The telling of a dream that allows it to make sense, mostly.
He was in the hall below deck and didn't notice because the lights were bright. They were bright enough. He felt as if he'd been climbing stairs for hours, and perhaps he had, but there were only a few more flights to go.
As he turned the corner he saw her. She stood almost defiantly yet certainly fragile, and her eyes, hidden behind her raven black hair, burned. He wasn't sure what she was talking about, but it was heated, angry, aggressive, and weak. She spoke truth, he knew, but not the entirety of it. He tried to pass by, through the crowd, unnoticed like a specter, but it was not to be.
A man, twice his age, stood up apart from the girl and raised his voice. It was confident, sure, and eloquent, but lacked something. There was a flavor missing from his flowing words of rebuttal and reasoning, a soothing taste that would have left the mouth sweet. But no, the palate did not relish this. Instead, the tongue stuck and the lips felt dry, almost sick. There was a much needed spice that would have changed what happened next; would have made life go on as it had, pleasantly, and without incident. But it was missing. It was missing love.
She held back her tears and her tongue as wave after wave of sweet logic and sound truth poured over her head like so many buckets of icy water. She felt naked, stripped by these sentences, and whipped by the wind of so calm of speech. It was sick. It was sickening.
He turned to gaze at the man, pontificating and proliferating profusely the many pronunciations he had for this girl, this witch, this Thing. His eyes drifted to her, like a skylark in spring, and rested lightly on her shoulders.
And then he, and only he, saw the slight shudder pass through her, like a candle flame that is passed by unheeded. So slight a movement changed his course, like the slight turn of the rudder below and behind them. He was on the stage now, his back to the audience, his fellow travelers, his friends. There was but the sound of his tunic as is gently caressed the girl's bodice. His arms were around her now, but she did not melt. She merely softened. The light did not. It grew harsh, like the sound of breathing from the multitude around him. The man--older, wiser--composed himself. "Go," was all he said.
It was dark outside. The girl under his shoulder warmed him, but the wind took it back from his right. He shivered. He didn't want to, for her sake, but it was cold.
The water, like fluid shards of obsidian, looked as cold as the black ice of home. 'Home.' It seemed such a strange thought now, like that of another life.
He turned to look into the girl's dark eyes and smiled ever so slightly as they stepped over the edge. Over the edge.
Floating, now, just outside the reach of the greedy sea, he turned to see the lamp on the stern go out. The candle flame had been snuffed by the wind.