From her perch high up on the ledge he seems little more than an ant. Small, black, a smudge against the majestic backdrop of sea and shore, insignificant enough to step on without feeling a shred of guilt. Here, with the world spread out beneath her feet and the cold, pale rock pressing firmly against her back she can pretend not to recognize him, not to care about the sour burn of anger and envy in the gut, the one that rises like bile and turn her heart bitter and sharp like stabbing glass whenever their paths cross.

She already forgot why she didn't like that boy. All she can recall is the exchange of hard words and unfair claims, but the details are lost within the haze of forgetfulness. He must really be insignificant if she cannot even remember how they first met. Usually moments like those are clear and vivid in her memory, a painting of layered brush strokes, action and reaction stacked on top of one another until the brightness of recollection blinds her. Indeed, such a small part of her life should be easy to overlook, but for some reason Erthë is unable to tear her eyes from the ant of a horse as he careens across the sand, running as though chased by something only he could see.

Why, though. Why can't she look away? Why can't she stave off the reckless urge to spread her wings and descend to his level, to forsake this elevated position of indifference and degrade herself? She think she knows what will happen if she do - bickering, bragging, anger and pain - hurt feelings as a fragile defense is shattered by a cold and reckless tongue. It would be madness to willingly expose herself to mockery and ridicule... wouldn't it?

The wind sweeps in from the ocean, buffeting her where she balance so precariously and tug at her wings as tough to tempt her into action. It is but a thin ledge she stands on, barely enough for fragile cloves to cling to, a sliver of rock halfway up the vertical wall. Below her waves crash against jagged rock, the force of the impact tangible - a vibration that rises through the rock and spread through her limbs, urging her heart to race, to beat, to bleed. For herself though, or for him? He looks very lonely down there. She wonders what he runs from, to maintain such a pace for so long. He is much nearer now, heading steadily closer to her cliff, her ocean, her mist-veiled home. Does he realize that he will be trespassing soon, cross an invisible borders and trample upon her hearts dwelling place?

Hesitantly she breathes in the cold wind, let it fill her lungs until they feel ready to burst. Reluctantly, with a sharp, explosive sigh she heeds the call of oblivion and stretch her vast, pale wings, allow the sky to swallow her and lean into the void. For a second, two, three, she falls, plummets, until the ground is closing in and the drumming heart begs her to live. At the last moment she allows alabaster wings to catch the wind and glides swiftly across the sand, past rocks and foaming waves, down towards the heaving, sweaty stallion on the beach.

Quiet and graceful she lands several feet away from him, a fragile snowflake on the stormy beach to block his path. It's a miracle that she doesn't stumble, fall, wobble on her broken, weak legs - but she blesses the Wind for this, because it is not easy to place herself within reach of this person. He is as tall as she remember, big and bulky and stinking of sweat, rage and blood, with a crazed look to his eyes as though he wished for nothing more than to pick a fight with the world. Pale eyes, frigid as the waters off the shore, fall to the shredded coronets from whence the acrid scent emanates. Her gut twinges at the sight, but the only change in the distant expression is a pursing of the lips - annoyance, that he dared stain the ground in this time of peace.

Erthë knew she ought to say something, do something. No words come to mind. Already she regrets coming down here, regrets revealing her presence, regrets caring for even an instance. They were not friends, did not even get along. So she looked away and began to turn, fully intending to leave before he could let lose whatever demons he carried on her. Before either could do more damage.

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Waiting for the rain I'm bracing for the thunder
A twig that wouldn't sway in the wind