there are other worlds than these; brine

[Brine]

Brine

Brine is not entirely sure why she is here, either. In fact, what is most surprising is that she has finally found the courage to leave the borders of Nerine without instantly running to Taiga. Where, conveniently so, Ruthless is likely adapting to her new life well.

And here our saddened mouse sits, a gloomy cloud of loneliness hanging over her with a permanent aura.

She tugs at the outer corners of her wings, pulling them in closely and hugging herself tight. A physical touch she had grown used to, after months of flinching at any sort of physical gesture or accidently brush. After months of internal reassurance, silent affirmations, and embarrassment, our jaded Brine had finally accepted the thought of her own touch.

It is true that, after baby Ruth had blessed this land, Brine had never truly adapted to even her touch. The way she would nuzzle into her flank before moving to eat. The way she would sometimes accidentally stumble into Brine’s ribs while jumping over fallen branches, or tripping over exposed roots. All of these completely natural forms of touch that children need, Brine could not process.

Her brain could not seem to tell her that this touch, and his touch, are in fact very, very different.

She doesn’t see him, not like he sees her. Though she hears him, and his low toned voice as if resembling a baritone sax. He is golden, a light child. Her mind flashes back to her own golden child, the way the moon ignites her yellow tones like what is happening to his, right now. He is mystical and absolutely frightening all rolled into one, low drawl of ma’am.

But, he is a light child. The sun saw him cradled in the womb of his mother and decided that he, and eventually Ruth, were worthy of their golden tones. Unlike the blackness that had found Brine, coated her in a blue-toned ebony. Light fought, though. It fought hard. And, as a result, left a blend of randomly placed white hairs to form a vibrant blue roan.

“Sir,” she allows herself to speak, all of the sudden coming to the realization of how long silence filled the air. Did he notice her hesitation? Did he know it was about him? Shame crosses over her forehead and lower neck, a flush of heat pouring across her skin as if to camouflage her completely into the forest abyss. Though, it doesn’t. It lingers there like a blaring siren of awkwardness.

“I apologize,” she lets out a laugh, a fake one but an attempt, “you look like my daughter. She was… Excuse me, is… a palomino roan.”

Oh the awkwardness, the horribly structured sentence, the obviously inappropriate comparison. How wrong she had gone in the last few seconds, and yet she cannot leave to let the damage burn into ash. She must hear him tell her how much she has failed, so at least she can leave with no doors being left open.

The endlessness of opportunity is frighteningly more terrifying than the thought of opportunity itself.
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take notice of what light does—to everything