Word Count: 594
Summary: You could never practice swimming enough to be prepared for being lost in an ocean during a raging thunderstorm.
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Swimming was never one of Zael's best skills. So being lost in the rampant vat known as the ocean was as good a reason as any to panic.
Though he refused to lose his calm, even though he was being surged back and forth with each malicious wave, having mini, drowning heart-attacks every time his head went under, and the inability to regain his vision each time he had his head above water before another splash hit him.
Being separated from Calista, however, was a pretty sheer good reason to panic.
Trying to shout her name was useless, for he kept getting mouthfuls of water instead. Not that shouting would do any good, since he could hardly hear himself over the pounding of rain on his hand and on the water all around him.
The tempest had turned the water into a sheet of liquid black glass. The chill drank from his energy reserves like he was accidentally drinking its salty water.
He kicked with his feet and leapt forward with his arms. Just how Dagran had taught him. Although Zael just had never thought that he would be using it under such dire circumstances. He would have practiced harder.
But there was no amount of practicing swimming in a calm bay, with water warmed by the sun, and a refreshing breeze accompanied by bird song, that could prepared you for the wicked side of an ocean during a storm created by Hell.
The water dragged him down again, farther this time, like something had grabbed his ankle and had made a practically nasty pull towards the darkest part of the sea. Kicking frantically and opening his mouth a little too wide from the cold savaging his chest, the gulp he took was too big and made him sputter against throwing the water back up and not taking a breath into his precious amount of air supply left in his lungs.
He broke the surface again, coughing up water and still swimming forward, his eyes never ceasing to move along the lines of the waves, searching for a body, whether it was moving or still.
Instead what came into his sight was a ship. The rational part of his mind knew it was an enemy ship, and that his chances were he would be better warring against the water than on the planks of a moving vessel.
His exhausted, oxygen-deprived body, which has taken in too much salt and was shivering uncontrollably, disagreed with what his mind had to say.
The movement of his body feebly started towards the ship, which was either his saving grace or a nightmare in its full splendor.
But his eyes never stopped searching for her.
As he moved closer to the ship, he was afraid that if they spotted him, they would shoot him down without question, but there was no turning back at this point.
Another wave rammed into him, like being tackled by an oversized animal. He was slammed against the ship, making him bring up the rest of the salt water in his stomach from the blow. Voices from up above were sounded, and ropes were dropped down.
Hands grabbed at him and brought him up, but as they moved him, he slowly lost consciousness, like a peaceful tide ebbing until it couldn't reach the shoreline anymore.
The last thing he saw was being laid down on the ships boards. He saw a familiar pair of shoes that he just couldn't seem to place.
His last thoughts were more oppressing.
Calista… where are you?
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Based on Chapter 38: Raging Ocean.
