10-17-2015, 07:17 PM
la jeune fille marquée
She knows she is taking advantage of Gryffen's absence but she cannot bear the dreary chill of the mountains any longer. Soon enough the snows will come and there will be nothing but bleak winter days filled with silence and regret. Her one consolation will be the numb relief the cold will provide for her aches.
Minette crosses into the meadow, littered with brightly colored leaves. Autumn has rolled in gently, softly, like a caress. She lets herself imagine that she is anyone, an ordinary mare untainted by the defiler's touch. She can still feel him with her, sometimes. His deceptively gentle touch, the cadence of his voice like phantoms in her waking days. The sensation of choking on smoke curling from the burning remains of her body. The horror of watching her older self torn to pieces by savage wolves, knowing that to save her would only result in both of their deaths.
In her darkest nightmares, the face of the white wolf and the dark god merge together into a frightful tormentor who always demands more and more and more until there is nothing left of the girl she once was.
Minette doesn't sleep much anymore.
She looks older than her six years. A brand of jagged triangle and star is etched into her left haunch, standing in dark relief against the cream of her pale skin. Though her body is still young and slender, she moves stiffly. Her steps have grown more fluid with practice, but she can never hide the pain completely. She is pretty, still. A fragile sort of beauty with dark eyes that possess depths of iron will alongside a shrinking horror of the world.
She has seen the mouth of hell. She knows the truth of rotted corpses below the wild roses.
She chooses a spot near a creek, stepping into the running water. Though the stream here does not run as frigid as the mountain ones she knows , it still provides relief to her pain. A soft sigh escapes her lips. She closes her eyes, feeling the long held anxiety ease, here where no one knows her and no one demands anything of her.
Where she is only Minette, and no one else.
Tears begin to trickle down her face. She cannot stop the flow. A hiccuping sob erupts from her chest. Horrified, she dips her head in a vain attempt to hide her distress. She cannot remember the last time she cried, the last time she felt it would make any difference at all.
Minette crosses into the meadow, littered with brightly colored leaves. Autumn has rolled in gently, softly, like a caress. She lets herself imagine that she is anyone, an ordinary mare untainted by the defiler's touch. She can still feel him with her, sometimes. His deceptively gentle touch, the cadence of his voice like phantoms in her waking days. The sensation of choking on smoke curling from the burning remains of her body. The horror of watching her older self torn to pieces by savage wolves, knowing that to save her would only result in both of their deaths.
In her darkest nightmares, the face of the white wolf and the dark god merge together into a frightful tormentor who always demands more and more and more until there is nothing left of the girl she once was.
Minette doesn't sleep much anymore.
She looks older than her six years. A brand of jagged triangle and star is etched into her left haunch, standing in dark relief against the cream of her pale skin. Though her body is still young and slender, she moves stiffly. Her steps have grown more fluid with practice, but she can never hide the pain completely. She is pretty, still. A fragile sort of beauty with dark eyes that possess depths of iron will alongside a shrinking horror of the world.
She has seen the mouth of hell. She knows the truth of rotted corpses below the wild roses.
She chooses a spot near a creek, stepping into the running water. Though the stream here does not run as frigid as the mountain ones she knows , it still provides relief to her pain. A soft sigh escapes her lips. She closes her eyes, feeling the long held anxiety ease, here where no one knows her and no one demands anything of her.
Where she is only Minette, and no one else.
Tears begin to trickle down her face. She cannot stop the flow. A hiccuping sob erupts from her chest. Horrified, she dips her head in a vain attempt to hide her distress. She cannot remember the last time she cried, the last time she felt it would make any difference at all.