I watched the tide, waves lapping against that stoney shore, a cold wind whipping the tops of the waves from their peaks, leaving whitecaps in its wake.
The sea ice stood out among the horizon, it was only a few weeks from the freeze, and we’d not seen a mast nor sail of the supply ship. Bubbles thought the pack may have already frozen farther south and with it, the supply ship.
I wondered if it had ever made it back to port.
That night, the lights stood out among the sky, our faces, huddled in our lined hoods were warmed by our small fire, and lit by the dancing lights above.
I was first on watch, and as I sat, my eyes turned away from the warmth of the fire to those dancing lights above. I felt them then, the eyes, watching me from beyond that shimmering veil. Despite my heavy coat, I shuddered and gripped my mug tighter in my hooves.
A week later, and one storm which blew so hard we’d lost a tent covering, I was once again tasked with the trek up the stoney mountain to the south–a hope to see those tall spires and billowing sheets. It took most of the day, and by the time I’d reached the summit, I could already see storm clouds gathering to the south.
I added another stone to mark the passing of the day.
That night, I was once again on the watch when I felt them. They were there, behind the smoke from our meager campfire, behind the dancing lights in the sky. They blinked, slowly… softly… and I could feel them, watching me.
It was another eight days before I first felt the chill. Cold, real cold. It was still, the waves lapped gently against that stoney shore, no more whitecaps played among the surf. I knew it wasn’t my imagination, the icepack was growing closer, closer to our shore.
I spoke that night to Sundog–a dubious name, for a unicorn on the ice–but it mattered little. That was the first night, I asked them to warm the tent with magic and the last we shared a cot.
I dreamt, I dreamt of white sails and a creaking hull, I dreamt of the ice as it bore down on the ship. I dreamt it scraped against the hull, eerily, as if the last poor expedition’s voices were calling to us, beneath that ice.
I awoke, disoriented, cold. I felt them then, eyes, watching me, watching this camp. I lay in the darkness, not even enough light to see the frost in my breath. And I heard them then, a gentle calling, beyond the pulse of blood in my ears, beyond the soft wind and waves. I heard their voices, whispering… beyond the veil.
This morning, we ate the last of the canned corn. I did not ask Salt for seconds; I could see in the dullness of those kind eyes that it would only be leaner from then on.
As I trudged up the hill once again, to place another stone, I had a fuzzy memory drift to the surface of my mind. A oft repeated but not entirely accurate anecdote from a colleague of the weather hardiness of Pegasi.
Although it is true that some Pegasi–those who are often found among the clouds–are often more adept at the chillier atmosphere. It is also true that occasionally, there are Pegasi found after a great storm, their feathers frozen and eyes frosted over.
I shook the thought from my head, and gently ruffled my own plumage beneath my coat.
As I sat on watch, my back to the fire, my eyes on the dark beach, and the gentle whistle of the wind in my ears, I began to hear them once again. That night, the clouds had come over from the west and blotted out that shimmering veil.
Despite, or perhaps because of that, I began to hear them. Softly at first, as if they were on the wind. My chest began to feel heavy, and I screwed my eyes shut. I don’t remember much of that watch, other than when a heavy hoof landed gently on my shoulder. I knew that hoof–split and caulked as it were–as belonging to the carpenter, Bevel.
The ice reached the shore the day after.
The day after that it began to pile up upon the shore.
We began to see frost, suspended in the air. It sparkled in the dying light.
The day after that, we ran out of carrots.
Finally, it became too cold to make the trek to place the stones.
I awoke to the gentle sounds of groaning wood and the creak of rope. A soft light lay in the distance, beyond the sea of dark shapes, swaying under the low deck. I exhaled, my breath did not frost, nor did I feel the sharp cold on inhale.
It took a moment to disentangle myself from the hammock, it having been some time since I last saw its like.
I walked through my sleeping fellows, their faces deep in shadow, but the snoring, unmistakable.
I made my way to the deck then, saw the great envelope above me and the well-scrubbed boards below. It took only a moment to find the prow, and despite the chill I felt no stinging wind as I stood upon it.
Beyond the gunwale, I saw the field of white, stretching unto the horizon, as if a great blanket had been laid over the waters below.
I stretched my wings with a soft groan, and felt the breeze then between my feathers, the flow of those currents and eddies which played across the bow.
I tilted my ear to the breeze and found I could no longer hear the whispers on the wind, nor the promises made during those long cold nights.
I turned my eyes then to the sky, and beheld as the stars twinkled merrily against the backdrop of the inky black.
Eyes, no longer.
