Solira: The Ocean: the return, at last! [any/all]

How long had it been? Enola Gay had lost track of time – if ever my mysterious Vane kept track to begin with. It had to have been months, for months it took to produce a child, and one walked alongside the Shadow, keeping pace as best it could with her long, easy strides. It was Chapal’s son – Passchendaele, she’d named it, for no reason she as the object of this narrator’s whims could understand. The great mystery was why she’d kept it, rather than abandon it to the forest as she had done to Fenrisulfr (who she knew (of course she knew, for my Vane tends to know many things) was a Queen – how exciting, and such a shame Enola Gay does not know pride! She only pauses now and again to mull over the peculiar nature of the world and how it sorts itself out; that the foal should be rescued by none other than her father, and has now risen to such heights. Enola had left her to fate and fate had treated her well, and it was true that my Vane was pleased about this (though it was also true she would not have been sorrowful if fate had thrown Fenris to the wolves).

In any case, I digress. Why did she keep this child? It was certainly not that she felt more adept at motherhood – even now as she strolled along she did not pause to consider the pace of the child and slow for him and entertain his distracting interests in insects and birds. It could have to do with Chapal, whom she freely admitted she loved. Perhaps the thought of abandoning his son, hurting Chapal in such a way (and really she risked the prospect of losing him altogether, if he finally saw how empty her soul sometimes was), was what made her keep the child. Maybe Passchendaele gave her purpose again; something to work on, something to provide her with self-satisfaction if she did a good job.

Maybe it was the child himself. He was a lovely-looking boy, blood red bay (let’s not bother discussing the genetics of this), his mane and tail pure and dark and beautifully opposite to his mother. In part, he reminded her of Caiaphas, who she’d cared for greatly once upon a time. His eyes, however, were rather peculiar, and maybe this is why she liked him – they were small and black, and though they seemed deep, and thoughtful, there was something hard about them; an edgy intelligence, as if he knew things well beyond his years. One was lazy, slipping off course every now and then as he squinted and considered the things before him. He did not have eyes of a compassionate creature and in this way he was much like his mother – it was as if, where Enola could find no emotion, Passchendaele had them, assessed them, and dismissed it as mortal chemical connections in the brain without larger consequence. He wasn’t afraid to feel but he knew feeling meant nothing in the greater picture, and in this he was a great philosopher, and in this he was sometimes a little mad. Most of all, he intrigued Enola Gay – she marveled that she could have produced such a clever little thing. Well, little for now. He was built like a warrior and would no doubt end up considerably larger than the sleek Shadow.

For now he stumbled along behind her, lacking his mother’s grace even if he were able to keep pace. Eventually Enola Gay took pity on him (or perhaps was simply impatient, it’s always hard to say with my girl), and sent a little gust of wind behind and under him to scoot him along beside her. He liked that, and laughed. He had no problems with laughter, although it never sounded quite free enough, quite reckless. Passchendaele was always keenly aware that he was laughing.

And finally, the sand, the sun, the surf. Enola Gay stood with her ankles in the ocean and breathed deep. Good Lord how she’d missed this place. Contentment being one of the few things Enola could feel and understand, she felt it swell inside of her now, and a soft smile alighted on her sharp, dark face.