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Promises Unkept

The sea crashed upon the shore like a long-separated lover, rolling up over the sands with a hiss and a sigh. Detraeus watched, and walked. Beside him, Araceli’s voice was a wind chime, pleasant on the ears and silent often as not, filling the spaces between them. She’d spoken of a cove she discovered, far off down Eowyn’s shore, across the rocks of some of the cliffside where sand hardened into a great looming bluff and inwards. A place where the great sea had seemed to have carved a tunnel which stretched back further than she’d been of a mind to explore on her own.

When he had looked dubious and uncertain, she had dangled the potential of a sparring match afterwards, and so it was that now, as the sun edged lower into the sky in late evening like the single fiery eye of a giant, he walked beside her, leaving footprints in the sand and listening to the way her words weaved themselves into the evening breeze.

Her mother’s visit had gone comparatively well. Better, at least, than Detraeus could have anticipated on his own. He knew the woman still had questions for him. Did not trust him, fully. But then, neither did he her, and earning people’s trust or answering all their questions had never been high on his list of priorities.

As another wave danced up the sand, managing to sweep close to his boots this time, he glanced up from the path before him and over to her. Strange, he thought, watching her, to think that once upon a time, not but a moment ago by the gods’ calendar, he hadn’t a care in the world whether she was alive or dead, so long as he stayed out of his hunting grounds and did not disrupt his prey. Now…

Brow furrowing, he ushered the thought away. “How far did you say this was?” he asked, looking to include himself in conversation not because it was his forte, but because, at the very least, it distracted his thoughts from avenues he preferred not to tread down.

Detraeus watched Araceli move, passing him and darting on ahead in her excitement, her long hair loose and rolling while strands of it caught in the evening breeze. He followed at a more leisurely pace, but couldn’t deny his curiosity. In truth, he spent relatively little time on the shore, despite making his home at a port town. Never having learned to swim, the ocean was not among his favorite settings, and while he had no direct fear of the water, he knew his limits. As she climbed over the boulders ahead where the the beach became rocky and bled into the cliffside, he followed at a careful pace. Rocks, at least, he was very familiar with climbing, and they did not have far to go.

Soon after making their way along them, a dip in the cliffside became apparent, and Detraeus worked his way around after her. The ‘cove’ had a wide, yawning mouth, filled mostly with water as the tunnel went in but with fairly thick, rocky ledges at either side, making it a simple enough task to move in along those. The ledges were damp and slick with algae — likely covered with a thin layer of water at high tide — and the cove itself went back far as Detraeus could see, winding so that its true depth was impossible to guess without travelling deeper. He laid a hand on the cave wall, cool, and sleek, ground down over the years by incoming swells, no doubt.

“Torch?” he asked. Though he wouldn’t need it, if Araceli wanted to make it far in without depending completely on his eyesight, she would.

“Mm.” Detraeus nodded. “I can see perfectly.”

Given that he had the advantage on that front, Detraeus took the lead from there, and together, they moved in along the tunnel’s edge. At several points, the ledge dipped low enough that they were wading through shallow water. Detraeus strongly debated the issue before deciding that his boots could handle it and he would rather have the grip of soles than move barefoot. Ara, though, had already taken hers off, apparently not bothered by the slippery texture or potential of sharp rocks and other debris, and followed along close behind him.

The path winded, their trek accompanied by the quiet whistle of the wind as it skittered amidst the rocks and the ever more distant, light crashing of the waves upon the outside entrance and forefront cliffside. Near them, only small ripples lapped at the edges of their walkway, tiny water crabs skittering out of the way on their approach. Detraeus mused that such an adventure would be that much more appealing, if he knew how to swim.

Detraeus tensed, body going rigid at Ara’s outcry. Between that and the sudden weight of contact at his back, his tail whipped around to catch at her and hold her up as he rooted his posture and gripped the wall. As the reality of the situation sank in though — no danger, just a slip, no danger, Ara was safe — his posture relaxed slightly, wings flicking back inwards as he breathed.

“Alright?” he asked, turning to face her once Ara’s grip eased and mentally nudging his tail back off and away from her. Behind him, where it belonged.

Detraeus froze in place. He opened his mouth, and shut it, blood rushing to his face and—

“…ah…Ar…” He cleared his throat, throat going dry and ears burning as he stared. The cloth of Araceli’s clothes seemed to tease her skin on the way down, catching in places and lingering on curves before slipping off, and her scales caught the moonlight. Glinting. Beckoning. He swallowed back a low sound in his throat that he had no interest in making aloud and grit his teeth instead, fingers bunching and relaxing. “…Ara…? Are we…I th—mmh…are we…exit…? Do you want…”

‘It’s late. It’s dark. Why are you…undressing. You’re undressing. You’re very pale. And you have a very nice—goddess help me. Please.’

“Y—ah…mmnnn…” Detraeus breathed out, fumbling to hold the discarded clothes as Ara moved to dive, and he watched her, entranced inspite of himself, as she slipped beneath the surface. She made it look so effortless, and in that moment, he envied her: how smooth, easy, and practiced she made it seem as her body cut through the water. Like a winged fish.

He flushed, holding her clothes close and trying not to pay too much attention to how much they smelled like her — were still warm from her body, and that the fact that they were in her arms and not on her meant—

She resurfaced, and his attention immediately focussed on her face and the beads of water gathered there. His pulse picked up, and he reminded his lungs how to breathe.

“Ara…”

Detraeus watched her — empty minded, for many moments, his entire focus on the way her body moved through the water — then, he caught himself, and he swallowed, letting a breath out through his nose. His gaze lingered on how much her pale waist stood out against the dark water. How obvious her small, paddling feet were, and how her hair looked like ink. “I can’t…swim. And your clothes…” He shifted them in his arms. “The ground is wet…”

Detraeus watched her sit, debating his options. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the water; as logical of a fear as that would be, it wasn’t one that he had. Quite the contrary, he was fairly comfortable in it. He bathed often in lakes, rivers and streams. The dark didn’t bother him either, naturally — it was his element — and so, all that remained was the question:

Did he want to get in? To share that space with Araceli and put himself in a place of vulnerability not just for himself, but with someone else?

He had never dipped into a stream in anyone else’s company and so this, in a sense, would be a first. His eyes caught, though, on the luminescent glint of moonlight on her wet shoulders, and the way her black hair clung to her back like a stain. He stepped forward inspite of himself. Layering her clothes as best he could atop a rock that looked to be mostly dry, he crouched and removed his boots — one, then the other — and stood, hesitating again before moving to his weapons. He carried them with him always, a habit he never intended to break, and in this instance it involved a long list: the knives at his chest, wrists, and waist; the dagger at his hip; the bow at his back and quiver at his side; the blades in his calves and at his thighs.

When they were a pile of metal and leather straps, and he nothing but bone, sinew, and the cloth of his pants, he flit his wings — tense and uncertain still — before taking a step into the water. It was warm, at least, and that made it easy to edge himself in. His underclothes would be soaked, along with his pants, but gods be damned if he bared himself anymore in that moment. His heart already felt like a wild bird eating at his lungs and ribcage, declaring war on his throat and breath. When he made it deep enough so that the water reached his chest, he stilled, one hand clinging to the cavern’s ledge and the other clutching the rocks he’d used to lower himself in.

“Now?” he asked, resisting the urge to pulse his wings for he knew, in the water, they would give him special traction and potentially send him thrusting forwards far deeper than he could manage.