Valley of Decision by Stacia Seaman
Disclaimer: I admit it. I'm infringing. These characters don't belong to me, they belong to Lucy and Renee. All right, all right, and the people who thought them up. But I'm not making any money from this (or from my job, really, now that I think of it) so please don't sue me (Studios USA, this means you).
Content Warning: No sex, drugs, or violence, though there's a bit of angst.
Any and all feedback to stacia_seaman@yahoo.com
Time passes, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly. She sees hazy visions -- a wooden casket licked by orange flames; a dark urn, surprisingly heavy; a callused hand tenderly sweeping dry leaves from a stone sarcophagus. Images of death, all of them. Which are real? Which based on fear, on nightmares of how their life together might one day end? She can no longer distinguish.
Her shoulders are slumped, her legs leaden. Once-shiny hair now hangs limply, only occasionally pushed back from dull, lifeless eyes. What she had always expected would be angry, vivid pain is instead a vast, hollow emptiness. While she's aware that an enormous part of her life -- her very self -- is gone, that's all she's aware of: the nothingness where that part used to be.
As the days turn to weeks, the anger begins. She rages against the gods, against her lover, against herself. She curses the need for self-sacrifice that has left her alone. She threatens to join her lover in the afterworld.
Finally, desperate, she cries. Slow, silent tears slide down her cheeks. Unaware of their presence, she doesn't even blink. Harsh, wracking sobs that end only when she falls asleep, too exhausted to think.
Some days are better than others. She may remember to eat, or to bathe. From time to time she smiles. She brushes her horse, the only living creature she can stand to be around. Never comfortable with sharing her grief, she avoids anyone who would want to comfort, to empathize. She needs to be alone.
The sun rises, pale and weak, barely heating the air, only able to turn the dark sky to a delicate lavender. Conditioned by years on the road, she awakens. She takes a hasty bath, shivering at the touch of the icy water. Rummaging in the saddlebag, she finds a brush and runs it through tangled, matted hair.
The horse nickers, seeming to sense the change in her owner. She nudges a gaunt shoulder with her velvety nose, her warm breath tickling the skin over a prominent collarbone.
"I'm sorry I've been neglecting you, girl." The woman's voice is hoarse from tears and disuse. "Whaddya say we take a nice, long ride?"
The mare stamps her foot, tossing her head in agreement.
Moments later, the saddlebags are secured and the rider swings onto the horse's back. It feels familiar, comfortable. They amble, then walk, and soon she kicks her mount into a rolling canter, feeling alive again for the first time as the cool wind blows through her hair.
Guided by instinct, she rides across golden fields, through frigid streams and bare forests. Hours later, she senses she's there.
Maneuvering the golden horse across the field of battle, she soon finds the person she seeks. He's walking along, briskly, pointing to each fallen man. "Tartarus. Elysian Fields. Tartarus. Elysian Fields."
She knows she's let too much time slip by already. Impatiently, she interrupts him. "Hades! My friend, Gabrielle. Where is she?"
---end---
