Assailant
A breeze abruptly throws itself at his back and the copper-tipped curtains of dark locks that cascade handsomely along the firm curve of his crest whip into a bit of a frenzy. He tries to let the air’s cool fingers soothe the burning sensation that threatens to rip his soul apart, but if anything, the renewed strength of the ocean’s scent only sets him on the verge of boiling again. He looks further along to where the Meadow lies, hoping the others are waiting for him, for he feels that, while they may not be the remedy for his ails, seeing them would at least give him the tools to reignite another kind of flame within him. The kind that is comforting and protective, rather the spiteful, consuming one that currently licks at his heels.
But he is not quick enough in beginning to move from the line where sand blends into soil and his nostrils flare as they pick up on something else in the breeze that still stirs around him. While anything remotely smelling of the ocean is enough to remind him of her, his nerves instantly fray as he picks up her true scent, which has been hiding beneath the salty notes that initially swatted at his nose.
Any steps that he had been about to take are forgotten as his emotions begin to churn even more violently than they were just a few minutes ago. He cannot tell how close she might be, but he cannot find her with a quick glance to the left and again to the right; she must be in the water behind him. That surprises him, as he would imagine it would be much more difficult to separate even the heady and intoxicating perfume of her body from such a substantial bouquet.
So, he convinces himself that he must be imagining things, that he has grown so desperate in his desire to end this find her, to touch her, that a psychosomatic effect has started to creep into his senses. He blows out a breath of enormous frustration as his mind decides to add insult to injury by conjuring her voice in his ear as well.
Wait.
Something is not quite right about this illusion, not quite right with the sound. Hardly daring to hope, he whirls back to face the ocean once more and there she stands, dripping water onto the already wet sand. He drinks in the sight of her, from the subtle way the water darkens her coat to the seashells knotted even more firmly into her mane, down to the softened set of her features. The crack of her voice seems to leap through the space between them, seeking to cleave through the hot anger and drive him into her embrace.
He knows that he should listen to the instinct, should let that bitterness melt away and speak the truths of his heart. He knows.
But he can’t, not yet. If only he had that true flame now. He could hand it over to her, let it eat away at her flesh just as the emotional ones have been doing to his mind over all of this time. Deep within himself, he knows that this is wrong, but if she could turn her back so easily once, what would prevent her from doing it again and again? The doubt lingers, attempting to wring every drop of passion from his heart so that it can better stoke the fire of his anger. He does not know what he needs from her to calm the inferno, but he knows that he cannot let himself fall at her feet, not yet. From the look in her eyes, he suspects she might not find any satisfaction in seeing him grovel before her, but she has enjoyed her little games before, so he covers her name in a thin layer of the same ice that she has been walling herself behind and a similarly fragile hardness settles in his eyes.
“Adriana…”
All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware
--Martin Buber
@Adriana