Flowergirl, Percy Jackson

001. The Sun, The Sea, The Wind

001───────ஐ〰ฺ･:*:･✿the sun, the sea, the wind

  THERE'S SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL ABOUT SEEING THE SEA FROM THIS ANGLE. Usually, she is toe-deep in sand, ankles drowning in ultramarine aqua. Sand would stick in-between her toes as if it couldn't tear itself away; later, she would spend hours trying to pull away every last grain. (But despite this, she returned to the sea, naive excitement and childish gaiety rooted deep in her heart .) 

  Sometimes, as when her soul was young and untainted (and this was many, many years ago, before loss, before pain) she would climb up the treacherous cliffs — white chalk staining her fingers and feet, the wind blowing through her hair. The sun would be hidden; the clouds determined to mask their temperate antithesis.  

  This time, the sea is neither speckled with white dots and scars, nor turquoise perfection against a sun-kissed shore. No sun reflects and refracts through the cool water. No, the sea is blue — cobalt, azure, sky blue — all blending, merging together until all she can see is blue. She can feel it too; she can feel the blue wind blowing on her face; the blue taste of salt and sea and saline steam burns her tongue. How can you taste the sea? How can you drown in it, miles above? 

  The man above her shouts a warning; his face scarred with fear, marred with terror for the girl below him. She cannot hear him; she is a bird, and she can see the sea — now she is drunk on salt and sky. 

  He yells again; and this time she heeds his warning, twisting to turn to look at him, confusion burning trails of ash through her mind. Her eyes furrow; her body reacts as if she knows him, loves him — but who is he? She doesn't recognise him, but his eyes are a mirror of someone she knows — who? Grey streaks line his hair to match his ashen eyes, a beard streaked with grease and oil, hands red and raw; from crafting, perhaps? 

  But then the wind takes her body, and all thought of the anxious man is forgotten. What need does she have of worry and fear, when she can be free? She spreads her wings — wings, feathers that don't match her body, wax that does not seem to fit — is she a not a bird? She feels like one. She has become one. 

  The wind lifts her, and she laughs, elated. She has done many lovely things during her lifetimes; she has seen the world (a fraction, but it felt large enough to be everything), she has lived and laughed and loved, and yet nothing matches the joy as she floats, drifting along the breeze. The wind is strong; she does not need to work to move, no need to flap her wings. If this is what flying is, she could live in the sky forever. 

  She looks back at the sea; is it getting smaller? It is not any shade of blue now, just plain blue, dark blue. From here it looks shadowy— not the turquoise paradise she imagined before. She would not like to swim here. She is a sky-child, not a sea-girl. 

  The sun burns her back; a burning inferno of fire and flame, searing through her clothes until she can feel hot liquid running, burning her — she curses, then blushes.  (she has never been a potty-mouth, and she does not intend to become one. Her father would not allow her in the house if she ever let a foul word slip out her lips. If he knew. )

  She turns toward the sun in betrayal, tilting her head back, golden strands flying behind her in a cloak, a gown, a veil. Forget Rapunzel; her hair is flaxen straw, infused with magic that could put the princess to shame. Her hair burns, fire sparks and she lets a gasp out her mouth, before another laugh — oh, the sun is playing with her ! 

  And then the wind stops supporting her, giving to her shining enemy, betraying the girl who thought they were playing. The wind releases the once sky-child, and allows her to fall. The navy blue sea laughs at the gift the sky has given it, and prepares its waters to steal a golden haired child from the wind.