Brinly
With her fire hardly caged, with all her anger and self-hatred once more boiling to the surface, she fled back into the safety of the forest. Away from them, away from him, away from everyone and anything that could possibly turn her into the fool again. She had known it was a risk coming so close to the main parts of this land; she had known that her need to make sure they knew they couldn’t get close would cause her to lash out, to put up guards so high and fierce that they would look at her and think she was hardly worth their time.
And why would she be?
She had never done anything that made her worthy of someone getting to know her. She was not sweet and kind, she was not smart and pretty. She was broken, and she cut everyone on her jagged edges, and if they somehow managed to make it past those figurative weapons, they were only going to get burnt. She couldn’t control the heat that lived beneath her skin, she couldn’t control the imaginary fire that seemed to lick beneath the surface, like some cruel, hidden trick that couldn’t wait for someone to fall into the trap.
Into the shadows of the forest she disappears then, turning her back on him, but making sure that she had watched him do it first. She runs, a flash of auburn that nearly blends with the trees, she runs to put as much distance between herself and the rest of Beqanna as possible. For a moment, she almost thinks there might be tears that prick her eyes, but they are quickly eradicated before they have the chance to fully form. No. She would not cry; she has been here before. She has lost so many would-be, could-be, might-have-beens, and she has always found a way to survive. She had learned so long ago that she didn’t need anyone, and all that encounter had done was solidify it.
Her lungs burn, and her legs beg her to stop, and finally, she obeys. But she is still moving too fast as she comes around a wide tree, and she is so lost in her thoughts that she almost doesn’t see the other girl in time. She stops, her hind legs sliding beneath her on the slick, pine-needled ground, and she can feel the panic rising in her throat when she almost, almost, collides with her. “What are you doing here?” She exclaims, accusatory and furious with her chest heaving. Her adrenaline spikes so high in her veins at the near catastrophe she knows she almost caused, and the image of what could have happened comes to her mind, unbidden. She sees the other girl’s skin burning and simmering, she can hear the cries of pain, and the fear that this evokes she only knows to express as anger. There is a hardness to her dark brown as she gathers herself, backing away from the stranger, afraid that she already may have felt the heat that rose from her skin.
She learned nothing from what had just happened earlier in the day. She is prepared to fight this girl, too.
— burn until our lives become the embers —
@[Brazen]