briar
Briar thinks this as she hovers over the cliff’s eyes, emerald glittering with that curious indecisiveness of a secretly reckless creature. Her quiet smile hovers on her lips; her sharp cheeks smooth and ready for some unexplainable tear to fall; but one does not, and the only water on her face is the ocean that reflects in her eyes.
To things old and new: that is what she told herself when the initial shock of leaving her mother set in. Regret burns like the incessant drainage of a cold in her throat, but it is easily swallowed—
I owe peace only to myself.
Truth is hard to swallow, especially when the truth is meant to free one from abuse. Even as the wine-stained mare recognizes her freedom, she feels that pain sit uncomfortably in the back of her mind. Her mother, a victim, does not require Briar’s protection—but she is still just that: a victim. She is someone the two year old cannot save, but the savior complex builds and builds in her chest until it makes her head spin. This her mother taught her: Briar must save all who remain in distress.
Marisol’s approach goes nearly unnoticed beneath the din of the wind and the waves. The maroon woman turns slowly to find her Sovereign’s gaze, one that is cool enough to act as a balm to the burn of her shame. A new smile, one that does not mask her feelings, curls the corners of her lips.
“Hail Vespera,” she murmurs, eradicating the uncertainty she felt just days before. Their religion is new to Briar—it is not quite her's yet—but assimilation has come easily (or so it may appear to those that observe her).
“The wind and the sea—don’t you wish you could be them?” her question is followed by a turn of her head toward the ocean. The wine-stained mare wishes that every time she encounters cliff tops like these. To feel as whole as one with only a single purpose—to feel as whole as one that knows their purpose. “My name is Briar.” This she says louder, eyes stinging from the cold and the whipping of her mane.
When the antlered woman turns to Marisol, an innocent expectancy softens the hard lines of her face. Though Briar is aware the Dusk Court has a queen, she has yet to put a face to a name—or even a name to the Queen. Perhaps she should recognize the royal slope of weighted shoulders, but her kingdomless life leaves her ever so naive.
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