A Dream Of an Old Flame

The Old Man stared out to the dark lapping ocean, feeling every soft touch of the seafoam gently embracing his feet. Every retreat of the water left a longing within for something more, though through a mind confused with age, it was getting harder and harder to remember what he was longing for.

But the memories did come to him, from time to time. Perhaps in dreams, perhaps in lucid moments of alertness. It was hard to tell most days what was a dream and what was real. Sometimes it was hard to remember his name. Those were the bad days. On a good day, he could live back in memories of happy days long gone, talking to people long dead.

As the tide slowly rose to meet an aching body that didn't want to get up from the cool touch of the water, one memory came clear and true.

He remembered being 17 again, with a body strong enough to work the ropes and sails of a ship but not experienced enough to fear the work. How he loved the salt in his hair and the sea breeze blowing energy through his chest; it felt like there was nothing the ocean could not provide, like there were no dangers he could not conquer.

Day in, day out, working his father's ship, he'd gotten more robust and more skillful. Even the crew members would begrudgingly admit that the bosses' son had a place on deck. He'd worked hard to prove his worth.

Until that is, that fateful day when the whirlwind of a storm had shifted course, and before anyone had a chance to tighten the rigging, he'd flown off into the air swirling in a dance of confusion straight into the cold north sea. Considering his fragmented mind, you'd think the frenzy of drowning would be one of the memories he could forget, but the mind has a strange sense of humour. His children's name came and went, but every night he could relive a single memory as crystal clear as the water now slowly engulfing him

The swirl of the ocean moved his body with such force that his muscles couldn't imagine fighting against a current strong enough to break bone. Even if he'd had the presence of mind to swim, his brain was far too busy keeping at bay the pressing panic in his chest as his ribs tightened with the explosion of air that was never to come. At 17, he'd felt immortal. Until that day. Until his mouth parted to take in a swill of brine as a release from the depression within, urging anything to fill it.

The Old Man shook his head. Dislodging another memory. Was it a memory? A nightmare or a fancy?

It had taken him two weeks to recover. Two weeks for his father to allow him out of their home. Two weeks until he'd been brave enough to walk to that little cove where he'd been found, trying to rationalise the storm still raging within himself. They'd found him breathing in air instead of water, unconscious but alive.

That was the first time he saw her.

She was laying naked on the beach, staring straight at the sun as if daring it to burn that pearly white skin and mane of coral red hair. She hadn't noticed him at first, so intent was she on winning her deathmatch with the flaming sphere above, but his sense of decorum would not allow him to stand there and stare, though his boyhood certainly wished he'd been a little more patient.

She turned and smiled as he approached to cover her with his jacket. It was a smile full of energy and life that instantly made him feel as if he was standing on the deck of that ship, the wind invigorating every muscle in his body. But it was her eyes, a green you only see reflected off the waves of the sea on the clearest days, that drew him into her willing arms, no questions asked.

He would like to say that he practiced restraint. That when they untangled from each other on that beach and discovered she was mute, he did not make the mistake of going into her bed again. That he first took the time to try and know her.

That is not to say that he was not without honour. He brought her back to his home, a shipwrecked victim helping another, and tried to help her navigate her way inland. But every night she came into his room, and every night she would dance with movements that seemed to defy gravity itself, and every night he would fall for her gentle touch and iridescent green eyes, promising himself he'd find out more about her tomorrow.

They spent a summer that way. Her happy to be by his side finding everything he did enchanting, him avoiding his father's threats to get back onto those dreaded ships. At 17 years of age, it felt like enough, allowing his soul to heal from a trauma he couldn't rationalise.

It felt like enough until it didn't. Until he got bored of the sound of his own voice. Until he grew frustrated at her stubbornness to refuse to write even her name. Until a set of curious brown eyes with a matching lyrical voice asked for a dance one night. His future wife had a million clever questions and was willing to give away ten different opinions in any one sentence.

He'd walked away from the pearly hand holding his and danced away into the night, forgetting any dreams of green eyes and soft touches.

In that night, as he danced in his future's wife arms, he finally felt immortal again.

Tears run down the Old Man's face.

He had led a good life. He thinks. He'd never set foot on a ship again, but he had hired good men to continue his father's empire. Mostly good men. His wife had provided him with... some children. Three. No. Two. What had happened to the third? He tightened his fists in frustration, trying to remember details of yesterday that felt further away than the details of yesteryears.

It had been a good life. He had been a good man. Generous with staff, kind to his... people. Dogs? He must have had dogs. He didn't feel like he was a cat person. Maybe he'd had both. But he had been kind. He remembers that. For the most part. Kinder than how he'd been to his first love.

As he sat in that small cove, looking out at the rising dawn, the regret that tightened his chest brought back memories of fighting for a breath of oxygen that did come. Of soft lips breathing into his to give him the air he needed. Of soft arms pushing against a storm to land him safely on the sand that felt like broken glass to his battered body.

She had disappeared from his room one night, leaving nothing behind but a shell-encrusted knife. He felt nothing but relief. The relief brought upon by the cowardice of youth and the gratefulness of having to explain a choice he couldn't.

The autumn wind broke his reveries as they brought with them sirens from up on the hills. His addled brain reminded him that someone out there wanted him found. But he was tired. He was filled with longing. And with regret. Oh, how he wished he could see her once more. To apologise. To explain. To tell her she had been significant; what he had wanted, but not what he had needed. Not back then.

There were no sirens strong enough to pull him away from this beach, this cove, those memories.

When he next looked up at the breaking dawn over the swell of the sea, it was with much younger eyes. Eyes that saw entwined in the seafoam a bright green light calling him forward. It was an aurora swirling in the glow of the new sun, urging him to step forward, to brave the icy water. The iridescence called him far more than the now muted life trying to call him back up to the prison of his bed.

He stood up as if years had been washed away in the glow of her eyes. And though every step felt sharp and excruciating, his muscles reminding him of the dangers of this northern sea, he knew that this time she was exactly what he needed. He fell into the green light of the ocean, her embrace enveloping his body once more, and with it the sense of peace of a long-overdue homecoming.