Water had turned to fire in her chest. It had dazed her, and turned her wayward. Well, as wayward as Beltane could be turned. The world around her had become a blur, an inky blend of memories that she could not quite grasp, and yet she had accepted it just like that. Beltane had been woken up by the fire leaving her lungs, her chest heaving and body shaking. Darkness had taken her right eye, leaving little besides the faintest glow of light and shadow; her right ear was numbed, noise little more than a fuzzy, faraway whisper, a hint, but nothing more. However, her left eye was met with the too-bright sun, and her left ear flickered back in an effort to escape the sounds of waves and birds that circled above her.
She watched up at the birds. Shiny black feathers looked back down at her, asking her if she was indeed sure she had not died. If she had, could she please stand still? They were hungry, and she had started to move before they were ready. Beltane snorted, her spittle still reminding her of the sea as she shook her head. It did not, of course, return her eye, or her ear. Instead, it only served to make the ravens cry out in agitation, their dark forms having then drifted away in the wind to find some other dead thing.
