Every second Bella spends watching the horizon makes it grow more beautiful. The grain rolls in softer and softer waves, the trees bloom in ever more brilliant colors, bees hum with a vigor that is infectious even across this infinite distance. Fruits wobble and spatter on the ground like fireworks, and the air is filled with the fragrance of ripe apples floating over grains and honeycomb. The sky is alight with a bouquet of colors so saturated and varied it could make a rainbow blush. 

She feels it all surging inside her skull. The colors become deeper, the smells more luscious, the sounds clearer and brighter. More intense with every passing second until the simple act of breathing is like trying to hold a symphony inside her lungs. It would be painful, if it wasn't so beautiful. Or, no. It [i]is[/i] this painful because it is so beautiful. 

The pain becomes an itch. In her palms to start, and then her nose. Her ears. Her legs start to burn. To rest is to stop moving, and to stop moving is to allow the land to change itself in front of her rather than transforming it by her own willpower, which is called momentum. In other words, stillness is death. There is so much left to do! There is so much left to see! She must move, she must move, she must move! This girl called Bella must [i]move[/i], so she can see what comes after! The horizon is endless: where lies Okeanos? The question burns inside her like a virus.

She does what is natural. She safeguards the voyage. Cutting loose, burning free all by herself does not even occur to her. These are her people. Whoever they are, they belong to her ship. So they'll succeed or fail together. She made a promise, after all. She's certain of that much. She does not perform the labor, but oversees the taking of inventory. Her voice is high and clear on the winds, directing eyes, directing ears, directing hands. She is full to bursting with the knowledge of how to do a thousand menial tasks as quickly as can be, and she shares them all freely. 

She does not transfer the supplies herself, because it is so important for someone with clear eyes to be watching the bigger picture. It feels good to stay in motion. Her red eye maps ten thousand paths for every set of feet to trod and her mind makes sense of them before she so much as registers it. These things are as natural as breathing, so she must put this eye on the path where it does not get bogged down by specifics. Her feet long to move, so she paces and follows along the plover line. 

Only the itch in her palm remains. And there is nothing to be done for that until her Sister comes to her carrying the sword. The one with the edge that means safety. The true form of love. She takes it in her aching hand for the very first time, and when she swings it she can feel a hundred different forms click into place inside of her. A dozen others fall away, but they drift on the breeze and out of sight before she can register them. And what of it? She is more, not less.

Her orders happen alongside sparring, now. She duels a single woman with golden hair (whose name is Redana. Redana, Redana, Redana. Re. De. Naaaaaaaa) up and down the line, daring to spare her glances for the ones who are working to prepare their vehicles for their last and most glorious leg of the journey, even now issuing advice that sounds indistinguishable from orders. 

But the sound of sword clashing against sword echoes through her words. Their dance is swift and brilliant. Graceful as the dawn and worthy of ten thousand apples, even be they made of gold and meant only for the Gods. She is teaching herself. She is testing herself. She is holding onto old strengths at the cost of older names. Names cannot fuel plovers. Names cannot cross mountains and ford rivers. Names cannot finish the long march and finally gaze as one upon the ocean. Not without the skills to guide them. And these people, this bunch of strangers and softies have maybe a round dozen among their number who will bother to hold onto these things with her. 

She makes her sacrifices for the sake of others. Her sword rings loud and bright, the most beautiful music for the most beautiful place anyone has ever been. There is one person who makes all of this worth it. One name she holds tight to attach it to a face. 

Redana. Fight her, Redana. Teach her, Redana. Dance with her, Redana. And kiss her, Redana. Redana. Redana. Redana. You alone have nothing to fear. She promised you. That you would never hurt again. And those words are as visible as a constellation inside her eyes.