Solira: The Ocean: To Connor, who calls himself savior without having saved anyone in particular; --

“ I have spread my dreams beneath your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. ”

-- Yeats

The mare-child – for mare-child she is, tethering between infancy and adulthood, that delicious age we call puberty – is bored.

Not just bored; monstrously bored.

The sea unfolds around her like a mantle, edges looping and twisting around her limbs as she walks by the seaside. White foam paints the black of her fur with white, like rabies in a dobermann’s jaws; it froths and bubbles against her limbs.

Her limbs are slender and neat, with no trace of violent burns and scabbing, flaking skin; one by one they move, up and down, with the kind of softness that is not natural but learned and learned well. The sea froths and dances but she does not mind it; lightning sparks, electricity paints her face in strange yellow-white lights; the pendant pulses against her chest, counterpoint to her heartbeat; still, she does not mind.

He is stark red and around him a faint aura of fire glows much weaker than her own borrowed heat.

Jörmungandr isn’t particularly social. She has never had reason to be; she has her twin, after all, the one she has known since the womb – even there, fluids against fluids – the twin who walked with her through Ersatz, beautiful, beautiful Alkonost of the golden eyes. Compared to that, the world falls away.

But she is bored – monstrously so – and something like innate curiosity leads her to the colt-stallion, quickening through the reef-banks, tasting the sand beneath her feet.

Jörmungandr isn’t particularly social.

“Is there anything to do in this place?” she asks, head tilted.

Her eyes are gray like blindness.

stormreaver
of night and light and half-light