in tenebris est veritas.
She has begun to assemble the pieces into something resembling a flower. The seashells are petals, overlapping in a concentric pattern; the sea grass are leaves, looped gently beneath; the little crab legs are the inner filaments, limp without attachment. When the arrangement is complete, she reaches into her pack to retrieve a stubby candle and flintsteel. The wick is lit, its little flame no match for the fiery beauty in the fading heavens, and the wax begins to melt.
“You credit Safrin, I suppose,” she conjectures in response to his description of the reef. Her eyes remain on the candle, waiting for something. “I wonder if it is a natural occurrence after all, just like these shells and weeds-- waiting to be crafted into a new intention.”
A glimpse upward finds her eyes met with his, a brow furrowing in contemplation of the unspoken. Her own gaze grows momentarily distant, struck with recollections of wet weightlessness, of treading arms and the taste of salt water. “I can swim,” she replies curiously, tearing her attention from his mysterious question to regard her little construction. She disassembles it, beginning on a new shape as she adds with a less than hidden grin, “I am afraid I cannot drown for my crimes.”
“You credit Safrin, I suppose,” she conjectures in response to his description of the reef. Her eyes remain on the candle, waiting for something. “I wonder if it is a natural occurrence after all, just like these shells and weeds-- waiting to be crafted into a new intention.”
A glimpse upward finds her eyes met with his, a brow furrowing in contemplation of the unspoken. Her own gaze grows momentarily distant, struck with recollections of wet weightlessness, of treading arms and the taste of salt water. “I can swim,” she replies curiously, tearing her attention from his mysterious question to regard her little construction. She disassembles it, beginning on a new shape as she adds with a less than hidden grin, “I am afraid I cannot drown for my crimes.”
