When I come up, the world shines about me under a pale, waning moon. A fae gleam trickles slowly down towards the darkness beneath my feet. The waning moon means the growth of all sorts of ancient darknesses, the waning moon marks the nights when she stands her lonely vigil on the shore, watching. It is Victorian in its romance, her gazing out over the waves, candle in hand, it still makes me ache. If only she could know that it works…
It hurts me to breathe the air now, so I come only in Autumn, and only when the moon is waning. I do not know how often she is here; I can only hope it is not with every weakening of the light. Soon, I know, I will come only in October, only on her birthday. She believes it is a time of personal power, when the lingering remnants of birth magic are at one's disposal. So she stays longest on this night, willing me out from the waves.
It will not work; I belong here, and I am no longer human. I did not notice the changes, but they must have happened that first night, I left my clothes on the edge…
It is unbelievably cold in the Atlantic in Autumn, or at least it should be. I feel it now about my head as blessed coolness, the night air is too warm for me. My eyes are open, my vision unimpaired by the water, and this sea is so clear, it is a joy to be hear, where I can see everything about me so clearly…
