Standing at the water's edge [OPEN]
Oct 28, 2015 9:31:53 GMT -7
Post by Cordelia Marlowe on Oct 28, 2015 9:31:53 GMT -7
Cordelia could not remember a moment in her life when she could not hear the sea. The echoing rush of the waves accompanied her throughout the day as she repeated her solitary routine. She rose for the day as the tide fled as if afraid of her touch, and she lay down to rest as it stretched itself across the sand towards her. The charms about her neck clicked and clinked together as she forced herself upright from the bed. The nets needed tending, and she could not afford laziness now that she was alone. Laziness would lead to tears in the net that had shimmered across the bay for many years – that once had shone around the land itself according to her grandmother, back when her family was large and the lighthouse full of talk and laughter instead of the empty echoes of the ocean.
She reached out as she rose, testing the threads of the net with her mind, hands twitching whenever she found a weakness or hole in need of mending. There were a few curious creatures eyeing the small tears with interest, and she sent them away with a flick of her wrist as she drew the threads back together. Never again would they find escape to the shores of Sylthanis while she watched over the coast. It was a shame, really, that she would be the last of her family to do so.
After she had washed and dressed, Cordelia stood at the water’s edge, arms spread out and eyes closed, her hands making darting, fish-like movements as she picked up shimmering golden threads and knotted them tightly around one another. Never again. She could hear them even now, the merfolk and sirens, calling to each other beneath the surface, and her lips turned downwards into a grimace. For all of their beauty, the merfolk were sinister folk with silver tongues that would promise euphoria as they pulled you deeper beneath the waves.
Taking a deep breath as she extracted her mind from the maze of golden knots, Cordelia’s eyes remained closed for a few moments more as she inhaled. The breeze smelled of salt and fish, and the tell-tale sting of magic. It smelled like her mother had before her sickness, like the shirts her father packed in his case before he went to sea. For an instant, the grief rose in her mind and water as salty as that lapping at her toes threatened to fall from beneath closed eyelids. They had been taken too soon, far too soon, and she hadn’t seen another human soul in months spare those who waved at the lighthouse from the faraway decks of their ships. She would survive, she always did.
Opening her eyes, she stared out at the shimmering eternity of the ocean before turing mutely and walking along the sand. There were other nets to tend to, those that caught her fish to eat and required a far more physical labour than the shining strands that had long since become a part of her. And she would need more wood for the light that night – there was a storm coming, the smell like burning on the cold of the wind, and she would be ready for it. Yes, she would survive.
But Cordelia awaited, as she had always done, the day in which she would live.
She reached out as she rose, testing the threads of the net with her mind, hands twitching whenever she found a weakness or hole in need of mending. There were a few curious creatures eyeing the small tears with interest, and she sent them away with a flick of her wrist as she drew the threads back together. Never again would they find escape to the shores of Sylthanis while she watched over the coast. It was a shame, really, that she would be the last of her family to do so.
After she had washed and dressed, Cordelia stood at the water’s edge, arms spread out and eyes closed, her hands making darting, fish-like movements as she picked up shimmering golden threads and knotted them tightly around one another. Never again. She could hear them even now, the merfolk and sirens, calling to each other beneath the surface, and her lips turned downwards into a grimace. For all of their beauty, the merfolk were sinister folk with silver tongues that would promise euphoria as they pulled you deeper beneath the waves.
Taking a deep breath as she extracted her mind from the maze of golden knots, Cordelia’s eyes remained closed for a few moments more as she inhaled. The breeze smelled of salt and fish, and the tell-tale sting of magic. It smelled like her mother had before her sickness, like the shirts her father packed in his case before he went to sea. For an instant, the grief rose in her mind and water as salty as that lapping at her toes threatened to fall from beneath closed eyelids. They had been taken too soon, far too soon, and she hadn’t seen another human soul in months spare those who waved at the lighthouse from the faraway decks of their ships. She would survive, she always did.
Opening her eyes, she stared out at the shimmering eternity of the ocean before turing mutely and walking along the sand. There were other nets to tend to, those that caught her fish to eat and required a far more physical labour than the shining strands that had long since become a part of her. And she would need more wood for the light that night – there was a storm coming, the smell like burning on the cold of the wind, and she would be ready for it. Yes, she would survive.
But Cordelia awaited, as she had always done, the day in which she would live.
