The oceans were sick. The uneasy calm after the storm. Waves were small, gentle, running over egg shells. Mounds of dirt and sand were scattered far but not too far from each other. It wasn’t called peace, but whatever it was was disrupted. A vessel, striding over the waters like the hand of the Creator traversed over the small waves. This creature was wooden, with clasps of metal in strange places, it was sturdy. Sitting in its open bowels was a slender human, marked thoroughly by the heavy sun, his chest bare and burned. The sun smiled upon him and he smiled back.
A shining flicker in the distance caught the voyager’s eye and drew him closer. His mind and muscles drifted with a current made for him. A heavy canvas of smooth bark and nails lay nearly flat on the water, suspending all the voyager thought real and possible. He looked up from the large wooden blemish in the water, and there the shining figure stood. A cliche knight in shining armor that really shone.
The glimmering figure stood tall and luminescent in the rays of the constant sun. Her hands, knuckles, fingers clad in steel, rose to the cryptic bucket that fastened over her head. The helmet was removed, and thrown dramatically into the fluid fabric of the ocean below. The knight had her head pointed to the sun still, calling out to the warmth with her pale skin. Heavy strands of white gold swirled around the face, presenting her features in a precious glass box.
Our voyager tried to stand in his vessel.
The boat shook, he wobbled tremendously with a gasp as he glanced at his feet. He looked up once he was stable enough to trust his posture. “Hello?” His feet were uncertain and his ears tuned in to the gentle push and pull of the sacred waters as the waves whispered among themselves.
A response finally filled the warm saline air that had been waiting for a voice. “As you might tell,” She began to speak, but the knight kept her head raised and her eyes carefully shut. “I have become fixed, and I would not stand under this heat any longer.”
The thoughts in the voyager’s mind started to scatter as he jumped a foot back in his wooden vehicle. “Oh! Then, please get in! I’ll take you to the comfort of a shadow!”
The warrior bowed her head down as she took a step into the instrument. Filling it with exemplary power, the ocean kept still from obedience. She sat and her eyes remained closed. “I may be a lady, but I am the strongest and most disciplined of all the knights in the East.”
The crisp voyager folded his chest to his knees and sunk his arms into the water, beginning to operate them like oars on either side. The air in him subtly choked as he prompted his passenger with his neck stretched. “What is your name?”
The fierce goddess before him had not a drop of perspiration as she opened her eyes to a curious squint. “Aveisa of Wimborn... But who are you to ask of my title?” The voyager was drenched in his own suffering as he continued to propel the boat with his arms. He shot her eyes with his piercing hazel gaze and smiled a glorious shark-toothed smile. “Izrus Vervolet, Prince of the North Highlands.”
“A prince?” Her words prodded at his facade. “What’s a prince doing here, so far from his country?”
“I ran, rode, and sailed away.” Izrus said nothing more as the small, impressive wooden vessel collided with sand. The tide waved farewell as the prince leapt from the stiff bowels onto the dry earth. He turned like a gust of wind and began to pull the boat further onto shore before Aveisa could move even one of her steel ligaments.
Izrus reached one of his tired, calloused palms towards the maiden bundled up in metal that cast a blinding reflection of the sun. Aveisa may have been blinded too, for she sunk her mirror-like boots into the sand one after the other and past the helpful prince. Izrus knew he should have been aghast, but he simply smiled. Following behind this mysterious moving statue of a woman, Izrus inquired, “If I may, Aveisa of Wimborn...”
The knight continued traveling in a strict path through the loose sand.
“...How did you end up standing atop a raft in the middle of the ocean?”
All that the two refugees heard for a few lingering moments were the crunching of sand beneath feet and steel, and a quietly conspiring wind.
“Why do you ask?” Aveisa’s voice was that of an unexpected monotone sweetness, despite her bland choice in words.
Izrus began to laugh, “Why do I ask? Well I suppose anyone would have to ask that question! It was quite a sight, I nearly thought you were a mannequin. You were so still!”
Prince Vervolet’s chuckle began to dissipate, yet it was clear he hadn’t laughed in a while.
Aveisa turned too quickly to face him, thus Izrus parted his lips and forgot to let out an indication of his shock.
“Your Highness,” Aveisa bowed suddenly for Izrus like a flower’s stem tilting in a storm. The prince stroked his forehead in bewilderment before Aveisa finished her sentence.
“May I ask a more important question?” she continued, her eyes darting upwards to meet the prince’s. A subtle smirk slowly became of Aveisa’s empty expression as she waited for Izrus to reply.
“Huh? Of course...” He replied, utterly perplexed. Aveisa stood tall once again and inhaled deeply to her satisfaction.
“What are we to do now, stranded on this lonesome island?”