Desreal: we had the world in our two hands;

Even if those foolish ones find themselves and return, they are never again right in their heads.
By the river. By the sweet, sweet river, she stood.

Pale as the moon in the sky. Pale as bone reclaimed by earth.

She smelled strongly of deer; their thickets and their trails.
She had thistles in her hair and mud high up on her legs from her deep place in the river.

Evening fell; she left her deep place in the mud - in the river - to climb its sloping rise to rest in the grass. She felt sapped of strength and sapped of something else that had pulled her here from the shores that she resided upon. If the grasses and the glade sang; it sang of her leaving and it sang too, of her homecoming.

Come morning; she had to return to the sea before her lover discovered she had left it for the familiarity and freedom of the glade. Come morning; she promised to find the sea again - a thing that tossed and turned and left her uneasy inside.

But he came; startling her from her calm so that she shied from his side. His harshness of breath - of greeting - became the hot and hoarse cry of something familiar that hunted her from deep inside her blood and her memory. But she came - back to him - back to his side and breathed out softly, gently, quietly upon his shoulder. She comes back to herself momentarily; renegade; and smiles up at him from the sweet curve of mouth not hidden by a sudden fall of stormswept mane.