Erosoi looked across the sea as the sun broke the horizon. Seabirds screamed their tumultuous scream and a dark something far beyond the swells protruded just above the water then vanished. He rubbed his still heavy, sleep deprived morning eyes and sought whatever it was. He waited through a dozen breaths and chalking it up to a trick of the light, returned to his book.
He squinted at the horizon where the sun, stretching its brilliant orange and yellow morning arms, flung away its pink and purple covers.
That’s it! A strange heat flashed Erosoi’s skin. His heart palpitated. The Golden Age. That’s what uniting the tribes would bring. Not to return to the Golden Age of the past, but bring a new Golden Age to Braxon. Is that the purpose of all this? Is that my purpose? To reprisinate Braxon?
There once more he saw it, closer now. And there he watched a dark form silhouetted in the bright sun rise from the shallows. It walked toward him. He shaded his eyes and squinted and watched the form untie itself from the entangling sun-suckers.
And all of a sudden the warmth that had spread across his flesh descended toward and collected between his legs.
Long dark hair, blackened by the water depths clung to her body like seaweed. She drew closer. With pale rays did the sun kiss snow-white pomaceous shoulders. He lowered his head, but not before he saw her smile.
He glanced at her sidelong. Foxglove from the moor bloomed about her cheeks, vermillion painted her lips. “How can you swim in that?”
“Reason again call me they the seal.”
“Yeah, a nickname is one thing. Isn’t it cold?”
“Aye, ‘tis very cold.”
“Then why would you want to swim in it?”
“Want? ‘Tis not the question of want. The time from to I a child, swim I always and I can…”
Her shoulders high and soft and white, she sat as did he with knees drawn, but whereas he hunched over, she leaned back and propped herself on her hands.
“Afraid? What’s fear got to do with it?”
“Here no fear—” She tapped her forehead. “Problems not in there…”
Slender and long and smooth, her side yielded to warm and glossy thighs. Round and small and firm knees and straight and lovely shins. Uathach, a vision of bellitude as pure and white as sea foam.
Erosoi, glancing sideways, bobbed his head and she, arching her back, continued…
The bronze wind kissed her breasts, licked nipples wet with drops of liquid topaz. Erosoi had assumed correctly: they were firmest and finest pair the gods ever cast. And there he lay her amid impatient grasses and glimmering mosses strewn with dissipated jewels atop a bed of gushing flowers; he lay her under the blackbirds in the rowans whistling from the tips of their yellow beaks; he lay her under thrushes playing their flutes, their trills swift with accurate fingers, in the oaks. He drew his hands along her body—a body so white and so lovely—as slender as the exquisite birch. A body, conformed to the clover’s shape, with skin sullied by neither fault nor blemish nor wound. No more lovely could anyone find another lovelier than Uathach—more lovely than the moon on the waves, more lovely than the sun when it rises the morning after the first time.