Black clouds sweep over her, and before she can even internalize the 
ominous signs of a raging storm, it is upon her.

She comes here often - to gather her thoughts, she tells the others.  She 
is an early riser and she comes here in the brightness just before dawn, 
watching the sun rise as tears stream down her face.  The bleakness of a 
clear morning, a clean slate for a new day, never ceases to trouble her.  
When the sun finally tips over the grassy hills of the faraway fields, her 
sobs reach a climax, slowly dying out as the brightness flows over Paris.  
She is a contradictory creature, to be sure.  The brighter the sunrise, the
louder her cries.

Sunlight burns the eyes and makes them want for something cooler.

Now, under the loose protection of a willow, she gazes up at the clouds 
with a kind of quiet joy in her eyes.  She smiles serenely, as though the 
scene in front of her were a peaceful spring day.  Why?

Then he is there behind her, ever the protective little brother.  
"Sapphire, come back home.  You'll catch your death if you stay here."

She makes no answer, only gazes at the rain and smiles brilliantly, as 
though some divine secret has been revealed to her.  He watches her but 
makes no sure move to take her elsewhere, out of the storm.  After all, one
can only force an older sister to do so much.

She rises from her sitting position, moves from the protection of the 
willow and into the open.  She leans her head back and closes her eyes, 
letting the storm do its worst to her shoddy clothes and wild curly hair. 
Slowly she reaches her arms out as wide as they will go and begins turning 
in slow circles, her hands cupped as though to catch the leaves and debris 
the storm is stirring.  Her hair is a long, dark mass of frizz, draining 
water from her head into her soaked skirts.  She is a mess of soggy 
clothing and pale skin, made paler still by the cold rain.

"What on earth is wrong with you?" he grumbles, tossing wet bangs out of 
his brown eyes like a young colt.

She stops her dance to look him straight in the eyes.  "I have never seen 
such happy weather in all my life," she declares.

"You call this happy?"

"Of course."  Gaily she jumps into a nearby puddle, splashing her skirts 
and soaking her feet through the poor excuse for boots she wears.  "It 
cleanses, don't you see?  It rids the earth of the horrors and begins life 
anew.  Flowers wouldn't grow if not for storms such as these.  It's 
lovely."

"You've been spending too much time with those silly philosopher friends of
yours."

She ignores the barb, reaches out her hand.  "Come join me, Lynx."

"You're out of your mind.  I'm not going anywhere."

She rolls her eyes and grabs his hands, dragging him out into the storm 
with her.  He resists at first, but her will overpowers his strength and 
soon he is as thoroughly soaked as she, though not nearly as enthralled 
about it.  She begins twirling again, not letting go of his hands, and he 
is forced to join in her game.  The skies roar and thunder, threatening to 
deafen them.  Their dance is illuminated by fast flashes of bright white 
lightning, but she laughs and shouts encouragingly every time the skies 
alight.  The thunder awakens something in him, something almost primal in 
nature, and soon he is as engrossed in the dance as she is.  They twirl, 
jump, shout and scream, enjoying nature to its fullest.  She jumps into his
arms and he runs with her, spins her, somehow manages to tickle her until 
they both fall upon the drenched earth, completely exhausted by their own 
ecstasy.

They catch their breath as the storm recedes, sprinkling them lightly with 
little drops of sweetness.  He turns and gazes at her.  "What was that all 
about?"

She smiles, a sight grown rare over her troubled years.  "That," she 
explains breathlessly, "was Mother Nature in a joyous celebration."  He 
raises an eyebrow at her.  "Do you know how sometimes you can be so happy 
that tears form?  And you're not sure why?"

Slowly, he nods.

"That's what just happened here.  You can't help but be happy in a storm 
like that.  You felt it, too.  I know you did."

He nods again.  "I did.  The thunder does something to you."

"Awakens your soul," she says matter-of-factly.  "Sparks something deep 
inside the heart to love and live and lift the spirits."  She sits up and 
wrings out her hair, the rainwater flowing into a puddle at her side.  "A 
storm is the purest joy the earth can display to mere humans.  We may as 
well enjoy what she has to offer."

He ponders over her words for a few minutes, then speaks.  "You, my dear, 
are not in your right mind," he declares.

"Then again, neither are you.  You did join me, after all."

"True enough," he concedes.  "Now let me take you home before you die of 
cold and I get the blame for it."

"Ah, I always knew you cared."

"Hush, you."

Fin.