~Sand Angels~ (Charade/Wess)

Leonard Terrapin

Grains of sand.

There are trillions of them on the beach; innumerable fragments of what once was mighty rock or intricate shell. The shells themselves once home to creatures too small to grasp the vastness of the ocean. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps they knew that each droplet of water they lived in was as uncountable as the grains of sand beneath my feet. The day has come to an end and the stars in the sky seek to match the shore, tiny pinpricks of light reflected in the soft roll of the waves. The air is cool to the touch, for the water breathes moisture into the atmosphere, filling my lungs with its familiar tang; the scent of a world so close and yet so different.

I am always drawn to the sea at night, or rather where the liquid meets solid ground. I don't go swimming, but the peaceful solidarity of the beach in these hours is something to savor. My Grandfather says that it is only when a man is alone that he sees himself for what he is, not hidden behind layers of social stigmata or masks of insincerity. Here I can simply be, and enjoy that very fact. It is here, in the stillness that I can train unseen by prying eyes and let my fighting style become me. By the borrowed light of the moon and the illumination of the stars, I firmly plant my feet and ready my stance. I stand with my knees slightly bent, one foot pointed towards the ocean and the other to my right.

My left arm is held close to my side, fingers curled upwards in a fist. The other is held aloft, palm up and out to the waves as the dance begins. I let out a loud grunt and swiftly step forward, my arms changing places as I do so. Another moment and the outstretched hand smacks on top of the one by my side, before I bring them both up in a double blocking motion. The movement is followed by a punch to what would be a solar plexus, then a groin, then a chopping motion to the side of a neck. It is meant to disarm an enemy before causing them to crumple to the ground. I would take no pleasure in their defeat, acknowledging them for their strengths, not praising my own skills.

I run through the pattern again, and then again, substituting the two punches for front facing kicks instead, and the chop for a roundhouse. The last move faces me to the side instead of the water, and I continue going through the form, even as it takes me down the waterfront, leaving footprints along the shoreline. A warrior must be fast. Strength counts for nothing if a wound renders your arms or legs inoperable. But speed? An enemy cannot harm what they cannot touch. Cannot fight what they cannot see. Grandfather has trained me in the use of blades, and for that I am thankful; but every weapon contains a flaw, for the weapon is only as good as the hand that wields it.

My siblings do not take our training as seriously as I do, but that is to be expected. I am the oldest and as such, responsibility falls to me. They do not comprehend the full scale of our family's honor, though I hope that one day they understand. My path takes my past shifting sands and the occasional wave that laps at my ankles, but it does nothing but further soothe and clear my mind. That is, until a form that is neither sand nor water enters my field of vision. I am genuinely surprised; it is not often that I come across another person in the dead of the night. A kindred spirit? Or the bitter mote of a lost soul? I pause in my attacks and follow his gaze. In the ground in front of me there is a image. It is clearly a winged form, that of an angel. The boy sits in a tight ball, unmoving, blind to the greater world around him.

"It's a bit dark for artwork is it not?"

The words leave my lips before scarcely being formed. It is an observation, not a criticism, though my intentions have been misinterpreted before. I find it strange that someone would be out here drawing in the sand, and he must have drawn it because this is not a naturally occurring phenomenon and there is no one else around, or so I think, at least until the I hear the sound of a tread move a pile of sand off to my left. I do believe that I and the ball may not be the only ones seeking refuge along the sandy shores of the ocean. But who this other is, remains to be seen."Who goes there?" I say to the still of the darkened sky. A reply will be forthcoming. If it is not, then I can only hope my opponent is worthy.