There once was a little village in a little valley next to a dark wood. One sunny day a baby was born to a sweet young couple who lived in a thatched house in the middle of the village. The baby was a little girl, mostly normal.
Her mother had named her Hera, so many years ago. It was a name of bravery, her mother would tell her through the mirror as she brushed out her long red hair every night. A name of beauty and elegance. Most importantly, it was a name of power. No man could ever – would ever – dare to betray a woman named Hera. And of course, her mother had been right.
She sat on the train and twiddled her thumbs and tried not to let the rhythm of the wheels on the rails make her fall asleep. When she came close, she would rub her tongue against the roof of her mouth, shift in her seat, button or unbutton her coat, depending on how it was. Once, she had gone up to the dining car and gotten a cup of tea. It still sat in the little cup holder, now nothing more than cold gray water.
Just a little ways from the shore the waves were blue monstrosities, towering higher than she knew waves could go. They foamed and curled and crashed and then the water came rushing at the white sand, flowing over it, reaching her toes and tickling them just so before retreating back to Mother Ocean. In between the waves – so big they must be dreams! – she could see the horizon, a straight line stretching all the way from one direction to the other. Blue meets blue.