Dullahan

Remorse

SHE WATCHES NUMBLY AS they start to gather their dead- dead that she had killed. The bodies are limp, and she can see them wince each time they feel the weight of their companions. She can't bring herself to look at their faces, their eyes shut, faces lax as though they were sleeping. She keeps her focus on the living, committing faces to memory and clinging desperately to the present. If she thinks of the past, even if only for a moment, she is certain she will fall to despair.

She keeps her distance as they grieve, remaining still as she hears them scream and cry, not flinching when she sees them point and shout at her. The man that led them tries to keep the peace, hands outstretched and open, placating, a peace broker, but she can see how he struggles himself. Only once does she catch him looking at her, brows furrowed, as though he does not understand the trade of lives that he has made.

They gather their mounts- three surviving, the fourth and fifth returned to the forest- her own horse as still and quiet as her. The survivors eye it warily, as though it might kick or bite at them. Reluctantly, they ask if she can carry one of their own, their own horses already laden.

She agrees without complaint- it is the least she can do- and a blanket-wrapped burden is secured to the back of her saddle. She struggles to keep her attention off of it, all too aware of the extra weight her horse must carry.

They begin their ride in silence, marching into the breaking dawn with one in front and two behind, an escort that will take them back home, although as of yet she does not know if she is prisoner or companion.

They stop as the noon sun reaches its zenith, the man in front calling time for a rest and a stop. She does not tell them that she is not tired; that she and her mount can ride for as long as they need. The men are drawn and haggard, weariness dulling the sting of their misery. They camp in a forest clearing, trees shrouding them from the path, a small creek snaking its way through the landscape.

Again she finds herself watching, her head held lightly in her hands, as they move, first gently lowering their fallen companions to the ground, freeing the weight from the horses, before fetching water for food and wood for a fire.

"May I help?" she asks eventually, as one of the men limps closer to her.

He glances at her with haunted eyes, one shoulder lifting in a shrug, before he continues in his work.

She hesitates, the pang of guilt a familiar sting in her chest, and then sits, her back against a tree trunk, and remains still.

They gather around their fire, sitting in quiet companionship, cutlery scraping against metal bowls, conversation sporadic and wistful.

"Who takes first watch?" one of the men asks, his right leg straight out, splinted and wrapped in off-white bandages. She does not miss the meaningful look in her direction.

The other two follow his gaze, both sharing their companion's weariness. The one who had led the charge raises a half-hearted hand. "I'll do it," he says, "I don't think either of you could keep your eyes open longer than a half hour anyway," he continues, half-smile breaking through the mask of sorrow.

She watches the other two visibly relax, relieved that they will finally get their own chance to rest, and she wonders how long they have been awake.

They stay awake only a short while longer, and despite the afternoon sun they fall asleep almost immediately. The one remaining man watches them with envy, taking a deep breath before he stands and stretches.

"They've been through a lot," he says to the silence, looking toward her. "We were searching for you for... it must have been a week." He shakes his head in disbelief.