Csilla
Isn't it lovely, all alone?
Heart made of glass, my mind of stone
T
he desert did not see much of a winter. Throughout most of the year, it's hot and dry - only barely tolerable only once the sun has set. The cold and wet was not something seen in such unforgiving places. While other parts of the realm might see rain or snow, such things were unknown to those trapped by endless mounds of sand. Csilla had not known to mind the familiarity of her birthland's landscape. Built to withstand the nature of its wrath, the heat had been no more to her than the gentle touch of a mother. Not that she had ever experienced such a thing. Often, as a child, she had imagined that the desert had been her dam. Foolish beliefs had brought her comfort throughout the loneliness of his childhood. Before the lessons, and the tutors, and the rules - there had been nothing but what the land could offer her. One thousand imaginings had occupied her mind and the mountains that locked them in may as well have been the end of the world. It wasn't until she grew older that she grew to desperately wish such foolish thoughts to be true. All innocence was lost the moment she left behind the magical kingdom of her youth.
Torn from a fate she had resigned herself to, Csilla had been thrown into a world that was as foreign to her as some other planet. All around her the land was covered in a thick blanket of white. All memories of warmth fled from the mare's mind, her beloved desert long forgotten. Instead, she was met by the cruel unforgiveness of true winter. Icy breaths stung her lungs, yearning to be defrosted by the heat of a fire. She had no way of knowing how long she had been walking - the journey directionless and never-ending.
For the first time in her life, the young mare was completely alone. There was no sour-faced governess to direct her path, no father's ambition to steal away her childhood - no husband's gifts to inflict pain. The silence was deafening. The howling of the wind serves as her only form of company. Although, Csilla finds its opinions far more welcoming than that of any other voice she'd been forced to endure.
With no other direction to go but forward, the lone mare cuts her through the layers of ice and snow. With every agonized breath, she hoped for civilization to arise. Desperation arose as, with every rise of the land, she was met with disappointment. For as far as the eye could see - there was nothing. The familiar gray-blue shapes of mountains loomed in the distance, though Csilla knew with absolute certainty that they were not hers.
Csilla's teeth chattered and her legs trembled. The land rose and fell, with no clear path to take. Around her neck, the golden collar she was forced to always wear dripped with ice. She did not belong here, a fact made evident by her sleek summer's coat. Conquering yet another hill, Csilla paused at the top - her eyes of evergreen surveying the land hungrily. Nothing but the occasional barren tree offered itself as company. Puffs of white breath gathered around her face as hot tears stung the edges of her eyelids.
She'd been kidnapped. And what for? To be dumped in some frozen wasteland with no hope of ever being discovered? The price on her head would have been a handsome one, and yet - they had tossed her out like she had been no more than a bag of rotten grain. Death by guillotine or frostbite - both seemed equally possible. Csilla's fate still swung in the balance.
The mare's heart pounded in her chest. Sudden movement stirred beneath the snow-laden branches of a bush not to far from where she stood. From beneath the confines of its shadow, a nearly imperceptive flash of white against black grabbed at Csilla's attention. A wild hare - camouflaged to match its surroundings. The creature, not yet aware of the equine's presence, hoped peacefully out into the open. Its nose twitched as it sniffed at the snow, no doubt searching for its next meal. The spotted dun held her breath. How wonderful it must be to have such invisibility. To be but another heartbeat amongst thousands of others. No more important than the next. Such an existence was unknown to Csilla - her every hour consumed by plans not her own.
In the end, she had played her part well. Thrown into the fray at an incredibly young age, expectation and ambition had been hers to fulfill. She'd not heard from her father since the day she set off to be married. No doubt he was happy - bathing in the riches of her sacrifice.
Without warning, the hare's body grew rigid. His black nose twitched, this time the gesture far more insistent than that of his relaxed foraging. In a blink, the little animal wheeled around on its powerful haunches and - in three hops - was safely back within his den. Something was coming and Csilla no longer cared enough to be afraid. Hers was naught but a wasted life - wasted potential. The executioner could take her now.
@Luvena
