Here's a little something different I'd been working on lately. This is a separate deal from anything else I've written, and guess what?

It's already complete!

This story is rated M for a reason with sexual content and themes of depression. But it's a nice story, I promise you, and I hope you all enjoy it.

I'm excited to share this short story with you and can't wait to hear what you think.

Thank you for visiting and thank you for reading.

Porcelain Castles

1

The sand was the whitest color he'd ever seen, sparkling when the rays of the sun hit each granule, soft and endless over the horizon. It was like champagne dust, cinnamon snow that swirled in the air with the breeze.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky and its blue faded out, bleached by the light, reflecting across every surface. The castle sat in the near distance, it and the buildings surrounding smooth and white too, the finish like giant sand dollars or textured porcelain.

But the colors there, cerulean blue tapestries that strung from the rooftops, provided shade and ornamentation and the flags that billowed from the castle's spiral peak, painted with a red eye, surveyed the landscape. And hung from the doorways were potted plants, a strange green that made him wonder how such could survive in this climate. It reminded him of back home, the forests, the gardens. However he pushed that thought from his mind.

There was a spiciness to the air, sweet too, almost like vanilla and ginger, and the central marketplace was alive with vendors, music, and freedom. He took the shawl he wore and wrapped it around the lower half of his face - the best he could do - he'd have difficulty hiding his eyes, that crystalline blue associated with outsiders, the people from that other place.

And he drifted into the crowd and he lost his name, lost his home.

That was the point of all this, really.

To disappear, be forgotten.

He walked to the furthest point of the town, leaned on an ornate iron fence, and closed his eyes as the salty air greeted his senses. This place, where desert met the ocean, was his last stop. And he breathed a sigh of relief, because he was finally done.

He had never felt such a pleasant breeze, slightly cooler than his own body temperature. He was hungry and tired but didn't care.. he'd stay this way for a while, blind to his past, blind to the future. Obscurity was what he wanted, and he'd fade away.. like the gulls just over the sea, flying into the distance.

No one bothered him, and strangely enough all who he encountered seemed pleased he traveled all this way to stay and kept the conversations short. Even the man he handed a pouch full of rupees to nodded just briefly and said,

"Welcome home."

And up the steps he walked, outside of the two-story building circling to a balcony. He opened the large blue-stained door, set his sword down on the table just by the window, and only gave it a fleeting glance before falling into the bed nearby. The bedding, white and clean was freshly made. The rug folded at the base of the bed, blue and light gray, a bit rough. He fell asleep like this, just before sunset, still dressed, boots still on. He slept like this, the most wonderful rest he'd had in a while, and he relished in the fact that he'd have nothing to do tomorrow.

Nothing at all.

He wasn't looking for it, he really wasn't. But you know those moments when you see something and it gets emblazoned in your memory forever? Like an image that's so bright it's still there even after you shut your eyes.

Those irises flashed at him from across the marketplace and he was paralyzed.

The long lashes fluttered and the vermilion eyes twinkled and it was only two seconds or so really, but that gaze stayed with him like a parasite.

It was that funny feeling you get, not sure if it's good or bad.

That kind.

He ignored it as he shopped for provisions to stock his new place with. Bought some fruit, breads, freshly caught fish. He only looked over his shoulder once or twice, but the vermillion eyes were gone, swept away by the crowds, bodies moving back and forth, this way and that.

The music was lovely that late afternoon, flutes and harps, bongo drums. He sat by himself at the furthest table, a small round one with seats only for two. The sky was painted a radiant orange, purple and coral.. there was laughter floating through the air. He sipped on some locally made wine, relaxed back in the chair, winced at the throbbing that started just through his upper arm.

The pain was still there, the one that sizzled through his forearm and up to his shoulder. He'd feel it for the rest of his life. Good thing he wielded his sword with his left, but even that he left at home. He hoped to leave it there forever. The arm was still good and he could use it as fine as ever, but the pulsating, twisting pinches he felt through the nerves there was like a constant reminder of all he had left behind.

And only at twenty-four, he thought. Battered and broken and tired only at twenty-four.

The girls across the way glanced at him through dim candlelight, at his physique they could see through the loosly fitted white shirt he wore, looked at his muscles that were always tense and never seemed to relax. He looked at them indifferently - the only woman he ever seemed to care about was a princess from a faded memory and even then the feelings only went so far. He could never get past that point, that point when you cared about someone more than as a friend. Or so he can recall.

Perhaps that's what heroes do, because if you love, well..

He'd already lost enough.

But no matter, now. It was all fuzzy anyway.

Turns out though, that we only have so much control over fate. Sometimes those vermilion eyes come calling for you and all you can do is grip the arms of you chair, bracing yourself for impact.

He knew he'd stand out in a town full of Sheikah but he didn't think it would only take a few days.

His eyes glanced down to his wine glass and he took another long sip but he was still looking over the rim of it.. why was he still looking! And he pinpointed the heat, the table at the opposite furthest edge of the outdoor tavern, and spotted the other, at a table for two with a seat empty, too. Lonely and a little bit awkward, taking small sips of wine and looking irritated with everyone else there. Finger tracing the swirling patterns of fancy tile that laid across the small table's surface.

The body was long and elegant, seated low on the chair, one leg on top of the other knee. And like a magnetic pull the eyes swept up and over, fixating themselves, unwavering, slightly intoxicated.

There could be nothing more unsettling.

And what do you do, when one looks your way? Do you cast your glance aside?

No.. that would show disinterest.

But wasn't he?

Disinterested?

And like the girls from earlier he tried to look most indifferent to it, but the faint trickle of warmness creeping up his neck and into his cheeks was very hard to hide.

It was the wine, he was sure of it.

And the long legs from across the room straightened themselves, and the stranger stood slowly. Took a slow swig from what was remaining in the glass and the last look from those vermilion eyes were narrowed, disappointed? No.. calculating. Confident.

Like someone who knows your cards.

The first time he had exposed himself was in the ocean.

Shirtless, he dove into the waves, honey-blonde hair that had grown out to his shoulders was wet, loose, free of its ponytail.

Strange thing is that at times he felt like he was drowning. He had glimpses of a tower under water with lots of locked doors. He felt the weight of something heavy on his feet, dragging him down, down, like iron.

But the water was beautiful and crystal clear, and when he'd come out from under it he'd see the sun and the sand dollar buildings, and the past would go away again.

It had been haunting him.

"Escaping something?" the voice had said from beside him later at the market.

He placed an apple in his basket and turned to the voice, "No," he said, "are you?"

He tried to ignore it as best he could, but the vermilion eyes demanded attention.

"I live here."

"So do I."

He waited for the stranger to mention how he didn't belong, didn't belong in a town full of Sheikah. To be reminded of the outsider he was with pointed ears, fair skin. Crystalline blue eyes to them like the rarest of jewels.

So he busied himself with the fruit for sale before him, but the other said nothing of the kind.

"I'm glad you came," was all that was said. Not 'go back to where you're from' or 'you don't belong here', no.. nothing like that at all. And vermilion eyes placed something in his basket, a ripened peach in the shape of a heart and said, "these are good this time of year," and with a soft blink of lashes and a gentle nudge to the arm the stranger flowed back into the steady stream of the crowd without looking back.

The peach sat there in the basket, rolling around slightly in the empty space beside the other lone apple - and he was mesmerized at the pair that didn't belong with each other but somehow made sense.

They were both delicious, both sweet. He wondered how an apple and a peach would taste together. Would they compliment each other? Would such a pairing be frowned upon, if each of their savory flavors would compete against the other?

Did he care?

And that was when he realized he didn't, and even if he did not eat either fruit that day, he set them atop the mantle near the kitchen window; the heart-shaped peach leaning against the ruby red apple. One would wonder why either were there displayed, but it was the fact that it didn't make sense that appealed to him.. the unlikely pair, leaning on each other because what was one peach and one apple, without the other?