The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
—
When the world begins to tremble and shake and the waves leap high on the beaches and the tops of the trees shiver and shed their leaves, Aster goes to her brother and lays her cheek along his own.
“Leonidas,” she says, and the shape of all those syllables is still new enough to thrill her, though it feels as though she was born knowing them, was born knowing everything about her dark twin. The pale filly says nothing more, just lips at a curl near his throat that shows the barest hint of gold in the sunlight that has not shifted in days.
There are other horses along the beach beneath the staring gaze of the stone unicorn, and they are all of them strangers. But when some of them begin to walk after that shifting path of sand and hoof-steps, Aster looks at her brother with their matching golden eyes (like creatures of the islands themselves, pyrite for pupils) and follows them.
It is a difficult path through the thick and silent trees, with no birdsong to warn of their passing and no insect-buzz to hum in their ears, but she is small and quick and moves through the tangles of fern and brush with ease, a spot of snow against dark green. And when they arrive at the clearing she stands still as a ghost in the shadows of the treeline and watches in silence - first the horses around them, and then the object in the center, shining more brightly than the sun.
For now Aster does nothing more than observe.
Aster is staying
“Leonidas,” she says, and the shape of all those syllables is still new enough to thrill her, though it feels as though she was born knowing them, was born knowing everything about her dark twin. The pale filly says nothing more, just lips at a curl near his throat that shows the barest hint of gold in the sunlight that has not shifted in days.
There are other horses along the beach beneath the staring gaze of the stone unicorn, and they are all of them strangers. But when some of them begin to walk after that shifting path of sand and hoof-steps, Aster looks at her brother with their matching golden eyes (like creatures of the islands themselves, pyrite for pupils) and follows them.
It is a difficult path through the thick and silent trees, with no birdsong to warn of their passing and no insect-buzz to hum in their ears, but she is small and quick and moves through the tangles of fern and brush with ease, a spot of snow against dark green. And when they arrive at the clearing she stands still as a ghost in the shadows of the treeline and watches in silence - first the horses around them, and then the object in the center, shining more brightly than the sun.
For now Aster does nothing more than observe.
Aster is staying
STAFF EDIT***
@aster has rolled a 2! She has been awarded +150 signos.
