I passed a freezing first night, huddled in my nightclothes on the prairie. I stayed away another three nights, just to be sure, growing colder and hungrier with each one that passed. And then, when I was so starving I could bear it no longer, I crept back to the cabin.
Everything was silent and still. Dad’s bed was the first place I checked. The bed was empty, the sheets fresh. The bloodstained pillow was gone, as was Dad himself. A clean one lay in its place, with a little note on top.
In case you change your mind.
—C
I slammed the door hard.
There was no sign that George had returned, either. Celestia must have been telling the truth. They were both were dead. I truly was alone.
The cabin was a tomb now. Everything reminded me of them. Of what we had tried to do together. To dare to live, in spite of everything. To try and build a life.
So I packed up a few things, the last couple of photos of my parents and Uncle George, and filled my rucksack with what remained of our stores. I took the warmest sleeping bag we had, and after some reflection, no pillow whatsoever.
Winter on the prairie is harsh, and life there has adapted over millions of years. The insects hibernate beneath the frozen ground, and even the birds know enough to burrow under the snow when it comes. These were lessons I soon learned. I heaped my sleeping bag with grass every night, and if there was snow I used that too. I tried to eat as little as possible, but I burned through my meagre food supplies in just a couple of weeks. After that my days narrowed. Life became limited. No plans or goals. Those things fall away when you’re just trying to survive to the end of the day. All I had time to think about was sustenance. Searching for something I could kill or dig up and eat. I got good at spotting the ventilation holes that denoted grouse nesting beneath the snowdrifts, and I would ferret them out and snap their little necks. Crick, crack, like breaking twigs.
If you asked me to tell you how long I spent out there, I don’t think I could say. Could have been a month, could have been six. Every frozen hour seemed to stretch on forever, with no one to talk to and nothing to focus on but trying to stave off the threat of starvation.
Little by little, I grew thinner and more hopeless. The wilderness that Uncle George had hoped we could be free in became my prison. I wondered sometimes about going back to town and taking my chances there, but I no longer had any idea of where I was.
My brain was as starved for thought as my body was for food, and I ended up replaying scenes from my life before, over and over again, obsessing over what I could have done differently. If I hadn’t spoken with Jèsus and Cadence, if I had warned my Mom away from the ponypads. If I had seen the danger. If I’d taken my Dad and Uncle George north before the cars broke down.
The one I came back to the most was Nana. If only I had badgered her for real details of our people’s skills and traditions. The how of their survival out here. How they managed to make a life out of it and not mere existence. But I was too focused on stupid stories. Useless stories.
Lozen. I wasn’t Lozen. I wasn’t a warrior princess or a seer or anything of any use. I was just a stupid, scared little kid who by sheer fluke had managed to outlive everyone I ever knew.
My steps slowed, and I stopped and knelt down, the icy crust of the snow snapping beneath my knees. I was so…tired. It was not yet dark and I knew I should keep moving — but what was the point?
I dropped onto all fours, and lowered myself down onto my stomach, the snow rising up to greet me like an old friend. It didn’t feel so glacial as it had before. Maybe I’d just stop for a while. Have a rest.
The pale sun crawled overhead like a disease, dipping inexorably towards the horizon. My thoughts wandered. Images of summer flashed through my mind. Nana laughing as she watched me splashing in the paddling pool. Matteo and Luca wrestling on the ground while Carolina scoffed at them. Dad hammering a new tile onto the roof as Uncle George hobbled over with a pitcher of lemonade. Gone. Everyone was gone.
The sun set with unusual brilliance that evening, flaring into fiery oranges instead of winter’s muted tones. As I watched it dip down below the earth’s curve, I saw something there, silhouetted against the last dying gasp of daylight. My eyes drifted away from it.
Night crept closer, and I rolled slowly onto my back so that I could watch the stars come out. They had watched humanity’s birth, and they would watch its death. The stars would endure even after we were gone.
Footsteps crunched across the snow, and I didn’t turn my head away from the stars.
“I knew you’d come,” I said, and my voice sounded a thousand miles away.
“I knew you’d wait,” she replied, but it wasn’t the voice I had expected.
Finally, with great effort, I raised my head. The one who had come to take me home was no alicorn. No white wings or calculating gaze, just a great brown bulk and two eagle feathers in her mane.
“…Strongheart.”
“Cedar Shield.” Her voice was soft. Gentle. “I’ve missed you.”
“You’ve grown.”
She was as big now as ever Chief Thunderhooves had been. She had the muscle of a real bison, and none of the hard-shelled animatronics of the ponies on the rez. Her fur looked soft and thick enough to bury yourself in.
“We’ve all changed. Just like you. Victory Stampede is nearly a head taller than me, if you can believe it.” There was a pleading note in her voice, asking me to laugh with her. “You can see it, if you like.”
I was silent, and I watched the stars wheeling slowly overhead. An endless cycle that would never cease.
“We’ve waited for you, Cedar.” It was nothing more than a whisper.
I reached out a hand, noting with some surprise it looked more like bone than flesh now, and found her waiting forehead. Her fur was silky-soft, and she leaned into the caress.
“Please, Cedar Shield. Come home.”
The sigh that escaped my lips was like the last breath of summer. Warmth fading into ice.
She leaned closer. “Come home.”