Nyxa
In the early Spring morning Nyxa rises for a swim.
On the island, it’s become ritualistic. Ever since she slipped between the whitecaps and startled herself to near death, (had she been trying to die? Had she done it on purpose?) she dreams of the slow, wild curve of sharks and the flash of glinting scales beneath the quiet.
Some days, she swears it calls to her.
Today, though, she decided herself to meander down the pale beach and wade out into the churning waters. It was still cold despite the season; Nyxa can feel the lock of her muscles at initial contact but she dives under all the same. Down here, where the dark crushes in on all sides, she can feel unique rather than just another wolf in the pack.
Her wings solidify and spread like a graven cape at her sides, testing the current even as she sits just below the roll of waves. Her mane, colored like the seaweed clinging to sandy shores, whips around her with the tempo and she smiles to herself at the weightlessness of it. No need for air, no need for speech: just silent reverence and new depths to explore.
Her hind feet dig into the rippling shoreline and with a solid shove, she glides into deeper waters.
Beat after beat her wings slice unhindered through their sister element until she’s gained the semblance of speed. She tests herself; tries to cut quick like the flashing sharks, but she’s not quite as graceful. She sinks to the floor of the ocean and turns to exploring, turning over coral and rock with a busy nose until a bit of sea glass catches her attention. Victorious, the mare grips it between spotted lips and pushes off again to build her strength.
She must swim. She knows it from years of practising her shifts that she must swim if she ever wants to become one with this gift. So Nyxa continues through the tumbling waters until blue becomes murky grey and the temperature drops to near freezing. Not long after, the rocky bottom of land begins to jut from black depths and it’s there that she strikes out for - the odd feeling of never inhaling is still uncomfortable to her.
She drags tired feet across land, up through the breakers capped in fog until at last, she’s spent herself and there is nothing left to give. Collapsing into the sand, eager for a late evening sunning and unaware of where she’s at, Nyxa spits the globule of blue-green glass from her mouth and turns to inspecting it. “I wonder where it comes from?” the girl muses aloud, easing onto her side as the first unhindered rays begin to peek through gray clouds.
Perhaps it would come to her in a dream; a nap felt close at hand anyways.
Wayward daughter of Canaan and Circinae