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Far to the easterly beaches she has wended, unaware of what rustling her girlish tromps wrought on these softly sibilant shores.
Asxinu has no concept of time. She is unaware of her growth. She no longer remembers her father from before, with the cough and the opened wounds. Nor the one with a coat of pure white. He has always been young, and strong. He has always had a bloodmark, and two-toned eyes; one for the sea and one for the sun. He has always flowed with Ana, and they with the spirits of the deep ocean.
These same musings have led her here, and the musk of ammonia pushes far downshore.
“Tata!” Girl calls, not old enough yet to want for space between he and she. In childish teeth is clutched something treated far more preciously than her sticks. This she would give to him, for he must feel a significance too! “Look!”