"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
He sinks further into the sand as the waves die at his feet.
He isn’t thinking about the finale of the water’s journey from elsewhere to here. He is looking ahead, instead, looking at the horizon as the sun dips down towards it. It is almost surreal to watch the sunsets here. It is mesmerizing, the way the sky seems to bleed red and spill out across the water. It’s nothing like the sunsets of the Dale, all golden light but muted by clouds and bounced between mountains. In Ischia, there are no barriers to stand between them and the brilliance before the dark. There is only the boiling, crimson sea that quiets when the moon rises.
Sabrael stares at the sun even though he knows he shouldn’t (even though mother’s voice rings in his ears, warns a younger version of himself against it). He is alone, save for the seagulls circling above his head. He is usually alone, these days, both a sign of the times and the change in their crumbling family. Because when the earth went to shaking, so too did the foundation of their once wholesome family. He misses his siblings. He misses his father. He is a man now, and he’s had to become one without any of them – who might he have been instead?
The sun kisses the water and melts into its embrace. Sabrael waits until the stars come out, watches as they blink into life. There is a grim sort of satisfaction to yet another day passing. He wonders if he will wake up and know the day he will leave this cramped island or if he will simply not swim home the next time he is away. It is inevitable, he knows. Entropy is the law of nature; their family will eventually crumble to the point of no return. Even if he wanted to stop it, to stay and make the best of an unfortunate situation, he isn’t sure he could.
When the stars reveal no new truths, no secrets, he turns away. It is louder here certainly, even at night. The rustle of the macaws searching for an evening roost in the trees, the sway of the palm fronds against one another, the spray of the high tide against the rocks – all a chorus that plays well into the hours after sunset. Another sound joins the symphony, the telltale crack of a seashell under a hoof. Sabrael meets the snap with a narrowed gaze. “Sorry, show’s over, he says into the dark. Secretly, silently, he regrets that he’s missed sharing it.
Well isn't he just the brooding sort. She was bored again, always sooo bored, and went for a stroll that was so rudely interrupted by this massive cloud of blahh. That cloud seemed to originate from him, this storm of sulleness. Dull and dreary.
She grimaced as yet another of those wretched flappy creatures squawked about their many problems. Talk about annoying. He didn't seem so harmony-inclined either with that so-serious face staring at nothing. Man, what a bore. At least he seemed sort of pretty on the outside; he had at least that going for him. Maybe.
Could be he was so serious because he was fragile. Like these little shells and baubles scattered all over the place. She stared down at one, inspecting it passively. They were pretty sometimes, pearly and bright. But the loveliest always seemed to turn out the most brittle. And sure enough the iridescent seashell easily dusted beneath her weight. Shame.
It breaks the spell on the guy though, and he snaps at her. A crooked grin tips one corner of her lips. You call that a show? Certainly, nothing you were doing was the least bit comparable to entertainment standing there like a petrified numbskull without a wit to spare.
She took a single step closer and stopped, enough for the moon to light her plain features dimly. A mess of a brown mane, tangled and matted by salty sea air, a dull gray coat. Nothing at all interesting, as was her curse of normalcy. She wasn't all that tall either, being only about a year and a half old.
He isn’t disappointed when the snap is closely followed by a voice. It is as sharp as the shards of shell surely are beneath her feet, and it pierces the quieting night. Sabrael can’t see her at first. The jungle is dense and its’ shadow heavy; even after the sun has fallen, it seems to block out whatever light tries to filter through. He thinks about waiting her out, waiting to see if she’ll move out further onto the sandy stretch and let the stars make them acquaintances. But his youth (or the simmering nature of the beast beneath his skin) makes him impatient.
He takes a step just as she does; they nearly meet in the middle.
“Perhaps I’m strategizing, planning inventive ways to both defend and attack our shores, should the need arise.” His voice has always been smooth and low, but he drops it further for effect. “Maybe I meet with the King of the Sea this time every evening, make alliances with the starfish tribes and the whale kingdoms.” The salt breeze rises then, rattles the palms until they are shushing above their heads. The waves crash endlessly behind him, a continuous reminder that they are, indeed, stranded until the next low tide. It is an ominous scene that seems to play along with his words. Every night, his thoughts always grow darker with each passing hour. He doesn’t stop now to wonder if she might be too fragile, too young for such stories. “Maybe surviving the death of the sun each night makes me feel more alive, invincible.” The intensity of his fire-gold gaze doesn’t waver under the gaze of the moon.
He does start to grin, though.
“Or perhaps I am as dim-witted as you say and simply enjoy a pretty sunset.” Sabrael rolls his speckled shoulders in a shrug. It doesn’t matter what she believes because he’s not sure what he believes himself. It is good to have company either way, and he won’t scare her off just yet. “Sabrael. You, shell-crusher?” She’s younger than he is but not by much. He thinks he’s seen her around the island before, but never with any parental figures to speak of. Children of the Reckoning he echoes silently, not for the first time. It has taken so much more than their lands – he wonders if the faeries had designed the depths of their losses. He tries not to dwell on it, to ally the girl’s unnamed loss with his own. Now is a time for forging ahead, for surviving and thriving out of spite if nothing else. “Enjoying paradise yet?”
He mirrored her step forward, and her eyes flashed with mild curiosity. That's interesting. As soon as his mouth opened he rose in standing above the others she'd met. All others save for Ea, the only female thus far that she just might get on with. Not that she'd ever claim as much to either of them.
She frowned as he mentioned the King of the Sea, starfish tribes, and a whale kingdom. Did he take her for a fool? Was he mocking her intelligence? Surely he didn't think she was gullible enough to believe those fairytales. "Maybe surviving the death of the sun each night makes me feel more alive, invincible." She scoffs at his melodrama, but doesn't interrupt. Fancy words for such a dull boy.
A slow grin shifts his so-serious features into something.. Well, sort of charming, were she naive enough to fall for it. Her eyes just barely narrowed. Particularly with that steady gaze. So, of course she doesn't show any sign of that awkward little flutter attacking her from the inside. He was the only one even close to her age that she'd met here, so she shrugged it off as natural instinct and forgave herself for the girlish slip. Just this once.
"Or perhaps I am as dim-witted as you say and simply enjoy a pretty sunset," he continued with a shrug. She wasn't sure she could believe that anymore, but there was still time yet for him to screw it up. Then he gave his name: Sabrael. It was an improvement from Statue, she supposed. Rolled off the tongue smoother, for certain. Sabrael it is then.
"Enjoying paradise yet?"
Hah. That's rich. She shifted her weight easily as she matched his stare with brown eyes. Paradise is a notion for fools. You aren't a fool, are you, Sabrael? she goaded. It seemed her night was becoming more entertaining, no longer the restless stroll of a lone girl with a lashing tongue. People tended to keep their distance. Or quickly learned to.
Is there so much fluff in your skull you'd believe in sea kings and fishy tribes? Someone's at least taught you some vocabulary. She scrutinized him a moment with pursed lips, letting a quiet grow between them. Well, she supposed it wouldn't hurt to stick around a bit longer and see what more she could learn of him. She definitely hadn't seen him before now.
Wallace. How long are you in Ischia? I've never seen you around. Is this gloomy staring-at-the-sky thing a nightly ritual for you or something?
