The wind has no colour, no essesnce, and yet within the wind we find meaning. Courage, determination, or devastation and hardship. The wind can be a sign of all these things, and yet it is nothing in itself. Just a movement. And that movement flung itself past me, yanking and curling my hair as I rode at the head of our party. We had broken out of the trees, and would soon be in the mountains. Ramin was only hours in front of us. It seemed he refused to rest, and there were many in our group who needed rest at regular intervals.
I felt my horse underneath me, the flanks rippling under my skin and her mane flicking through my fingers. She rode valiantly, leading when there was no hope, encouraging the others so they followed her through dangerous ground. The ascent on the mountain had begun at a particularly difficult place, and she had urged them on, with help from their riders.
Armes and Jadir had ridden together on our trek for the past few days, and it was clear that whatever problems had been between them had dissolved as they grew closer through their talks on our journey. Armes was worried about me, but I refused to let her waste her time on me, when she could be spending it with Jadir. And therefore, I was left to consider the feeling of numbness that followed the shock of Ramin's words.
He didn't love me.
He had been using me.
And yet I still loved him.