Their horse’s hooves thundered against the path, leaving a flurry of dirt in their wake. The horse’s stride was long and smooth—and it was much more enjoyable than a plodding of a walk or the jolting bounce of a trot. Elon’s arm cinched her waist, and though it’d been unpleasant at first, her discomfort was easy to ignore as the pine-laden air seared her nostrils and the crisp air flung her hair back.
Her heart thudded in time with the horse’s gallop as they veered around a corner. She recognized that fallen tree, the muddy rut to the left, the cry of the birds above. As Elon slowed the horse, she recognized the first building of the village: a long-abandoned cottage occasionally scavenged by children, its floorboards dark with rot, its walls spilling in on themselves, its roof pitifully slouched. The pine trees thinned, and the roof and chimneys were the first she was of the half-timbered houses.
A thickset woman passed them, her facial features strangely delicate in contrast with her figure. Her arms were curled around a tub of freshly washed linen, but her steps slowed when she saw them.
Carissa waved. “Greetings, Renya!”
Renya’s feet rooted to the spot, and her tub dropped to the ground as she stared.
More people slowed as more buildings crowded either side of the street—a pair of bickering girls, a young man clearing the road of stones, a city council member dressed in thick swathes of velvet.
The street blossomed into the village square, and the horse’s hooves clip-clopped against the pavement. This was the only area of the village where the street was stoned, and most in Hasita were quite proud of the little square.
Hills curved the horizon. Pine trees and building jutted into the air. Mist-swaddled mountains sat high above them.
She was finally home.