Aisling had always loved stories; from the time she was a wee lass and had sat at her mother’s feet to listen. Her mother would work tirelessly, prepping herbs and other ingredients for her remedies and all the while the old healer had spun golden tales on wheels of fancy in order to keep the spritely little filly entertained and out of her way. Both Aisling and her mother had possessed an affinity for telling the old legends, but though her mother been of the opinion that tales were a harmless joy best left to the realm of fiction, little Aisling had set her heart on living them out. She had spent all the years of her childhood under the impression that she was destined to live out the magical narratives. The girl had left home to seek them out, had wished day in and day out that she would waltz into one and now it seemed that she had.

”Wait!"

Johnny was up now and he moved towards her. She saw the movement on the edges of her vision because she could not bring herself to look at him. If horses could blush, she would have been beet red. His feet, her feet, the impressions in the snow where they had been, her eyes moved between them in rapid succession. Don’t look at his face, don’t give him the chance to say it, to say how foolish you look. Aisling was so frightened, it was almost enough to make her wish she were back home again.

Just moments ago it had had felt like she always imagined it would, hoped it would. The glittering snow, the unexpected meeting, the charming man with a lovely smile; all the makings of her own little fairytale; love at first sight and all the trimmings. Isn’t that what she wanted? Isn’t that what she was meant to find?  

“Was it something I did?!”

No, Johnny, it’s not you, it’s me! Can’t you see how silly I am, how childish? Can’t you see? I don’t deserve to be here. All the things she wanted to say crammed together on her tongue, all trying to be the first out until her mouth was so full not a one could pass her lips. Her breath hitched in her throat, the kind of sound that threatened tears but she shut here eyes tight to hold them back as well. All that she could manage was a slow shake of her head No Johnny, it’s not you. You seem so wonderful.

She trembled now, little quakes that ran from her head to her hooves, sending messages to those hooves to run because, though this might have been the fairytale setting, it was she who did not belong. Beautiful stories deserved beautiful heroines, and Aisling could never hope to match up to that legendary pantheon. She was no Isolde, her insecurities hissed at her, she was not fair enough, or wise enough, or good enough to be counted in such company. If this was a story, silly little Aisling would be a fool to think that her name should grace the page.

“My dear Aisling there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here.”

That stopped her. Those lovely words and the lovely way that he said them. All honesty, no guile, and made all the sweeter because of how badly she wanted to believe it. She stilled and let them wrap around her in a comforting embrace. Her little hooves stopped shuffling, her limbs quit jerking, her breath didn’t catch but held and the nervous shakes began to ease and fade away.

Moments passed as slow as hours and at each second she was so sure he would turn away, so sure he would scorn her for acting like such a mess. He did not, and somehow (though she could not fathom why) he was reaching out for her. When she looked up—finally overcame those insecurities by some titanic feat either curiosity or spit-to-the-wind-stupid optimism and looked up—the green that had pulled her in held fast. Green; that blessed bright and happy color. It was everything that was warm and familiar, everything that was already so dear to her heart. How could she turn away from that? He reached forward and, stunned into stillness, she did not shy away. The pink velvet of his muzzle pressed cautiously into the grey of hers. Aisling all but melted. 

The breath she had been holding came out in a sigh of pure relief. With a heart that clung so tightly to fantasy, Aisling had never once considered the possibility that such a devotion might betray her. She had lived in the clouds so long and suddenly been brought down to earth only to discover that the world as it really was (or at least seemed, now, to be) was infinitely preferable. But here she was, standing with him, and even though she hadn’t acted the part of the proper heroine, here was a hero, reaching out to her, weather she deserved it or not. That was her reality.

Immeasurably touched, irrevocably unsure, she let herself lean into the touch, brushing the length of her cheek against that velvety point of contact. How could a touch be so grounding, so comforting? She’d embraced so many in countless casual ways but the feeling intros moment of Johnny’s face so close to hers was anything but casual.

It was vital, or so Aisling felt. If it was broken he might disappear and she would be left  to awaken from a dizzy daydream, alone again and lost in the snow. That thought, that fear, spurred her on and she took a step forward. Her head lowered to tuck itself against his neck and there her errant lips pulled once again at his minty mane as if to tug him closer. She didn’t speak, but he might have heard her desperate plea that her body made: a request she didn’t really understand. Come closer. Stay here. Please don’t abandon me, don’t say I’m not good enough.

"."
@Johnny