Fire and Ice

 She emerged from the cascading depths of the sea, buried within layers of sand and grit and crusted shells. Her hair was a dyed dark blue like the hungry ocean itself, thin and bony, unnervingly calm. And when she swam to shore under that cracked crescent-shaped moon, not a single drop of water clung to her sides. 

He was a thief and a possible murderer.

She sucked up poisonous words and spat them back out unknowingly.

Wherever he went, flames followed, licked up the shrapnel, and dissolved it into dust.

She had wilted the seashore, crumpled the trees, and brush into bruises coating her arms. Everyone had cast her out, and now the seas frothed at the edges with shame. 

She cried, the winds sweeping over the skies, bending living creatures to its will, but the ocean swelled, leaving her with her dark blue hair and misty eyes. 

He had grown up in the embers of destruction, found that will, and tried truth were the only ways to stand. Desire gnawed at his stony brick of a heart, groaning under its weight. He had stolen, killed, destroyed, and conquered, but never has the desire ceased his torment.

After the fire cooled into thick smog, ice always followed, until the Earth again, was plunged into a heated battle. He often watched the water freeze, twist and turn and deceive. He liked watching the blinding flames billow and rise, watching bloodshed, swords clashing, guns firing.

She basked in daunting threats, spiking words, and cold torture. Slow sickness, and painful betrayals. And for a while, she used the ocean, he used the flame, and they covered the expanses of the world without knowing the other. 

Some say it was on a sidewalk built upon the rubble, where the girl with the elfish hair met the boy wearing an old bomber jacket zipped only halfway. Others contemplate it was where the ocean met the rhinestone-studded sea, along the somewhat smoky brim of where a grill fire was heating up. Either way, she was wearing double-laced boots, jaguar striped leggings, and a small dark tank top, her blue hair floating in the casual breeze. 

He hated the unfamiliar sting of a cold day, so he wrapped his jacket close, not bothering to conceal his Starbucks cup and a to-go banana bread slice. Of course, he did conceal the manicured knife, and the flames almost ricocheting along with those sloped, deadly slants.

“I was sent to kill you.” He informed the back of the blue-haired girl. It was always short and to the point. You’d never get anywhere with small talk during these kills. 

Almost methodically, the girl’s hips slowed in their bounce-walk, and she turned around to face him. The wind chilled and bit at his bones. Ice formed on his fingertips, but he didn’t care to notice. All he could see was her, and her motionless, nonchalant expression, those universe-holding irises…beauty.  

“Is that so? I suppose today is as good a day as any to die…but I would’ve liked more time to make your acquaintance. Haven’t you heard? There’s an awful cold going around; I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.” The teen casually broke off a piece of his bread and tossed it into her own mouth.

He wasn’t a boy of many words, but there usually wasn’t a need for them, except now. “I won’t be getting hurt anytime soon.” He eyed the knife in his hands, then glared at the girl pointedly, bursts of flames erupting from the sidewalk, lapping up her legs. 

Before she could conceal it, a groan of pain escaped her lips. The ice and frosty wind whipped around the pavement, but she was going to do this herself. 

For a second, he could almost taste the scent of saltwater on his tongue until the girl stepped out of his flames, flipping the knife out of his hands and into her own. Her other hand rested calmly on his shoulder, crunching it, twisting it, molding. 

“Did you ever suspect that perhaps…I was sent to kill you?” She whipped back, plunging the knife into his shoulder. 

Their screams wracked and ravaged the night until the ice melted into wax and the fire dwindled into hot ash. Bloody and bruised, that was the last time they saw each other for a long time. 

It was a blustery evening at the dimly lit cafe, though all the windows were drawn and bolted, hiding the day from the few people who lingered for cold coffee. She had kept the blue hair, but a few strands of purple escaped her messy bun. Time had done its part to calm the shore, aged her legs into submission, wound thick glasses around her neck. But she was fresh and young, new on the list of adulthood, alone at a candle-lit booth. 

“Now, what may I get for you dear?” She didn’t glance up at the waitress, instead toying with an old keychain she’d found under the table. 

“Pink lemonade. Extra ice, and a cookie on the side.” 

“A cookie you say?” A sort-of handsome man with a buzz cut slipped into the cafe and waved a hand in her direction, ambling over awkwardly. Him. “If it’s a cookie you’re eating, then I guess I’ll be here to share it with you.” 

Cunning etched all along the creases in his wiry frame, he waved the waitress away and slipped into the chair next to her. She saw the dancing flames in his eyes as he smiled, the candle flickering in his midst. 

“I like your hair. Did I ever mention that before?” 

She found it charming…the boy without the words turning into a man of wits. Side-eyeing him, she plugged in her earbuds and half-listened to the music playing. 

“I see you have no knives today.” 

Startled, his eyes widened, and he shrugged. She had become smarter, wiser, older. 

He had tried to control his desire, but he was never in control of the flames. The flames controlled him—but for a split second, he thought he could smell the seashore against her skin. 

“For some reason, you strike me as the person who would listen to classical music all day.” He murmured, silently begging for the flames to stand still, to stay inside. 

“I’m—I’m flattered.” She smiled sadly, taking a sip of the pink lemonade, then reconsidering and removing an earbud from her ear, scooting closer to him. She didn’t know why, and neither did he, but they leaned into one another, getting this mutual understanding. That they had changed.

He inserted the earbud into his ear and waited, understanding as the wind rushed in. The ocean danced beneath his skin, vibrating, answering the wind’s harpy-sort-of-song. The still, piercing calmness was strange to him, but he loved the rhythm all the same. Just like if he pressed a seashell to his ear, the ocean’s heartbeat would pulse. Just like if he cradled a flame in the small of his palm and listened—to its steady flow of life. 

“Trust me, it sounds way better on the shore.” She folded the earbuds and placed them in her bag, a faint blush playing at her cheeks.

“No ice then?” 

Startled, she watched as he pushed his chair back, shrugging on a long overcoat. “I’ll try, as long as they’re no flames.” 

“I’ll try, too.” 

Love isn’t like sticky notes molded into heart shapes. It isn’t like diary entries written under the cover of night or trapped fireflies lighting up an old mason jar. Love can’t be defined or trapped underneath the starlit sky, watching as two lonely figures scale the surface. But all lives are stories and all stories can be fairy tales and in fairy tales, endings can be crafted before the story fully begins.

“Do you dance?” He asked as they walked under the moon’s quiet shade. They had found each other by the same spot by a driftwood log. He would’ve called that a coincidence, but he wanted to believe in fate.

“No.”

“Me neither, but a certain someone said that if it can’t be explained simply, then you don’t get it.” 

“Okay, Albert Einstein.” 

 So they danced, imperfectly in sync with the other, swaying and rotating along the beach, listening to the roar of the ocean and wind. Fire and ice, north and south, yin and yang, past and present. 

And maybe the world wouldn’t end in fire or ice. Maybe the flames would get quenched of their thirst to destroy, and the ice would melt in the hot rays of the fiery sun. 

Either way, both sides would put down their knives and words, and sit under the canvas of stars at the end of the day, together.