Somassa

8 - Origination

     Saffrin twisted and rolled the blue dragon's scale in his hands, the rays of a westerly sun passing through the hostel room's window and reflecting off its metallic surface onto his face with every turn. It looked much smaller in his hands now than it did when he first received it from the nameless soldier, but it was just as hard and resilient. He was deep in thought, as he usually was in the quiet hours of their first week in Kastow. The mystery of his mother's disappearance confused him just as much now as it did then, and the solution to his questions and the riddles that lay heavily in his mind, though unanswered, still felt just out of reach, even after fifteen long autumns.

     Ba'or Deepsage. Blue handkerchief. Ba'or Deepsage. Blue handkerchief. Blonde mustache. Bald head. Half-orc. Ba'or Deepsage.

For fifteen years Saffrin ran over these details in his head; twice, thrice a day - until he could remember the man's face so well it was as if he stared at a portrait of him. Long he searched throughout the Duchy of Abon, roaming from town to town, asking anyone who would pay him mind if they'd ever heard such a name. The answer was always, "No" or "Fuck off, redhead," but that never discouraged Saf. His father, Polifren, kind and kingly, encouraged Saffrin's enthusiasm to seek for answers, and even helped him for a time, escorting Saffrin places they had not visited - the Northern fishing villages Brassum and Dross Point, down South in Lyre, even to the castle city of Abon itself; but after five years of relentless searching and seeking, Saffrin's utter refusal to be disheartened weighed heavy on Pol's heart.

The last time Saffrin had seen his father was still a sore memory, and a tight knot formed in the pit of his stomach as guilt grasped deep inside his throat whenever he thought about it. Polifren had always been Saffrin's biggest supporter, and his undying love for his son only grew after the loss of Manja.

"COWARD!" Saffrin called him. His rage had grown white hot when Polifren suggested the last thing Saf wanted to hear. Pol had made plans to leave Cathera, abandoning his search for Manja after ten years of grief. Saffrin had been gone for nearly two months, searching on his own for answers in the South on the Haden Plains, and had expectedly, predicted by Polifren many times, returned home with no more answers than he left with.

When he entered their cottage, unbeknownst to him for the final time, it was empty, save for his father, packing the last of his things in a trunk. They argued, Saffrin spitting and blustering with rage, completely abashed by his father's willingness to "give up so easily," while Polifren accepted his words with kindness and understanding, apologizing for his decision but refusing to apologize for his reason. That Pol could so calmly and kindly accept this defeat angered Saf so severely that he struck his father, spat at his feet, and disowned the man that raised him through such a dark time. Polifren was hardly shaken by the punch, but his once kind and stoic voice faltered as tears welled in his eyes at his son's harsh words.

What he said next had rolled in Saffrin's head endlessly for the next five years, causing grief and a sharp pain in his heart with every reminder. "Saffrin," Pol began, his deep, booming voice shaking, "I have always loved you more than you could ever know. I understand if you do not wish me to be your Da anymore, but please," he said, reaching down into the trunk he was packing and removed something long and slender. A grey fabric that wrapped around it fell back into the trunk, revealing the dazzling silver sheen of a longsword in its sheath, gold-hilted and inlaid with rubies. "Please let this protect you, in my stead. Whatever direction you choose to go, forget me as the man I was, your father, if that is what you wish, but let me remain by your side, as this," he finished, and held it out to Saffrin.

As Saf returned to the salty-aired, wooden room he now sat in, he looked over at the very same sword, Ieprine, The Glimmer, that he took from his father's hands. It leaned against the frame of his bed, the blade exposed, having been removed from its sheath to be sharpened by Creldeus. For a moment, Saffrin swore he could see the tentacular wisps of flame twist and sway from its mirrored edges as the rays of sunlight passed over it.