The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
—
Aster thinks that she was not made to be a mother. She was not made to soothe and calm and murmur comfort. If it were anyone other than her brother (her brother and herself) she might only watch, or laugh, or leave.
But she doesn’t feel like laughing now. When he presses his lips to her shoulder, she tucks her nose beneath his chin; they stand together, dark and pale, like he is her shadow, or she is a bone-carved cast of him. It still smells like flowers; there is a purple flower lying in the grass, shed from their mother’s hair. When Leo’s cub tumbles backward, hers pounces onto it, silent and bright-eyed and quick.
“Yes,” she tells him, and Aster is certain. “Yes,” she answers again, and her voice is still steady, and her golden eyes are tracing the edge of the clearing where the sunlight falls away into the dark shadow of the trees. No longer is the air crackling, molecules furious as time itself is torn open like fabric with a seam ripper. It is silent. It is only them.
When he pulls in a breath, she does too. It is easy to imagine they always used to breathe together, in their unborn dreaming. Her twin steps away to pet the little cubs and she lets him, watching the way his winds around his feet, watching the way hers stretches, lifts its chin, makes a little face so fierce it should be comical on such a young and kittenish face. Aster does not laugh.
Her gaze flicks to him when he speaks again, voicing his wonderings. For the first she has nothing, no answers to give; she wants to remind him that she is the same as he, abandoned, the world new enough it should be frightening. But that last question -
Aster holds his gaze and says, “No.” And it is the only thing she knows to be absolutely true in this stop-time world.
And then she shakes herself like she has walked out of the water, or risen from a dream. “They will be back,” she reiterates, and something loosens in her voice; when she lifts her head she scents the air like a doe might with its fawn beside it. There is only a small, small voice inside her that says but I am the child. “We’ll wait here.” Until? - she does not say. She cannot. Time is a concept she does not yet have; the sun has not crawled so much as an inch. The island is silent. Even the shadows are still.
Once again she looks at the cheetah cubs, tumbling in the grass. “I wonder if they need to eat,” she muses. It is impossible to know, when now they are living and breathing and warm, and minutes ago they were cool smooth wood. She wonders the same for themselves. “Maybe we’ll have to hunt for them.”
But she doesn’t feel like laughing now. When he presses his lips to her shoulder, she tucks her nose beneath his chin; they stand together, dark and pale, like he is her shadow, or she is a bone-carved cast of him. It still smells like flowers; there is a purple flower lying in the grass, shed from their mother’s hair. When Leo’s cub tumbles backward, hers pounces onto it, silent and bright-eyed and quick.
“Yes,” she tells him, and Aster is certain. “Yes,” she answers again, and her voice is still steady, and her golden eyes are tracing the edge of the clearing where the sunlight falls away into the dark shadow of the trees. No longer is the air crackling, molecules furious as time itself is torn open like fabric with a seam ripper. It is silent. It is only them.
When he pulls in a breath, she does too. It is easy to imagine they always used to breathe together, in their unborn dreaming. Her twin steps away to pet the little cubs and she lets him, watching the way his winds around his feet, watching the way hers stretches, lifts its chin, makes a little face so fierce it should be comical on such a young and kittenish face. Aster does not laugh.
Her gaze flicks to him when he speaks again, voicing his wonderings. For the first she has nothing, no answers to give; she wants to remind him that she is the same as he, abandoned, the world new enough it should be frightening. But that last question -
Aster holds his gaze and says, “No.” And it is the only thing she knows to be absolutely true in this stop-time world.
And then she shakes herself like she has walked out of the water, or risen from a dream. “They will be back,” she reiterates, and something loosens in her voice; when she lifts her head she scents the air like a doe might with its fawn beside it. There is only a small, small voice inside her that says but I am the child. “We’ll wait here.” Until? - she does not say. She cannot. Time is a concept she does not yet have; the sun has not crawled so much as an inch. The island is silent. Even the shadows are still.
Once again she looks at the cheetah cubs, tumbling in the grass. “I wonder if they need to eat,” she muses. It is impossible to know, when now they are living and breathing and warm, and minutes ago they were cool smooth wood. She wonders the same for themselves. “Maybe we’ll have to hunt for them.”
