and pluck til time and times are done
the silver apples of the moon
the golden apples of the sun
the silver apples of the moon
the golden apples of the sun
T
he sea is a mighty thing, the mightiest thing that she knows. It is still strange to Aster (strange and marvelous) the way it never sits still, for she was born when the sun hung motionless in the sky and not even the wind shivered along the water to disturb its surface. She will never forget the way it all came alive again, like a sob after a long-held breath, like a cry of hounds set free from their leashes, like a birth. There are dark clouds boiling up over the horizon, spilling across the faded blue of the sky, swallowing it all up to darkness. The air smells of brine and salt and coming rain, and Aster runs like the wind runs over the sea, wishing she was quicker yet, that not even her footprints would be left behind her where she dashes over the sand. If she looked back she might see the surf eat up her prints, and she would be glad to know there is no trace of her passing, only herself pale and perfect as a shell against the darkening day.
When she flies over the sand and into the cove with her mane and tail streaming out behind her, Aster does not see the wolf higher up among the rocks and trees; she only sees the crashing waves that send spray over her hocks and knees and sides, and she sees dark rocks slick and glistening with saltwater, and she sees the girl.
At once Aster stops, struck to stillness as foam whispers cold around her hocks and sucks gently at her hooves, trying to tug her out, out to sea. There are times she might have listened (and oh, when her wings are more than just a dream of feathers and her antlers more than just a hope of mighty golden crown like a seed still-buried in soil, then she will see what the ocean has to tell her) but now she only regards the girl who looks like she came from the ocean, like the waves bore her to the sand like Aphrodite.
Then she is walking forward, her golden eyes still drinking in all the silver and blue of the unicorn. She does not stop until their tracks meet in the sand, and she is close enough to see all the ways the dark lace forms webs delicate as spider-silk in patterns around her neck (and how she wants to touch that lace, those pearls).
Everything is possible, to a girl born when time stopped playing by the rules, and so it does not feel foolish to her to say (in a voice like willow-leaves blowing in the wind, or like brushing roots reaching down below the soil), “You are very beautiful. You look just like the storm - did it carry you here?”
And behind her, out over the open sea, lightning splinters the sky in fingers like veins and capillaries, like the branches of a mighty tree. If there is thunder, the waves are crashing too furiously to hear it.
@Avesta <3
