Brine stands with her back to the wind, the softest of breezes lifting at the fluffed hairs from winter, toying with the sensitivity of her hindquarters. She feels--for the moment--kind of alright, as if her rollercoaster of emotions has settled in the pit of her stomach and for the first time in months, she can breathe without feeling the guilt of Ruth weigh her down similarly to the way snow had flattened the forest floor.

It feels nice, this moment of peace. The call of songbirds that survive winter temperatures singing in the distance, the warmth of pinks and oranges casted across the ocean in a dramatic infusion on an otherwise barren sunrise.

She can feel spring, even if she can’t see it.

Much like how she tells herself she can feel baby Ruth, even if she isn’t here to hug into her shoulder.

Our shadowy-mouse on just one of the charcoal cliff tops looking down; teetering near enough to the edge she can occasionally see rocks tumble to their untimely death, but not so far that she risks fall herself. The blue roan female has made it this far, and whether by the skin of her teeth or not she isn’t ready to leave, not until she sees her golden child bloom.

If she gets that chance, anymore. Who is to know?

Her days had been boring. Essentially all her time since the field had been spent in the shadowy chambers of caves dotting the coastline, hiding in and out as the tide rose and fell. When the moon rose and the sun had long set, Brine would emerge like a nocturnal woodland critter to nibble away until the sun peaked once more.

In her mind, she is invisible.

So, perhaps she is pushing her boundaries placing herself starkly below the rising sun atop a granite rocky edge, with her blue tones glistening. But something feels right about this moment, right here and now. It feels time.

A noise rings out behind her like a motion detector calling for attention, and her ears flick to point behind herself. Instant pressure creeps into her chest and lies across her back like a sluggish mammal found refuge on her back. Who could it be?

Hopefully not Neverwhere. She isn’t ready for her. Not yet. Not after last time.

Dear God please no.

She is healthier.

Brine has filled with food and safety, her stomach and hindquarters plumped to expand her frame back to where she should’ve been.

She should have been a lot of things, but here we are.

The silence has allowed herself to focus more. It has allowed her to revisit her old talent of hearing well, moving fast, even flying.

Even flying.

Brine waits minutes before a familiar face emerges between trees and she can exhale a sigh of relief. She had put in a lot of work to avoid nearly everyone else, and to be social still required a lot of energy. Energy Brine isn’t ready to find.

“Hello,” her social interactions are still rigid and awkward, “it is nice to see you as well.”

Eurwen mentions Ruthless, the way her name bombs in our shadow’s ears enough to deafen Brine for a week. To hear her name out loud, said by another voice feels alien. Like the voice of a foreigner using their language, with only the occasional word sounding right.

“I suppose I should,” she leaves Eurwens eyes, losing focus and watching her vision blur as she thinks about the reunion. What would it be like?

What does Ruthless look like?

“I don’t know if I am ready,” a sigh. A sigh of wishing she had handled her paranoia, her suspicions, her distrust for others. Our shadowy mare longs to be perfect, the desperation to prove to Ruth that this was all for something.