The first streaks of dawn began to lighten the dark horizon just as the moon sunk from view, and the solitary figure perched in the rigging sighed in resignation.  ‘Shit.  It won’t be long now,’ he thought irritably, rubbing his arms against the chill of early morning.  ‘Weather looks clear, too.  Damn.’

A few strands of loose hair fell across his eyes as the wind picked up, no longer chained by the force of the moon, as he became a prisoner of the sun.  Shifting his position so he wouldn’t fall, the young man pulled impatient fingers through his long, black hair, and separated it at the base of his neck to braid.

Watching the horizon brighten with increasing gloom, he tied the end of his braid to hold it in place, and let it swing behind him until it rested between his shoulder blades.  Sighing again, he curled his knees in front of him and glanced upward as a small flock of gulls flew overhead.  He wished he could fly, just fly away from all of this nonsense and disappear from this world.

‘Time to grow some wings,’ he thought glumly, almost reluctantly pulling the cigarette and matches from his pocket.  Somehow, these long nights had led him to almost enjoy the pain, the suffering he endured day after day for some greater cause.  Just what, he didn’t know, but he would continue just the same.

Without the disguise the cigarette provided, he would never make it through the day, so he lit the match and watched it burn for a moment before lighting the roll as well and flicking the match into the sea.  ‘Liquid fire,’ he thought ironically, and took a long drag.

He could almost feel it as the drug began to course through his veins.  His skin warmed, heedless of the wind; his mind numbed, no longer aware of the brightness of the rising sun, nor bothered by it.  His fears disappeared just as the last wisps of cloud above vanished in the wake of the sun’s heat.  Stretching his arms above his head to release the cramps from sitting in one position too long, he felt his limitations.  ‘I’m grounded,’ fluttered briefly across his mind, before complete oblivion took over, and just in time.

No sooner had he flicked the dregs of the cigarette into the ocean than a door creaked open, and a small, lithe figure stepped into view.  “Hey, Hawke, is that you?”

“Yeah,” he replied, and began descending the rigging with the ease of a seasoned sailor.

“Have you been out here all night?”

He could see her pale face clearly in the sunlight, her blonde curls falling about her face, framing it flawlessly.  Her bright blue eyes shone the color of shallow water, and he thought that maybe he could find her beautiful.

“No,” he lied.  “I just came out for a smoke.”