[AW] shorebird

[Nicnevin]

SHE’S A WATERFALL PLUNGING OVER THE LIP OF A CLIFF:
white foam shattering on the rocks below.

The stranger assures me that saltwater is not dangerous (in small quantities, anyways); it only tastes bad. I have to swallow a sigh of relief before I reveal my folly. If I haven’t already, then surely the gesture would make it abundantly clear that I’d had a taste of it, well before I ever knew (or understood) what it is.

“Oh,” I say, reassured – albeit entirely unwilling to admit to it. (That would just be shameful. I’m an adult, technically, and I should know better.) If she suspects that I’ve already drunk saltwater or has any prevailing theories about my concern, they aren’t evident on her face or in her tone, and so I just nod my understanding. Most things can make you sick, in large enough quantities…but at least the saltwater was just disgusting, and I spat most of it out besides.

She agrees to my request to show me the forest, but she adds that it is a bit of a walk. In the back of my mind, I know that it is no mark of wisdom to follow a perfect stranger anywhere, but I decide, although I know better, that I trust her. (The knight that I used to be advises against trusting outsiders, but I disregard her opinion.) I don’t have time to think about it for long, because she mentions warming ourselves up at a festival, and all my caution dissipates immediately at the prospect of a festival.

“Thank you!” I chirp, and then immediately add, “There’s a festival going on?” Oh, I have so many questions about it. We had festivals at home, but I don’t know much of anything about how or why outsiders celebrate. (For a moment, I recall sweet wines and apple ciders, sugary pastries dripping honey and syrup, firefly-filled lanterns strung from the lower branches of ancient trees, the ones near enough to the ground and sparse enough to be easily accessible. For a moment, I recall a low haze of gold, and singing, and string and woodwind instruments, and the dancing. I was good at it in my first life, but not my second, and I have yet to decide if this body is well-suited for it or not. She is lanky now, still somewhat clumsy, but perhaps she will grow into it.) Oh, I have questions upon questions upon questions, but I can save them for the walk to the forest and through the festival. Which forest? Why are they celebrating? What is the celebration like? How do they celebrate?

There will be time for all of those questions, I’m sure – it’s only a matter of asking them. (Hopefully she will not lose her patience with my ignorance.)

There is light in the distance, a dull glow against the clouds. I follow her gaze to it, and I think, oh yes, that must be it; and the soft gold of it nearly reminds me, for a moment, of home, and I can’t help but wonder if – when – I will ever go back.

(It probably isn’t worth considering. I’ve only just arrived.)

She is off walking, and, before I actually follow her, she turns and tells me that her name is O. “O,” I repeat – a single syllable, or maybe a single letter. It’s not what I’d expect from a name, but maybe outsiders have different conventions from us. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Nicnevin.” I mean every word of it.

And then – I scamper forward to follow her as she picks her way towards the cliffs, a splash of autumn leaves against the bone-white of the shore.

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@Apolonia || aaaand done <3 || gregory orr, "once the two of us"

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