The breath of winter shrouded the little house. Chill air seeped in through every crack between the boards, through the thatching on the roof and under the door. Up near the face and nose it was cool, but down by the hooves it was cold, a tiny hint of the outside’s embrace. Those hooves creaked on each floorboard, now unsettled from the sharp drop in temperature. Every exhaled breath cooled and formed into mist, icy ghosts in the dim light of the dying fire.
Those embers still burned with determined strength even as their fuel faded away. Orange light betrayed their exhaustion to Willow’s eyes, even as she stopped to savor the warmth coming off their glow. Just a little circle in front of the old stone fireplace wasn’t creaking. It held firm under her steps as she pulled the lengths of split pine from their pile and placed them in the hearth. Two thinner pieces lay side by side in the ashes and one larger length went diagonally on top of the two to leave room for the air to get in.
Sure enough, there was no more water left in the buckets. Riverbend had finished all the water up during the night. Willow started back down the hall to wake him. Again, the aging floor creaked beneath her hooves, adding to the noise of Glade’s hacking cough. That sound in concert was more than loud enough to wake Riverbend. He jumped out of bed with a thud against the floor, and bounded out into the hall to embrace Willow.
“Mommy!”
She leaned down to meet the nuzzle of her little colt. For that moment in the dark hall of a little log cabin out amongst the vast of the north, nothing else was known but a warm embrace. To Willow, it was a reminder of why she kept going each day.
Too soon, Glade coughed again, and Willow let go to check on the aging mare. Glade lay in her bed still, the blankets up to her neck. All of her had long since gone gray, save for her eyes that still slowly faded from the green they’d once been. Those eyes slowly stretched from half-lidded to open as Willow approached.
“Do you want me to get you some tea, Nanna?”
A coughing fit racked the eldery mare, forcing her frail form to convulse under the heavy covers. Willow turned to Riverbend, who was sitting next to the bed, his head barely coming up to the mattress.
“Watch over Nanna for me while I’m gone, River. And make sure to tend to the fire too.” Willow trotted out of the room, and hooked both of the buckets to a short pole.
“Will Nanna tell me a story while you’re gone, Mommy?”
“Nanna has to rest, River,” chided Willow as she crouched under the pole and stood up to balance it on her back.
In the next room, Glade finished clearing her throat. When she spoke, her voice was labored, rasping in the places where it wasn’t soft. “Yes, I’d like it if you’d made me tea, dearie. River, I’ll tell you a story, as long as you promise to make sure that fire stays lit.”
Riverbend clapped his hooves together in joy and sat down in front of the fire, as if daring it to try to go out. Willow smiled a little and pushed open the door. Arctic air slashed at her muzzle, numbing the skin under her coat, while the faint light of the pre-dawn battled weakly against the dim glow of the coals.
“There was once a brave stallion known as Morningstar, and he was the strongest in all the land…”
As soon as the door was behind her, Willow threw it shut. Glade’s voice was muted by those walls, the walls that held all the cold out. It now wrapped Willow like a cloak of frost, just like the fields on either side. The thin, frozen snow crunched under her hooves as she thundered down the path. Everything was covered in a thin sheet of ice, spiderwebbed over and protruding from every clod of dirt and sprig of dead grass. Her breath blew out her nostrils in great clouds and drifted behind as she ran.
A windmill rose above a water trough in the middle of the fields. That water was iced over a deeply in a clear sheet, save a section on the near edge which was much thinner and had turned opaque with deformity. With deftness born from years of practice, she reared up on her hindlegs and smashed the corner of a hoof down onto the thinner ice. A shriek of pain lanced up her bones and a chip of ice flew into the air, but she ignored it and smashed again and again at that same spot.
On the fourth try, the ice gave way with a crack and the shards of ice clinked against each other in the water. Not pausing to rest, Willow broke the ice right next to the open hole, wincing as the icy water soaked into her coat. By the time the whole circle was open her foreleg was drenched and numb. Reaching down to take the buckets one at a time in her teeth, she filled them from the trough, narrowly avoiding splashing the water onto her muzzle. When both were full, she hitched them onto the pole and carefully balanced them over her back.
The walk back to the house was far longer and much colder. Even after years of practice balancing the water on her back, Willow could not run for fear of spilling it all to the ground. Each pace took three times as long as before, and every fourth step ached from ice now coating her foreleg. Trying to ignore the cold was like trying to pretend she didn’t need to breathe, so instead Willow focused on the impending sunrise.
Far above, the last few stars of the night were fading away as the blackness slowly turned to a deep blue. Craning her neck back down to face the horizon, Willow saw that blue fade lighter and lighter until it slipped past a brief span of white into a stretch of yellow. Slowly, that yellow would overcome the horizon it lay upon, and day would emerge. Yet this time there was motion in the twilight; forms of ponies seemed to wait in the rays of light as the sun slid closer to the horizon. Willow didn’t dare slow down for the sight, but looked on as she walked.
Some wore armor, others carried the fallen on their backs, and all of them faded in and out of the light as they came and went. One figure remained still, a mare with a crown on her head stood tall, and seemed to look right at Willow. That stare wasn’t hostile or cold, but warm. Respectful, even. Willow returned the gaze with a nod, and held it until the wall of her house was too close to look up into the light. Warmth beckoned from within.
True to his word, Riverbend had kept the fire going well. The old coals had all been consumed, eclipsed by the brighter light of today’s fire. It burned yellow-gold, springing tall and proud from the logs below where they rested on the ashes still unswept from the hearth. Their heat was enough to fill the room, and washed over Willow as she shut the door. Gratefully, she set the pole and buckets down. Sighing softly, she shuffled over to the fire and held her stiff and frosted foreleg in front of it. Feeling slowly returned, aching and screaming as it did.
A small sob broke through the silence of the house. Sitting up suddenly, Willow ran from the fire to find Riverbend standing on Glade’s bed, crying over the aged mare. Willow stopped and bowed her head.
“Momma! Nanna was telling me her story, then coughed and when she stopped coughing she wouldn’t wake up!”
Glade lay serenely with a ghost of a smile on her face. Willow felt her vision growing blurry as she sat and put a hoof on Glade’s brow.
“Why won’t she wake up?”
Willow sighed as she tried to think of an answer. Riverbend paced back and forth, anxiously waiting for an answer.
“Is she going to wake up, mommy?”
“No, River. She won’t.”
“But why?!” howled the colt. In a fit of anger he kicked the bedpost, then howled as his leg impacted the wooden corner. Falling to the bedspread, Riverbend sobbed into his forehooves. “Mom, why?”
“Everypony has their time they must die, River. You know Nanna left while doing what she loved most.”
“I know she liked telling stories, but now she can’t do that anymore!”
“Riverbend. Listen to me. Nanna is a better place now. She’s with grandpa, and your little sister, and…”
“And dad too?”
Willow shook just a little. “Yes, with dad too. And now she’s watching you, to make sure you grow up to become a good stallion, just like Morningstar.”
“I will.” Riverbend sat still for a little while, then stopped to wipe his eyes. “Momma, what about you? Are you going to leave like Nanna one day?”
Willow reached out her legs for Riverbend, who hopped off the bed and came to her. “One day, I’ll be too old and tired to break that ice for myself, just like Nanna. You’ll have to be the one to run out on a winter morning and crack it open, and bring the buckets back. And I promise I’ll tell your little filly or colt stories just as beautiful as Nanna did.”
Riverbend pushed himself as high as he could possibly stand and nuzzled into the base of Willow’s neck. She leaned down and returned the gesture, trying not to let her tears fall on her son.
“I will, Momma.”
“I know you will, dearie.”
They held each other there a long while, until the morning light flowed through the window. It was just sunlight, and nothing more.
