Listening

The roar of the waves is a constant wash of white noise. A breeze blows past, bringing blessed relief from the heat of the sun, its light so bright that it blinds as it shimmers on the near-perfect cerulean of the sea. There's salt everywhere: settling in a powdery crust on leather that had been oiled not even an hour before, stinging the eyes, flaking on skin, coating throat and tongue until all that's left to taste is the tang of the sea. The white of the sand is glorious against the foam of the crashing waves, its beauty retained even when it's being shaken out of one's boots.

Dimitri hates everything about it.

He hates the memories of stolen, sunny summers long past. The ocean air tastes bitter in his mouth as it reminds him of a time when the sun had been a welcome warmth rather than oppressive heat, a time when he could gaze out at the sea without the weight of a vacancy where another had stood in awe with him. It aches, to hear the soft rustle of the palm fronds, and remember days of reading together in the shade of their latticed shadows, or watching a much younger Aiko build castles out of the sand to rule over, only for the waves to conquer them on the next change of the tides.

Once, the salt of the sea had sweetened all that he'd tasted. Now, it only made him choke on his loss. He hates it all.

Yet, as he looks on at the pounding waves, their constant ebb and flow along the slope of the beach, he imagines the grains of sand being pulled away on every retreat of the water, left to drift in the vast expanse of that damning sea: lost. Lost as a soul whose life had been severed by the callous blade of misfortune. Dimitri imagines himself, waiting, anxious, for the incoming crash of his own wave, the one to deliver him back to the drift of empty time, and leave him to float. Perhaps, perhaps, he might find what he had lost, that they might skim together on the edge of those timeless waters.

Beside him, his mare snorts, more than a little exasperated herself by the constant heat and salt and sand, and unafraid to tell him her displeasure. Dimitri's eyes refocus, blinking away the sting that has nothing to do with the salt-laden breeze, as he looks up from the water with a chest-rattling sigh. He turns away from the waves, the sand, the fantasy. Though he's not a spiritual man, it's a comforting thought, and makes the seaside almost bearable. Almost. Avala's coat is already damp with sweat from the sun, Dimitri notes, as he swings into the saddle, stirrup leathers creaking, already stiff. A last glance is spared to the blue expanse that stretches to the horizon, melting into cloud-scummed sky. He thinks of soft-spoken compliments, comparing the blue of his eyes to the blue of that self-same sea, years ago; wonders if it still holds true, or if his eyes have gone gray from the weight of his misery. He turns away before the fantasy of being set adrift can become too vivid, clucking a gentle encouragement to his mare as they step into the ring. No time left for memories; there's a test to ride.