She awakes, her body encased in an inch of snow like a heavy down blanket. She isn’t aware of why she has slept for so long, why her forelock is dusted with morning frost and why her mane has minuscule icicles hanging. Brine has not noticed that what lies beneath the soft blanket of snow is no longer hair, but instead feathers. Feathers like when she was young. And what she has not realized is the slight weight is not from snow, but from wings that have fully wrapped themselves around her in a way to shield her from the chilled wind.
Her front legs outstretch like wooden pillars, feeling the turf beneath her and the slippery texture. She rises, unaware of why suddenly it feels harder to get up. Did she hurt herself? Is she sore from walking so far the other day? Her mind is a whirlwind of curiosity as she turns her head to face what she can only assume as swollen muscles and aching bruises.
It is not though. Like I said (and I did tell you so), she is now decorated with wings, hanging nonchalantly like ornaments on Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. Her heart skips a beat, like seeing colour for the first time. They hang there, large and yet so incredibly delicate. One morning she woke up completely bare without them, stranded to walk for years to come. Now she wakes up, gifted with her unique characteristics once more. It almost makes her feel like herself again.
Almost.
She spends a majority of her morning flying. Brine once felt like a child stolen from walking, tied to a wheelchair and forbidden to ever feel free again. Now, she feels like the same child being gifted legs once more. A feeling unexplainable, unimaginable. Like a flower finally healing from a broken petal, or a dog finally finding his long lost ball. She is both excited and scared. Petrified, yet courageous.
What once held her back, or at least… what she blamed held her back, had now been returned. What more can she blame, now? There are no excuses. There is no crutch. There is just the horrible, terrifying truth that if she fails now… it is her fault. It is her doing, and her failure.
Petrified. Yet, courageous.
There is hope for her now. He has taken an empty vase and filled it with water and lilies once more, but what if the lilies die? What if the water runs dry?
Her thoughts, a constant internal battle, keep her occupied for many minutes. Hours. Perhaps even days. She is too easily lost in her own head, and has no one to pull her back to reality.
By the time she lands, her wings ache, her ribs cringe, and her mane and tail are a wind knotted mess. Her feet feel weak, and wobbly. She is a toddler remembering how to walk, or a child attempting to ride a bike with no training wheels. Her legs quiver and her knees knock in desperate attempt to find balance and tranquility. Brine is not a filly; she is a full grown woman. Her robust curves and prominent feminine features say so. However, nothing has ever made her feel so little, and childish.
By the time her composure has been found, she is standing knee deep in snow, center of the meadow surrounding by nothing but overcast clouds and a wide open landscape. Her blue-toned feathered coat, dark from the winter growth sticks out like a sore thumb, her large black wings hanging heavy in exhaustion. Her hazel eyes set on a multi toned horse in the distance.
She is not one for conversing, she never has been. Her tongue gets tied in all the wrong places, but yet she feels like either she will converse, or fly again. And considering her incredibly embarrassing show only moments ago, conversing is her best bet. If only for a second, she can be social.
Her approach is cautious, as if he is a lion and she is a hyena. Both predators, but both on very different levels of danger. A word is muffled out, circled with frustration emitting like smoke from flames. Her head slightly tilts, curious but yet completely ready avoid investigating.
“Frustration always prevails when success will not,” her voice is soft. For someone who does not talk often, she certainly has a singsong tune to her tone. It makes her appear more mature, and compassionate than what she considers herself to be. “Can I help you?”
- Brine -