An Ocean of Lies (AFOS II)

Chapter 21: Alaric

His stomach hurt just by thinking of it: hours and hours of rocking back and forth, the buzz of magic numbing his fingertips, his toes, cramping every single one of his muscles. If he'd had any choice in the matter, he wouldn't have picked the life of an Onturian, not that anyone, ever, told them what it was really going to be like anyway. It was going to pass, soon, how long did the newly anointed knights went away for? Two weeks? For the trials, they told them, but there was a tiny itty bitty chance, maybe, they spent most of that time hiding in the dark, clutching their guts, writhing in pain; at least that's what he wanted to do. Ouch. It hurt, all over. Every step, every smile, set every single one of his nerves on fire, but he didn't want to worry her. There was no need: he could take it, yes he could. He had trained all his life for it, he couldn't ask more of her. She didn't really have to be there, but she was, and he loved her for it, and, well, a whole lot of other things. As it was, she was leading them both, he couldn't ask her to stop and worry about him on top of that.

He nearly slipped as he walked to the skipper. The entirety of the living quarters didn't look bigger than the man's living room and kitchen combined, unless there was a room hidden underneath. They were going to share that tiny space, through the ocean, with a revenant, because there was no fun in plain old boat rides, the fear of losing a paddle wasn't thrilling enough for them, no sir. Gerard would never believe it, the look on his face when— right. His chest tightened. It was easy to forget when you refused to let go. He couldn't just be gone, not Gerard. He was bigger than life, wasn't he? He taught him everything he knew. What would he say? If he'd been there. Right. Chin high, shoulders back, suck it up, say a little prayer to the creators. There would be time for praying later, praying didn't take care of immediate dangers, such as Jo, nearly falling off the skipper. He caught her, just in time, pain shooting through his arm all the way up to his brain, his reflexes sharper than ever, by the way-- he couldn't really complain. It would be amazing when that whole settling-in stopped. She smiled at him, that sweet, spunky smile of hers, that wrinkle in her nose where her beautiful scar stood proud and fierce, traveling halfway across her cheek. That sparkle in her eyes. He couldn't lose her too, she was everything he had. But she was unpredictable at times and didn't like to be saved, didn't need to, most of the time, true. But just in case, he kept his eyes open, without her noticing. She couldn't always sense danger coming, and when the time came, he'd be ready to lend a hand. Or two.

The revenant took up most of the cabin, or he seemed to at least; if he hadn't known better he would've guessed he was, perhaps, an imago, judging by his features: part human, part wolf. A werewolf, the texts called them, their spirit animal manifesting in hairy bodies, pointy teeth, fully transforming during the convergence of moons, during the ethereal tides. He'd entertained the idea, back in the hut, but his eyes: they'd been too human. If they'd been glamoured, with the ass-beating he'd greeted him with, well, he would've dropped the glamor in a second, as Laurentius had. He watched him as he rummaged through a stack of maps, as he unloaded food inside a sizeable frosted-rune box and shook the firedust lamps, as he checked the ink of his typewriter, made sure he had enough paper.

He looked at Jo, her eyes fixed on the revenant, serious, her jaw clenched. She jumped as soon as he touched her shoulder, all her senses up: she would've made an amazing Onturian, she had the potential to become a great fighter, the mind to keep herself alive— very important, that. He smiled with his eyes: they were going to be ok, he had her back. He pointed at the hidden knife in his pocket. The revenant had insisted on them relinquishing their weapons: if they were going to travel together, they needed to trust each other, right? Hah.

But there was trust and there was blind stupidity: always have a dagger hidden under your sleeve, you never know when the tides will turn against you. Gerard taught him that, when he was a kid, always hungry after breakfast thanks to his fellow, wonderful, rookies who sat with him, chatted him up, then stole all his delicious eggs and whole grain bread, even his milk-- the nerve of them. Every single time, ever since he was deemed old enough to begin his training with the rest of them, which meant, really, old enough to grip a sword and be out of the way. Always the youngest. How long was he during his first year of training? Five? His sword was just a few centimeters longer than him: they didn't make them smaller, smaller swords were considered daggers at that point. The youngest of the first-year recruits had been ten at the time; he saw them all come and go, for the next five -- incredibly entertaining-- years, until he was finally mature enough, they said, to move on to second year. By that time he was a master at sword polishing, sword sharpening, sheathing and unsheathing, running laps around the city's battlements and his favorite: how not to poke yourself in the foot with your own sword. Some didn't master that until third year, but he learned the lesson early on, during his first week: He was a fast learner, well, sometimes. When he cared and, that time, he had definitely cared alright. His bones never quite grew properly after the wound, he could still feel the pain in, particularly cold days.