Insurgent

I'm no hero and I'm not made of stone

It was with some trepidation Erthë wandered about the winding tunnel that led to the hidden cove. The semi-transparent crystal that formed the walls cast an eerie half light across her skin and made the shadows look thin and flimsy, barely more than a suggestion of darkness against the eternal backdrop of dusk. She missed the sun. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since last she had seen its radiant glow and felt the pure warmth against her skin. It was easy to forget how oppressive and hot she had thought it before, easy to ignore the preference she'd always had towards darkness and cold. There was darkness aplenty here in the Rift, and precious little warmth, but unlike before the perpetual gloom only made her feel uneasy. Perhaps it was contrary of her, but now that she never had to see the sun again she would have given anything to have it back. To have Him back, in all his beauty, passion and haughty overconfidence.

Casting a sideways glance into the crystals distorted reflection of herself, the little mare sighed. Her own coat was the brightest thing she had seen around in a long time, and even she was not as pale as she had once been. The constant damp was not doing her any good; the once sleek coat was matted and clumped together with water and sweat, splattered with mud and grime so far up the belly that she appeared more bay than cream. The white curls hung long and heavy down the neck in a tangled mess, and from the wings came a sour, mildewed scent that made her nose wrinkle. She had never been subject to feather rot before, it was a nasty business and, like every other misfortune that had befallen her lately, it was all Kisamoa's fault.

Reaching the protected cove only to find it empty, Erthë picked her way down the glass-strewn beach to the water. Stepping into it, she drew on the powers within and lowered the temperature of the water around her, more and more until the froth of each lapping wave left behind salty lines of ice amidst the multi-colored pebbles. Again and again she worked her magic on the sea, until a remarkable pile of clean white snow had formed around her feet. Lowering herself down to her knees, Erthë moved the wings out of the way and rolled, rubbing every inch of skin she could manage against the cold grains, over and over again until most of the dirt had transferred from herself and onto the beach. Only then did she get on her feet and wade out into the salty sea, and stood there to let the waves purify her back and wings while her mind quietly worked on the problem of what to do about Kaos.

Half formed thoughts and ideas churned restlessly within, fueled by hate and grief and that all-consuming desire to live. The children had some part in that urge, but perhaps not as big of a place as she would have wished. It was still hard to love them, hard to feel anything other than duty and obligation towards the boys. Sometimes she wondered whether they would be better off with some other mare, someone who could care for them as they deserved, someone who could love them with all their heart...

Oh well. They had their father's love, at least. Perhaps that would be enough...

Right or wrong, I can hardly tell
I'm on the wrong side of heaven and the righteous side of hell

Image Credit

@Volterra