Vanilla And Roses

• Samantha Ralph, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2019

‘Do not fear, Little Dove.’ Her voice was unstable, breaking every time a shaky breath escaped her throat. Her nose was burning, a seething, warm sensation that left it hard to breathe. Not that she felt like that anymore.
‘I don’t fear death, dear Bernice. My time has come. If only I could see what I’ve been impaled by.’
The soft voice that called out to young Bernice Adams made her chuckle, a soft wave of sound that was lost in a fresh wave of painful sobs. Grief for the dying unicorn before her, grief for her best friend and the friendly voice in her head. The mythical beast’s blind eyes could not see her fatal wound, but the sword protruding from Little Dove’s stomach was plain to anyone gifted with ample vision. Bernice lost herself in those light pools of crystal-blue. Despite no sight, the equine was one of the strongest of their time. Bernice considered herself extremely fortunate - not many children bonded with unicorns, let alone one of the rulers. More hurt rested on her heart.
‘It’s not fair, though.’ She cried, the guttural wail of grief making Dove’s head turn in her lap, concern drifting across her face. It was a horrible sound that melted into the falling sunlight.
‘Your mourning breaks my heart, dear child. Please do not worry for me.’
‘Your death breaks my heart, Little Dove! I will miss you very much so.’
The small soul hugged the dying creature firmly, allowing her freckled nose to fill with the sweet scent of Dove’s silky fur. Vanilla, adorned with a hint of rose.
I will always be with you. I have left a legacy that will forever stay with my kind, and yours. I think you’ll see soon that I will never really leave you.
Before the lyrical, soft words could be chased for an explanation, Little Dove died as the sun finally fell asleep against the inky blue sky. A song of death, an announcement of warning, was chorused overhead by the birds now flying, taking to the misty night and pledging their grief. Bernice Adams caressed the gently warm body slowly, her mind a minefield of sorrow. She didn’t notice the birds, not when a part of her soul had died too.
A young nicker drew Bernice out of a fitful slumber. She dared feel relief after her dreams replayed a single vision – her unicorn, her everything, falling out of her grasp. She couldn’t catch Little Dove in time. Rubbing her sore, painfully red eyes, a familiar scent filled her stuffy nose. Vanilla and rose. Looking ahead in shock, a foal met her startled gaze. However, its vision was disconnected. The foal was blind. Even if Bernice hadn’t realised the foal was a fluffy buckskin. Just like Little Dove. She drew in a heavy breath, allowing it to settle before she gave a small smile, ignoring the tears spilling from her pink eyes.
‘You never really left, Little Dove.’