Winterfall

Thin rays of light broke through the venetian blinds at last, dimly illuminating the interior of the spartan room. In one corner, in a tangle of questionably clean sheets, a velvet red body stirred.

Throwing back the covers, Epsilon Ruby rubbed an eye with one foreleg and pulled the digital clock on his nightstand closer with the other. With a small grunt, the stallion rolled off the bed and stood, taking a moment to gather his wits. Day 18 of Month 26 had officially begun.

The military outpost that Epsilon Ruby staffed on his own had been built five years previous by the Equestrian Royal Guard as a response to the Crystal Empire incident. Being in the far northern reaches of Equestria meant that conditions ranged from "damn, its chilly" to "holy fuck my teeth are ice cubes". Not many creatures were able (or insane enough) to trespass the northern border; guard duty was minimal and monotonous. Epsilon had been alone for over two years, and had developed the opinion that, in war, a pony cracks not from the actual fighting, but the absolute boredom that occurs between it.

This day, Epsilon was to begin the monthly long patrol: a trek of eight kilometers through Celestia knows what to reach the actual border, followed by three days of checking the fences and various motion sensors, before another eight kilometer trudge back to Outpost 12.

With swiftness only a military pony can show, Epsilon tossed spare winter clothing, utensils, and foodstuffs into a large survival saddlebag. Along with basic provisions, the earth pony prepared a sled with a tent and crystal-powered generator. Everything was ready, but Epsilon hesitated a moment. Gathering his wits and bracing for the cold blast he knew awaited him, he let out a quiet sigh and gripped the release handle on the all-weather door before him.

Epsilon fell into a comfortable pace, a trot that he knew he could keep up hours later when feeling far less full of energy. Dead reckoning gave him an estimate of five hours before he sighted the border fence. Until he reached the bivouac site, there would be no opportunities for rest from the elements. Epsilon pressed against the sled harness and pushed on, shaking his velvet red coat to remove the snow.

Kilometer one is always deceptive. Epsilon felt the cold the moment he stepped out from the relative warmth of the outpost, but his body temperature normalized within minutes. After kilometer one, however, the true descent into hypothermia had begun, and the race against time was the tantamount objective. Epsilon recognized the danger, and this knowledge propelled him on. Wind whipped past his glistening muzzle, but he could not stop, not even to wipe his nose.

Kilometer two was the point of no return. Even though Epsilon hadn’t reached the halfway point, the whiteout conditions and lack of landmarks meant that turning back after passing the distance marker was risking drifting off course. In a land where ponies had been known to get lost just walking to the side of the house for firewood and dying mere meters from their homes, a course deviation of only a few minutes of a degree could be a serious threat. Epsilon knew this, of course, and he pushed on.

Kilometer three became a battle of the mind. At this point, the nearest haven of warmth lay over an hour's trek behind, and the only promised warmth ahead appeared after camp was set up and the generator running. A weak-willed pony could let his mind wander from his compass and his watch, a weak-willed pony would grow increasingly worried about the numbness creeping up from his hooves. Epsilon would not be that pony.

During kilometer four, Epsilon experienced a period of deceptive happiness. The halfway point has been reached in just under three hours! Now, every step beyond this point made the bivouac site even more close than the outpost. If pacing was not kept in check, however, he would lose his strength long before he could afford to. By now, his muscles moaned, his tendons were taut, and his heart, heavy. Epsilon ignored them, and kept on.

Kilometers five through seven passed in numbness. Numbness of mind and numbness of thought. Epsilon’s tired body laboured carefully not to waste precious energy on anything but respiration and putting one hoof in front of the other. He welcomed this state, and it carried him to kilometer eight.

Kilometer eight was the worst. No matter how much training, no matter how well clothed from the elements, a pony will begin to experience terror at this point. Epsilon’s legs felt numb, his eyelids heavy. He was vaguely aware of how tired felt, and how distant the wind sounded. His mind had begun to consider those blackest "What if?" questions. Epsilon acknowledged his terror, and used it to drive him to the site.

The Bivouac, at last. With laboring breath and a heavy grunt, Epsilon loosened his shoulder straps with chattering teeth. Glancing up from his work, he could barely make out the tall chain-metal fence, topped with barbed wire and fading into the white haze in both directions. Then he stopped.

A large, gaping hole existed in the section of fence directly in front of him.