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*´¯`·.¸  *´¯`·.¸Elven maiden of the palest, most delicate shade of rosewater, blanketed by a waterfall of pulsing silver, glides as a swan through the dark lake of the night. The early morning sun peaks weakly through the clouds, a glimmer of hope, and a soft, tremulous cry is strung up between the trees like a beacon. Clouds unfurl in the sky, drifting lazily along the watery trickles of pink. Hazes of dew-soaked mist ascend towards the sky, smoky fronds almost stroking the grey clouds, before materialising into gold dust. Spindly fingers of mist wreathe around the mare, whispering sweet incantations in her ears, caressing her trembling bodice. She moves effortlessly in the half-light, silently as a dream, rising like the fingers of mist which enshroud her. And then, stumbling from the mist, a shivering form, cradled in a shawl of moist tendrils, pressing close to his mother’s flank. The tiny mass of legs trips along the hillocks and tussocks of mist, falling into the soft folds, lacking the smoothness of his mother. He glitters like the dew in the light of a crimson sunrise, ruby gems interlacing in his pale mane and tail, chips freeing themselves from the tangle of silver hairs and scattering the grass with scarlet droplets. Then, the two illusions vaporise, fading slowly into the blankets of mist, rose petals of dawn left in their place. And any that had seen the ethereal creatures, were doubtful that the two had ever been there. They were just figments of the imagination, conjured in the strange light between night and day. |