[P] turn the waves to concrete

[Maude]

If Maude was the sort to notice ones physical aspects over who they actually were when they used those physical parts to bring their soul into clearer view, she might have run her eyes over Damascus, as he did her. He was strong, a warrior boy, who marched and forayed, and his body was already toned and taught with muscles that would only grow more robust, if fate allowed his venture to continue onwards in the path it hurried into now. His silver eyes shone with a curious intelligence, perhaps not as great as some others in this universe, but enough that, when Maude met them with her own, pale green ones, something in her stirred, as if inspired by the image which met her, though without true understanding as to why. She meets his gaze now, looking up from the pool to find him staring open mouthed and seemingly lost in some time or space beyond either of them. The naïve maiden smiles shyly at him, unsure what to say or do, even after his words cross the short distance between them, interspersed by the soft, ever present ebb and flow of the sea. Not all together having to do with his strange manner of speaking, the girl replays and reorders his words, struggling to figure out what he’d meant, even after she’s pretty sure she knows what he said. Glancing up at Dohv, feeling entirely foolish, the maiden, too, feels a blush rise to her cheeks and across her breast, before she returns her spring meadow eyes to Damascus’ star-bright silvers. "You make me feel happy too, Damascus," decides Maude, wondering – for the first time in all this awkward exchange – if her friend was maybe insinuating that he liked her. Liked her liked her, like how a knight likes a fair maiden, watching his tournament. Damascus, however, had not offered her any boon, and so the girl was divided in her ultimate determination of precisely what “goodness” she inspired in the heart of the handsome black youth. Her heart begins to flutter much, much faster than it had moments before, but not in an entirely unpleasant way, like it did when she was afraid. It was more like running and singing: as if every ounce of oxygen in her body was being used, and each breath all the more intensely satisfying for it. Why couldn’t he have just kept talking about the fish? She nervously wonders to herself, still holding Damascus’ eyes with her own (unless he looks away), the sea breeze gently tousling her lengthy curls across her brow, and the sweep of her shoulders. how to be brave how to love when I'm afraid

Image by Araxel@DA
@Damascus