09-24-2018, 10:57 PM
(Here they are, with the tall grass that touches their bellies, with the sunsets
and the rivers and the hazels all behind them.)
“Double, double, toil and trouble!”
The words seem out of place when she’s sleeping peacefully among the wildflowers. The evening is quiet and calm, and the words cut through the tranquility as though they are a serrated blade. At first she’s only dreaming, and her dark eyelashes flutter quietly against the tops of her cheeks. Because the words have come from no discernable source she must have decided that they only live inside her head, perhaps next to the stolen memories she kept neatly tucked away in the back, because she does not stir.
She looks so peaceful while she dreams.
There is no war over who, or what, she is. She just exists.
And then the sunlit fog rolls in. It blankets her completely, and an immediate cold settles into her bones amongst the marrow. When she wakes it’s with a start, her heart slamming against her ribs (lub dub, lub dub, lub dub). She moves to find her legs, because years of running cannot be forgotten overnight, because instinct is buried deep, because her mother would have wanted her to - because. But her legs are not the same ones she’d fallen asleep with. They’re fragile, and pale pink. There are two instead of four - she teeters for a few moments before she can find her balance; they feel fresh, and new, and weak.
(Here they are, weak in the
knees, still not able to look each other in the eyes because the beauty is
overwhelming.)
And then the voice rings out through the fog again:
“I’ve brought a challenge to all you dears, one that requires you face your fears! Don’t you dare cower, don’t avert your eyes, for if you succeed, you will earn your prize.Show me your very best disguise and search for the place victory lies. Bring me your best trick or bring me a treat! Tonight I’m the one that you must defeat.”
There are parts of her that want to run - the parts of her that she does not own, the parts of her that are someone else entirely; those parts, they shudder and quake, they know of magic and they fear it. She would be wise to listen to those pieces of herself, but she doesn’t. Instead, she moves forwards into the fog in her new, strange body. Maybe it’s her only choice. Maybe it’s to prove to herself that she is still somewhere inside. That she isn’t completely a shell, a lie.
(Here they are, years from then, and Cordis still reminds her
of mermaids.)
The fog is thick, and white. It’s blinding, but little by little it reveals the shapes and sounds of the things that haunt her as she finds the meadow - a winding river, a lonely hazel tree, a shoreline red with blood. Suddenly the world is full of omens. She doesn’t know she’s following a trail of ash and devastation. In the distance she can see a light; a beacon. It cuts through the fog enough for her to follow it deep into the meadow, and when at last she is upon it she can see that it is not a light at all, but rather the last glimmer of sunset against the side of a neat, white pearl.
Because there, haphazardly thrown through the branches of a hazel tree she stands before is just the type of outfit to fit her new body.
There is a crown, woven from the stripped down branches of that same tree, only with pearls strung randomly between the thinner branches (the same pearl that brought her here is on this very crown). She holds it gingerly, turns it in her hands once before setting it onto her head. The top is barely anything, crafted from hazel leaves with wildflowers sewn through, and the bottom a long skirt of glittering sequin scales dotted with pearls while the ends flared out like the fins of a fish. It isn’t warm, heavy furs, but it’s notably warmer than nothing. She dresses, quickly, and finally steps into the rivers shallows to stoop down and peer at her reflection where the water is still.
(Here they are, years from then, and she still reminds her of
beacons, of lightning.)
She is devastatingly human, with the same wild, dark eyes. Her hair is long, and wavy - gold, of course - and her lips resemble bright, pink cherries. She reaches out to touch the reflection and only sees the water rippling out from the tips of her outstretched fingers.
“A mermaid,” she says to herself, considering the memories.
“Of course.”
(Here they are, years from then, and she still reminds
her of all the things she once held close to her breast, of all the things that she once held.)