They were hungry. Winter had covered them in a shadow of malnourishment and dehydration, fed itself and left them to rot like leftover waste.
Though as usual, Ruth has no care for negativity. She challenges the shadows with her golden-like aura—frightening even the darkest corners of Beqanna.
Brine looks in awe at her golden world, having grown so fast in the last year she sometimes forgets to appreciate the little moments. It’s something you learn—having a child. You learn to savour the time spent, it’s only so long before her entire world realizes childhood is not followed by obligatory company.
Ruthless stands above the waterbed, freshly thawed and chilled like having been poured over ice. Her muzzle lipping at the liquid playfully, her hazel eyes watching each drop fall to a ripple-y end. The little sun child was not such a child anymore, but a newly crowned yearling. And she is bored. Tired of survival.
“When do we get to live, mom” evident turmoil and angst clinging to every word like bees on honey; lifting her head to see her mother squarely. “You deserve to live too.”
Do I, though?
Brine, much less sunny—a lover of the shadows, where she could conceal her greatest flaws—looks at her daughter shamefully. It is here and now that Brine begins to process the likelihood that even Ruthless, her prized possession and all she has left to live for—the only way light enters her gloomiest, most shadowed hours—would eventually grow sick of her, too.
It was only a matter of time before sky would go black again.
As if for protection, Brine dismisses her daughter entirely. She turns on her hindquarters to walk towards the tree line, hoping that as always her little darling Ruth would follow in tow; even if reluctant.
“Brine,” she commands though child-like tones still creep off her tongue. Enough to scare a few songbirds from their perch on a nearby branch, taking advantage of the windless day and flying away from the anger evidently brewing.
“You do not call me that,” Brine turns to match her daughter’s challenge, the ongoing trend as of late. It had only started with brief moments of frustration, a mirrored judgment made vocal. They had portrayed their biggest fears into each other and held resentment for being fearful at all.
I don’t know how to live because I have only ever survived.
Ruthless softens upon seeing her mother’s exhausted expression, the light in her heart seeing the darkness damper Brine’s face like a cloud hiding the sun. Her mother is beautiful, with flecks of white and blue and black all woven together with sewing needles. Despite their lack of food, her body still holds shape and her muscles stay true. A warrior.
A warrior who battles the deepest and darkest demons hidden in those very shadowy corners of her mind. Ruthless sees it.
“I am sorry,” she sighs, taking a few reluctant steps forward though her heart desperate to run. “I am sorry.”
And so they stand in heavy silence for a few short minutes—the emotions of guilt and resentment washing over them both, though painted in different colours.
Brine knew the problem; it had been forecasted in her future since Ruth’s birth. Eventually Ruth would outgrow her, like all children must. It must be hard for our angsty little mouse, to know that the only thing that has kept her living would eventually leave too. And she would leave, taking all the light with her.
Leaving Brine in a pit of blackness.
In silent agreement, the females retreated back into the tree line. It feels awkward as they walk, Ruthless focusing on the puddles exploding beneath her hooves. Brine, trying to find anything else to think of.
It is a long day for the mares. Full of light weight discussion and avoidance, but better than silence. As the sun finally begins to set, Brine feels herself at peace with how the day went. It didn’t go well, certainly not mother-of-the-year material, but it didn’t end in more sadness.
And to our little mouse who doesn’t see much cheese, she takes what she can get.
“Mom,” Ruth turns to see her mother nibbling at freshly sprouted grass peaking through white slush. It is in this moment she sees her mother, so naïve and innocent. A broken light with shattered pieces scoured across the floor. What must it be like to sweep up every piece of broken glass only to carry it around for the day until you are finally allowed to let it lay once more?
Brine looks over to her daughter, “yes?”
“Can we please try, one more time. Just once?” Desperation lathers her words in a way that makes Brine’s stomach turn. Being a mother is being self-less. It’s living for your child. She has always vowed to live for her little world of light.
“OK,” the word slips into the air as agreement, but it is reluctant—it is hesitant.
Be the mother she needs you to be. Be the mother she needs you to be.
“Lead the way, baby Ruth” Brine’s smile is soft and warm, every inch of her begging to not show the cold, numbness tingle that creeps along her spine.
And so they go—for one more time—to their usual place: at the top of the field, just yards from the forest treeline to wait. To a place where horses are abundant, and so are recruiters. A place where maybe, just maybe if she times it right, they can find a home that fits them both.
A place where maybe her little light wouldn’t disappear, but instead be a beacon for when life becomes black again.
Brine
take notice of what life does—to everything