03-28-2022, 05:54 PM
— IF I’M ON FIRE YOU’LL BE MADE OF ASHES TOO —
She does not feel the cold against her skin. Like everything else that tries to touch her it is no match for the relentless heat that rises in the shape of flames across her body, the sparks in her mane and tail creating an invisible barrier that wards winter—and everyone else—away. She had once thought that time would wear away at the bitterness, that eventually she would grow tired of the anger that festers like an infected wound. Instead the bitterness had carved itself into her like a river might through a mountain: so slowly she might not have noticed, until all at once she is nothing but a canyon sculpted from her own resentment.
Made of nothing but spark and flame, she stands out against the somewhat bleak winter landscape. The sky is a cold gray, and the treeline that she keeps to is dark and barren, though it does her little good. She is too bright in comparison to the dullness around her, the vibrant orange and red sure to draw every eye when she longed for the anonymity that had come with being an unremarkable bay.
The only good that come of turning into a living wildfire is that only a fool would be stupid enough to reach out and touch her, and if that is the choice they make she no longer feels pity for scalding their skin.
She follows the distant roar of a waterfall because she finds that she prefers the crashing sound of water to her own thoughts.
As if the water might drown the images of the faces that haunt her, to fool her into thinking that she might for once find some kind of respite if only for a moment.
She is hardly surprised when she rounds a thick grove of trees and comes nearly face to face with a man that must have been planning on doing the same, but that does not stop the shadow that falls across her face when their eyes meet. Her dark eyes flash, though whether that is with irritance or simply the flames along her face reflecting, it is difficult to say. But the way her lips nearly twist into a sneer, the way her ears fall flat into the embers of her mane and the single word that she speaks seems to burn from the inside out, she is sure there will be little question to how she feels at stumbling across unexpected company: “Leave.”
Made of nothing but spark and flame, she stands out against the somewhat bleak winter landscape. The sky is a cold gray, and the treeline that she keeps to is dark and barren, though it does her little good. She is too bright in comparison to the dullness around her, the vibrant orange and red sure to draw every eye when she longed for the anonymity that had come with being an unremarkable bay.
The only good that come of turning into a living wildfire is that only a fool would be stupid enough to reach out and touch her, and if that is the choice they make she no longer feels pity for scalding their skin.
She follows the distant roar of a waterfall because she finds that she prefers the crashing sound of water to her own thoughts.
As if the water might drown the images of the faces that haunt her, to fool her into thinking that she might for once find some kind of respite if only for a moment.
She is hardly surprised when she rounds a thick grove of trees and comes nearly face to face with a man that must have been planning on doing the same, but that does not stop the shadow that falls across her face when their eyes meet. Her dark eyes flash, though whether that is with irritance or simply the flames along her face reflecting, it is difficult to say. But the way her lips nearly twist into a sneer, the way her ears fall flat into the embers of her mane and the single word that she speaks seems to burn from the inside out, she is sure there will be little question to how she feels at stumbling across unexpected company: “Leave.”
Brinly
