Concept of Grace
Written By
Moirei & breathe1926
"you fixed your eyes on us, your flesh and blood,
a sculpture of water and unsettled dust.
when there was bad blood in us,
we learn our lesson,genesis to the last generation.
so we wrestle with it all, the concept of grace
and the faithful concrete as it breaks our fall."
Prologue
Beyond Sea and Sky
The dark forest that covered a great expanse of the island rushed by in a blur. Shades of leaves and streaks of rock were occasionally broken in glimpses of the murky water that surrounded this place, enclosing and isolating it as effectively as strong walls.
Bark dug into his hands as he swung from branches. Rock scrapped across his feet as he scaled the crag. The rough textures that once ripped through flesh was met with the hard calluses formed over years. After all, survival is only possible with skin stronger than stone.
At the height of the ridge, he paused at the sight of a small fishing vessel, the only moving form against the bleak backdrop of grey endless sky and sea. One word filled his mind, the sum of a dream that had helped him persevere through a nightmare of years.
Salvation.
He continued to watch the boat sail for a moment. Then, he ran–faster than he had run for anything in his life.
Five years in hell and he finally saw a tangible sign of hope, a true chance of rescue.
His steps grew quick along the edge of the bluff before he jumped down and plunged back into the forest. Dodging past trees, tearing through briers, leaping over fallen logs, he traveled back to where his weapons remained.
He stabbed his knife into the stone to free both hands and then opened the cloth covering a pile of various arrows and a wooden bow. The weight of the bow in his hand had become familiar and welcomed over time of practice and conflict. He searched through the arrows he'd crafted, looking for a specific one he'd made in preparation for this situation.
His movements were rushed by the closing window. He found the tar-covered arrow and quickly struck the head across the rock, lighting the flint attached.
With the arrow aflame, he rose to his feet, hands automatically moving to their proper grips on the bow and string. The heavy breath in his lungs and the rapid pound of his heart began to quiet while his body settled, still and focused. Like second nature, he set his sight and prepared to fire. The soft voice of a ghost spoke in the back of his mind, repeating a lesson long ago learned.
Survive.
He saw his target in the distance–a pile of wood at the edge of the beach he'd spent hours arraigning.
He felt the variation of the harsh wind that swept through the branches.
He heard the bowstring tighten as his fingers clutched it and brought it near his cheek.
And then he let go.
The arrow pierced through the air.
His eyes followed the arrow's blazing path as it moved along the wind and curved down into its target. The wood was set afire in a great explosion, bursting in flashes of bright yellow and vivid red. The booming sound created echoed over the wind and ocean. Dark plumes of smoke rose, a beacon to catch the attention of the vessel and a sign to show there were inhabitants on the island.
The boat changed its course towards the beach where the fire burned bright even in daylight.
With the task completed, he lowered his bow and straightened his body, reading himself to go back to the life he lost and start the new purpose left to him.
But, he would not be alone.
For the last time, he ran across the island.
Approaching the nearest camp they'd crafted, he searched through the gaps in the trees and the patches of green for her.
She was going to resist and fight him, tooth and nail and spear and knife and sword and poisoned dart. She had resigned herself to this place, content to fulfill her penance in purgatory, but he refused to leave her behind.
In the corner of his eye, the dark verdant of the forest was broken by a streak of blonde. Quickly he turned and managed to avoid the oncoming spear aimed at his chest.
He had found her.
At the edge of the tree line surrounding the camp, she stood. Her body tensed in a battle-ready posture, her hand gripped a hunting knife, and her face was set in a familiar glare. Before she could strike again, he anticipated the angle she would come from. After years of sparring, he could predict her movements as fluently as she spoke her native tongue. Soon enough, she lurched towards him. With a side step and a duck, he spun to avoid the sharp blade, grabbed her wrist and twisted till the knife fell to the ground. He moved quickly and seized her in a neck hold before she could rearm herself.
Pressure placed strategically on her neck limited the flow of air and blood. The woman quickly realized the intent of his hold –after all, she had taught it to him. Gasping and grunting cruses in a variety of languages, she struggled against his grip, kicking his legs and clawing at his arms. After a few carefully measured seconds, she fell unconscious and her body went slack in his arms.
He set her gently on the ground and quickly made his way around the camp. He collected the majority of their weapons together in a sturdy box of worn wood. With the strength this island had forced him to build, he easily carried her and the case to the beach, where his signal fire burned and the boat approached.
The fishermen stepped on the land, walking on the rocky shore and observing the forest with caution. This island's foreboding atmosphere and dark depths seemed to infect them with fear. The mask pierced by an arrow and displayed on a stake served as both omen and headstone (because of her instance).
He met them at the edge of the sand, watching the mixed emotions at his appearance and the unconscious woman slung over his shoulder. Without a mirror, he knew he truly looked like a Tarzian wild man –long, tangled golden hair and beard, dirt and scar streaked skin, lean and muscled body.
Using another learned language, he explained who he was and an edited version of what had happened to him. The fishermen quickly granted him and his companion passage from the island to Hong Kong that he thankfully took.
Once on the vessel, he laid her down on the deck and sat nearby. Wrapped in a blanket and cradling a cup of tea, he watched her and waited. Even in sleep her expression was taught and worn.
He knew she would not thank him for bringing her off the island. More likely, she would try to stab him for his sentiment. He knew she had grown cold and distant, and she had every right to do so. She'd been in that hell even longer than him. Her past had her trapped and the island had become her provision.
But all the same, he would not leave her behind.
Beneath her, the ground swayed and rocked in a gentle motion that could have been soothing if it was not completely wrong. Strong and steady, earth did not move nor change. The comfort created from resigning to an inescapable situation was disrupted with each movement.
Consciousness fluttered and slowly returned, bringing her out of the darkness and back into the world. She blinked as a light –bright, pure, and not filtered through leaves– assaulted her eyes and she was met with an unfamiliar setting.
Above her and all around her was blue. A cerulean sky that trapped her with its wide, open endlessness and expanded possibilities. An aquamarine sea that tormented her with its constant churning and changing, its inconsistent newness. The shades spread out across everything, interrupted only by a small speck.
The black of her prison drifted behind them as the small boat rocked farther into the blue sea. One word filled her mind, piercing through the color that consumed it.
Escape.
She paused for a moment, the weight of the definition settling. Then, she panicked as everything she'd known was swept away in waves.
Seven years in purgatory and she was leaving.
Her mind spun in circles and denied the reality. Escape had been a cruel trick, some fantasy she'd dreamt of and worked towards for years, only to realize it was impossible and fatalistic, like trying to touch the sun. Each attempt was met with failure in the form of scorched fingers and water-filled lungs. After being burned and drowned too many times, the island had become her life, a penance she grew content to serve.
She wasn't ready to go back into the world. The life she once had was taken from her when they had left her for dead. While her heart still beat so strong in her chest, in other ways she had died.
Her breathing slowed as she kept observing the blues. The varying values of the sky and sea were so different and yet they began blending into one. Her vision slipped at the overwhelming merging of the wind and waves. Darkness threatened to overtake her in her agitated state when suddenly she hardened and crushed the vulnerability. Her mind sharpened and focused.
She looked to the person next to her, briefly thinking back to the first time they'd met. He'd come so far from the dumb, pretty boy who blundered into her traps to the strong, fire-forged man who fought at her side.
In his eyes she found a new hue of that intense color. The shades of nature around her were too bright, too dark, too much. But this new gradient was calming in its familiarity. This blue held a light that was mirrored in her own. Her mind focused on the brightness of his eyes and the steadiness of his expression.
When met with his stare of concern, she adopted the harsh facade he would expect from her. He watched with sympathy as she studied him, her green eyes betraying her fear. She watched with caution as he studied her, his blue eyes displaying his peace.
Broken, battered and bruised, they both understood this new situation. The green of the island and the blue of the sky and sea would no longer hold them prisoner. They were headed back into the world.