#okay idt i can trim the marcus starter from this post which is AWKWARD BUT!!!

[marcushale]

She is a breath taking visage before him, radiant in the moonlight like the pearls that are pried from the mouths of reluctant clams. The ocean crashes around them, sweeping onto the darkened sand. Seaweed brushes ashore, displaced from its home, and a small part of him longs to pick it up, to return it where it belongs.

Allowing himself to look upon her, the words she breathes out much too gentle to be pointed towards him. There is a brief moment in which Marcus considers it, the gentleness that she extends towards him. He wonders if she knows who he is — and then he wonders if he is simply thinking too much about a situation that is no longer within his control.

He thinks that he could return to the sea and it would not matter.

"I drew you..." he echoed, as though he had no words of his own on his tongue. A twisted feeling coiled in his chest, prompting him to place his hand over his chest at the same time that she did. A strange moment in which they had shared the same pose.

Marcus dropped his hand. Her words were strange too, burrowed into his mind like a pick; why would she worry about repaying him? No such thing was needed, he'd hardly wanted to offer her the drawing in the first place due to fear.

Partially because there had been a chance someone would see, that they would latch onto this innocent girl as the one who had caused him to stray. He had not seen her in town at that time, nor had she been there when he had packed his things to head out on the voyage that'd kept him from the shore for a long time.

And the fear had partially come from that too — if he handed this to her, would he see her again? And if he longed to see her again, then that meant the feeling existed there in the first place.

A redundant thought, perhaps, but one that made complete sense to him. The emotion had to be there, the longing, the yearning that he had only ever felt for the crashing waters that wash upon the shore. His fingers twinged, as though he could easily walk over and scoop up handfuls of water.

He had always hated the feeling; the terrible pain within him that exists simply because he could not have what he wanted. A feeling that had followed him throughout his entire life. And now, he could see it happening with this girl too.

Surely someone like her would already have a betrothed.

"You don't — don't —" he tried but his voice died slowly, drowning in the depths of the next wave that washed over the sand. Already, she had made a suggestion and it twinged the coil already in his chest.

An invitation to the Winery & Inn. A local one in town that his grandfather spent most of his nights in if he is able to make it there. He had spent some time there too, most people had. Popular with the travellers through their town as well as the locals, it had been one of the easiest places to blend into the crowd. To hide away within the confines of his mind, his fingers curled around a drink that would not keep him warm for his walk home.

He would like to be warm.

"I know it," he found himself saying before he could stop. Controlled by the coil in his chest, Marcus could only watch from within the chambers of his heart as it won, as it took control. This will allow you to see her again, it promised and he could do nothing but latch onto that hope. A hook lodged into the tender flesh of a fish's mouth. "A lot of people know it..."

A treat but he would not except it as a treat. He would wait until her back was turned, slipping a few coins to another worker in an attempt to keep the promise of a treat from resting on his conscious.

["You never take handouts from anyone, child," his grandfather had remarked often. The fire had crackled and Marcus looked up at the man he had been named after, his eyes wide. "Do you understand me?"

"What are you telling him?" A sharp voice had chided in response. Hands had scooped him up a moment later, his young eyes still latched onto the older gentleman in the chair. "He's three. Why are you teaching that to a three year old, vecchio?"

"You can never be too old when learning about the world," his grandfather replied. He groaned loudly, shaking his head at a gesture that was now all but lost to Marcus. "Must you always return to your roots?"

"They are his roots too," came the reply. "Your daughter had no problem with where I come from."

"Everyone does," Marcus Sr had proclaimed. "We do not like outsiders in this town."]

But the offer was still an offer and he did not want to return home yet. The night was still young, for all intents and purposes, and any sleep he sought out would result in waking up early. It would mean returning to the sea to continue the fishing excursions that would produce nothing of note, yet would disappoint the Byrne family member who would inspect their catch.

"A treat..." he repeated, as though the words were new to him. He nodded before he could stop himself, stepping to the side to allow her room to pass him. "It's not necessary, not really... but I would be happy to accompany you..."

His voice almost became lost in the crash of the ocean but he fought against it. The sand was soft beneath their feet, disguising the movement into nothing. He wondered if it wrong to walk with her like this, where they might be seen, but there's not much that the people of the town could do that they haven't already done.

It was more likely that the drunks of the town will push aside what they had seen between tonight as nothing but wild fantasies conjured up by alcohol. He could only hope that she would not become another voice in the echoes because of what he will do to her.

"Odelia..." he repeated, finding a nice comfort in her name. There was something about her, beyond the innate beauty of a pearl. He searched within the confines of his mind to see if he could grip a memory of her, something that would tie to her to the town they slowly venture into now.

But there was nothing. Only brief flashes of that day he had stood on the rain soaked beach and watched the far off seal disappear into the depths of the waters. A fleeting moment in time.

She must be new, she couldn't have been born here as he would recall her even from the darkest moments in his life. A new face, a new being, something better than what he had been through his entire life.

It was a relief almost and it would be entirely impolite to remark on her lack of origin.

"It's a beautiful name..." he mused, stopped at the rocky path onto the town's streets. He motioned for her to venture up first. "I'm Marcus. Marcus Hale."

The full name might not have been necessary but there was always an importance to it. Names have always been important.

@marcushale

The sea. An endless moving entity, both peaceful and violent. He’s seen her on her most chaotic days but he’s also seen her on her most still. He’s seen her for miles, knows her better than he knows how to rig the sails of his vessel and how to count to ten and ride a bike and he knows her better than who he is. 

Sailor is what they used to address him as. Sailor Hale. That was who he was for years, ever since he turned sixteen and the captain in charge of his first vessel hadn’t cared that his documents were faked — still drying ink had been smeared where he’s said that yes, yes he was definitely eighteen and no he hadn’t just turned sixteen the previous month, no way sir! — and he’d been called that in the years follow.

Year after year, he was Sailor Hale. 

In the letter he received two months ago, while he was stationed in some Italian port and he was on the brink of quitting — and alcoholism because drinking and the sea went hand in hand and being some kid from a tiny coastal town really messes with one’s head when one thinks about it for far too long — they’d addressed him as only Mr Hale. He’d received it when he was listening to his fellow crewman talk about some war — rich families who hated each other’s guts and were always one wrong move, one wrong fight away from imploding that beautiful city they were in — when the mail arrived and the crewman had brought it to him.

The letter was far too nice to be from his grandfather. Marcus Sr. had a habit of sending him yellowed sheets of paper that smelled of tobacco and with handwriting only he was able to read — boychik, the last letter had read, that alta kaka is proclaiming that I have an illness, can you believe that? — but this one, this one had been different. The paper was nice and smooth and it was written in only the finest of inks.

It was a job proposal. Some rich family from his home town needed a sailor, needed a whole crew of them for some top secret job, and he wasn’t allowed to ask questions — odd how that was the first thing they covered — but the pay would be grander than what he gets now — they’d pay him what he earned in a year for a month’s work — and with his grandfather’s lungs getting worse, what choice did he have?

So, he tossed his Italian wine into the sea and told his captain he was done and he got the first vessel home. 

He stepped onto that port and the world changed.

His small coastal home was ravaged with sea storms nearly constantly. He’d spent many summers as a boy walking the beach with his father. He would collect shells and his father used it as an excuse to drink, away from the watchful eye of his grandfather — he’d never liked Marcus’ father but they were forced together after the death of Maria Hale through one little connective tissue: Marcus. 

It was a beautiful little town, perhaps on that would be painted by famous painters and sold for a lot of money. Marcus saw those paintings all the time on shore leave. He would sketch them into his beaten up sketch book then tuck it into his pocket before running back to the ship. It was the kind of place that always had a ship on the coast and many people walking around. A small market place with thatched roofs and a small doctor’s office — the same woman who had diagnosed his grandfather’s lung problems had given him an ointment for the black eye he’d sported for a week after Marianne’s father found out what he’d done.

Marianne. The beautiful girl he had always thought he would come home too. He had been with her as a boy and then a young man and then he’d proposed. And it was nice. It was supposed to be nice. He was supposed to marry her and she had picked out her pretty white dress with lace and he was going to wear the same suit his father had when he’d married his mother but then — then something happened and Marcus doesn’t know what it is but he remembers a seal resting by the rocky outcrop a mile from the shore. It had been a storm and he was soaked and he was crying and he was clutching his heart.

Please, please, he had begged, tell me this is the right thing to do but all the seal had done was leap back into the waves and Marcus knew — he just knew he couldn’t do it. So he broke off the engagement, let her father hit him because he deserved that, and then he’d run off to join the crew for the Italian run.

So, when he gets odd looks when he comes home, he doesn’t necessarily think it’s unearned. He’s the shmendrick who has run out on their lovely Marianne, who had broken her heart crying over him for weeks, but how can he even begin to explain the issue when even he didn’t have the name for it?

He began working for the Byrne family a week after he returned. A week after he began working for them, he realised it was a nearly boring job. He didn’t get to know what they were looking for, just that he and a small group for crewmen spent hours hoisting up clams and coral and huge batches of fish. None were taken back to the town for profit — the Byrne’s were far too rich to make a few measly coins from fishing — but they were allowed to take some fish should they need them. Their captain — a short man with greying hair and a monocle who was definitely not a captain — would inspect the catch, tell them they didn’t get anything, and to take what they wanted before throwing it back.

On his third week of the job, Marcus found a pearl. A tiny one, lodged in a clam shell that he pried loose with his fingers. It was beautiful, shining in the sunlight, and he’d slipped it into his pocket before dumping the clam catch back into the ocean. 

And that was just how it went. Long arduous days a few miles out from the town — he could see why they paid so high now — before he would come back to that little coastal cottage. He’d fry up the fish he took, eat a mostly silent dinner with his grandfather and try to sleep while he listens to the crackles and pops of the old man’s sleeping. He would often refuse medication and Marcus was often too tired to fight the man. He would simply leave the gold coloured liquid out on the table and hope that he would see a change in the volume. He never did.

This day went the same as it always did, except for one thing. 

Tossing and turning in his bed got too tiresome. Marcus can sleep under most difficult situations — choppy waves, storms, the bright sun — but this is different. He can’t explain it and he doesn’t want to. The lamp runs cold by his bed and he can hear his grandfather’s broken breathing; he doesn’t want to be here anymore and he thinks he might just go wad out into the ocean and wait for the seaweed to wind around his legs, pulling him down under until he becomes bubbles and seafoam.

He pulls his thin blanket from over his body and scrubs a hand over his face. Blue eyes stare blankly at the wooden floorboard — he can almost trick himself into thinking he’s back on a ship — and then he’s standing. There’s a deep ache in his shoulder blades. His biceps are tired. He picks up his beaten up, leather sketch book and slots a pencil behind his ear. He picks up his jacket, sliding it on and then takes up the small ring of keys. He walks out of the cottage.

He walks down the hill it rests on, alone and far away from the rest of the town. It’s better this way, he thinks. His grandfather is a popular man in the town. They like him, he’s one of those elderly people most small towns worship, but Marcus?

Marcus is a pariah.

( “Ack, Mark,” one of his grandfather’s friend’s had slurred, the stench of rum on his lips. “Why is the boychik so quiet?”

A hand had slapped on his back. It’d caused Marcus to ruin the nose of the pretty girl he was drawing at the time. Only thirteen, he frowned and reached for the eraser.

“Junior’s just a bit weird,” Marcus Sr — his grandfather — had laughed. “Hasn’t been right in the head since William passed.”)

He walks down the wooden steps, the wind blowing a decently warm breeze through his hair, and he thinks he always prefers the beach at night. The only light comes from a few street lights, the oil burning away, and the stars. The town is quiet and the waves lap peacefully against the white sand. He doesn’t walk on the sand, however, just along the brick wall the stops unruly children and drunkards from coming too close to the ocean.

Marcus doesn’t think it’s so bad. The ocean offers a warm embrace to those who fall into her careful arms. If one learns how to treat her with kindness, the ocean will be just as kind back. She can protect just as fiercely as she can drown.

He walks and walks, not going too far from the little cottage, but still he puts some distance between himself and it. The wind is getting a little colder now but he doesn’t mind. He drops onto the brick wall, legs crossing and he opens his beaten sketchbook on the last page it was used on. He sees drawings of fish, of the clams they caught and didn’t throw back right away. He sees a crumpled sail and —

He sees a person. A girl.

Marcus blinks a few times, trying to convince himself that he’s really seeing her and that his mind hasn’t finally, finally snapped. But no, she’s there. She’s a little bit down the beach from him but he can still see her features perfectly. It’s like the moon shines on her and only her, like they’ve struck up some kind of deal. His blue eyes linger on her, tongue running against his lips, and he drinks her in.

Her jaw is angular, his hair a wavy brown, and her nose has a nice slope to it. She looks small from here and she might be. There’s something wrapped around her shoulders. A jacket, perhaps.

And Marcus — all he can do is slide his pencil out from behind his ear and start. He steals glances at her, taking those features in, and the translating them onto the page. His lines start unsure and hesitant then becomes more confident, more urgent. He worries she might dissipate into the waves before he’s finished.

But she doesn’t. She remains where she is, ethereal and ghostly in nature, and he wonders if maybe he’s seeing those sea ghosts one particularly superstitious captain had told him about. But she doesn’t look willowy or translucent like a ghost might, so yeah, she’s really there.

And when he’s done, when he’s staring down at the face that’s only just a few feet from him, he tears the page from the book. He closes it softly, the drawing held between three fingers as he winds the leather cord around the book and tucks it into his pocket.

He gets up from the brick wall. He doesn’t know what compels him to do it but he moves. He carries himself over the beach, moving with all of the grace of a baby sea turtle trying not to die. He approaches her and oddly — very oddly, as in this has never happened before and he wonders if maybe she is a ghost after all — his heart starts to thump.

His hand slides up over his chest, feeling the slow beats against his sternum, and then his eyes are on that outcrop of rocks a mile from the beach. There’s no seal this time. He’s on his own.

“Excuse me, miss?” His voice is raw, unused. There’s a rasp to it that’s hard to clear with even the freshest of water. Quiet. Weird. “For you.”

He doesn’t look her in the eyes as he holds out the drawing for her take. He simply hopes she won’t find him odd or strange — or she won’t spit in the face of a pariah for daring to come near him — and he doesn’t mind if she doesn’t want the drawing, she can crumple it up at home or use it in a fire so long as she takes it from his hands.

So long as she takes it.

The sea is my only friend, she thinks, compared to the many people around her. It was the only one who didn't ask her questions she had no answers to (where are you from?, who are your parents?, when did you get here?, who are you?)

Who are you…

Truth be told,  that was the question she secretly despised the most – the one that seemed to follow her wherever she went; the quiet whispers, the prying eyes, the friendly handshakes. It was a silent query disguised as an action or greeting whenever someone encountered her. Be it for the first or the umpteenth time.

She could always see it in their eyes, afterall - the curiosity of wanting to know more about her but the hesitancy that, if they were to ask, they would be stepping over a boundary they had no right crossing. 

[“Who are you?” The plump woman had asked, examining her from head to toe. She’d been the only one who dared approach Odelia that silent night and, truthfully, she didn't blame them for being afraid of her. Her hair and camisole dress was soaked with seawater, her feet without any shoes or sandals on. It wouldn't be far-fetched if they'd assumed she was a ghost or sea monster. 

“I don’t know...” Odelia responded meekly. 

The older lady now seemingly more perplexed, scratched her head in confusion. “Okay… Then do you, at the very least, know why you were… Wandering in the waters this late?” 

“I… Don’t know.” She’d quietly repeated, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress. The only recollection she had was that she’d wandered from the beach, her head throbbing painfully and mind foggy. 

The few that were still awake that night pulled the older lady aside after hearing Odelia's response, their eyes wary and afraid. As if they’d seen something they couldn’t quite fathom. And though most would have gotten offended, she was anything but. For she too couldn’t quite comprehend who or what she was (How could she? When she was merely like an empty shell on the shorelines. Devoid of any history or background as to where she came from).

"It's fine, it's fine. Let me go." The lady said, brushing the others off.

Despite the uncertainty, the lady was ultimately kind enough to give her a chance, as she pulled away from the others and approached Odelia closer. 

“... My name is Mary. Come, child.” ]

Thanks to Mary's willingness, Odelia found herself a place to stay that night, and then eventually a job at Mary's inn. Initially the town's folks were painfully against it but as time went by, it gradually dissipated, the outward wariness and fear shown by the residents. They’d grown more and more accustomed to having her around, especially after a few round of drinks and slow conversations.

What were once cold stares became friendlier looks, and rough one-liners gradually turned into full conversations. Things had finally begun to settle down and what was once an unfamiliar place started to feel like home...

But…

Somehow, just like a seashell clumsily placed in-between fine chinas and porcelain vases, something was still not quite right. Almost as if she didn’t belong here. Almost as if she was still out of place (alone). 

Odelia watched as the sea ebbed and rippled, a strange sense of longing filling her heart. As if there was something out there in the deep that could fill her in ways being here couldn’t. But what? She pondered deeply, feelings of frustration rising whenever she tried to remember something, anything, that could give her clues as to where she came from. For the only dim memories she had were the ones that would come up in her dreams at night – the sea, a dimly lit place, and a blurry face of a man peering down at her wickedly before things faded to black.

“This is no use… No matter how hard I try…” I don’t remember who I am. It was a heart-wrenching confession every single time, and an even harder realization that there’s a chance she never would. That the dreaded question that seemed to find her wherever she went would continue to hound her until her time was up. 

Finally deciding to retire for the night, Odelia turned around, only to be greeted by a quiet…

“Excuse me, miss?”

The stranger said, his words quiet enough that she almost had to strain to hear him. But as she looked at him, something in her heart leaped.

A boy. Eyes as blue as the sea, voice rasped but quiet, unlike the many she'd spoken to (loud, harsh, boisterous).

He was unlike most she’d met, foreign almost, and yet… A memory. Or rather, a fragment of it.  A rock, crashing waves, tears. The sight of a person crying from ways off, the heart-wrenching pain she felt witnessing that.

What was that? (Who was that?) How did the eyes of a stranger coaxed such memories out of her? Ones she couldn't even reach herself no matter how hard she tried?

Initially caution rose within her, a defense machinism she grew to adopt, but as he extended his hand, Odelia’s eyes widened in surprise. “You…. Drew me?” She gasped, slowly taking the drawing from him.

Instinctively, she looked at him again, this time curiosity and a sense of gratefulness overtaking her wariness. There was something about him that called out to her (like the sea she so dearly loved), something about his presence that spoke of a comfort and familiarity she hadn't been able to find thus far.

It's as if, in that moment, every guard and defense she'd built up while navigating this foreign town broke. As if, for the first time in a long while, she could finally breathe.

"Thank you..." She whispered, gazing at it fondly before holding it against her chest. "I don't really know how to repay you for this." And it was true. What could a girl like her offer to someone like him? Someone who possibly had everything she didn't?

"I don't have much but, uhm, I work at Mary's Winery & Inn. Do you know where that is? If you do, I can treat you to something you like."

"My name is Odelia, by the way." Do you know it? Do you know me? She'd wanted to add, but ultimately held her tongue.