and I tremble and grow pale
for I am dying of such love
for I am dying of such love
Apolonia.
Her heart stops. It feels like missing a step on the way down the stairs; it feels like all the atoms in her body are begging to split apart. Be reasonable. An incapacitatingly strong buzz of adrenaline crawls up O’s already-tense spine. Ah, to be young, to be lovely, to be dangerous—they are all those things and more, and, just to herself, O smiles. Sharp. Unafraid. With a little dark-lashed blink, she looks up.
Anandi is just as beautiful as she was the last time they met. The first time, too, when the world was still stable enough to turn as it should. Her skin shimmers like moonstone underneath the kiss of the moon and the ocean; she smells of salt and jasmine, of the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean; O’s nostrils flare and her stomach tightens as her own eyes meet the sweet, spring green of Anandi’s, and the smile that she flashes is breathless, insatiable. Again, again, again, she wants to say. Would say, if she were desperate. Look at me like this forever.
Anandi’s voice snaps her back into focus. It rings like so many harp-strings in her ear, and it pulsates and trembles in her chest. “Oh.” Blood rises to her cheeks, though it’s hard to tell in the dim, warm light; uncharacteristically demure, she lowers her eyes and with a gentle telekinetic hand offers the bouquet. It bristles like gemstone under the moonlight. The smell of the desert is loosened from the burst of petals, dust and sunlight and clean, hot sand.
It soothes the rough edges of her stuttering heart just a little. In Solis’ name, amen.
“I brought you flowers,” she finishes suddenly. “From Solterra. Although—“ O smiles, sheepish, the curl of her lips unusually soft. Unwittingly she touches her cheek to her shoulder as if turning to hide her expression, just for a moment as her stomach settles. “I’m not sure how well they’ll hold up underwater.”
Tuchulcha sings against her hip, a low, reassuring hum like a bee’s. O shifts back against it. The bouquet shivers and trembles in the air, her focus weakened by anxiety. But still she stands firm with her small hooves steady in the sand, and even when the salty wind comes to bite at her neck and tousle the oh-so-carefully crafted braids in her hair she does not flinch. Stubborn and prideful as an old god turning new.
