Bridge

The bridge Aryle stood upon had killed hundreds.

Long and slenderly built, decorated with paltry black spirals along its wooden edge, the bridge
had claimed victims with daunted ease. It was a beautiful craft, alluring in rare authenticity that had
been fabricated with viselike hands; ones that had also strung together looping handrails tied by white
rope in signature simplicity.
The bridge had just claimed its next victim. A young boy’s broken body had tipped over the
edge, scream torn ragged from his desperate throat. It echoed pathetically against the roaring waterfalls,
the cry lost in mere seconds. The chasm’s bottom was too far for Aryle to hear of his death, and
nothing but the careless lake would witness the boy succumbing to the black hand of death, reaching
out with spindly fingers to engulf his mangled corpse.
Or at least, that was how the story went, told differently depending on the myriad versions of
the exaggerated truth. Aryle knew there was no black hand in the pit; only cold, empty darkness and
the gratified air of a quick demise. The boy might even feel peaceful, water soothing on his devastated
skin. She gripped the edge, staring impassively down, the carved wood startlingly cool under her
calloused hands, the icy frigidity a numbing sensation. Stygian Cave was permanently crisp with
hiemal air, sharp and unwelcoming. The bridge which lay dormant inside soaked up cold with a vigor,
a warning for anyone who dared to cross without woolen garments or thick skin. Sunlight was a
remnant ghost trapped in the slanting stone and wide berth of Stygian’s walls.
Not that Aryle minded– the gelid solitude was Aryle’s reason for choosing Stygian cave. Giving
one last cursory glance towards the lake, Aryle walked towards the exit already feeling the effects of
absolute cold, yet now it came in pricks that prodded at her shivering bone. Her shoes padded
soundlessly across the dampened ground, the drip of water slight in its perspiration from silvery hollow
crevices. The exit was a disfigured mouth of smooth rock, parting to form a narrow slit. It was the only
avenue of passage in or out of the cave, outwardly hidden behind overzealous trees and a thicket of
vines. Despite the nippy conditions that dwelled within the cave, its surroundings were nothing but a
neutral sultry, apricity shining through with a perpetual regard. Tall, lanky trees circled her vision with
green leaves so dark that when Aryle was young, she’d initially thought them blackened and dead.
Specks of golden dust floated through the air so bright she’d thought them alive; Nefors, her mother
had said, were alive in everything but blood. She emerged as the last remnants of cold dwindled away,
and breathed the heavy air of Forest herbage.
“Is it done?”
The words were enounced with such anticipation, Aryle forced back a treading laugh as she
responded, “What do you think?”
“I think you took an awfully long time,” the voice spoke with a recognizable, pleasant lilt. “You
know I hate waiting for you.”
Aryle turned, eyes finding another set. “You always say that, Mila.”
“Well,” Mila strolled with an ambiguous rapt, casually leaning her elbow on Aryle’s shoulder,
“You’re always late.”
“I’m never late, you’re just stupidly fast.” Aryle shrugged off Mila’s arm with a roll of her
shoulder, much to the other girl’s dismay. Mila’s disappointment was as common as her presence, yet
Aryle never fully understood where it was directed.
She never fully understood anything when it came to Mila, and it frustrated her in constant
disarray. She liked to observe. Critically noticing the nuanced details in human disparities; in what
makes someone powerful without might, astute without intelligence, cunning without charisma. She
often wondered what it was, dwelling within, that fostered the most persuasion–the bleeding heart, the
ambitious mind, the solid bone. Or perhaps it was the outer skin, born unmarred and fragile,
susceptible to liters of small cuts and large tears that was the scariest possibility of all. Motivation, Aryle
concluded, in the reasoning behind an action, varied depending on which aspect a person most feared
to be shattered. Her father acted upon a disfigured brain. Her mother was persuaded by a broken heart.
But Mila– a girl constantly in Aryle’s presence, was enigmatic. There was a motivation
somewhere within her lanky body, hidden, buried behind an open smile, and Aryle had yet to shovel it
out.
 “I am stupidly fast,” Mila graciously agreed. “The quicker the better. And, so, is that a ‘yes’ to
completing the task?”
“What do you think?” Aryle asked once more, glancing curiously.
“Obviously,” Mila said confidently, “but it’s a courtesy to ask.”
Aryle shook her head. Courtesy, she thought, how funny. She couldn’t help the restrained snort
of amusement, hiding her face behind her hands.
“What’s so funny?” Mila asked, her dark brows raising as she searched Aryle’s covered face. “I
haven’t said anything odd.”
Aryle shrugged, looking wholly unapologetic as she began to walk away, “You wouldn’t get it.”
Mila groaned with exaggeration, pointing an accusing finger at the figure striding away,
“Mean.”
The forest was naturally dark, overshadowed by trees with zealous wood and broadened leaves.
Sunlight had meandered until finally dissipating, replaced by the softer glow of nefors circling the
rooted whiteflowers. Whenever she walked past, they twinkled brighter, as if to speak to her in a
language of illumination. It was a sight Aryle passed practically everyday, surrounded by the richness of
Farsurra’s soil– the island’s flora utterly lush. Nefor Forest, residing in the heart of Farsurra’s body, was
completely different. Here, plantlife was more than wild- it was alive. What exactly made it alive, more
alive than any other forest, Aryle didn’t know. She could only guess. Perhaps not in the sense of
physical existence, of blood pumping through one’s heart- but in the bitter sap that poured between
old treebark, the abundance of white nefors that spun carelessly across the air, how the vines seemed to
wave with affection at every slight wind.
She liked it. A Surprising likeness, but not unwelcome. The forest itself was easily beautiful,
even if one couldn’t quite locate why, and she didn’t dare question it.