The shore is wrought with death and blood, the tides pull away the seeping life from these men, these soldiers. The roaring waves pulse and pull, pulling the humor from these men like the fleeting hope of their wives and husbands, knowing they will not return home.
Pedro Zebulon has gazed upon many shores, has known their grains of sand and their storms. He feels it against his form, the pulsing of the rain against stone, the wear along his forearms. To him, a shore was change, instability, the ever present fear that something, anything, could be pulled away in an instant.
Where he stood, along the bay, facing the Pacific sky, illuminated only by the reflection of distant moonlight and cityscape, Pedro dared to call this home.
How he arrived in San Francisco, he could not say.
He knew it true that this was a city of love, of passion and strife, yet in his place, resting between sand and rock, he was far too secluded from the joy of beach goers. Perhaps this respite would be one of isolation, he’d consider between musings.
He got used to this routine, spending time between the cold stone and the warm grains of sand, tending to the animals who kindly graced his presence, serving the purpose he believed to be right. The people here did not interact with him, like he was a piece of the scenery, to be gazed upon but never examined beyond a cursory glance.
This was the truth for years, until in an instant, that truth was pulled away.
Early morning light, the seagulls letting out their calls, Pedro laid his eyes on the most stunning man.
To say the man was put together would be an understatement. This man looked as if he was built to be on this Earth, an easy, welcoming face paired with a confident, structured body. This man, though Pedro had never met him before, filled him with comfort.
Pedro watched the man, his steps purposeful and paced, stepping along the shoreline, picking up glass, rocks and shells; his ivory hair remained unmoved by the wind. Pedro stared and stared, lost in this man, until without warning the man was staring back.
Admittedly, Pedro blinked first. He got lost in those eyes. Dark, cloudy, like cobblestone and ash, those eyes of his had seen things far beyond any mere human.
Much like his own.
The man dropped his treasures, eyes wide in astonishment. He took a step, then another, then another; the crystal necklace that sat against his sternum bounced wildly, reflecting the early morning sunlight like nothing he’d seen before. The man braked to a stop a few feet ahead, collected his bearings, then finally walked up close.
Pedro did not flinch, he did not retreat, but he stared in wonderment as the man’s hand moved, resting inches apart from his cheek.
“You,” said the man, “you have seen the worlds.”
Pedro nodded.
The man smiled, “What is your name, my dear soldier?”
Pedro swallowed, taking in the man’s oaky voice, before speaking out for the first time in nearly a century.
“Zebulon,” even at a whisper, a deep base rattled Pedro’s solid chest, “Pedro Zebulon.”
The man’s peaceful expression did not waver, “Bastion Cambridge.”
If Pedro could melt, right in that moment, he would. He had seen these feelings from a distance, the way someone’s body language changes, but never had he thought he’d feel a warmth greater than the sun before facing this man.
“I, I must tell you,” Pedro stuttered out, “I do not want to be a soldier.”
Finally, Bastion’s hand met his face, “Then what do you want, dear?”
Pedro let himself form into the touch, closing his eyes, “I think,” Pedro paused, “a gardener, a place I can tend to…”
When Pedro opened his eyes, Bastion had a hand on the crystal that sat against his chest, “Then may I give you that place?”
A split decision, the tide closing in, everything shifting in an instant.
“Yes.”
When the light finally dimmed, the San Francisco bay was far from Pedro’s sight.
Where he stood now was a centerpiece. Surrounded by great stone walls crawling with ivy, he stood in a garden.
Trellises of grape vines, flowers and crops alive, each and every inch of where was standing was alive. Walking slowly, Pedro took in the sights, the building that surrounded him was dark, undoubtedly it had seen much and out of its walls; the seclusion was intentional and being allowed here was just as much of an intentional decision.
Pedro stopped, resting for a moment at a sprawling willow at the furthest reaches of the garden.
He thought of Bastion, the intense emotion the man had provoked in him.
Perhaps—
Yes.
This place could be home.
