sailing the echo down

Everything sang of swords to him that morning; from the scraping of the cook's knives in the kitchen to the high whistling of the wind in the sails, from the glints of the fading starlight to the brisk slicing coldness of the dawn air.

He began his exercises as he listened to the others on board waking. Their habitual noises were familiar to him now, as customary as the crying of the distant seabirds.

Move. Bend. Stretch. Turn. Rise. Open.

The sun rose over an ocean like steel, and the horizon shone in the distance, fierce as a blade's edge.

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