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« on: February 02, 2018, 02:09:31 PM »
Maelström
Washed by the Sea
Arthion was sitting with Captain Viola in a tavern on Madina's docks, waiting for the ship to take them across the Pirate Coast to Bol; the sea voyage was faster and safer than confronting monsters on the way with only fifteen inexperienced guards. His entrance into the nobility and his early days were promising, facing the hordes, adding a small fame to his already famous surname. But now there seemed to be a lack of purpose, a growing and apathetic marasmus. The fife as Viscount of Bol was nice, he could hold courts, take care of the people, help with civil work and protect them from the monsters, but he needed something more. Perhaps it was the lack of war, of engagement with a responsive enemy. Between a drink and another, he complained to his captain and she tried to cheer him up with the only thing she knew well: the life by the sea.
Captain Viola: “You’ll never enjoy the world aright, till the Sea itself floweth in your veins, till you are clothed with the heaven, and crowned with the stars: and perceive yourself to be the sole heir of the whole world. Now, the heart of man is very much like the sea, it has its storms, it has its tides and in its depths it has its pearls too…â€
Old sailor, passing by: "Take a good whore, boy! Sink in the wet depths between her thighs and you will forget any problem!â€
Captain Viola: “Well, it's an idea...â€
Arthion Eyolf: “There are no whores in Bol, or none that consider themselves as such, although there have always been many women who, if pressed, would describe themselves as much-married, with one husband on this ship here every six months, and another husband on that ship, back in port for a month or so every nine months. The mathematics of the thing have always kept most folk satisfied; and if ever it disappoints and a man returns to his wife while one of her other husbands is still in occupancy, why, then there is a fight — and the grog shops to comfort the loser.
The sailors do not mind the arrangement, for they know that this way there will, at the least, be one person who, at the last, will notice when they do not come back from the sea, and will mourn their loss; and their wives content themselves with the certain knowledge that their husbands are also unfaithful, for there is no competing with the sea in a man’s affections, since she is both mother and mistress, and she will wash his corpse also, in time to come, wash it to coral and ivory and pearls.â€***
In a drunk evening, Viscount and Captain staggered together by the harbor streets toward the ship that would take them to the whale-land. She was his crutch, he was just laughing as he leaned against her, his eyes filled with the sight of the setting sun spreading his fire over the water. Those were uncompromising days in which he sang to her.
Strange days have found us
And through their strange hours
We linger alone,
Bodies confused, memories misused,
As we run from the day
To a strange night of stone.
Arthion woke up on the wooden belly of the monster that cut the waves in its billowing march. Then very faintly, he heard above his head the low familiar murmur of the sea outside. At once the comfortable noise made him cheerful, and he even remembered what they were supposed to be. His eyes still dull, his feet a little hesitant; he went up the stairs to the deck. Like in a dream, the deck was empty as if he were the only human in that lost ship, floating lonely surrounded by an azure vastness. There were those little moments of calm before the sky burst into a roaring thunder. He saw the moment when the clouds came riding from the east, covering the star veil with a stormy mantle, shining here and there with violent lightings; it felt like sharks eating another sharks inside the cold-blooded womb of yet another shark in the sky. The sea shook violently and the silent deck was filled with the rush and the cries of desperate sailors trying not to be devoured by the billows. That was nature in all its might and rage. They fought and they lost.
The young warrior felt gentle hands leading him to the surface, like mermaids pulling him to the beach. He felt hot lips on his cold ones, blowing life back to his body, sucking the water to bring him back to life. Arthion coughed convulsively while Viola smiled relieved. The beach was now an open-air graveyard for less fortunate victims and the waves carried bits of wood and torn sails. The captain fell on the sand, relieved. Arthion sat down, looking at the now placid horizon. Something had changed inside him as he admired the Strait of Fatmilak on that stretch of beach in Bol.
A few days later, the Viscount ordered the construction of a Verdis Elementum temple in honor of the fury of the sea and the sky he had witnessed. He worshiped there, but it wasn't enough. The sea was calling for him. The storm stirred his heart and thundered in his soul. He had seen visions of monsters riding the lightning, sea creatures ready to devour the earth. He heard the Gods of the Sea and the Storm calling for him as the Stormwalkers and Stormbringers always claimed when they offered their oath and their testimony. Arthion was blessed by the sea.
(*** Neil Gaiman - Stardust)
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