Book 2 Season's Change Spring's Revenge

Part 8 Water

His blue eyes scanned and surveyed his surroundings as his mind questioned again how he was still alive. After all that he had endured. All the strife and struggle, being lost and cold in the dark, thinking he found the answer only to discover he had not, believing he was safe when he was not, the torture and the abuse, the anger, loneliness, and the fear, he was somehow still alive. In truth, he'd come close to death so many times he had lost count. Every moment he drew breath was a moment he was grateful to have. He felt, despite the honest horrors of his current situation, that someone was watching over him. If only they could rescue him from his prison. He closed his eyes for a moment and offered his gratitude rather than his spite to all the gods that might be listening. When he opened them again, those eyes, still shining bright with hope, took in every detail of the world their owner was trapped in. They could see to the edge of it, but all they saw was the endless tract of water between them and the end of the world. He saw nothing but white-capped waves peaking in the distance whipped by the wind that blew a few feet from him. He could feel the heavy wet air around him weighing him down. He could taste the briny cool dampness come crashing down on his skin as a wave careened against the side of the ship and became a cool vapor coating his skin.

His beard had grown in, thick and long, his hair even longer, a dark-straw colored mass of waves and tangles. If he could find his way home would his mother recognize her son? Would she know his face as a man's face as she did his face when it belonged to a mere boy? He was so much younger back then. He hadn't reached his full height. His shoulders were thin, his face shaven, and his hair kept short. Was his mother still alive? His father? Was his little brother now the King? Did he return home from his Sacred Journey? How old was his little brother? It only took him a moment to calculate how old his brother would be. He'd have been old enough to embark upon his own Sacred Journey. Had it been that long? Did his family mourn for him, even though he was not dead? Did they long for him as he did them and their home?

He looked out over the endless track of water and prayed. He missed his home, his family, his friends. He had high hopes for them all and would never get to see any of them come to fruition. He was stuck, trapped and lost, faithless, in a sea of trouble and turmoil. He could not see a way out, a path forward, other than to survive another day. He longed to find a way home. Could he return to the north that he loved so much? Could he return to his home, Westendorunn? What changes were made in his absence? Did they even care anymore? Had he been forgotten, lost, and cast aside, labeled as dead? He could not possibly know but he wondered. Did they mourn for him, did his betrothed cry on their planned wedding day? Did she miss him, did she marry another? Did she bear another man's children? Life moved fast, unlike the snow and ice he hadn't seen since he left all those years ago. She would be too old to marry now if she had not. Would she love him as she once did when he returned, if he returned? He wanted to go home. He wanted nothing more than to look upon his mother's lovely face, to see the light shine in his brother's green eyes and the sunset in his sister's hair. He longed to walk quietly beside his father and listen to the sounds of his city, his people. But he could not return to them. He had failed his Sacred Journey, in their eyes he was still a boy, better to have died that way than to return a disgrace to his family. It would throw the city into chaos and allow outsiders to take over his home. It was best that -- even if he could find a way to break free of his prison -- he stayed away from his ancestral home. His return would do nothing but destroy the lives of many.

He closed his eyes against the hollow empty pain in his chest as he held on to the rail with a knuckle-white grip and gritted his teeth. The whip struck his back yet again with a loud snap. His knees nearly gave for the pain that came with the blow. He longed for home, but he longed for release much more. The whip was cracked again over his exposed back. The pain was sharp and piercing but it was nothing compared to the heavy, continuous pain the shackles on his wrists and ankles caused him as they rubbed his skin raw every day. The whip's pain was a fast fleeting pain. He was given just enough time between each lash for the pain to dissipate and his mind to numbingly shut it out before the next one came slashing in. He felt the leather tear his shirt and rip his skin. He felt his own blood run hot down his back. He closed his eyes against the pain and focused his mind on his memories of better times. He could see his little brother still in his cradle, his baby eyes; blue hinting toward green, innocent and strong, penetrating and knowing despite his extremely young age, looking up at him and questioning the way they always did. Though his mother was nearby, it was his responsibility to care for his infant brother. He was to feed him, change him and keep him clean for that day until the next. He did not see or understand why he had to. He was complaining about life to the baby, about his duty as a brother and future king. He remembered clearly the things he said to the little baby and he remembered clearly the way those blue-green eyes shifted and focused on him. He carried many memories of those eyes looking at him like he had just said the most mundane, ridiculous or amazing thing their owner had ever heard. Those memories, the hope that he would one day look into those eyes again, hear his brother's soft laugh, see the young boy's heart smiling in his eyes, just as he remembered them the day he departed for his Sacred Journey, was one of the many things that kept him alive. Those green eyes and that young boy. They had spent countless hours together, training when they should have been laughing and laughing when they should have been training. The love of a brother tried and true, that was his focus that day as the whip came crashing across his back. It tore his clothes and ripped his skin, but it did not touch his hope.