Water in and of itself is clearer than crystal. A glass in a person's hands or a basin to wash those same hands in might as well be nothing more than invisible, sloshing veil between the space that mortals are doomed to occupy and the divine. It is pure and perfect; the only things that can be seen are what is given to the water to show. 

That small basin feels ordinary to look upon. Plain and more than a little bit boring. For all its striking clarity, the water merely sits there, waiting. It pools into the curvature, taking the shape with the same gracious acceptance as it takes mineral impurities, content for all time to accept, accept, accept, and never to reach. 

But the water is always taking. And the more it takes, the more it shows. When the basin overflows into a pool it becomes a mirror like no other: the rippling surface will take a person's face and show it back to them though in the same breath it permits their eyes to look straight through themselves and into the silty surface this water has accepted as its new resting place.

The more water pools, the greater its power. More water accepts more. Never takes for itself, even in infinite amounts, but invincible in its humility. The pool accepts the warmth beating down from on high, this gift from the sun that could drop a mortal woman to her knees if she tried to accept it in the same way that water would. The pool simply warms. When it has accepted the sun's warmth beyond its limits, it simply accepts a new form, lifts away, and allows itself to be gathered elsewhere.

It falls as rain. It falls upon the sea. And at last can human eyes behold the true and terrifying power of humble acceptance. That which is offered freely is enough to transform a body completely. The impossible heat and majesty of the sun dwindles to nothing inside the body of the never ending ocean. What heat there is gets absorbed so deeply that a hand brave enough to plunge into it would freeze before long. Now there is no gift great enough to satisfy it, and yet it does not ask for more.

Here the choppy waves are crested with white. And here the unfathomable reaches of the water have turned from mirrored crystal to the deepest and most impossible blue that could ever be beheld. Gems pale in comparison. The skies quiver with jealousy. Only the sea may accept enough light to give back a color this pure, this entrancing, this... beautiful. 

The color, she notices, reminds her of her own hair. It is of course much bolder and brighter here, reflected back at her and yet no matter how her mind turns away from the comparison she is drawn straight back to it again. The sea is not like her hair, but her hair is like the sea. And that is something. Vesper may have known what she was talking about after all. She peers over the deck and her own pristine face and fluttering hair shine back at her as they race ahead of the ship's wake. Her reflection smiles.

She breathes, and the air is salt. She breathes, and the air is sweet. She turns and walks away from the glittering, frozen, impossible blue and returns her attentions to the decks. There is so much work to be done to keep this thing afloat and moving forward. Briny air fills her lungs and is expelled as breath in the form of orders. She directs, much as she has ever done, to keep the work flowing as evenly as the seas beneath their feet. It is not entitlement that compels her; in fact her own hands and eyes are busier than anyone's. There is simply work to be done, and she has sight enough to follow the path to doing it. 

Mosaic stands beneath the mask. She is alone and yet...

She is surrounded by beauty. This ship, her Argo. The sea rushes beneath her, and in front of her, behind and to every side deep past the horizon without ever breaking or offering a sight to navigate by. All around her is breath, is laughter, is singing, is storytelling, is calls to supper, is questions, is an offer of an embrace, is promises.

Is love.