The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
—
There is a shining feather wound in the soft pale waves of her new-grown mane, twin (of course!) to the one her brother wears. Aster doesn’t know what bird or beast might have shed such a thing, only that it came to her and there was never any question but to take it and keep it caught against her skin.
She gives no thought to it now. But it is still there, improbably long (like a sword) against the brief curve of her neck, shining like a bit of star as it twists in the wind of magic and motion.
As she and her brother run, there is a great and terrible noise. If there were time for such things (later, oh later, there will be - once she has her magic, once each moment is hers to linger in) she might wonder whether this is the true world, showing its face at last. That there is nothing that can be trusted, when sand might become a snake and roots and leaves might writhe and tear and the island, so still before, might become a throat in full cry, ringed with teeth.
Of course now there is only chaos. Her ears are pinned flat back, her eyes wide rings of milk-white and gold, and not even Aster knows if she is screaming or silent, there is so much noise and motion. She watches her brother, and watches for spaces of light between the darkness of moving limbs and roiling sand, and then they are in the inner ring.
There is no safety for them there. Waiting, prowling, is a hump-backed creature of sand golden and dark, and where its eyes ought to be - a cocoon. She falls still as though struck, and fascination seizes her before terror does; Aster wants to stare into those chrysalis-eyes and ask if anything is looking back. Are all animals like this, do they all slaver and gnash? Only when Leonidas steps forward and bares his teeth does fear take her and set her trembling, and the feather flutters against her skin as she touches her nose to her brothers hip, and then insects burst like juice from the not-bear and it is too much, too much, so that she can only squeeze her eyes shut and stand -
Together they run, a patch of shadow and of light. The world is shifting again, too strange to keep track of, and it feels like only a dream. Adrenaline feels like ichor in her veins and she wants to laugh and scream for how not-real everything is; she wants to freeze it all so she can study it, she wants the dream to collapse or to open wide and swallow them all. Maybe they went through a doorway after all, with their mother and father and uncle; maybe it was only the wrong one.
There is darkness and light and a red something that drips down and stains her snow-white skin. There is a throbbing, pulsing sound in the air, or maybe only in her head. There is her brother before her, and nothing to do but follow.
Aster chooses Option 1 and has an iridescent feather to advance from the last round
She gives no thought to it now. But it is still there, improbably long (like a sword) against the brief curve of her neck, shining like a bit of star as it twists in the wind of magic and motion.
As she and her brother run, there is a great and terrible noise. If there were time for such things (later, oh later, there will be - once she has her magic, once each moment is hers to linger in) she might wonder whether this is the true world, showing its face at last. That there is nothing that can be trusted, when sand might become a snake and roots and leaves might writhe and tear and the island, so still before, might become a throat in full cry, ringed with teeth.
Of course now there is only chaos. Her ears are pinned flat back, her eyes wide rings of milk-white and gold, and not even Aster knows if she is screaming or silent, there is so much noise and motion. She watches her brother, and watches for spaces of light between the darkness of moving limbs and roiling sand, and then they are in the inner ring.
There is no safety for them there. Waiting, prowling, is a hump-backed creature of sand golden and dark, and where its eyes ought to be - a cocoon. She falls still as though struck, and fascination seizes her before terror does; Aster wants to stare into those chrysalis-eyes and ask if anything is looking back. Are all animals like this, do they all slaver and gnash? Only when Leonidas steps forward and bares his teeth does fear take her and set her trembling, and the feather flutters against her skin as she touches her nose to her brothers hip, and then insects burst like juice from the not-bear and it is too much, too much, so that she can only squeeze her eyes shut and stand -
Together they run, a patch of shadow and of light. The world is shifting again, too strange to keep track of, and it feels like only a dream. Adrenaline feels like ichor in her veins and she wants to laugh and scream for how not-real everything is; she wants to freeze it all so she can study it, she wants the dream to collapse or to open wide and swallow them all. Maybe they went through a doorway after all, with their mother and father and uncle; maybe it was only the wrong one.
There is darkness and light and a red something that drips down and stains her snow-white skin. There is a throbbing, pulsing sound in the air, or maybe only in her head. There is her brother before her, and nothing to do but follow.
Aster chooses Option 1 and has an iridescent feather to advance from the last round
