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we might be hollow but we're brave.
When Mother had led her here, Lothíriel had gasped with wonderment. An endless blue spans had been laid out before them, like the pale winter tundra which neighbored her home. Though the fine sand chafed the cleft of her hooves and got into her eyes and mouth and nose, the girl finally knew why her dam loved this place so: a brilliant summer sun illuminated the ocean, causing it to glitter and shine like gossamer. Lothíriel's florid eyes had transfixed on a horizon that was so distant and so near at the same time. If she could fly, she would chase it; would it grow ever more far, or would the world end abruptly, water crashing down into the sky at the horizon's end? The thought of having wings on her back repulsed her—could she fly without them? Could she feel the wind roaring beneath her belly, the clouds tickling her legs as she soared high above the earth? Mother had left her here alone for a few hours in this marvelous place, and Lothíriel decided to make the most of it. There was a certain peace to the lulling sound of the waves crashing into the shore, like a song so ancient many had forgotten its melody. Gulls crowed in tune, their wings casting shadows over the small child standing by the shore, leonine tail flicking absently as if in deep thought. She had the sudden urge to sing, her voice keening far above the birds would ever go. A note slipped from her lips, tentative and shy, more of an echo than a beat in itself. The gulls stopped their flight, the sea seemed to pause, waiting for another, and another she did let slip, and another and another until she harmonized with the sea and the birds. Their's was the haunting sound of the sea and things that lived far below the surface of the ocean, never to see the light of day. Lothíriel knew not what these things were, or even if they existed, but she sang along nevertheless, fond of the sound of her high, lilting voice. "talk" |
