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melit0n · 19 days ago

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The Fire doth Sing of Iron and Devotion.

- Synopsis: Swathed in the cold draperies of night, hunkered down with their herd of cattle, two land-locked cowpokes rest their weary heads. As stars glimmer in silver and merigold, far, far above them, the fire crackles with that which goes unspoken, and that which sleeps under wit and the strum of a guitar.

- Oneshot for @moonchild-in-blue and I.

- Word Count: 6.4k

- Warnings: None.

Above the sun-stunned, rusty land, raw from the trebling hooves of amblers, sprouting with pale greens that scale towering rock faces, the moon shines. Shines like a silver button punched into velvet, like those on the shawls passing genteel ladies wear. It peaks from behind clambering trees–branches bent on puncturing the great darkness above–and grins in a luminescent crescent at the sight before it.

Echoing on the plains, coddled bells clank and jingle with the heavy steps of creatures weary from wandering. In the dark of the night, they have nothing to guide them other than the soft clop of hooves and the low whistle of voices that they’ve come to know means safety. But, for now, they rest their hides on the warm ground below: the same land their strong shouldered, distantly dying cousins once did.

Closely, they huddle, minds eased by the knowledge of familiar hands and voices nearby. Sleep would find them quickly–glossy eyes drooping and muscles easing–if not for the constant sound of a flint.

Footsteps, light with the familiar clink of metal, approach the noise. “You got that fire started yet, or are we sleepin’ with the shadows tonight?”

Small sparks, the promise of something bright and warm, light up Mel’s face like the glow of fireflies, glinting in her murky blue eyes. Her brows are taught with focus, and there’s the beginning of an annoyed frown making its way across her slightly tanned skin. “...Almost.”

“Not to be crude, pardner, but,” Darya crouches, loose threads of soft, inky hair–pulled up underneath her hat–tickling Mel’s face. She places a hand on her shoulder for balance, leaning over the somewhat pathetic attempt to create light. “You said ‘almost’ ‘bout half an hour ago.”

Mel blows a strand of dirty blonde hair from her face–of which dutifully floats back down to its exact position moments later–and grumbles, “Ain’t my fault I’m used to the oil lamps Mr Langley gives us now.”

Darya adjusts her feet under her, engraved boots–a tapestry of foreign fruits and stars–scuffing up dirt and dust. “Well, ya’ know how to strike a match to light the lamps: surely this ain’t harder than that.” She says it with a grin: graced with pearly whites that light up any dimly lit room she’s in. Too bad it isn’t enough to light up the whole valley–would certainly save the two some trouble.

“‘Course I know how to strike a match,” A puff of dust erupts from the ground as Darya lowers herself to the ground, the brim of her slate grey, tinged blue, hat grazing over Mel’s. “If we had the matches, I wouldn’t have to be doin’ this.”

“Shoulda’ bought some when we were in Boulderstead.” Darya laments, crossing her legs and trying to ignore the dull, irritating press of tiny rocks through her chaps.

They’d only passed by two towns on their way home, Boulderstead and something with ‘creek’ in it–tumbleweed towns that were easily forgotten–and missed the opportunity to buy some both times. After their forgetfulness, Darya had expected to be able to visit an old friend’s homestead for supplies–and maybe a soft bed to sleep in for the night–only to find nothing but arid dirt and the remains of what once was.

Nowadays, nothing seems set in stone nor lead: half their maps and memories are wrong–farmsteads and friendly faces replaced by iron and fields of juniper green turned to paper mache towns that look like they’d blow over when the first snow comes.

So, for miles, it has only been the wayward pair, their horses, and their employer’s–one Mr Langley’s–prized herd of cattle.

And, for miles–for each night they spend out here–one is quietly pleased at the prospect of their partner getting roughed up and needing a hand to hold.

Iris–Darya’s well loved mare–softly neighs from behind the pair, the metal of her bridle clinking along with the steady shink of the flint. In the quick blink of light, Mel shrugs. “Shoulda’, woulda’, coulda’.”

Darya’s hand reaches upwards and sends a pat to Iris’ white and chestnut shoulder. Though, she’s sure most of the white has tinted a dull red–stained by loose soil and sand. “Would ya’ like me to have a knack?”

In the corner of her eye, Mel watches as Darya leans forward–hands open in offering. She attempts a few more times but, with hands sore, she happily hands them over, the valley finally falling quiet. “Go right ahead.” The noise quickly begins again, bouncing off of the trees and towering rocks. “I think we collected damp wood–somehow–so I doubt it’ll li-”

The dry moss sparks with life, taking mere seconds to begin smouldering with smoke. Habitually, Darya cups her hands around her mouth, and leans further forwards to give the budding flame a helping hand.

Comically, Mel’s eye twitches. “You’re kiddin’.”

“Well, what can I say?” A proud grin, accented by beauty marks, stretches across Darya’s face as she leans back, amber and morning-sun-yellow dancing in her deep, umber eyes. “Got a way with words, a paintbrush and fire.”

Mel shifts, nudging Darya in the side playfully. “You talk any longer,” she drags her numbed legs from under her and leans back on her hands. “And you’ll be gettin’ too big for your britches.”

Darya shows her palms, as if placating a skittish horse. “Only speakin’ the truth, pardner.”

After so long in the dark, it takes a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the growing light. The fire scrambles up the wood with semi-controlled hunger, marigold fingers sliding across the collapsing bark, kept away from the dry grass by hastily gathered stones that surround the growing embers.

With the stygian draperies of the night already lain across the land, the warmth is a welcome one across their faces–the frigid fingers of the midnight hour kept at bay, relinquishing their hold and peeking from behind the tree line in front of them.

The shadows are the same wherever they go, though, Mel still finds herself off-put by the wisps as they waver with each crack and pop of the wood. The other farmhands back home always make stories of them–outlaws possessed by the Devil and turned to something further than man–and both would be liars if they said they weren’t somewhat unnerved by their creeping forms.

Intently, from between the flickers of the flame, Darya eyes them, wary of outlaws and bandits, but simply finds herself–elongated and transparent–pressed against the trees.

Fatigued sigh escaping her mouth, Mel grasps for her hat–a light tan embroidered with fading flowers, battered by use and playful cows–and wipes over her face. As she peels damp wisps of hair from her forehead, Darya chuckles.

“‘N that,” Darya follows along, beginning lifting her own, feather inlaid in the band, off of her head. “Is why you should put your hair up.” As she does, she reveals the small braid tucked inside it. Looped and weaved in the twist, small flowers lie: soft, small stars carefully stitched in the silken fabric of her hair.

Mel pauses for a moment, eyes meandering over her, before flicking back to the fire and attempting to comb out her hair. “Naw, I always feel exposed with it up.”

“Exposed?” Darya turns to Mel, an amused smile spreading across her face. “What are you, a deer?” Both huff out a laugh as Darya tilts her head. “Why though? You always look real pretty when I braid it. Mrs Langley says so, too.”

Mel drops her hat to her lap, deciding to make the other hand another makeshift comb. “‘Cause I’ve a forehead the size o’ Europe.”

Darya attempts to stifle another laugh. Key word: attempts. “Naw,”

Mel keeps a blank, unamused expression. “You’re laughin’.”

Another puff of air that sounds suspiciously like a laugh escapes Darya, before she raises a hand to wipe at an imaginary stain near her mouth. “I ain’t. You- you don’t.”

“Don’t lie to yourself- look at it!” She draws her hair back–strands as taught as a rope. “You could write half the Good Book on this thing.”

Suddenly, Darya’s face drops: frown highlighted by the flickering shadows of the fire. She reaches forth and speaks in a tone like she might just start praying. “Mel, hold- hold on.” She squints, bringing her hand to Mel’s chin. “Stay right there. I think I see sum’…”

As her head is twisted and turned like a sickly child’s, a feeling of worry builds in Mel’s chest. “What?” To the left, “What is it?” To the right, “I get nicked by sum’?” And left again.

Darya leans closer, squinting, and Mel becomes painfully aware of how warm her fingers are on her face. “Hold on…in the beginnin’, God created-”

Apprehension gone, Mel’s shoulders fall and all anxiety seeps out of her just as quickly as it built up. “Quit it.”

Darya’s laugh echoes and bounces against the creaking trees, and it doesn’t take long for Mel to join her. They stay that way, sure they sound like a pair of cackling coyotes, but they know no care for it.

When their laughter finally ceases, both of them mutely realise how close they are.

It isn’t an uncommon thing–they can’t count on two hands how often their hands have found each other as they traverse the streets–but, even so, a warmth, almost scalding, floods their faces.

Mel can feel the twitch of Darya’s fingers against her face, and a small part of her begs her to lean in.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she grins, something halfway between sly and knowing–teasing–and apprehension as she removes her hands.

Wanting to relieve the tension, Mel coughs into her hand. “How, uhm, how are the cows? We still got all twenty of em’?”

Darya hums, smiling and returning to fiddling with the feather on her cap. She’s adamant it’s some type of Hawk’s wing feather, though, it’s a long running joke that she picked it up from a chicken. “All swell. They’re tired, I don’t blame them, but well. Mr Langley insists we usually have the dogs to keep ‘em in check, so I’m surprised they’ve stuck to us without ‘em.”

“I guess after a while they realised we’re their only way back home.” Mel shifts again, swiping a few stones from under. Naturally, it does barely anything. “And Miss Langley’s acorn calf? She still swell?”

“I’ve been checkin’ on her the whole ride. If I’m honest, I’m mightily surprised she’s made it this far: strong heart, that one. Though, I might tie her and her ma’ up to Iris,” Mel sets her hat beside her, “so they keep up for the last quarter-” and pulls herself up and off the ground. “-where you off to?”

Mel twists, loud cracks emitting from her tired bones, mumbling, “Jeeze, m’ gettin’ old.” She shakes her legs, ridding herself of the numbness, and turns to Darya, a grin spreading across her face. “Gettin’ sleepin’ stuff.”

Darya begins to drag herself back up. “Fair enough. Where is Pip, anyways? You let her wander?”

“Mhm. Hope she ain’t gone too far.” After a few dry, sad attempts, a lifting whistle echoes out across the plains, quickly followed by the slow, repetitive thumps of hooves.

A while back, a group of cows would’ve probably been following her, but, after a year or two with the pair, they began to recognise the different calls used.

Unfortunately, it also means they recognise when the horses are being called over for food, as well.

But, before long, Mel’s horse–Pip–appears from the shroud of night like an aimless ghost; dapple grey coat, mane plaited with flowers, highlighted in the firelight.

With a whinny, Iris walks over to greet, dust being kicked into Darya and Mel’s eyes in her wake.

Both of their saddles are heavy with supplies: a change of clothes, each of their respective rifles and lassos, as well as tinned food and canisters of water. Normally, they wouldn’t be so stuffed, but their usual pack horse–a well loved mule named Red–decided to go lame a day before the pair headed out.

Yet another inconvenience that has dug into them during their long trip.

Metal jingles as each unties their respective gear, both careful not to undo any knots that would send their carefully arranged items tumbling to the ground. Bit by bit, they’re placed down on the dusty, rock ridden ground–a place sometimes as uncomfortable as sleeping on a bed of nails. Even after so many days spending more time on it than not, it still made them yearn for the hammocks in the yard back home more than anything.

Still, it was the best they had.

“Hey, Melie?” Darya unties her base–a thinning bedroll that has a hole too many in it.

“Yeah?”

“You,” Easily, she places it onto the ground, looking between her saddle and a compressed knitted blanket. “You got dinner?” Eventually, she chooses the blanket, keeping it folded to work as a makeshift pillow.

At the word ‘dinner’, Mel pauses her attempt to rid her bed of any small rocks, brows twitching in confusion. “We already had dinner?”

Iris and Pip huff what is almost a laugh from behind the pair. Darya looks to her, incredulous. “When?”

Mel jerks a thumb back, “Back up on the South ridge when it was startin’ to get dark! We wanted to watch the sunset, so we took a break, remember?”

Darya’s eyes search the darkness for a moment, like her pupils will pull a memory out of it.

Mel chuckles, beginning to smooth out her makeshift bed, placed close to Darya’s. “I think you gotta get your memory checked, Moony.”

“I think you gotta get your fire makin’ skills checked.” Darya scoffs, shifting her feet out of her boots.

“You won’t be sayin’ that when I put a sidewinder in your sleepin’ bag.”

Darya flops down, craning her head and watching Mel work. “You wouldn’t.” She speaks, comically aghast and playful, like a wife learning her savings have gone to whiskey and bargaining chips.

Mel hums, “I would.” As she smooths out her crinkled sheets.

Darya smiles, laughing. “You love me too much.”

Mel stays quiet, lips pursed, a silent sign of some sort of unspoken agreement, and Darya feels the itch of a ‘told you so’ on the tip of her tongue. But, as both smooth out their beds for the night, she decides to keep it hidden beneath another smile.

With ease, Mel slips her own boots off and watches the fire intently. Sleep tugs at both of their eyes–heavy as lead and light as rain–but both know neither will be welcomed into her arms tonight.

At least, not for long enough.

They need to take shifts for the cows, anyways.

Both stare, silent, at the flickering fingers of the fire, bodies dreading the inevitable five step trek to find more fuel from it. They’d both gathered some and placed it in a pile a little more than an arm's reach away, but after sitting down–even if that’s all they’d done all day–it feels painfully distant.

Rocks dig into their skin through the thin excuses for beds.

Quietly, Darya listens as Mel shifts back and forth, probably attempting to dislodge the small things like she does every night.

“You alright there?” Darya hums, hat back on her head–tilted over her eyes–and a tired lilt in her voice.

Mel sighs, annoyed but not willing to put in any more effort. “I’ve got rocks under me.”

Darya scoffs, a smile on her lips, “What a surprise that is.”

The conversation falls comfortably flat afterwards. As Mel picks at the embroidery in her hat, something she’d need to re-stitch soon–a long put off task–the stars twinkle quietly above. With no other noise than soft breathing, both think the other has managed to fall asleep.

That is, until Darya whispers, “Mel?”

She mumbles back, “Still here.”

“Do ya’ know how close we are to home?”

Mel’s eyes inch from her hat and towards Darya’s form. She’s taken her hat from her face and rested it against her chest; Iris sniffing at the feather.

“Don’t tell me you lost the compass.”

She scoffs, “How would a compass tell us how far out we are?”

Contemplative, Mel takes a few moments to respond before sighing despondently–a noise that easily makes Darya laugh. “Sorry. Just tired.”

“Been a long ride; don’t fret.”

Their eyes stay glued to each other’s, and Darya yearns to fill the silence. With what exactly, she’s unsure, but she takes a breath to speak it. Fortunately–or unfortunately–Mel beats her to it.

“‘M surprised.”

Darya’s brows furrow, craning her neck to get a better look at Mel. “Why?”

“You’re usually the one with a sense of direction.”

The memories of countless hours lost to Mel’s horrible mental compass brings a grin to Darya’s face. “Well, you’re the one who likes stars.”

Happily, Mel continues the back and forth. “You’re the one always lookin’ up at the night sky.”

Darya twists, moving to her stomach. “Can you blame me?” Distantly, they hear the sound of approaching hooves. “The moons’ as pretty as a peach.”

“Prettier than me?” Pip nips at Mel’s hat, playfully attempting to tug it away, before walking towards the treeline again, probably for a second dinner.

They’d tie the two horses up, but, after years of trekking so many miles with them, both have proven to be pleasingly loyal. Again, spending more time with them than not, a mutual trust had been formed, and they’d both decided to let them have free rein, without fretting over losing their ride far from home.

“That’s still up for debate.”

There’d been an occasion, maybe a year ago, when they’d been watching another local farmer’s cows–one Mr Rawlings–because his hands had refused to work. Said they saw a Ghost rider, no skin left on his face and a voice calling across the plains like the Devil Himself, and didn’t dare step back on the land until the Priest blessed it. So, with only a mild fear of that which goes bump in the night, they were happy to take up the additional job for some extra cash.

Iris nudges Darya’s head. Humorously, Darya looks up to her. “Whadya’ want?”

So, in unfamiliar fields under an ever watchful sky, the pair certainly had a fright waking up to seeing both their horses gone. In a panic, they ran like bats out of Hell back to Mr Rawlings to report their stolen animals. Two hours or so later, the pair came trotting back home, an unconscious outlaw tangled in one of their stirrups and reins.

Again, she prods Darya until she finally moves herself upright. “What are ya’ up to, hm?”

Having seen them find their way back home with no issue, dragging a bandit behind them, both decided to give them a little more freedom.

Happily, she settles down behind Darya, her usual spot–flask of water sloshing as she tucks her legs in. With a resounding sigh, she places her heavy head down on Darya’s pillow.

As the mare gets herself comfortable, both can’t help but laugh. “I don’t think you’re gettin’ that back tonight.”

Darya huffs, her hand beginning to paw blindly for something. “At least my horse doesn’t try to sleep on me every night.” She frowns, clearly not finding what she was looking for, and leans over Iris. For a few seconds, she almost seems to hesitate as her next words stumble out of her mouth. “I’d be a real shame if we had to share a sleeping bag, ey?”

Mel’s eyes stick to Darya’s form before letting them wander her surroundings in search of something else to fiddle with. “Oh, truly.”

The hollow knock of wood, followed by a soft, ‘aha’, tells Mel that Daryas’ found what she’s looking for.

She lifts the battered instrument over Iris, body knocking on the horn of her saddle. Somewhat more confident, she speaks, “Y’know what I heard?”

Mel’s eyes focus on a brittle-looking branch. She stretches out her arm, “What’d you hear?” before grasping onto it, and dragging it over the dry ground.

A very out of tune chord resounds in their ears. “That you get warmer faster with less clothes.”

Mel twirls the stick around in her hand, unknowing as Darya watches for her reaction. “Oh, yeah?”

Another pluck of a string–more harmonious than the last. “Ey. You, uhm, you gotta be huddled up with someone, though.” She strums a somewhat familiar chord; one of late nights together on a porch with the burn of whiskey on their tongues.

She hums. “I’ll keep that in mind for later.”

Darya grins to herself at the prospect. Even though she knows it's only sarcasm, she can’t help but sense a drop of sincerity.

As Mel draws patterns in the dry dirt, somewhere across the plains, a bird calls out. Maybe the Hawk, scouring each blade of grass and hare’s burrow for its missing flight feather.

“So…” Darya draws the ‘o’ out. “Where are we at?”

“Let’s see,” Mel shifts her eyes up from her swirling shapes and towards the clear sky, darting between the hundreds of silver eyes that stare down at them from the great darkness above. “That big bright one is Mars- uhm, y’know the twins? Gemini?”

She turns to find Darya’s eyes, finding them already fixed on the velvet expanse above them.

“The two stick-figure lookin’ ones? Holdin’ hands?”

“Aye.”

“Lookin’ right at ‘em.”

“Okay, um,” Mel squints at the sky, attempting to discern the different shapes and patterns–different stories woven with helium and spur silver–that cover the night sky. “Cancer? Right to the left of it.” Darya nods, “Look between the two for a big bright one; can’t miss it.”

Darya grins as she picks them out. “I see ‘im.” she giggles to herself. “Y’know, I really don’t know how people get a crab outta that.”

“You ain’t never even seen a crab.”

Darya whips her head around, a grin on her face as she bends her torso over Iris, careful not to hit her head with the neck. “Have too! Mr and Mrs Langley were given sum’ for their anniversary.” Iris flicks her ears against Darya’s face as she leans back. “‘N ain’t no way does that,” she plucks a harsh string. “Look like a crab.”

Mel peers back up at the sky, contemplative as she tries to imagine the animal in place of the glimmering stars. “...Looks more like a lobster to me.”

“Don’t you tell me you’ve seen a lobster.”

Mel crosses her arms, smug. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t.”

“Just tell me how much longer we gotta be out here for.”

Mel looks back, humming, “We follow Mr Ares straight to get back home. Maybe…another day or two's ride?”

“Thank God.” Darya’s shoulder fell in relief, a sigh escaping her. Although they had both diligently attempted to keep track of the time, after so long surrounded by sand, pillars of binding red rock, and half-built rail-tracks, the days felt as if they melded—hot and red with a halcyon sky above—together.

“What,” Mel throws her stick into the fire, listening as the dry wood crackles and pops. “Am I really that bad company?” She asks in mock offense.

“Naw,” finally, her guitar seems to be tuned. Both are sure it won’t stay that way for long. “Just missin’ my bed.”

“You n’ me both.”

Bit by bit, Darya begins to string together a song, fingers moving back and forth between different chords before settling with a sequence she likes. She’s been playing it for a long while–as long as the two have known each other–along with her violin. Although, that one stays tucked up at home, far away from bucking horses, bullets, and pawing bandits.

Mel places her elbow on her knee, resting her head on her hand. “I like that one.”

Darya scoffs, smiling. “You like all my tunes.”

Mel imitates the sound, mocking her. “Because they’re all nice. I keep tellin’ you to ask the keeper if you can play them at his saloon. Everyone’d love it.”

She begins a more complicated plucking pattern, fingers dancing across the fingerboard. “One day.”

“Is that gonna be one day in this life or the next?”

“Perhaps the next. For now, I think they’ll stay for our ears.”

There it is again; that warm feeling. Quiet as the wind and as warm as whiskey. One that isn’t the amber arms of the firelight, or the food sitting at the bottom of her stomach. As Darya hums, Mel can’t help but think she’s never seen someone as lovely.

Suddenly, the pacing changes, her humming becoming as smooth as fresh butter. “New one I’ve been cookin’ up. Thoughts?”

“Sounds like you.”

Darya raises her dark eyes for a moment from the strings, iris’ flickering with the firelight. “And what would that be?”

Mel doesn’t hesitate. “Ocean waves crashing against a limestone shore.”

“Right, well, I know for a fact that you ain’t never seen the sea, same as I.” A cow moos from far off. “How could I create a sound about somethin’ I’ve never heard of?”

“You can still imagine it, no?” She shrugs.

Darya hums; soft, like the wind chimes their employers have in their orchard. “True, true.” A pause. Maybe another hesitant statement that lingers on her tongue long enough to turn the words sour to her mind. “We should go someday.”

“To the sea?” Even focused on her music, Darya can hear the grin on Mel’s face. Subtle, and half-hidden by her hand, but still there.

“Mhm. Mrs Langley has one of those big shells–a conch–on a shelf in their livin’ room. I’d like to find one for myself.”

Quiet, Mel nods in wordless agreement. They’d heard that Mrs Langley was born by the ocean, and keeps the sea foam and sand close to her heart. In the orchards, filled with white blossoms and apples, come summer, the branches are littered with wind chimes; woven with seashells and string. Both swear it’s the second prettiest sound they’ve ever known.

Darya takes in a breath, “Did ya’ know, you can hear the sea in em’? Like how people say they hear voices in the wind. Real neat how they carry a piece of their home with em’.”

“Doesn’t everything?”

Darya raises her eyes from her guitar for a moment. “True that, true that.” Before glancing back down.

Before long, the two fall into another comfortable quiet, lulled by the pop of wood, the twang of Darya’s guitar, and the far off moos of sleepy cows.

“Hey, Melie?”

“Mhm?” Mel’s eyes have drooped closed, hopeful to grasp at sleep that seems to never come.

The guitar’s wood hums when she places it down. “You got a story for us?”

She cracks an eye open, Darya’s form a blur for a few moments. “Depends on if you wanna sleep tonight.”

Darya huffs. “Oh, come on, your stories ain’t that scary.”

She peels the other eye open, once again wide awake. “Only because I keep all the good ones to myself! You scare like an afeared chicken to a loud noise, anyways.”

“Says you.” She begins putting her guitar to the side, strapping it back to Iris.

“Aye, says me.”

“Well?” She looks to Mel. “Go on.”

Mel straightens herself, clearing the remnants of drowsiness from her eyes as she dramatically clears her throat. “Alright…they say,” she begins, hoarse and preacher like. “Far out where-”

Darya tucks herself behind Iris’ head. “-Nevermind, I’m goin’ to sleep.”

It takes mere seconds for the short charade to break, both, somewhat sleep deprived, laughing at each other.

“Alright, alright.” Again, she clears her throat. “They say, far out where the sky ends and there’s nothin’ but burnin’ blue, is a town of tumbleweed and cow bones.”

Darya shifts back up, sitting cross-legged and leaning over Iris. “So, our town?”

“Ain’t that bad.” Mel stretches, attempting to get comfortable again.

“Debatable.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

Darya shrugs. “Because you’re there.”

Mel waits a few seconds, turning the words around in her mind. “That a compliment or an insult?”

Darya grins, sly and joking. “Well…”

“Y’know,” Mel begins, toneless, “I ain’t really in the mood for storytellin’ no more-”

“-No, no,” Darya chuckles. “Carry on.”

Mel raises her eyebrows again, seemingly waiting for another interruption, before a pleased smile stretches across her face. “Now, nobody knows its name no more. Long lost to the dust and the tramplin’ hooves of those which have gone early. But, even ghost towns were once livin’.”

Darya knows the type of town she speaks of well. Places of rotting timber and fading paint, with inhabitants who’d rather pretend to be dead than confront the odd passerby. Places where the grass grows as tall as a man, and homes are more bones than flesh.

“This town is just like any that have come before it. The drunkards still holler nonsense at God’s hour,” A laugh gets caught in Darya’s throat. “The banker still shifts shadily in the alleys, and the farm hands still drink their whiskey on the porch.”

“You sure this ain’t about our town?”

Pip shakes her head, rattling her bridle as Mel brings a hand to soothe her. “Sure hope it ain’t.” Darya listens as she chews on her bit, a noise somewhere between the shink of a reloading shotgun and the grinding of brittle teeth. “Anyway, in this town, a young woman lives.”

She brings a hand to her own horse’s head, threading through her tousled mane. “What she like?”

“She’s as pale as a Charolais, sings like a bird up on a vine, and lives with her husband, a cow wrangler, up on a hill.”

Distantly, one of the cows lets out a low bellow, one that sets off some of the others in the herd. It’s something between another snore and a tired sigh, but it still makes their ears perk. Makes their eyes squint into the darkness beyond. Makes their fingers twitch for their rifles.

All remains still.

Both let their eyes wander back to their fire. It’ll need some more wood soon.

“So, one of these days, she’s out in the market, buyin’ flowers for her husband and bartering for a nice chicken; it’s his birthday the day after tomorrow, and she wants to treat ‘im.” Mel brings her hands up close to the fire, Darya watching as she creates shadow puppets. “After she’s all set, she sneakily walks back home–didn’t tell her husband what she was buyin’, and prepares to creep her way to the pantry to hide her spoils. But, when she rounds the corner to her kitchen, she spies another woman.” Darya gasps dramatically. “Another woman and her man.”

She rolls her eyes, “Typical.”

“Mhm. Now, in a fit o’ rage, ‘fore her husband can even catch a glimpse o’ her, she rushes inna fit through town, and no matter what nobody does, they can’t stop her from runnin’. She runs, and she runs, and she runs, until the night swallows her whole.”

“Let me guess:” Darya cracks her back. “She ain’t never seen again?”

“Stop tryna’ spoil yourself–we’re gettin’ to the good bit.” she shushes. “Eventually, after months o’ searchin’, after sendin’ every other able bodied man out to look for her, they deem her dead. And, of course, with his God given wife now gone, the husband decides to remarry. With this woman-”

“-The same he was cheatin’ with?”

Mel nods. “Aye.”

“Go on.”

“With this woman, he has a child. He grows tall n’ strong, n’ fights any ailment and Devil and his black hat throw at him. He helps his pa’ out in the fields–cattle wranglin’–”

“Are we gonna make an appearance in this story?”

“If you let me finish, then maybe.” Mel jokes. “N’, on a lush Spring day, a herd of mustangs are passin’ by.” She shifts her hands over each other, creating a horse within the fading flame of the fire. “And he spots the prettiest mare he’s ever seen: pure white, aside from a pitch black star in the centre o’ her chest.” Behind her, Pip finally decides it's time to lie down, and falls ungracefully into Mel’s lap. Gently, she threads her hands through the loose strands of her plait. “After spendin’ so long seein’ his pa’ wrangle cattle and horses, he sets his eyes on her, waitin’ until she’s away from the herd. She’s real calm, calmest Mustang he’s ever known, and lets him wrap a lead round her neck. He decides to push it, and gets on her back.”

Darya glances to the fire, blindly searching with her hand for something to fuel it. Eventually she finds another branch, and carefully places it in.

“He calls to his dad, wantin’ him to see his achievement. But, spooked, the mare begins trottin’ away. Then she canters. Then she gallops, and she don’t stop.” Mel pauses, hoping to attain some dramatic effect like the drunkards telling any other drinker of all the men they’ve shot.

“They ever find him?”

“His pa’ searched for him for hours, but, just like his wife, they found not a thing: no clothes, no blood, no bones. They say,” she exhales, a cold puff of mist fading into the darkness. “He found a way to where the sky ends.”

Another pause. This time, Darya can’t tell if it’s for effect or not. “That it?” Darya scoffs a laugh.

Mel raises a hand in placation. “Naw, there’s more, there’s more. After the disappearance, death, of their son, the couple is distraught. His pa’ spends more time with his cows and horses than he does with his own wife. So, in order to try to reconnect with him, when the sun is high in the sky, and the weeds walk in packs in the winds, she goes to the market to find one.”

“Oh, here we go.”

“She’s wandering the stalls, looking over each creature, and she eyes one she likes. White as the moon above with a-”

The two speak in tandem. “-black star on her breast.”

Mel nods, laughing lightly. “She’s cheap, marked down because of her temperament, but when the lady approaches her, she’s as calm as a Spring breeze. So, she buys her, and takes her home, makin’ sure she’s broken in before riding her out to show her husband. Of course, he’s as angry as a fresh wound when he sees her, and tries to take her back to the seller. But, he refuses to take her–’a deal is a deal’. On the few times she’s being ridden, he’s always with her wife, mumblin’ the Devil’s talk to her, and sure that she can understand. However, one day, his wife goes out on her own.”

Across the plain, a jackal howls.

“How they find her?”

“Like usual: they don’t. The horse comes back, still with her saddle and bridle, and they joke that the money spent on that horse was well: she’s as loyal as a Church wife.” She makes a little halo with her hands. “Done with this horse, a demon he’s sure has come to taunt him for not lookin’ after his wife, he takes his shotgun, goes to her paddock, and gives her lead.”

“Then?”

Mel leans back, smiling to herself. “Calmed at the prospect of that thing finally being dead, he gets his cart ready to throw her out to the tumbleweeds–let the scavengers have at her. But, when he goes to get his horse, there she is: standing in the paddock where he’s sure he left her to bleed out. So, he shoots her again.” Mel rustles something metal–maybe her canister–on Pip’s saddle. “And again.” Another tink of the metal. “And again. No matter what he does, she’s always there. The townspeople call him raving mad, and ignore the gunshots that go off each night. When they finally stop, they hope he’s finally come to his senses. He came to them alright. Spilled them in red over dust and dried hay.” She lets go of the saddle.

“And the horse?”

“Found a way to break out of her stable. ‘Always temperamental, that one’, they had said. ‘Don’t know why he ever kept her.’ Some travelers say, far out, where night meets the land, a white mare roams with a wild herd. Stare into her eyes, and you might just see somethin’ human.”

Mel exhales, hands unfolding and brought to her knees as she watches Darya’s face for approval.

She stays blank. “You gon’ give me one of those ‘good ones’ you’ve been storin’ up or what?”

“Oh, come on!” She throws her hands up. “Needs a bit more tinkerin’, but it ain’t horrible.”

“Jokes,” Darya leans to her right, grabbing something. “Just jokes, pardner.” The fire crackles as a new log is fed to it. The embers dance in the air for a moment, sunset stars burning up before their very eyes, before disappearing back into the flame.

Mel shakes her head, leaning back and attempting to shuffle into her bedroll. “So, if you get a bedtime story,” even half asleep, knowingly, Pip shifts herself, laying her head on Mel’s chest. She heaves at the sudden weight. “Do I- Do I get a bedtime lullaby?”

Rolling her eyes, Darya leans back over Iris, unhooking the guitar once again. “Hold your horses.”

The metal of Pip’s bridle clinks and Mel grasps it. “Holdin’ ‘em.”

Guitar back in her lap, Darya begins strumming again. It’s a soft tune, strummed gently with the occasional, high pitched twang of one of the strings. “What’s this one sound like, then?”

Mel’s eyes droop close. She can already feel herself overheating. “Like home.”

“Really?”

“Mhm. Like waves crashing against limestone, too.” Mel grunts, attempting to get comfortable as Pip subconsciously shifts more of her weight onto her. She sighs as she finally finds a comfortable position. “N’ that’s close enough to Heaven for me, too.”

From over Iris’ head, Darya’s eyes wander to what she can see of Mel’s form, another sentence–maybe a final comeback–pushing against the back of her teeth. She lets it fizzle out like the embers of the fire, and hopes the warmth in her chest will do the same.

She knows she isn’t asleep yet–her breathing hasn’t yet gone soft–but her fingers grow idle on the frets. With dust climbing up her chaps, she places her guitar aside with a low thump. With one last glance at the fire, she gathers some dust to put it out before unhooking her rifle, and leaning against her horse.

Grinning, she wonders to herself that perhaps, in another life, they too are the lovers the constellations speak of.

---------------

Writing this made me realise I need to practice third person a bit more. Usually, when I do, I focus on one main character and their thoughts, perceptions and actions in the scene (e.g., in WDJ) but, doing it here made things feel one-sided, so I ended up with a slightly odd narration style which I'm not really use to.

Minor frustrations aside, this was stupidly fun to write! I've never done anything Western based, so it was really cool to do some extra research on Western Jargon, clothing, speech patterns and history. It may not be entirely accurate, but I loved working on it, so I don't mind all too much.

#while I did have fun writing this I do think it could've been better (dialogue tagging when I get you) so I apologise for that Darya #I'm blaming it on me not entirely knowing what to do with narrating third person #writing so much for Ditf has ruined my other __ person abilities 😔 /hj #but either way I hope you like it <33 #oc x oc #I think??#mel's musings #western #cowboy #cowboy oc #cowboy posting #original writing #or would it be like...self insert? Self shipping??#no clue

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