Fighting the Riptide [tylerjames | arrows]

Where waves of water warp into cliffs of ambrosia, I ride the glittering glass of its surface. Fins of wood dance in churning currents beneath my steps of certainty, a dance of man and nature. Meanwhile, beaches of gold glisten as the onlookers to a dynamic of peace and power, craftsmanship and sport. When I wind through the arching apexes of the ocean's mountains, do the Gods hear the waters' euphoric hums? Or am I in fact entirely alone, a single shadow skating across the world's edge? Alas, the dance requires no answer to guide its board, only an explorer.

The day so far has been dipped in duty and lathered in anguish, but not of my own. Only hours earlier bones had broken beneath my feet and blood had rested as a crown of cruelty atop my knuckles. I can still hear them now, even above the calming crash of collapsing water. Baffled breaths breaking the pace of constant crying, the wails of a fallen figure. He had entered with assurance as the gem of his eyes, but left with vanquishment as the stain of his failure. Another body beaten by the existence of my emptiness.

My head, capped in a crest of blonde tendrils, falls against the back of my board. I lift a finger from the embrace of the ocean to run a droplet of its many against the curvature my lips. My tongue traces the seduction of salt across its skin, the taste of the sea. I exist entirely in the break between sets, a single shape settled across a still surface. My eyes see colors of vibrant variations, but do not baffle at such beauty. Night is coming and soon the stunning spectrum shall be swallowed by shadows, the truth of all beauty is its destiny to be destroyed.

A sound of soft shifting accompanied by a slight stir in the sea's smoothness spurs my body to a seated position facing an endless edge of uncertainty. From the horizon they begin to breach the ceiling of their captivity, waves growing out from the water. I let the first one wash over me, a rush cold crumbling across my back. The second one captivates my attention, invites me into another dance. I turn back towards the beaches of gold for only a moment before being blessed by the sudden speed of acceptance.

I am not one for emotions, but I believe it is when I am in the barrel of a wave that I truly feel my most alive.

I am gifted not only by a wave alight with the ambrosia of Poseidon, but of a ride as smooth as the silk of a Capitolite's cloak. Turns and twists are entirely at my disposal while the wave rumbles on. We learn from each other, and bend to each other's requests. When the salt of the sea finally folds over the blonde of my head, I welcome its embrace. I rest calmly beneath the scene of my wave's death, a final farewell to a true friend.

Emerging finally forth from the captivity of the sea, a hand runs through the mixture of sand, salt, and hair atop my head. Water still laps around the circumference of my ankles when my eyes find a foreign face staring from further along the shore. She is a fool, her fascination locating a demon hidden beneath the skin of an angel. Yet like all the others before her, I cannot ignore their gaze. I know a new shattered soul stands waiting on the sand for me to inevitably ruin, and I cannot just leave her be.

There's a flare of recognition on her face as I approach, I wonder what she knows. Does she see the prodigal prince of the Grey Family? Or does she know what sinister stories swirl around in the aftermaths of my actions? She answers my questions with a statement of her own. If she knew the nature of this boy from the sea she would have run, would have spit. But she compliments me instead, and the pattern begins anew.

A small smirk glows from my face into the sunset.

"Thanks, but something tells me you wouldn't really know whether I handled it well or not."

My hands push the end of my board into the sand to stand beside me.

"Don't stress, it's my job to know surfers. And for your credit, I did actually handle it well, though the wave did most of the work."

I bring my fingers back to my board where they trace of etchings of T.G. carved into its front. My eyes of ice and ocean turn back to her.

"I'm Turner Grey, and you?"