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The horse does not really remember very much.
The horse remembers prancing, and the weight of armour and rider, and the sharp glitter of light from a thousand metal points polished to a high sheen. It remembers skittering over cobblestones as trumpets blared, soothed by firm hands on the reins; and it remembers pats on the neck, encouragement, as it tramped through miles of boggy mud.
The wisp is intrigued.
It flutters and dances through this lost and lonely snippet of the Fade, the surroundings blurred but holding tantalising interest. It has never found a dream shaped by an animal before. It has not found much, to be fair; it is small yet, new, and weak enough that it has been driven out to these strange areas, where no larger spirits hold sway. It doesn’t mind. Part of being new means not having quite enough of a self to mind anything.
It likes this place, though.
The place is not changing, not alive. The horse is making no new memories. It should have faded many, many years ago, but it hasn’t. The wisp prods at the weave of it, and is rebuffed; another frozen memory flickers into life. It’s frayed at the edges, colours smudging, but it’s a human by the looks of it, gender indeterminable, carrying a bowl from which warm, ghostly wisps of fragrance rise. Food, good food, food for the horse. The human always brings food.
The wisp basks in remembrance.
The human is in many of the remaining memories. The wisp circles around one in particular a few times. It is only a hand, tangled in horsehair, slowly scratching its way along a neck. But it stands out, sharp where the others are blurred, alive where the others are slowly dying.
Well, there is another memory still sharp and alive. But the wisp doesn’t like that memory. It is a memory of pain, and blood, and all-consuming darkness.
Inasmuch as the wisp knows anything, it knows that these things stand in opposition to the things it is learning. It knows that after the pain and the blood, there are no more rough human fingers to scratch and stroke and soothe.
But it’s…
Important.
Nonetheless.
The wisp is a little hazy on the concept of importance still, but it feels it as a nag in the back of its nascent mind, dragging it back towards the memory it doesn’t like. Reluctant- not that it understands reluctance quite yet, either- to fully enter it, the wisp extends a few strings of magical energy and feels around the edges of it, looking for… something. A way to make it go away, perhaps?
Unfortunately, the memory is stronger than the wisp.
All of a sudden it finds itself in the midst of screaming, the flash and clash of human weaponry on every side, the sky above pouring wetness and flaring lightning both natural and magical, the scent of blood and viscera filling both flaring nostrils with each heaving, panicked breath.
Under the blood, though, is the smell of the human. The reins are held taut, not hauling back but a firm, giving pressure. There is a weight on the wisp’s- the horse’s- back, sitting solid, constant through every change of pace, every time the wisp- no, the horse- rears up and lands on chests and heads and other things that go crack and crunch beneath metal-shod hooves.
When the wisp lets out a shrieking whinny, it is echoed by the bellow of a human war cry. The horse knows that this is how it’s meant to be. So does the wisp.
When the weight disappears, it takes them both a second to notice, and when they do the sense of wrongness crashes over them in a wave of panicked instinct. They spin on their haunches, lashing out at a barely-seen shape rushing in from the side, and shriek again, craning for sight or smell or sound.
There. On the ground. Poised above, a monster in snarling fur, raising something overhead that flashes and glitters in the ugly, half-magical lightning all around them.
They plunge forward, and the full weight of horse and harness and sheer, prey-driven terror crushes the threat into nothing at all. The horse throws back its head and screams. The wisp tastes metal.
The blackness this time is more solid than the wisp remembers. It kicks and strains and struggles against it, and then there is light, and the feel of…
Rain?
The wisp sets its hooves into slippery ground and shakes out what is still left of its mane. It doesn’t know how it knows what rain is, but it’s not questioning it. It has the feeling that it may not be best described as a wisp any more, but its true nature is still not quite clear to it.
The world around it is not the Fade. That much is clear. The not-quite-a-wisp is not unduly upset at this, but something is, nevertheless, missing.
It starts to walk. The horse remembers how to walk, which is useful.
After a while- time means something here, but the wisp-thing is not sure exactly how it should apply- it sees and smells something that makes it prick its ears.
A group of those that walk on two legs. At least one human.
Yes, something about this is good. It approaches, picking up a trot, arching its neck like it recalls gained it extra scratches.
The humans- perhaps there are non-humans in the group, but neither horse nor almost-wisp cares much to differentiate- shout, and once more there is the flash of metal. The wisp stops suddenly, almost losing its back legs underneath it as the mud makes them slide, and stares.
The humans stare back.
The horse-wisp lets out a hopeful whicker.
The humans talk among themselves. The horse whickers again, and puffs out a heavy greeting-breath from its nose. It is harder than it remembers to pull in the air and let it out again, but the nearly-not-a-wisp helps it out.
One of the humans- a very short one- walks forward. It takes slow steps, one hand outstretched, talking low. The horse ambles forward and snuffles the hand; it contains no treats, and lipping at it is not as easy as it should be, but the scent is… calming.
The human smiles, and reaches with careful delicacy up to scratch firmly at the horse’s neck.
Oh.
Yes.
Now it is easier to understand.
When the short human rests its hand beneath an equine chin and walks back towards the group, the spirit of loyalty and the horse that loved follows, eyes half-closed, ears splayed contentedly sideways.