In his hands, the apple grows into itself, taking on a life, each side, silver, gold, melting.
There’s a pool now, in his hands.
He looks, bending over his open hands.
The liquid is cold, slightly sweet-smelling.
Still separate in his hands though, the gold and silver side by side, untouching, like an explosive gum. Or the vinegar in a cryptex.
The fluid moves with his hands, flowing smoothly as one body, like the mercury in an old thermometer; there is something otherworldly about the way it seems to... look at him.
One of his eyes peers from the silver on the left, the other is waiting, just as demurely, in the gold floating on the right.
Absently he wonders what would happen if they...
The liquids melt together, swirling together and within like a ba gua sand plate.
Each eye of the ba gua winks at him suddenly, forcing him to blink and stumble, dumping the twin waters over himself as his arms fly backward.
When he opens his eyes again, he is on Boeshane.
Five years old...
His mother is washing him in a tub...
Boeshane was a backwater, until the Time Agency showed up.
The water flows over his face, blinding him. Stinging.
He is standing in front of his father, with twenty year old hands holding tightly to a document, while a fifteen year old’s fractured ambition burns lines down his face.
The water stings again.
This time, they are both with him. Watching. Standing.
His mother has those eyes, those ancient eyes. She might have had wings, in the right light sometimes, standing there, washing things in the pans. They both liked things old school.