(no subject)
Prospero never forgot the island. Sometimes in the dead of night he would lie awake and think about the chirping of insects, the call of night birds, the quiet roar of the ocean and the soft whistle of the wind . . . All of his memories of the island came back to the wind, it seemed. Wind he rarely heard any more. The opulent chambers befitting the Duke of Milan seemed to press in around him and he struggled out of the thick curtained bed. The moonlight called to him and he strode barefoot to the window, throwing the shutters wide. The wind rushed passed him and swept around the room, rustling his papers and gently swinging the heavy curtains of his bed. Prospero smiled and closed his eyes, and with only a little imagination the gusting breeze became gentle fingers combing through his hair and soft lips pressed against his cheeks, his eyes, his mouth. . . He sighed softly as the wind swirled around him in a gentle embrace, enveloping him. For a moment he smelled the island, thick scents of salt water and green plants heavy with fruit. For a moment he thought he heard chirping crickets and birdsong and bubbling laughter. His hands came up and his eyes opened, expecting soft flowing hair and sparking eyes . . . and found only the sleeping city and the cool night. Slowly Prospero turned away from the still open window and returned to his bed, drawing the curtains behind him and slipping into dreams where a light, airy figure laughed as he danced.
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Before, Ariel had always been alone. The first human to come to her island had been Sycorax the witch, who had imprisoned him in a tree when he could not obey her commands. For years he wailed and struggled and hoped for someone to free him, but there was the island was empty and there were none to hear his cries. At last there came a man, a deposed Duke of Milan and his daughter, who was frightened by the unnatural howling of the wind, prompting her magician father to investigate. Prospero had torn open the cloven pine and Ariel had tumbled out, collapsing in a heap at the feet of his rescuer. For a moment he could only stare disbelievingly at the ground, struggling for breath, with his long and wild hair falling about his head like a curtain.
“So this is the horrible, terrifying monster that so disturbed my daughter’s sleep.” The voice was deep and kindly, and Ariel slowly raised his head to see his savior. The man’s hair and beard were still mostly brown but there were grey streaks at his temples and the edges of his beard that spoke of age and experience. “Now who are you, pretty one, who comes from a tree like a chick from an egg?”
“I am Ariel.” He was grateful for his freedom to be sure, but he was wary. The last person to come to the island had made him a slave and a prisoner.
“Well, Ariel, my chick, will you do me the favor of helping me on the island in return for your freedom?” It was phrased as a question, but Ariel heard the unmistakable tone of command and bowed his head. He didn’t dare protest.
“Yes, my master.”
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It was night. Prospero and his daughter Miranda had been on the island for almost two weeks. Ariel was dancing through the warm night air, still marveling at the wonderful feeling of being free from the tree, when he saw Prospero on the beach, leaning against a palm tree and looking sad. Ariel swirled around him as a gust of wind and Prospero smiled. “Ah, Ariel, my chick. Come here for a moment.” Ariel stepped forward to Prospero’s shoulder, and the old magician caressed his hair and cupped his cheek with a gentle hand. The spirit almost shied away from the touch, but something about the loneliness and pain in his eyes made Ariel stay. “My Ariel. Sit with me awhile? I could use a friendly ear.”
Ariel nodded slightly and settled next to him on the sand as delicately as a leaf. The magician continued stroking the sprite’s hair, the gentle pressure carefully guiding Ariel’s head to his shoulder. After a few moments of surprisingly comfortable silence Prospero began to speak, his quiet voice telling Ariel of his traitorous brother and his royal accomplice. Part way through the story Prospero was surprised by Ariel’s slim arms winding around his chest, but there was no sign of it in his voice to startle the sprite. As the tale ended for a moment Prospero thought Ariel was asleep, if sprites did indeed sleep, because of the stillness of the airy form against his own. He was proved wrong though, when Ariel slowly shifted and guided Prospero’s head to his own shoulder and graceful hands stroked his coarse hair. “Sleep, Master,” Ariel murmured in his musical voice. “Sleep and be not troubled.” Hours later, the magician woke from beautiful dreams of joy for himself and his daughter to find his head pillowed against the sprite’s breast, slim arms wrapped around him and a delicate nose buried in his hair.
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In time Ariel grew to like Prospero, he was nothing like the witch Sycorax. Sometimes in the evening after Miranda had gone to sleep Ariel would sit at Prospero’s feet and the old magician would stroke his hair and tell him about his home in Milan. Ariel was unused to company such as this, and he slowly grew to crave the contact, the quiet moments in the night and the gentle hands in his hair. Sometimes Ariel would return the favor, holding Prospero’s head in his lap and combing his fingers though the coarser brown hair as he talked about the islands and the winds and the sea. There were many nights that one of them fell asleep in the other’s lap, sometimes waking hours later to find the other’s fingers still in their hair, fast asleep.