Work Text:
A narrow channel cuts through the deep snow from the tiny Waystation towards the road. Talia fills her shovel with thick, wet snow and climbs up the side of the carved path.
The walls of snow cast deep shadows into the valley between them. Above, Talia stabs her shovel into the top of the next section. The fragile wood of the harp case threatens to snap. Talia scowls at the snow.
Kris tenses. Rolan sends affectionate reproach through their bond. Talia takes a deep breath, then grounds and centers her empathy. The thick hostility of frustration fades from the air.
*
Thin and fragile wood can't break through the hard crusts atop the snow, but Rolan's hooves can.
The snow has melted and refrozen into thick slabs of ice. It takes effort for even a Companion's hooves to shatter it, but after a few kicks, even the most stubborn snowdrifts give way, with a shimmery sound like the breaking of a delicate glass.
A particularly sharp edge cuts a thin slice into Rolan's left fore fetlock. It doesn't seem to bother him. By the time his Herald is too exhausted to move, Rolan's legs are covered with dozens of fine lacerations.
*
As Talia staggers into the Waystation, Kris tends to the Companions.
He wipes the sweat and ice from Tantris and then Rolan. He cleans and bandages today's scratches from their legs, checking to confirm that older wounds are healing. He carefully parcels out food for them to eat.
Tantris is too weary to pass any words along to Kris, just a feeling of appreciation with a strong overtone of exhaustion. Kris responds in kind, then follows Talia into the waystation.
Talia has prepared a simple lentil soup. They devour it, mostly in silence, and collapse onto the bed to sleep.