[P] and there was the wordless, singing world

[Nicnevin]

YOU KNOW HOW LIGHTNING NEVER LASTS LONG ENOUGH TO GET A GOOD LOOK AT IT?
and your eyes do this thing, as if they could grow larger, widen out of your face, trying to see enough, longer, more --

It is dawn when I come creeping down to the shoreline.

The light cast on the sands – nearly reflected, in the many places where it holds shallow pools and skims of seawater – is pale peach and hazy, and much of the sky is still dark, though I cannot see it; my back is to the west, and my eyes are trained on that pastel brilliance to the east. The sun is jewel-bright, and, where it touches the water, it seems to ripple.

(I was told, after a few ill-advised attempts to look directly at it, that you shouldn’t. It was wise advice; and, fortunately, looking at the effect of the sun, rather than the sun itself, does very little to diminish its brilliance.)

It has grown cold in a way that I still struggle to comprehend. I knew about the seasons, technically – enough to know that my homeland exists in autumn and autumn alone. I am beginning to understand, however, that knowing something and experiencing it are two different things entirely.

I assumed that, in spite of its permanence, the autumn of the Wynding Gold was natural. It was startling enough to learn that it was unnatural for the weather and the temperature to remain unchanged at all times; a lukewarm heat that was never stifling, a pleasant breeze that was never too strong, sunlit dapples, filtered through the leaves, that only differed from day to day with the passage of time. This world is not the same. It changes with each moment that passes.

I have come to wonder, on occasion, if that is why outsiders value their lives so much. I know that, when I die, I will return again to home, and home will be just as it has always been – the people change, and the creatures of the wood change, but never too much. Never in a way that is unrecognizable.

When I look at the sea, it is never the same as I remember it.

My hooves slide on the salt-slick steps that lead down the cliffside; I take them too fast, as usual, and I nearly lose my balance, as usual. I am getting better at flying, but there is something about walking those ancient, worn, and likely dangerous stairs that appeals to me. I am not afraid of stumbling, though I usually do, at least a time or two. I have too much confidence in my wings for that.

The air smells saltier the closer I get to the ocean. It is far out, this morning; there are miles of sand between me and the water. It also smells profoundly of fish, a scent that I am only just beginning to recognize after spending a bit of time around Terrastella’s docks. I clamber out onto the sands, relishing the way that the wind picks up and tousles my hair, though I know that the tangles will be trouble to deal with later. The air still bites - my nose is still unaccustomed to the sting of salt and early-winter chill.

I am several steps into the sand when it hits me – really, really hits me – that I am experiencing my first winter. I can barely believe it. (It also barely feels like winter. I expected some major shift, like the difference between day and night, but it really feels no different from the day before.) I wonder what it will be like to see bare-branched trees and, if I’m lucky, snow. The very idea of snow is a mystery to me, like rain was only weeks ago; I hope I get to see it soon, even though I have been assured that it is very, very cold.

The notion gives me pause – but only for a moment, and then I am off again, bounding across the sand with the kind of vigor and relish that I’m sure I only possess because this body and mind are still rather young. I run with my wings outstretched, like I am about to jump into flight, and I consider it for a moment – the idea of finally daring to fly by the sea, in spite of the wind and the cold – but my (fleeting) attention is caught by a spiral of stones, dipped inward to collect saltwater. I slow, then finally stop at the mottled grey edges, tilting my head and staring down into the shallow pool.

I gasp - audibly, I’m sure, though the wind is quick to swallow my voice up.

A small, purple thing with lots of pointy edges is stuck to one of the walls. A gossamer blue thing, with numerous, moss-like tendrils drifts in the shallows. A fish with very long, sharp fins and stripes that remind me of a forest cat wriggles near the bottom of the pool, as though trying to dig through the stones. On a waving, green plant that extends to the surface, where it clumps up and bobs, numerous small creatures clutch the vine with their tails – their faces almost remind me of another horse.

I climb up on the edge of the pool, ignoring the way that my hooves slip unsteadily on the thoroughly sloshed surface, and I stare with amazement into the water. I’ve never seen any creatures like these before – I only recognize one of them as a fish, and, even in its case, I’m not sure about its nature.

I lean down until my nose is almost in the water, suddenly wishing that I could swim. The pool, of course, would not require any swimming to wade into (but it is terribly small, and I don’t want to bother all the little creatures within it), but, if there are this many strange things in one, small bit of ocean, I can hardly imagine how many things live inside of the rest of it.

(This may well be my only life spent outside of the Gold – I am beginning to wonder if I will have enough time in it to see everything I’d like. I never realized that the world was so big; the revelation is wonderful and overwhelming all at once.)

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@Caspian || ya girl is rather close to taking an ill-advised tumble into a tide pool and possibly dying from lionfish-related complications...if the jelly doesn't get her first. | "ars poetica," sally ball 

"Speech!" 

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