la jeune fille marquée
Minette is weary, broken down. There is a pit of anxiety in her stomach most days that nothing can quite relieve. Depression overtakes her with a suddenness that startles her, but if she waits long enough, she no longer cares. Tears trickle from her eyes as easily as spring showers and her dreams are haunted. She dreams of teeth and death and fire. Her brain torments her with images of suppurating flesh, peeled back by hooked claws as easily as a grape is cut in two.
And the physical pain; it is a constant reminder that she is not okay, will never be okay. Her joints ache in a constant ebb and flow, balmed only by time spent in the frozen creeks. A piece of her heart is frozen, as well, cold and lost. It will never be saved.
She scolds herself relentlessly. She shouldn't wake in a cold terror, eyes wild and hooves running before her brain registers the movement. She shouldn't shy away from the touch of another on her skin. All is well in her world. Her horned son is growing strong. Her stallion is attentive but not overbearing. Minette barely has time to truly be alone, although she constantly feels lonely.
A raven flies near. Rage explodes in her chest, hot and bitter and she lashes out at the black bird, her teeth snapping together audibly near its wings. She is not sure who is more startled. The pale gray mare stops in her tracks and takes a step backward, instantly abashed. The ravens screech angrily at her. Minette turns and runs.
The pines cluster into a variety of clearings, each giving an illusion of privacy. Minette generally avoids them because the massive trees remind her of the grizzly bear who lumbered forth and tore her to pieces. She will never be at ease amongst them again (if ever she was), but distress sends her cantering their way, and there a sound catches her ear. It a snuffling noise, someone searching, and Minette remembers that she is no longer the only mare in the mountain herd. Some days ago Gryffen had ushered in two females, but the pale gray mare had not approached them. Whether out of dread or self-preservation, she did not know. It was better not to analyze it.
The bright blue mare lurches forward, stiff and awkward. A pang of true empathy flutters through Minette's heart. She knows pain.
“You might try the patch of purple thistle to your right, if you're hungry. It grows well in the mountains.” Minette is surprised to hear herself talking, her voice relatively normal. “I am Minette.”
She does not mention her status as lead mare. That matters more to Gryffen than to her, and Minette would not exert power over anyone no matter how much she is given.
She wonders if she looks strange to this beautiful blue mare. Minette has retained her delicate form and her soft curves through two pregnancies; she, too, is lovely, but her skin is marred with scars. Most notably, the mare sports a jagged circle and star brand on her left haunch. Her eyes are brown and expressive, filled with acceptance, but not peace.
And the physical pain; it is a constant reminder that she is not okay, will never be okay. Her joints ache in a constant ebb and flow, balmed only by time spent in the frozen creeks. A piece of her heart is frozen, as well, cold and lost. It will never be saved.
She scolds herself relentlessly. She shouldn't wake in a cold terror, eyes wild and hooves running before her brain registers the movement. She shouldn't shy away from the touch of another on her skin. All is well in her world. Her horned son is growing strong. Her stallion is attentive but not overbearing. Minette barely has time to truly be alone, although she constantly feels lonely.
A raven flies near. Rage explodes in her chest, hot and bitter and she lashes out at the black bird, her teeth snapping together audibly near its wings. She is not sure who is more startled. The pale gray mare stops in her tracks and takes a step backward, instantly abashed. The ravens screech angrily at her. Minette turns and runs.
The pines cluster into a variety of clearings, each giving an illusion of privacy. Minette generally avoids them because the massive trees remind her of the grizzly bear who lumbered forth and tore her to pieces. She will never be at ease amongst them again (if ever she was), but distress sends her cantering their way, and there a sound catches her ear. It a snuffling noise, someone searching, and Minette remembers that she is no longer the only mare in the mountain herd. Some days ago Gryffen had ushered in two females, but the pale gray mare had not approached them. Whether out of dread or self-preservation, she did not know. It was better not to analyze it.
The bright blue mare lurches forward, stiff and awkward. A pang of true empathy flutters through Minette's heart. She knows pain.
“You might try the patch of purple thistle to your right, if you're hungry. It grows well in the mountains.” Minette is surprised to hear herself talking, her voice relatively normal. “I am Minette.”
She does not mention her status as lead mare. That matters more to Gryffen than to her, and Minette would not exert power over anyone no matter how much she is given.
She wonders if she looks strange to this beautiful blue mare. Minette has retained her delicate form and her soft curves through two pregnancies; she, too, is lovely, but her skin is marred with scars. Most notably, the mare sports a jagged circle and star brand on her left haunch. Her eyes are brown and expressive, filled with acceptance, but not peace.