if you do not have shadows,
you are not in the light
Their assumptions weigh down across her shoulders with inevitable strength, and she feels confused. Why does she care what they think? Part of her believes she doesn’t, the naive part. The side of her that has starved, and spent nights wondering if she would wake in the morning. It coaxes her with soft, kind thoughts; it’s okay, not everyone will like you.
But the other side of her--the side with a brain that overthought and a heart that pumped too quick--she does care. She cares as her skin warms in a flush of embarrassment, her stomach churning and twisting in a way she has never felt before. An uncomfortable pressure that spreads all the way down and falls deep into her pasterns.
The kind of pressure that reminds her how fragile she is.
And her final side--a side she would never let on to--is angry. While her stomach pulses and her brain spins, she feels her heart peel apart layer by layer, leaving a surface so raw and angry she can feel blood boiling as it trickles through each and every vein. Mad because she did nothing wrong than be young, be female, and be present. A tongue has no bones, but can start wars or end them. Just because you’re big and strong doesn’t mean anything..., she doesn’t say this, though. Their assumptions in her tongue leaves her quiet; quiet because she acknowledges there is nothing she can say.
Arrogance is the camouflage of insecurity, whether they care to admit it or not.
Or, at least, this is what she tells herself as she mulls silently.
What happens next is peculiar, and our golden child had never seen such a show. He is magical in the most terrifying way, as his wings stretch out to tickle at the whiskers hanging from her milk-white muzzle as if a cat taunting it’s prey. More uneasiness settles upon her, we aren’t welcome here… Not with these horses, not now.
It’s how his voice curls around Lilliana’s name like a suffocating feather boa with the potential to tighten if she doesn’t play nicely. On the outside, a fluffiness plethora of feathers and fun, but with awful intentions clinging to every movement and sway. Our little golden child fights an internal battle of fight or flight, with no winner coming out on top but our perfectly framed palomino filly still standing motionless.
Ruthless has never feared the dark before, in fact she searched for it often. Her mother, after all, is the epitome of blackness. Her aura is black, her lifeless eyes are black, her wings are black, and her coat is the most perfect mix of midnight blue and charcoal that Ruth can almost see the stars dot her flank. And now? She longs for the sun to hang wild in the open blue sky, light shimmering down and highlighting every inch of flesh and bone with all of the field to bear witness.
Our little child’s face says it all, I think I should go… But yet, staring at the -red chestnut mare with desperate plea in her eyes--a desperation that is both unsuiting and alarming--Ruth cannot bring herself to say the words.
She is frightened.
And Lillianna is too.
Ruthless
@[Fiorina]