. . .
Dark Waters
. . .
He walks into the sea in a daze, closes his eyes, lets the waves wash the dirt off his face and the dried blood off his feet and palms, welcoming the pain the saltiness of the water brings. It soothes him a way nothing could, in a way nothing has so far; almost like a caress.
So you return at last, the hum of the sea echoes in his head. You kept me waiting for a long time. Why the change, my prince? Why now? Won't you tell me?
He does not answer. If it is but an illusion, caused by exhaustion, why should he? And if the voice comes from the back of his mind, it should know he returned because there is no other place he can go.
. . .
Welcome home, the waves whisper when he boards his ship, ready to disappear in the ocean and never set foot on dry land again.
"I have no home," he answers under his breath.
The water shimmers in sunlight, as if it was laughing at him. I will be your home.
The words sound both like a threat and a promise. He would welcome either.
. . .
The loneliness is persistent, clinging to him like a coral to a rock on the ocean bed. Among his companions, it is simply there, at the edge of his senses, like the constant sound of waves crashing against the hull of the ship every time they emerge to take in air.
But when he is on his own, it grows louder like a musical chord. The emptiness thickens, the absence so strong it coalesces into a presence. Sometimes he can see her in dreams, both those that make him wish to keep dreaming and those that make him wake up drenched in cold sweat. Sometimes he can see her when is awake, on the thin border between sleep and consciousness.
He has never seen her face, and her form is like water, fluid, always in motion, a glimmer here, a flash there; impossible to recognise. She is barely there, translucent like water when light falls on her, dark like deep ocean when she walks in the shadows; a storm and the eye of the storm; always, always like the sea.
Her slender hands are like water, too, equally soft, and her voice is like the gentle hum of the waves as she leans over him, her gleaming hair falling over his shoulders like two waterfalls.
"What beautiful music you make for me," she whispers in the softest of tones, but there is thunder underneath.
"There is nothing else left," he replies calmly, as always. She should know the answer by heart by now.
"I have no heart," she murmurs, her cheek cold and warm against his, like two conflicting currents. "Only broken glass."
That is why it hurts so much, he knows. He knows.
"What are you?" He should know better than to ask. The scientist in him knows better than to talk with the voice in his own head.
"What you make me," she answers. Her fingers move over his, like a flowing stream. She touches a few keys, notes of some nonexistent melody. Her hands have no substance and she cannot play, but he can hear the sounds in his mind. "Nothing less."
The last note quivers in the air. But perhaps more, it echoes. Perhaps more.
"What do you want of me?" He almost turns, but stops at the last moment. He has never seen her face; she always hides it, either veiling it with her hair or simply by always appearing behind him and staying at the edge of his vision. And maybe he would rather not see it.
Her hand presses onto his shoulder, soft but strong like an ocean current he has no chances to fight. She presses until he turns and faces her. For the first time, he looks into her eyes. When she moves, even a little, her eyes shimmer like the sea on a sunny day; green and blue and light. But up close, when she holds still, they are almost black, like his own. Dark waters at the bottom of the ocean.
"You have already given me everything," she murmurs, just before she steals his breath.
Everything else – his mind, heart, soul – is hers already. He has given it freely, of his own will. Now is too late to take them back. He is not certain whether he would want to, even if he could.