There's something on the horizon, she observes. A flickering light, or rather an unwavering promise that the sea would soon once again claim her lover as its own. When he'd left, she would toss and turn in her bed until she'd finally give in and slowly move across her bedroom to gaze at the black seas.
Already she could feel the ominous cold that dwells in the silence just before he departs to command La Silenciosa María – the silence that leaves them both reeling and raw, and unable to withdraw from each other's warm embraces, even at first light. Their senses are heightened by the awareness of the urgency encircling them, and yet, strangely, time seems to somehow stand completely still.
To Spain, to England and to the rest of the lands – and seas – he is El Capitán, or El Matador Del Mar. When she utters his name, however, the touch he responds with is soft and loving; she knows all too well that he takes to sea what he cannot bring ashore. The hate, aggression, frustration… Many times she has reminded him that his search for revenge and absolution will leave the seas weary and bruised. It's the thoughts she will not let seep into daylight, however, that she fears the most.
In the crevices of her mind she fears that one day the ocean will swallow him whole: after all, it wants, and that which it wants, it takes. It has taken from him before, she recalls as she softly places her hand on his chest as a gesture intended to both reassure and comfort her Spaniard. His mind has already taken him somewhere far beyond the horizon looming – waiting – behind the brittle glass of the bedroom window; in that moment, she recognises on his face the same anticipation of both loneliness and destructive longing that often torments her.
"You're still here, with me…" she murmurs softly and buries her face into his warm neck. He draws a deep breath as he pulls her closer and places a gentle kiss on her forehead.
It's close to sunrise now; they can both feel the all too familiar sense of restlessness weighing down on their bones until they're but two limp bodies entwined and bathing in the soft morning light. The damned light, she had thought, all those times before. Why then would this time be any different? After all, they'd lain in the same bed countless nights before, and she'd attempted to sway his steadfast mind.
The sea is, in the most ironic of ways, the mistress she cannot compete with – she knows all too well the stinging need that resides in him; a need fueled by a profound sense of purpose.
"Don't drift off before it's time," the distance between them has already crept into the bedroom and the tangled itself between the rough, wrinkled sheets.
"I won't have you gazing at the sea when you're lying in my bed." Her voice is low, the words delivered in a tone that communicates both softness and seriousness.
"Mi mujer inglesa…,"
How she hates the voice that reverberates into her being, never failing to draw a reaction as it passes through.
"I would not dream of it." his voice is light, even playful, as his lips begin to trace patterns along her neck. She tells herself that she's content and untroubled when she's with him. Still, neither of them can escape the overripe feeling of foreshadowing that threatens to break through a thin layer and consume their minds.
She watches him – the calming and rhythmic rise of his chest, almost like mild, soft waves on a tranquil day at the sea. Something feels off this time, she muses – could it be that he has begun to doubt his decision to sail again? Encouraged by the possible doubts taking root inside his mind, she decides to push him.
"Isn't it time we stopped pretending we make each other happy?" she asks him, her voice determined.
"I've grown so tired of living like this, always waiting for your return, always watching the sea. Just… always waiting."
He turns on his side to face her then, his solemn gaze searching hers for a moment before he speaks. The silence is almost oppressing while he considers his reply.
"I have to go, amore mio," His hand moves to cradle her cheek, a finger gently resting against her lower lip.
"It's only three weeks." His reply does nothing to reassure her; she can't shake the unsettling feeling that has inhabited her entire being.
"Neither you or La María are invincible, you know."
He smiles at her then, and they're quiet for a few moments – the last moments they have to spare as morning teases to paint the bedroom with its warm, unforgiving hues.