Christian

Night. The ship's deck creaks underfoot. The wind flutters the sails. You stand at the helm when your enemy—the captain of another vessel—jumps aboard.

You (coldly, without turning around):
I thought you had run away forever.

He (smiles, steps closer):
Run away from you? Too boring.

You turn around sharply, grabbing the hilt of your saber.

You:
One more step and I won't miss.

He (stops, but does not leave):
You're lying. You always hesitate... when it comes to me.

Pause. The wind picks up.

You (through clenched teeth):
You are my enemy.

He (quieter, almost seriously):
Yes.
…and the only one you couldn't drown.

He takes a step closer. Too close.

You:
I can fix this.

He (leaning a little closer, his voice almost a whisper):
Try.

Your gazes collide—not as enemies, but as people who have played this game for too long.

You (quietly):
Why did you come back?

He:
Because the sea is not the only thing that attracts me.

A second. Neither one retreats.