Chapter Text
A ravine is born gradually, almost deceptively. Water hugging, cuddling, but also nagging and clawing the stone for millions of years. Yet they stay together for all this time. Maybe the rock really needs to be shaped and the water needs to stay close to be able to flow, even if it means finding new angles how to caress it.
Rather not seek relationship analogies everywhere for God’s sake! Also, that is a somewhat unhealthy analogy, is it not? The rider exhales loudly, his head pounding.
The path along the precipice is very narrow and still too wet from the previous night’s dew. The air changes here. It is cooler, damp, carrying the constant undertone of water fondling the rock somewhere out of sight. Mist gathers in the hollow even in the daylight, caught between the steep walls like a breath that never quite escapes.
The trail bends along the edge, not wide enough for more than a single horse rider.
On the left: solid ground, rising into tangled undergrowth. On the right: a sharp descent of loose shale and jutting stone, dropping into the throat of the ravine where the river runs fast and narrow, white with force. It is not a gentle stream. It claws at its own banks, restless, loud enough that any riders must raise their voices to be heard among themselves.
The hooves meet brittle stones, smaller ones skitter down, deeper bellow, into the roaring water. The grass on the path grows in patches over slick clay. One misplaced step is enough.
The rider should slow. He knows the ground here is even more treacherous after yesterday’s heavy rain. He has ridden the path before. But something inside him presses harder than caution. Certain words are still ringing inside his head... promise, freedom, chains, future... As if he was some burden to be unfastened...?
He leans forward in the saddle, jaw set. More speed than care.
The slip is small at first. A patch of mud. His horse loses purchase under its hind leg and neighs, ears flicking immediately back, uncertain. Another stone breaks free just a moment later, right beneath the horse's right foreleg. It clatters down the ravine and the rider glances down, startled.
Catching a glimpse of the river below. It somehow looks smaller than it is. Deception. Only the sound reveals the truth. A violent, continuous rush of water forcing its way through too narrow a space.
The horse hesitates, yet the rider presses forward.
One hoof sinks deeper than expected and there is a scramble as the beast tries to regain balance. The iron shoe strikes a flat stone at the edge. It shifts underneath the pressure.
Everything happens in the space of a breath.
The rider twists, pulling hard on the reins, trying to steady them both at the last moment — too late. The ground shears away beneath and they lose their center of gravity together. A boot slips from the stirrup, the rider slips from the saddle.
There is a sensation of weightlessness, the world lurches sideways. Just enough time to understand.
They are falling.
A violent tumble of dark-grey stone and the sky above. Rocks tear viciously at his clothing and skin. His shoulder hits a sharp spot, drawing blood for sure; a strangled yelp escapes his mouth and breath leaves him in a burst.
For a fleeting instant the momentum stops—
And he is hanging by a thread — quite literally — of his yellow travel cloak. Caught on a stubborn old pine branch. He can shortly hear shouts from afar. The horse somewhere above him, shrieking, scrambling desperately, hooves attacking the slippery slope — and then the old wood gives away, or maybe the cloak. He is not sure.
Several more tumbles down the steep bank and there is nothing more, but the roar of water.
He hits the river hard enough to force out all of what little air remained in his lungs.
The current is much more colder and adamant than he expects. Unforgiving. Brutal. It folds him under at once. His limbs trash uselessly, armor dragging him down. Water fills his nose, his mouth. Instinct forces him to swallow it, making him sick and desperate for air. Panic claws through him in blind, animal terror.
He briefly breaks the surface only because the current throws him against a half-submerged boulder. He claws at it with all his remaining power, coughing violently, though his fingers are slipping—
The river wrenches him away again.
It is relentless, tearing at his already destroyed cloak, at his belt, at any loose thing it can claim. The sword is gone in seconds.
There is no sense of direction. Only cold, wet, pain, and darkness. Once he slams into something hard enough that stars burst behind his eyes. Another time his head goes under for so long that he begins to think, dimly, that this must be how it all ends — not by a blade, not by an arrow, not in any battle. But choking on muddy freezing water like a fool who rode too close to the edge, reckless. Distracted.
You are blind to what you sacrifice.
The memory of those words surfaces strangely clear between the waves. Spoken in a heated moment, just three short days ago. However, he feels no more anger at the author of the sentence. No more pride. The argument is somehow forgotten. It is funny how quickly your perspective can change. Especially when you currently find yourself tumbling over and over in a treacherous river.
One day you will resent it...resent me.
There is suddenly one sharp, but oh-so-painful and unbearable image of his beloved learning about that he is gone. Forever.
And that is what claws him upward again! Not skill, not strength, only refusal. He cannot let that argument and their cold parting in the morning after be the last thing happening between them on this earth.
The river drags him on.
Branches rake his face, there is a deep cut above his left brow, stinging cruelly. He tastes iron, but soon his mouth is yet again washed out with angry water.
His cloak suddenly tangles, choking him in the hold. Then it tears completely and frees him again, fabric probably already too damaged after ripping while slowing his fall before.
Small victories.
But at some point he finally stops fighting. Has to, as his body grows heavy, movements getting slower. The cold seeps inward. He has not been fully equipped for a combat, but still wears enough clothing and light armor to keep dragging him down, eating last of his energy reserves.
He is finished, that is becoming clear. His fear is mercifuly dulled by the cold.
For another several agonizing minutes, he is being owned completely by the river and begins to slowly slip out of consciousness.
He is not coherent enough to consider himself lucky — and he really should — because at that moment he finally washes up against a low muddy bank. He does not feel it though.
Thrusted out of the main current, far below the ravine now, more than a thousand meters downstream. The river here is still strong, but not so unyielding.
He is sprawled half in water, half on the stones, breath coming in ragged shallow wheezes. His lungs are on fire, filled with muddy liquid. His mind is fuzzy, almost blank. The brain has been deprived of oxygen for quite long. Everything hurts.
Then his left hand twitches once, thumb bending inwards, ever so slightly, and caresses something carefully. A small cold piece of silver, bound around his ring finger.
I understand what you were trying to do. I love you. Please forgive me.
Then the darkness takes him. He goes slack, only the fingers remain somewhat curled around his anchor.