I don’t make eye contact with the butterfly-winged mare, instead preferring to occasionally glance her way through the corner of my eye, wishing that I could disappear behind the curtain of my hair again—or disappear completely. This is so silly, I chide myself, it’s just a casual, normal conversation. But of course, it’s been too long since I’ve been comfortable enough to withstand an interaction without it leaving me both mentally and emotionally drained. I could say that I can’t remember the last time—but that would be a lie.
Much to my despair, there is little that I have forgotten.
Myrrine seems nice enough, at least. Maybe even a little bit too nice. You might argue that there could be no such thing, but I suspect with the way she glances at me occasionally—as though I’m a wounded bird—she has noticed my distress (I haven’t been very modest about it), and is trying her very best to put me at ease. I’ve seen it before. I would rather her treat me as she would anyone else, like normal, as though she hasn’t noticed anything amiss.
But I know that the mare is only doing it out of the goodness of her heart, and I cannot fault her for that, as bitter as my caged heart is. So I try to swallow this warped, broken sense of pride that I have, and attempt to straighten my posture so that I don’t seem quite as fragile (nevermind the mess of splinters that my glass heart has become).
“The Dragon’s Throat as well,” I answer Myrrine plainly, trying to offer her some semblance of a smile—but it feels hollow and out of place, wrong on my lips. I allow it to drop before it wilts into a scowl, briefly tucking my head into my chest as I clear my throat (my breath is hot and shuddering against my skin). Awkwardly I force myself to look at the other mare, perhaps too intense with my eye contact now. “I just came to Helovia, actually. I haven’t been here for very long,” I shift my weight, exhaling heavily from my nostrils.
“Speech.”
We build it up, we tear it down
We leave our pieces on the ground
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