[private] wearing their iron masks like a shield; Brine

[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?”

@[Brazen]