Debi Moseley

As she rode over the ridgeline, Morag could hardly wait to go as the moor opened up in front of her. She pressed her heels into the mare's ribs and they began to pick their way downslope. Once they got to the edge of the open treeless expanse, the wind hit them, streaming the woman’s hair back like a banner. It was very cold, but Morag was well prepared for the weather. She was already bundled up and the mare's body was warm, her body covered in her own layer of deep fuzzy hair. It was rough going, picking a path through the stones and scrubby vegetation, but the little bay mare was surefooted and strong.

The scenery never failed to take Morag's breath away. Even though she had grown up here and seen the place a thousand times, her heart leaped into her throat at the sight of it. Wild and desolate, with the altitude high enough that no trees would grow, the only softening to the stony ground was gorse and tough heather. It was the stark beauty of the place that still served to reduce her back to her most elemental. The moor had made her what she was; tough and independent, and it reminded her of her true place in the world when she crossed it. No matter what she achieved elsewhere, no matter who called her 'lady', here she was merely a person, a rather insignificant creature in the face of all that unmeasured vastness.

The clouds flirted with the sun, nether side gaining an upper hand until the vaporous shapes decided they'd had enough. To celebrate its victory, the sun burst out over the craggy peaks and illuminated the rocks and heather. Sunlight tended to be rare on the moor and was all the more precious because of it. It, did, however, make finding a secure route slightly more treacherous since the shadows produced served to obscure holes and hidden stones. Morag dealt with this by giving the bay mare her head, trusting the canny little horse to find the best path.

They rode along in a companionable silence for awhile, Morag not bothering to guide the horse toward her destination. She was in no real hurry, for once in her life feeling no obligations or urgency in her travels. Being on the moors was like coming home, a comforting sensation for a person who called no place in particular home.

Morag watched curlews flying overhead and listened to their wheeling cries. The swish of her mount's tail and the gentle rustling of their passage through the heather made a soothing sound. The sunlight was warm against her face and the wind brought with it the exciting aromas of the earth, the vegetation underfoot, and of trees, far away. She lost herself in the thoughts that come with solitude and contentment.

She was roused from her reverie by her horse's head coming up abruptly, the animal gazing intently into the distance. Morag didn't look up too abruptly, unsure of exactly where the mare was looking and not wanting to alert whatever was there that he or she had been seen. Morag leaned down, pretending to check one of the straps on the saddle. While bent down, she sighted along the mare's neck, using the horse's nose like a compass needle, following her line of sight. What she saw surprised her.

It was a horse she hadn't seen in a very long time. He was tall and long-limbed, his coat a silver-dappled grey. He wore little beyond the most basic tack: a simple bridle and a light saddle. Morag was suspicious; the horse she knew was long dead. Even if she hadn't seen him fall under a withering onslaught of arrows, the sheer amount of time that had passed would have guaranteed that that stallion was long gone. But still, she knew the horse she was seeing as well as the one on whom she rode. Almost reluctantly, Morag looked up to see the rider's face, fearing and hopeful all at once. It was impossible, yet she had to see.

It was him. His earth-colored clothing blended in with his surroundings, making it look as if a woodland wraith rode the shiny grey horse; Morag could be relatively sure that the man was as much a spirit as his horse had to be. The master had fallen not long after his mount and she had seen them both die, unable to do anything to prevent it. But, here and now, she could see his dark eyes sparkling as they had all those years ago, with mischief and good humor. Those dark eyes could lose their humor in an instant and the sparkle turn to a cold and calculating glitter when the circumstances required it. She knew well the full range of his expressions, having been on the receiving end of all but the most deadly of them. The shining eyes met hers and he smiled. His expression was warm with welcome.

Suspiciously, she halted her horse, choosing her ground on the crest of a small hillock, forcing him to come uphill to her. Despite her involuntary joy at seeing him again, she was uneasy. If this were a dream, it was a damned vivid one. She could see the sunlight and feel it on her face; she could smell the crushed heather beneath her horse’s hooves; she could even taste the coming winter in the wind’s passing.

The weight of her sword was a comforting presence at her side, though the need for it was still debatable. She didn't know if it would do any good on someone who was already dead anyway. Her mare stood obediently, but shifted beneath her, eager to continue on. As the pair drew closer, the grey stallion whistled a greeting and the mare nickered a reply. Morag felt oddly betrayed. Why wasn't her horse as suspicious as she was? The man drew the grey to a stop just far enough away to not be viewed as a threat. He smiled again, this one an expression of joy tinged with sadness.

"Morag!" He started to swing down but noticed her tension. Resettling himself on his horse, he said, "It's good to see you."

"Wish I could say the same," she replied gruffly. What was wrong with her? Ever since she’d lost him, she had prayed for this moment. But she also knew that every wish exacted a price for fulfillment. Morag wondered how much this one had cost her, since it had taken so long to come true. Or had it? Was this a wish fulfilled or a nightmare only just begun? The man was dead and had been for a very long time. It was said that horses could see spirits; her mare saw the horse and rider plainly enough, but so could she. The bay was unafraid, straining to stretch her neck out and sniff at the grey stallion. Morag twitched the reins irritably, reminding the mare who was in charge.

"I'm sorry you aren't happy to see me, but under the circumstances, I can understand." His straight dark hair blew restlessly in the unrelenting wind and she caught his scent as it passed by her. Rosemary and sweet woodruff, as familiar to her as her own name. A stray lock of his hair blew loose and he shoved it behind his ear in a gesture so very familiar to her.

"And what sort of circumstances might that be?" she asked neutrally.

Morag was torn. He had to be a spirit, which meant that in order to speak to him she must be dead, or crazy. Maybe this was a dream. She tried to think back on what she had been doing before riding out onto the moor. All of her memories were intact, but she didn't know how or why she was here or exactly where she had been going. Her last waking memory was of being with her friends, drinking and dining together, waiting for something to happen. But just what event that was escaped her. She could remember everything but the preparation for this journey.

He pointed.

Morag stood her ground. "I want to know why I'm here, why you're here." A little of her old feelings for him betrayed her by creeping into her voice. "Please, Aron, tell me." She could feel her emotions beginning to overwhelm her and she felt oddly angry.

He urged his horse closer; this time she didn't move away. His dark eyes were shining as he looked at her. "It's a long story and I almost don't want to tell you. You might decide to leave me."

Her heart leaped like a netted fish. Never again could she leave him. It had nearly killed her to lose him before; she wouldn't let that happen again. Her reserve crumbled in the face of that prospect. "No!"

He placed a quick finger against her lips in a gentle shushing manner. "Don't promise something that you can't deliver. Let me tell you and then you can decide."

The soft brush of his finger on her face was almost more than she could stand; it had been many years since she had felt his touch. If he was a spirit, then so be it. His skin was warm and solid, the color a healthy flush of pink beneath the olive tone. He had always teased her about the contrast between them; his rich brown tint against her almost translucent ivory. The recollection made her want to hurl herself off the fidgety mare and into his arms, but she settled for merely nodding and following his lead through the gap between two nearby hills.

The wind was much less fierce and a small fire warmed the surly air. Dismounting, they turned the horses loose to graze and sat by the fire. Morag looked at Aron and said expectantly, "Well?"

"Still impatient as ever, eh? That red hair will be the death of you yet." They chuckled quietly together at the old shared joke. Morag was amazed at how easily she slipped into the old camaraderie, the habits of years, long unused, unconsciously reclaiming their place in her life. It felt like donning a long-forgotten pair of boots to find that they still fit as comfortably as ever.

"Why am I here?" She suspected that he knew and she really didn't want to find out. All she had ever wanted was here: her horse, the moors of her childhood, the only man she'd loved. Despite her suspicions, anything that might disturb this waking dream would be decidedly unwelcome.

Aron looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "I think you know. And I think you also know that you have to make a choice." He watched her expressions, seeing the understanding beginning to dawn in her eyes. "I'm a guide. I'm supposed to show you the path to the other side." He sat back, a heavy sigh welling out of him, rivaling the jealous wind. "You can still choose which way to go." He pointed further upland. "The rest of the way in," his finger then pointed back the way they had come, "or you can go back; you still have time. Not everyone that comes here is that lucky." His dark eyes narrowed as he regarded her. "You’ll make the right decision; you always did."

Morag shook her head in protest, like a dog shaking water from its ears, fighting the emotions that she had kept in check for so long. She was always in control. She never gave in. Except with him. She knew what he was saying to her and the memory of the event that she was awaiting with her friends was coming back. Something must have happened to her; that's why she was here. She should go back; she had to finish what she had started, but she had more incentive to stay here now. She had him back.

"No." The vehemence in her own voice surprised her. "I don't care what I'm supposed to do anymore. I've always done what I'm supposed to do. I want to do what I want, just once." She could feel imminent tears gathering behind her eyes, burning. She hated to cry; it made her feel so weak, so uncontrolled. She had always prided herself on being strong and capable. That's why falling in love with Arondel so long ago had so taken her by surprise. Morag shook her head again, know what she had to do, no matter how it hurt. Turning her head away from him, she wiped fiercely at the moisture already turning to frost on her cheeks. She heard him move closer, sensed him reaching for her.

"No!" She leaped to her feet and strode away down the hill toward the horses. He watched her go, icy tracks tracing their way down his face.

///////////////////////////////////////

"How is she?" Garoben's worried glance tore away from the aftermath on the battlefield to gaze at his friend's pale body.

Morag lay twisted on the ground, her sword still clutched in her fist, a crimson stain slowly spreading from the wound in her belly to the snow she lay in. Garoben was afraid to hear what Chance had to say, not wanting to hear the impossible. He had lost too many already. Morag had to live; she had been a constant in his life for as long as he could remember. She had to live.

Chance shook his head. "There’s nothing I can do for her. If she lives or dies is up to her. It's all up to her."