Amalfi

Chapter One: Curse His Name, Lest He Forget

Ἀνδρῶν γὰρ ἐπιφανῶν πᾶσα γῆ τάφος.
"For illustrious men have the whole earth for their tomb."

- Θουκυδίδης (Thucydides)

Chapter One

He would never forget the thunder.

He would never forget how it made the very earth tremble, or the sea cower at its might. How it struck down his friends, his comrades, his fellow men; how it grinned with bright teeth and puffed its black cheeks. He would never forget how it bellowed and cursed his name—and how when the thunder was done, he wasn't sure what that name was anymore.

He didn't know he would soon long to forget the sound. That he would pray to be cleansed of its imprint as much as he would yearn to remember himself. He didn't know; no-one ever did of their future.

No, he wouldn't remember any aspect of today by the end, though it started like most others. At least, how his days usually went at sea. The sky woke purple, softly dry and faintly stained with pink. The gulls were sulky, feeling restless and tricked by unbothered sailors; they'd receive no handouts from similarly peckish men. Land was close, yet not so close as to spot with a mortal eye. It dampened spirits to go too long without a reminder of its existence, he knew, but seeing what was to be passed without visit could often be worse. Shore was kept out of sight, at least for now.

The boat sullenly rocked as it strove forward. The vessel was simultaneously bored by its long journey and unsettled by unfamiliar waters; it showed in the creaks and silent hymns of a weathered ship. He felt the same. Exploring new territories was a bitter shot of poorly diluted wine, the burn of a sweetly satisfied yearning for adventure tempered with an unease of the unknown.

Of course, he would yank out his own spleen by way his throat before admitting any of that.

At the first sign of light that morning, he stationed himself where he always was: planted at the very back, with the entire vessel in his sights. He could relax into his familiar rigidity. His signature, waiting stance welcomed him like bones popping back into place; warmth curled under his skin. He was always ready, waiting, taut. Yet, there was something easy about it despite the strain. A spring left primed for years was still ready to release at the smallest flinch, sensible to shifts, but it found comfort in its usual pressed curves. It was an ease born from expertise. He was always on edge, always anticipating a battle, yet he was simultaneously unbothered. He knew himself and his skill—no matter the circumstances, it would all end the same way. He was fated to win.

Such clashes of self weren't new to him. Contradictions were comfortable. He wore vigilance and nonchalance in unison, a feat that should've been impossible, yet wasn't; it unnerved others how well he wielded it. Gods, there wasn't much he couldn't wield with ease.

He breathed deeply after getting into position. Forcing air between each rib, through every internal cavern, down to all bottom crannies and flooding every nook. He even enjoyed the gritty barrage of the journey's familiar smells: the salt, the rust, the smell of iron still pervading the boat from their last skirmish. The tell-tale scent of a storm.

Above them, and a little ways out, was the lightning that caused said shift in the air. Its stark hues interrupted the rest of the calm sky. Yet, it appeared distant, so far up in the clouds it didn't spare a thought to the ground below. Each flash lit up the shadows of a magnificent wall of atmospheric peaks, savagely containing the storm hundreds of meters above the waves. Yet, the wind was anxious. It hurried and hid in every open space of his ship and cloak, as if fleeing. The storm was contained for now, but perhaps the wind knew the fickle nature of the sky.