06-05-2021, 03:24 PM
It is the first thing spoken to her.
No.
(And she is just a child, Asterope. If she were to cast herself out of the water, it would wind its wet hands around her ankles and it would drag her back into its depths. You see, the water does not belong to her but her to it. The water does not sing to her but her to it.
This is such a dreadful loneliness.
And this, the first word spoken to her.
No.)
The heart is a tender thing.
She sinks beneath the surface of the water, lets it swallow her up whole. She gathers her breath. She will not weep, Asterope. She will not let her feelings be hurt. The elk and the mountain lions and the great, horned moose do not come to see her either. When she breaks the surface again, the boy is speaking. Asking permission to drink and she nods without speaking.
The water does not belong to her but her to it.
“Yes, that’s all right,” she says. (The voices are beautiful, the nymphs’. All of the daughters have them -- not that Asterope would know. Like sirens almost. Almost, but not quite.)
But she is just a child, Asterope, and her emotions are fickle things. Her disappointment is chased away rather quickly by the appearance of an otter. But it is no ordinary otter, this terrific blue thing that skitters across the clearing and then springs seamlessly into the form of a filly. The water thing’s eyes widen with delight and a smile spreads across her face as her attention flits between the two young figures at the pond’s edge.
“I don’t think so,” the nymph answers honestly, head tilted, “I think I am the pond’s. My name is Asterope, what are your names?”
No.
(And she is just a child, Asterope. If she were to cast herself out of the water, it would wind its wet hands around her ankles and it would drag her back into its depths. You see, the water does not belong to her but her to it. The water does not sing to her but her to it.
This is such a dreadful loneliness.
And this, the first word spoken to her.
No.)
The heart is a tender thing.
She sinks beneath the surface of the water, lets it swallow her up whole. She gathers her breath. She will not weep, Asterope. She will not let her feelings be hurt. The elk and the mountain lions and the great, horned moose do not come to see her either. When she breaks the surface again, the boy is speaking. Asking permission to drink and she nods without speaking.
The water does not belong to her but her to it.
“Yes, that’s all right,” she says. (The voices are beautiful, the nymphs’. All of the daughters have them -- not that Asterope would know. Like sirens almost. Almost, but not quite.)
But she is just a child, Asterope, and her emotions are fickle things. Her disappointment is chased away rather quickly by the appearance of an otter. But it is no ordinary otter, this terrific blue thing that skitters across the clearing and then springs seamlessly into the form of a filly. The water thing’s eyes widen with delight and a smile spreads across her face as her attention flits between the two young figures at the pond’s edge.
“I don’t think so,” the nymph answers honestly, head tilted, “I think I am the pond’s. My name is Asterope, what are your names?”
Drops of dew from their hair
@Cross @Sickle