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freosanSorry for the spam, but you know how it is. More Kylie and Daven - Kylie is probably going to show up a lot more, Daven may not.
You come down twice a week and ask about the Dawn Flash, which nearly never comes into port. It’s been six years, now, since the last time. Before that it was two, and before that, three and a half.
You wake on a grey-skied chilling morning and you know, just on instinct, that you have to go down today. You go to put on the shirt she saw you in last time, but something in you makes you reach for more stable, more standard clothes. Thick canvas and rivets, hobnailed boots, a herder’s uniform. You want to run to the docks but you turn out the horses and move the sheep first.
The Dawn Flash is there when you reach it and the dockworkers, who know you well by now, give you congratulations and admire her lines. She’s a beautiful ship, all sleek and elegant in fresh, white wood without a nest on it. You know little of ships and care nothing for its speed or maneuverability, too concerned with searching its deck for your wife.
She sees you before you see her, and shouts down to you. You grin and wave back. She’s always been beautiful just like her ship, sleek, wild, whipped thin by the wind. No lord or master but herself, captain of her ship and constant wanderer, she’s nearly gone feral. The wind flashes in her eyes, evident in every bit of silver around her wrists or in her hair, the wild smile she gives you.
She jumps from the prow of the ship and you catch her like a mountain in the path of a storm. You kiss her, and she kisses right back, tasting like rum and salt and the metallic tang of snow. You haven’t smiled in a year and a half and your face hurts, but now you’ve started, you can’t stop.
“I was starting to worry you wouldn’t be back,” you say, teasing but honest. She shrugs.
“It weren’t so long for us, we got stranded in some slow time. I ha’en’t aged but a year and eight months since last I saw you,” she tells you. You’ve heard of slow time but it sounds like a skies story to you, the kind of thing sailors tell after too much beer. You tell her so.
“So maybe it is, maybe it ain’t, I just know it were real. You ha’en’t e’er heard time’s all to do with where you are?”
You shake your head, and make to step off the docks; but she lets her feet touch ground, just barely. “You know I can’t.” It’s only here, on the docks, that you can meet her, at this place between air and land. She won’t come closer to stone and you can’t set foot onto sky.
“It’s not much of a marriage, is it?” you ask her, for the seventh time, because you have this same conversation every time she docks.
“Nay, it is, Daven. I love you – you know, don’t ya?” she says, and once again, you reassure her, and repeat the words back. They’re true. Your love for her spirals high as the skies and that does not change, even if you’re both on opposite ends of the world.
“I have to unload her,” she says, nodding to the Dawn, “but stay, or come back tonight.”
“Of course,” you say, and she kisses you again and leaves you to sit on a barrel and chain-smoke while she flits around the rigging, shouting orders to her crew.
You come down twice a week and ask about the Dawn Flash, which nearly never comes into port. It’s been six years, now, since the last time. Before that it was two, and before that, three and a half.
You wake on a grey-skied chilling morning and you know, just on instinct, that you have to go down today. You go to put on the shirt she saw you in last time, but something in you makes you reach for more stable, more standard clothes. Thick canvas and rivets, hobnailed boots, a herder’s uniform. You want to run to the docks but you turn out the horses and move the sheep first.
The Dawn Flash is there when you reach it and the dockworkers, who know you well by now, give you congratulations and admire her lines. She’s a beautiful ship, all sleek and elegant in fresh, white wood without a nest on it. You know little of ships and care nothing for its speed or maneuverability, too concerned with searching its deck for your wife.
She sees you before you see her, and shouts down to you. You grin and wave back. She’s always been beautiful just like her ship, sleek, wild, whipped thin by the wind. No lord or master but herself, captain of her ship and constant wanderer, she’s nearly gone feral. The wind flashes in her eyes, evident in every bit of silver around her wrists or in her hair, the wild smile she gives you.
She jumps from the prow of the ship and you catch her like a mountain in the path of a storm. You kiss her, and she kisses right back, tasting like rum and salt and the metallic tang of snow. You haven’t smiled in a year and a half and your face hurts, but now you’ve started, you can’t stop.
“I was starting to worry you wouldn’t be back,” you say, teasing but honest. She shrugs.
“It weren’t so long for us, we got stranded in some slow time. I ha’en’t aged but a year and eight months since last I saw you,” she tells you. You’ve heard of slow time but it sounds like a skies story to you, the kind of thing sailors tell after too much beer. You tell her so.
“So maybe it is, maybe it ain’t, I just know it were real. You ha’en’t e’er heard time’s all to do with where you are?”
You shake your head, and make to step off the docks; but she lets her feet touch ground, just barely. “You know I can’t.” It’s only here, on the docks, that you can meet her, at this place between air and land. She won’t come closer to stone and you can’t set foot onto sky.
“It’s not much of a marriage, is it?” you ask her, for the seventh time, because you have this same conversation every time she docks.
“Nay, it is, Daven. I love you – you know, don’t ya?” she says, and once again, you reassure her, and repeat the words back. They’re true. Your love for her spirals high as the skies and that does not change, even if you’re both on opposite ends of the world.
“I have to unload her,” she says, nodding to the Dawn, “but stay, or come back tonight.”
“Of course,” you say, and she kisses you again and leaves you to sit on a barrel and chain-smoke while she flits around the rigging, shouting orders to her crew.