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Her world is unhinged. It is slow, tedious, as the mare walks, inconsolable and wracked with tremors. The alabaster mare is dull, numb, hungry for attention that will not come, and horrified with herself.
What have I done?
"Just go."
"The Gray is better without such a hag."
"All I hear is inconsistency."
"I'm afraid that's not how it works."
"You have no sense of honor or friendship."
Fly. Escape. Run. Traitor. Coward. Mongrel. Not trusted. Not loved. She had given up Ophelia for a new family. A trade. A clean break, she had told herself. The bone had not been set by dear Phi, as she had hoped. Instead, it became a fracture. Frayed lines extended either way from the snap. Towards Edge, towards Gray. Which one would hurt most? Both did. Both kept stabbing her as she walked.
She was bleeding, but there was no spot of crimson blood to mar her fresh, snow-white coat.
She was dying, as surely as a fish out of water. No one could suffer this much pain without dying. What was happening to her?
The mare was entering the Arch now, escaping the skies filled with deep gray clouds, curling with pale silver. Here she had met Mauja, the frost-king, burned, flesh twisted into a gruesome parody of former self, bleeding, furious. Here she had met Ophelia, here she had first found herself inexplicably attracted to the dear pale mare. Hadn't she said she had almost immediately enjoyed Phi's presence?
It was gone, the fragile seed that had blossomed into a beautiful flower. It did not seem there was a single dead leaf yet, or a scrap of a root. It was dead and gone, every root carefully plucked from the sweet soil it had originated in. Even the soil around it had become decayed, the blossom untended for too long during the bitter cold of Frostfall. So brittle it had become, when the two met face to face, it had shriveled away into dust, into nothing. It should've been saved with the warmth of Birdsong. Was it my fault? Had she poisoned it, killed it?
Somehow she found herself away from the Arch where her reflection was distorted (was it, maybe, a reflection of her changed personality?), along the edge of the blue-sky Basin.
It was not let her to go into trouble.
But why not?
So Tor began trotting into the territory, smelling of fresh Edge and wild flowers.
""
we all have our stories- i'll tell you mine if you tell me yours.
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