Chapter Text
The sky appears cradled by the tops of the Ochre mountains as the shorn edges of the stone reach into the stomachs of the clouds. The stone is familiar and cold beneath Channa’s hooves. She balances on three hooves as she scrapes this roughness with her hind hoof. She is a buffer against the wind, which is unceasing this high up in their territory. It whistles around her sensitive human ears, causing her hair to billow around her.
Channa surveys the ancestral path which the herd is preparing to run down. As winter wrenches fall away from the mountaintops, taking with it the last senesced leaves and warmth, the centaurs prepare to descend the mountain. The yearly migration involves a bold rush down the mountain on this path, which is wide but open to the elements along one side. The drop is steep and unforgiving. At the end of the path, miles away and hidden in a secret cove, are the large group-houses that Channa’s foreparents built and she had maintained with her own hands. The centaurs would spend winter there, tending sheep and taking care of winter-only maintenance, like catching up on knitting and spinning and tanning and gossiping and f—Channa sighs at the prospects of being stuck inside for another season.
“The stones welcome us,” Munia’s gravelly voice interrupts her thoughts.
Channa twists to accommodate the herd leader’s large body. Channa feels like the sound of Munia’s hooves echoes from the weight as she looks down the path with a sense of finality. Like she owns it.
Which, in a way, Munia does, Channa supposes. It’s her herd.
“I pray it will be a good run,” Channa says, though she’s never prayed a day in her life.
“Any day we run together is a good day,” Munia says. Cryptic-ass, proud woman. Channa hides another sigh.
The rest of the herd is waiting around. There’s a lot of hands checking over hooves last-minute, adjustment of bags for those who carry them, and the eating of a last snack. Munia’s gaze is easily felt by the herd, and soon enough everyone is looking expectantly at their leader.
“Every year, we descend into North of North by this path,” Munia begins her speech, the one she gives every year. Channa focuses back on the path, feeling the open stone calling to her.
Freedom to let loose, for just one day.
“We go down the path to survive the winter that we were not built to withstand. We go down with the spirits of our ancestors at our heels, propelling us to greater speeds. We do not falter, and we do not fall. Our goal is single and clear and ruthless—the end of the trail,” Munia continues.
There are a few smiles at this. Munia is not a centaur given to levity, but she allows herself a joke every couple of months or so.
Channa’s legs ache to start. She’s at the forefront of the herd, almost next to Munia. Her nose is full of deep mountain air which chills the insides of her throat when she breathes in.
“Prepare yourselves,” Munia says. She’s facing the trail again.
Channa doesn’t look at her. The world beckons to her. Channa feels like she can hear every single sound, every scrape of hoof against stone.
Munia shoots off, and there’s a half-second delay before Channa’s legs propel into action. She laughs raucously, exposing all of her teeth and sucking in at the cold air hitting her gums. Her hair whips behind her as she stretches out and races forward.
There’s no bags on her back. There’s no blanket on her back slowing her down. It’s just her and the path and the thundering echo of her hooves against the stone. There’s the exhilaration of the run and letting gravity carry her downwards at increasing speeds. Channa grits her teeth, ignoring how her human ears pop. Water streams out of her eyes and freezes where it touches her cheeks.
Munia and a few stallions are kicking up dust ahead of her. Not cowed by their larger size, Channa tucks her human arms closer to her sides and presses ahead. She’s going to be at the front of the pack this year, dammit!
Her muscles strain. Her hair drags her slightly behind, and Channa spares a regret that she didn’t shear it off to help with the wind. She is catching up to one of the stallions now, and swerves around him to the left.
He doesn’t pay attention to her, too lost in the call of the gallop. Channa grins. She spares a glance behind her at the rest of the pack: the mothers and foals and the elders and the mares circled around them. The bright daylight illuminates their joyous faces. None of them are even close to catching her tail.
Channa returns to the path in front of her. The path is conquered under her hooves. Her heart flies.
She wills the wind to aid her hooves, and resolve infuses her muscles. She’s nearly up with Munia now. There’s two stallions flanking her, and Channa squeezes in front of the stallion she passed.
There’s space to the right, closer to the edge of the path, and Channa dares.
The wind pushes at her back, and Channa takes the sign as if the Goddess herself is watching. Her hooves thunder and Channa feels alive. She catches up with the two stallions, and races neck-and-neck with Munia. The leader gives her a glance, but only a small smile graces her noble features.
Channa grins back. She did it! Maybe this is close to flying. Her hooves eat stone, she feels powerful and free. Each step brings her closer to the flatter rolling hills that would allow her to run and not spend all her time surrounded by stone walls. It’s like running on a cloud.
Until her hind hoof strikes against rock, and Channa remembers she isn’t on a cloud.
She stumbles, front legs splaying out to brace herself—
There isn’t anything to brace against.
Channa whips her head around.
“Munia!” Channa screams as the path leaves her and her suddenly ungainly body rolls off the cliff.
The last thing Channa sees is Munia’s honest shock, which quickly shifts to agony before sealing away into stoicism. We do not falter, and we do not fall, Munia had said.
If I survive, the herd isn’t going to come for me, Channa had one chance to think before she slams against the rock face.
The air is torn away from her lungs. The unforgiving rock tears into her legs. Her useless hooves scramble for purchase, but there’s nothing to grab. Channa’s human hands splay on the rock, but she’s not powerful enough to hold the weight of her horse-self regardless.
She’s still falling, and her eyes can’t tear themselves away from the ground, which is still so far away. She’s fast approaching the sparse treeline, and she braces for the pain. How arrogant of her to think she was anything less than a creature of the earth!
Channa’s head strikes against a branch and that’s the last she sees before the forest claims her for its own.