“There’ll be no such thing!” Kabocha exclaimed in angry retort. “I’m getting off this wretched mountain and so will you!”
The doe was riled now, partially exasperated that the ice-covered fallen mare seemed so unwilling to move. She did look beautiful, at least much more so than the common field draft-horse that spent their lives toiling on harsh leather harnesses, mud and dirt, and cruel plantations. Kabocha knew nothing about the horned mare before her, but surely the fallen horse had something to appreciate or value. Freedom to run or wander where one wants, for example—something that draft servants like Kabocha didn’t have.
Urged on by renewed purpose, Kabocha closed her eyes and urged the smallest roots of frozen plant-life underneath the snow to come alive, crack through the frost and grow towards her. She wasn’t even sure if it’d work, but with the erratically warm then cold temperatures of Rishi’s Pillars, who knew what could grow here?
She was in luck, because a small, half-dried and nearly dead shrub was near enough for her purposes. It would be hard to coerce the frozen plant to extend its roots to where Kabocha wanted, seeing that the weather had nearly killed the poor plant in the first place, but there was no choice.
The doe bent her limbs and folded into the snow, knowing that with this kind of difficult heavy-lifting magic, she probably wouldn’t be able to remain standing once she started. Kabocha let out a brief murmur of a prayer before she started, begging the powers that be to protect her from losing consciousness due to exhaustion and cold. Then, she closed her eyes and let the magic flow.
Kabocha became the plant, shaping, folding, twisting, reaching, yearning. It was terrible, bitterly cold, and empty. There was no happiness in the ice, and the shrub was unwilling to let itself change in such an unnatural way. It will die! Kabocha felt this in the plant as she felt the crack of limbs and the groan of roots and wood. The shrub did not want to die, and Kabocha was killing it, deforming it, twisting it to what it was not. It was bitter cold, cold cold. Don’t kill me! It hurts, it’s cold, and there’s nothing here. It felt like dying. It hurt.
Cold.
Kabocha lost track of time before she was finished.
The doe felt light-headed, and it seemed like there were floating lights around. She felt dizzy from the magic, and her coat was plastered with new crystals of ice that had formed through the passing moments. Kabocha felt too weak to stand, and the cold had seemed to paralyzed her through her bones. She willed herself to get up, but found herself unable to. The doe had no energy, exhausted to her last breath. The icy air stung her lungs, and the cold was everywhere. It even felt cold inside of her, and her heart seemed to be frozen to ice.
Less than a few steps away, the shrub had become a sled of tangled roots and wood. A simple tug could set it free from the ice, and it could sit one. The shrub was dead.
