself, brushing back a curl of mane. It is done, is it not?

Yes, it was done. Crouching down to the level of the stone, she studied the slab carefully, noting flecks of irregularity. In time, dirt and time would wear down the sharp corners, cover the memory and, sealed away in this otherworldly graveyard, he was not a memory that she would ever have to visit again. The letters mocked her, undisputable but simply letters. Words could hurt: letters boasted no power. That gave her strength. She curled her paws slowly into fists, racing through every injustice, every fear, every word and every memory. The knife was back, twisting in her gut, though the scene seemed to numb it, or perhaps that was merely the cold. She did not care. It was done.

And now she had her answer. It was closure, seeing the stone set in a graveyard that she would never visit for fear of unearthing the corpse, yawning and leering through a decomposing muzzle. No, never again would she return. The mare stiffened, rising to her full, though not impressive, height, coolly adjusting the hem of her red jacket, considering how bright the colour was in an otherwise monochrome world, her presence the only splash of life. That was reassuring. Corpses needed incentive to be dug up and she had no such incentive. She pursed her lips, eyeing the decrepit older gravestones. Soon his would be just the same and the pain would fade, like the insubstantial nature of these physical stones. It was all intertwined and her life was her own at long last. Pain was no longer a friend.

Time healed and she knew the pain could be survived - had she not proved her own worth? Had she not struggled through the snow? A flash of fiery courage coaxed a haughty tilt to her head and she smirked, suddenly remembering the younger mare, tumbling head over hooves into trouble time and time again. Trouble made for good tales. Reaching clumsily inside her jacket, she fished out a crimson rose, the petals soft and flushed with life. It was a miracle that it had not become crushed during the trek and even the thorns curved into perfect points. For these last rites, she delicately placed the rose in the compacted snow before the headstone, the scarlet like a streak of blood across the shimmering white.

As she closed the iron gate behind her, the mare chanced that she saw a figure moving within the church, ducking out of sight where the glass had been smashed. Nothing to fear. She lifted her paw, waving shyly, emboldened by the completion of her journey. As she gazed homewards, she caught sight of a cleared path arcing into the hills, back to bustling town and blessed civilization. Soon she would be travelling on an easier route and it was all downhill from this point. Pushing her hood back from her head and neck, the mare lifted her head and smiled.

The last rites led one to better times.