His eyes open in the bright room. Past open French doors, a single white cloud lazily drifts across the sky. He hears the waves crash against the rocks of the coast and knows it is late in the morning. From eastern rise to setting in the west, he is attuned to each tick of any given day.
Not today.
He runs a hand through his raven curls and feels the slide of the platinum ring that his been his honor to wear these twenty-four hours. It will be his honor to wear both, the rest of his life. He fists and flexes his fingers in awe of the ring’s existence. A story of two lives that blend into one, he knows people will speak of for eons – people do little else.
He sits up slowly, mentally chuckling at the soft cotton shirt twisted around his torso, still knotted at the waist, as he straightens it.
The only clothing left to the vagabond pirate after a night of ravishment by the rapscallions captain.
The captain whose blue eyes slowly open as he smiles. A left hand, whose ring finger bears a circle of platinum that matches his own reaches out for him as their lips meet.
“Good morning.”
The first day of the rest of their lives.
room, cloud, any, fist, raven, rock, slide, speak, west, story, blend, circle
Used the words in a story or a poem.
Raivenne-lations 