"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
cold in the violence after the war hope is a fire to keep us warm
There is a familiarity to the burn of a muscles. Something soothing. Comforting, in such an odd way. The rhythmic movement of limbs, the sting of sweat, and the copper trickle of blood released by the pull of skin against rupturing bone. The pain that comes with it is an old friend. One she had long ago grown accustomed to. So much so it barely registers. Just another note in the chord as she loses herself in that old song. It’s so easy to dive into those sensations, allowing her thoughts and emotions to drift aside, forgotten.
Of course, it never lasts. Her strength can only bring her so far. Though she is young and healthy and fit, even she cannot go forever. It’s inevitable, that end. And with it, all the things she had been trying so hard to avoid resurface. But this is where exhaustion becomes her most favored companion.
In many, it’s easier than trying to pick apart the endless puzzle of her mother’s disappearance. The pain and sadness of her father and brother’s continued absence. Some days, she wonders how her mother had done it. Other days, she thinks her mom had used Nerine like she uses this.
Of course, in the end, she could never run far enough.
Today though, her ultimately doomed efforts come to an abbreviated and unexpected halt when her path leads her nearly directly into an unfamiliar face. Stumbling, she skids to a stop, a brief, surprised yip escaping her lips. Truthfully, had she actually been paying attention, she might have avoided near collision. But then, it seems to be a rather bad habit of hers.
“Whoops!” she exclaims rather breathlessly, a chagrined smile already curling her lips. Turning to face the stranger, she continues, her apology punctuated by the shortness of her breaths. “Ah… sorry about that.”
Brine has never pushed herself physically. There are risks involved with reckless exercise: sprains, muscle tears, God knows what else. Things Brine cannot afford, incase something were to happen. She had to preserve her energy for when she needed it, like in the event a cougar attacked or a savage stallion came to fruition, again.
The thought is shot down almost as quick as it resurfaces, her mind desperately picking at anything else to focus on.
Ah, yes. Her girl. Her light. Her everything. Brine sees Ruth, probably not how she looks now but how she remembers her, yes. Yes, she is beautiful, her child. The golden tones and creamy-white hair that strung down in wind knots. Ruthless, the only form of light in Brine’s dark and twisty soul, would be turning two soon.
Brine pictures her with her dark wings--the only resemblance that ties them together--and intense brown eyes, so big and so pure.
A little bit of her melts, despite the grueling temperatures.
And then, she feels her feet slide to the left.
Whoops!
Brine takes a moment to gather herself--coaxing her soul back into her body with compliments and soft tones--before wildly spinning her head to stare at the source of the collision, a red roaned mare with vibrant white splotches and striking bone armour that makes Brine contemplate fear and admiration.
She, of course, chooses fear.
“Oh,” she is also catching her breath, feeling light headed and more than nervous about the other girl. Did she do that on purpose? Is this some form of hazing? Does she need to survive torture from the boned girl to be accepted? “Oh, it’s fine. It’s fine. I was lost in thought anyways…”
And slowly, she steps back three times; preparation to run.
cold in the violence after the war hope is a fire to keep us warm
Fear is something that had never truly plagued Brazen. In youth, the world had been too wide and wonderful for fear to find it’s way into her heart. And then, on that fateful morning she had dragged her brother into the quest that would change her understanding of life, everything had been too overwhelming to truly understand fear. Afterwards, she had spent the remainder of her childhood knowing exactly what she had to look forward to. But even then, she hadn’t known fear. After all, her father had braved the same things, day after day. Certainly she could too.
Now, she had spent years living in her own skin, knowing exactly how bone aches as it grows, understanding the sharp, slicing pain of skin as splits and tears, the bubbling of blood tinged by the scent of copper. It’s hard to fear much else when pain has become the definition of one’s entire life.
In the end, the burn and ache of her own muscles is a much better distraction that the splitting of skin.
Dancing back a few steps, the sheepish grin plastered to her lips, it takes her a moment to register the fear in her new companion’s wild eyes and the muscles tensed for flight. She slows, her movements becoming immediately more subdued, the bright energy of her breathless greeting settling as she realizes she’d quite frightened her.
It takes everything in her to resist stepping closer. To offer the friendly comfort that is so often her first instinct. Blue eyes softening behind the mask shadowing her face, her grin eases, gentling almost unconsciously. “I am sorry, I really didn’t mean to startle you,” she offers again, hoping she would read the sincerity in her apology. “I hope I didn’t interrupt any too important thoughts.” Her eyes crinkle in faint amusement as she continues, “I would hate to think I just derailed the next big treaty for peace or something.”
01-17-2020, 12:41 PM (This post was last modified: 01-17-2020, 12:43 PM by Brine.)
brine
she lost her light, it's easier to hide that way
Envy washes over Brine faster than fear. It seeps into her skin and warms her blood, sending a rush of heat up her neck to burn her face. Envy because the mare is so transparent and kind. A woman without baggage, or with the knowledge to let things go when they no longer served a purpose. A pretty painted pony with a musical tone, and genuine empathy.
And, Brine has no idea who she is.
Her life has always been defined by others. Her mother left her, her father never to show his face after her birth. And then, him in his mask of darkness; a poison so potent and thick, it took whatever left of her and boiled it away. He took her, that day.
So her life became a child’s life: carrying a growing, living, breathing animal in the warmth of her belly. It became about eating to feed her child, or walking to soothe the violent kicks that curbed her appetite and amplified her exhaustion. It was about hiding in the shadows until the last inch of sun had set far beyond the tips of pine trees and oak leaves, only to come out in the cover of darkness to move locations or find water.
And then her world found light the last hour she spent pushing, when a golden child fell into an entanglement of fallen pine needles and dead twigs with the deepest brown eyes and the softest ebony feathers pulled together in a magnificent pair of wings. Wings that could carry her to danger, to him.
Yes, it is true, our shadowy mouse had always hid behind the spotlight of someone different. It had been easier that way, less pressure.
But without her golden globe, things seem to slow and day by day Brine begins to realize how unsure she is of herself. Who am I.
What is my purpose.
“No. No,” Brine sighs, and for the first time since entering Nerine she feels pressure lift from her hindquarters. “I guess I have nothing left to think about anyways, not anymore.”
She offers humor as a branch to link them, a mutual ground where they can both meet and start over. And, though Brine yearns to question the mare’s intentions and why she is being so nice, our little mouse curbs the idea entirely.
What harm could come from a jovial gesture?
“I am not important enough for treaties... I am Brine, and you?” she smiles though humor is absent, she had never really learned how to apply it properly; children didn’t understand jokes, and monsters only made them at her expense.
“Do you have a disorder?” She follows with concern, but also an underlying tone of the faintest bit of curiosity lingers--an emotion she found both foreign and intriguing. “The bones… Do they hurt?”
cold in the violence after the war hope is a fire to keep us warm
She would have been chagrined to know of her envy. She could never hope to claim such freedom from the past or wisdom as she ascribed. If anything, it’s her own foolishness that keeps her so bright in the face of her grim future. An impossible and naive hope.
It would be a dark day indeed when she finally lost it. One could only hope that day would never come.
In a way, it has become almost habit, the olive branch she offers. A way for her to avoid rejection. Still, her intentions are genuine and the teasing kindly meant. A thing that serves ultimately to lighten the mood, even if just a little.
“I bet you’re more important than you think,” she replies easily, her smile settling with familiarity onto her lips. Her comment is not meant to illicit a response however, and she easily moves on, favoring Brine’s introduction with one of her own. “Brazen!”
Her next question surprises her, if only briefly. There are very few who ask outright about the bones protruding from her skin, as though they fear offending her with it. Truthfully, she doesn’t think on it overly much anymore. They have become a mere fact of her life. Something she had long ago learned to live with. And so, her response, when it comes a moment later, is as candid as her question.
“No,” she replies thoughtfully. “At least, I don’t think so. My dad has them too.”
Her next question does give her pause however. Pain is another fact of her life. Another thing she had long ago come to terms with. But still, to admit to it felt akin to admitting a weakness. And so, she hesitates. Not because she doesn’t wish to answer, but because she worries at the pity it might elicit.
After a long moment, one where her brows furrow and eyes fall briefly to the ground, she finally answers. “It does.” With a dismissive shrug, she returns her gaze to Brine. “But it’s not so bad. I’m used to it.” Abruptly and without finesse, she changes the subject. “Are you new to Nerine? I haven’t seen you around before.”
![[Image: Brine-Signature.png]](https://i.ibb.co/0B2DW04/Brine-Signature.png)
