Brink


You will never see me cry. 

She whispered defiantly.

Tears will turn to crystals on my cheeks, the drop abandoned by salt rivers. No. You will not see me break this stoic facade. Not for something so worthless as you.

She turned toward the North, the wind brushing auburn curls away from her ivory skin. The green in her eyes struck fiercely against the white mountain. Doubt, which had begun to seep into her soul, backed away the coward of their confrontation. She would not embrace it to save the world. Instead, her boots tread on, deeper into the icy gulch of a powdered mountainside. Her eyes ever searching the horizon above her; the summit before her. 

I am not yours to take; you are mine to conquer.