83rd. Summer of 498
The maps sprawled out haphazardly before the old Svefra captain's hard wooden desk, bolted securely to the planked floor. His aging eyes struggled against the flickering lamplight, and his head throbbed at the sounds from the galley seeping through the wooden frame of his ship, his home, in chaotic and intruding bursts. The full moon was coming, and he knew better than to risk morale on a talk of civility for old men's comfort, even his own. He was experienced enough to know the crew's moods, his family's moods. As they sailed farther from land those moods would wane into manageable, like that of Leth's light. Hell, he was one of those young men long enough, long ago, though none who knew him would believe such, he knew how such things worked.
Amongst the chaotic bursts of noise was a series of thuds, disregarded at first, but when accompanied by a shout the Captain realized the origins, tucked blatantly on the opposite of his cabin door. "Cap'in, you are going to wana see this one fur y'rself, we got ourself a pint sized stowaway!"
He frowned, though his face did not change. With disturbances like this it came as no surprise that the captain had found himself in a permanent scowl years before. "Well bring it here, then!" He yelled back in a hoard but commanding baritone, without rising from his chair. Just as the door opened the ship gave a gallant pitch upward, then sink back down. The Captain's trained hand, though shaky, reached out for the lantern and ink well upon his desk just before the shake, as if taken by some stroke of clairvoyance. Once his ship settled he let the objects of his desk settle as well, and struggled to permeate the darkness before him with his fading stormy blue eyes.
A boy, raven haired, darker than the shadows themselves, and pale skin compared to that of the crew. He was petite, no sailor's boy, nor did he seem ready for a strong swim. Still, a single look at his eyes, bright, almost glowing upward showed his heritage. He was at least in part Svefra, and for that reason alone the Captain did not order him away. He could not justify throwing one of his own, for whatever reason, to the winds of fate without a trial.
"Cap'in, we found him tucked amongst the cargo, he done stole some bread. Made a right mess down there too, could smell him from the galley." Ruise was a talker, he talked, and talked, and the Captain never appreciated that much. He had adopted a view of the world over his long years, that a man can only speak so many words before he falls mute, but a man can only hear so many words before he falls dead. Ruise was some nephew or such, but the Captain gave no heed, he wore on the Captain's life more than the Captain felt fit.
"Shut up, Sailor." He said in sudden Fratava, more severe in dialect than his nephew. He listened to the words of command, and the shock even caused the young Svefra to pull his hand from his captive's shoulder. The boy shook with unlearned sea legs, but did not fall upon release.
The Captain looked at the boy, and the boy stared directly back. Those nearly glowing eyes fixated. The Captain could smell fear from a mile away, but something told him that this stowaway feared all right, but not the Captain, and certainly not Ruise. For chimes upon chimes the two locked gazes, and there was a full conversation given, one that lent no knowledge but created a certain understanding of souls. The boy was a coward, no doubt, but not out of choice, but necessity, and the captain knew the boy would speak nothing of his past before words were demanded.
"Son-" The Captain began, only to be halted by the boy's eyes. They shifted, swirled with an indigo streak of pure emotions, flexing the dim glow without warning, then a streak of nearly white frosted blue, like the foam of winter waves burst from the border of his pupils as he opened his own mouth to speak in a breathy and quiet youthful falsetto, ravenged by days without proper water.
"You may murder me if you wish, Sir. However, I must respectfully decline any demands put upon me to deliver forth information regarding my past. There will be no negotiation on the matter. None." Through his words of peculiar common his eyes burst rapidly and repeatedly, over and over as he spoke, and it became apparent in the following moments of silence that they responded to the child's beating heart, threatening to burst straight from his chest. The Captain suddenly doubted the boy to be Svefra, even in part. No Svefra boy was taught to speak in such concise riddles.
The eldered man knew not what to say at first. He was shocked, the boy had either courage or some bazaar training with words. A boy resembling that of a ten year old spoke demands at him, set terms, and interrupted him in his room. His blood boiled, but he was impressed. He glared into those blue eyes, furious and undefined intimidation. The child who stole himself away within his home did not blink, he stared back, and so the Captain gave a sudden roar. Saliva flew from his thin chapped lips, and without fail the boy's eyes looked away, shaken, and a step back was intercepted by Ruise's leg who did not go unshaken itself by the roar.
The Captain laughed. "So you do have a soul, Boy!" He declared in common, and won openly a wounded glare from the unnamed child. "Step into the light." The boy did not move. "Ruise." The meatless child was ushered forward with little struggle.
Light washed over him and revealed streak of tear and snot valleys down his grime covered face. He did smell, of indisposed human byproduct, and the Captain's nose rose in disgust at the pungency. The boy's hands were clenched, and lips taught, bit between well kept teeth. He had been in good health, well kept before the journey began. The Captain suspected a rich background. He pondered, but only shortly, the idea of delivering him back for a bounty. But, no, there was Svefra strength in the child, even if his charm was unfit.
"We travel for the Flotilla. Do you know where that is?" Again a flood of common.
The boy did not shake his head, despite his fear and anger, but forced more haughty words from his swollen throat. "No, Sir, I do not know where the Flotilla is located, nor what purpose it serves." The Captain fought a chuckle, at the honest yet drawn out words, the boy entertained him with his oddity of mannerisms. Still the Captain refused to appear as a kindly old man, and continued his usual scowl.
"Give us a name to call you by. You will ride with us, and work for your food." Ruise looked genuinely shocked at the forgiving sentence, never had the Captain took kindly on a stowaway, nor had he ever been unduly cruel, however. Still, this was undoubtedly kind for the bitter old man.
The boy uttered his name, proud and extended as he always would, through his entire life. "Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante." The Captain just shook his head in amazement at his utter ignorance, or unshakable pride.
"Ruise, string him a net in your room for sleep, and have him cleaned up - he reaks." He ordered not in Fravata, but an unwelcomed but unchallenged command. Then turned to the raven haired boy once more with a final string of common words. "You will speak Fravata on this ship, Trente. If you have common words to spare, silence them. Learn, or die. You will not disobey Ruise here. Without him you will be sunk to Laviku, I promise you this. Impress him at all costs."
The boy's eyes turned to Ruise, his new life line. And his brow furrowed. He did not know Fravata, and so he said nothing, a new sensation for the boy. His only training, his only tool, had been stripped from him.
They were both dismissed with a crude wave of the Svefra Captain's thick hand. Ruise followed order without a word, taking the boy's shoulder as he had when they entered, but he gave an off look, which flared a foreboding sensation to pit in the Captain's drunken gut. Looking to the boy's eyes once more they flickered in panic, growing more vivid in appearance, till the Captain realized with experienced observation it as a trick of the eye. The boy's skin grew whiter, his hand's shook, and he clumsily turned away. A step was taken into Ruise, and he nearly tripped to the ground, if not for a steady hold by the junior sailor, as the hefty ship gave to a slight rock of the waves. The boy's shaking lasted only for a moment, before his composure returned...
Ruise smiled uncomfortably, and offered a joking reprieve, "Learn ta read Laviku's nudges, or learn ta meet the deck with grace." The words were in Fravata, and he laughed uncomfortable, implying the child a simple newcomer to the moving waters. The Captain's eyes narrow, and he gave a sterner expression, implying they should go, and they did.
Disappearing back into the shadows, then out of his cabin the Captain said a prayer to Laviku. Something stirred in his bones, ached, like a storm, though he knew well no storm of the skies approached. Something more devious had come upon his boat, and he felt fear of something other than Laviku for the first time in years.
"Laviku, guide us, and forgive us our laziness. Forgive us our ignorance. Please, purge the danger I sense from our family, from our home."
___
Tear's whelmed in Trente's eyes, fearful tears. The steady and repetitive creaking of the hamic, strung to iron bolt above him creaked eerily in the darkness. Snores came from the carefree, the ignorant Ruise from across the room. They seemed alone, but Trente knew otherwise. He had thought Laviku, and the winds would save him from the monster who lurked within him, but they had not. Distance had not given reprieve, and he feared for his mother, for himself. He even feared for Ruise, the severe sailor who discovered him.
Trente refused to sleep, for he feared the weakness it brought. And, he was glad for Ruise's snores, they proved to Trente that he was far away, on the opposite of the cabin. Sleep meant vulnerability, it gave a doorway to his haunting, his ghostly aggressor. He promised himself he would not sleep, as he had been trying to deny for three extended days on board that Svefra sea craft. A battle Trente knew better than have confidence he could win. Still, he fought, for desperate fear.
The creaking churned his belly, his nerves raising and falling with the waves, only to rise again when his lulling head snapped back up, trying deathly to avoid slumber. He shook again, not like he had in the cabin, but out of fear. She was there, the spirit, and she had tried to take him in that cabin. He felt her grow bolder inside of him, felt her strengthen. She hated him, and he felt it now. He began to feel her, and her hatred, swept across him with that numbing cold. It made it all that much harder to resist her.
He took crying as a welcomed distraction from sleep, and indeed made it through the nights without incident. Though, the consequence was the crew's fowl opinion. They thought he stupid of practicality. His sleep deprivation hindered his work, and stole his wit, that he was unallowed to exercise for lack of words in any case. Still, Ruise's manner improved little over the following days. He hated, and pitied Ruise. None liked him, and Trente was forced to need him. Trente feared for his life, just the same, however. And for good reason.
Two sleepless nights later, and the approach of the full moon gave way to true weakness. Parties, and some forced alcohol in jest, not denied by the boy, bred this weakness, and the need for slumber. He remembered little of the night, not for the alcohol, but for the lack of sleep. He would forever remember his rude awakening, however. Worse than any before it.
A coolness shot through him, a numbing terrifying chill. It was intrusive, but met no resistant, only a distant disdain. It hurt, though his body was numb from cold and alcohol it still struck in his mind. Violated, invaded. It cut into him like a knife, impaled by a stinging burning pole of coldness, like how one would sense the depths of Laviku's realm. Hot tears poured from somewhere, but all that he heard were screams. A women's screams, not in Fravata, no. In common? They were raspy and distant, and he felt strikes upon him, distant like that of the invasion. Like some retired memory, resurfacing with vengeance. He did not understand, but he felt the sorrow, and the pain. And he felt embarrassed, and humiliated. He accepted it, for lack of options, and cried. He felt unlike himself, and could not in that shapeless world, remember who he might be. All he felt was the chill of icy wind upon skin that was not his, through skin that was not his. Breasts, and hair, and unwelcome wetness.
His head throbbed as he awoke, screamed in pain. A high pitched yell of a Svefra women caught it with a mirroring and searing pain, which reached to the center of his cooled skull. Yes, cooled, like his numbed fingers, and weak legs. He felt some warmth, however, not within him, but upon him. Thick and sticky, with smell of metal. He knew it, and acid rose in his throat, from his alcohol sodden stomach. Before he opened his burning eyes he knew tragedy had struck.
Darkness surrounded him, with nothing but Leth's harsh rays casting a colorless blanket of contrast over the scene. The wetness sheened with silver, one eye was inundated with it, the other registered more clearly upon the floor beside him. He was laying there, his neck aching, and his body unmoving. A strike fell on him, hard in the gut, and slurred Fravata swears came in agitated Ruise's voice. A spit of metallic flavor hit his face, and it caused Trente to look up in delirious pain. Sure enough Ruise stood over him, and with the arrival of a candle's warm light, from outside the boy's awareness there came the clear site of blood over him. A wound lay across one arm, and Trente slowly recalled the sensation of cutting into him. But with what? He wasn't sure. Trente's head screamed at him as he tried to recall, as another harsh kick came from the still standing Ruise.
Trente felt blood from his ear, and his chest and gut burned as vomit came forth. His neck was injured, he had been struck. The spirit was angered by his attempt to ignore her, she hated Trente. But did she wish him dead? Truly. Trente did not think of her, or of the Svefra that beat him. He thought of little over the hours that followed. He was questioned by a furious captain, who had grown to like the boy. Still, it did not save him from solitary confinement. It did save him from death, however. Ruise marked him, however, where a tattoo would go, not just printed but gauged with a burning hot blade. A thick, and deep "X" upon his shoulder blade. Red with ink, so that no Svefra pod would take him again. He was marked a threat, and Laviku and all of his followers would know it.
He was told about the foreign words he spoke while in his rage, his changed voice, his hateful tone. Told of how he attacked Ruise, and how he seemed to feel no pain when struck. Trente made no apologies, nor excuses. He felt the pain then, he felt it plenty, and again fought sleep as they traveled the remaining days to the Flotilla. He ate little, and drank less. He was not given his shirt when he left, to cover his back, which still healed. He was kicked without mercy from the boat, straight into the water surrounding the Flotilla, and forced to pull himself aboard a merchant ship, before the sharks found him and his bleeding mark. The transient denizens of the Flotilla gave even less pity, as he was forced to travel unwelcomed from ship to ship. He invited any opportunity to fight sleep. He made the mistake only once of drinking salted water, and twice the mistake of getting caught stealing food. The days were miserable blurs of heat, and the nights challenging and timeless events of fighting the coldness within him.
Time meant nothing, only survival, and as he grew weaker the curse grew stronger within him. But, she did learn. She did not wish his death, no she wished his suffering.
____
Lost in the sea of time, Fall 498
The black water embraced him as he waded, treading dangerously, neck just above the water. He was starving, not hunger, like he had felt in Syliras when gone a day without food for lack of his mother's waiting, but true starvation. His fat had been depleted, and had reduced him to all but skin and bones. His head always ached, and his eyes had dried to nothing but hollow shells. He had begun to understand this new existence, and it seemed easier than what he had attempted upon the ship, simpler, but more painful. He hunted always, the food and drink of others. None would take him as a ward, and if caught none would spare him. He fought the world, and it fought back. It was winning, slowly, but he did not think of that. He did not think of the future, or even the present. Most days he did not think at all.
Legs flailed directionless beneath him as his weak arms propelled him toward the base of the small merchant vessel. It was night, and fall, so he understood his limitations, he could only remain within the water for a short time. His body was weak, was prone to sickness. But his stomach gave him an other worldly endurance. A wilder endurance. He had it in him to understand theft, he had it in him to understand all things. He would eat anything that gave him strength, and risk anything for a single scrap.
Struggling against his dying shell he felt along the invisible exterior of the boat before him, feeding himself along the side till he found it, the ropes which held the ship tied to the Flotilla itself. They were thick, more so than his arm. Trente waded another few moment, clinging to the hefty rope, gathering his strength, before finally pulling. He failed at first, with a splash of water, luckily unnoticed. It took three more tries to get the momentum, the focus needed to pull himself out of the water. He achieved this by letting his stomach guide him, he let the pain of his stomach rise over the pain of his extremities. They were cold, unprotected by fat, and weak from lacking nutrients. But he was lite, and he knew not consequence. He pushed himself past potential, into the impossible. Pulling, and hoisting his nearly dead weight up, across the burning rope, legs and arms clutched without restraint to the rough fibers, and finally to the wooden railing itself.
Awareness was severally limited. The boy could not see in the darkness, but he groped outward, water striping off of him along with his precious heat. He spilled onto the deck, and rolled through the shadows. He precieved some voices, crew members, along with light just outside of his safe shadows. He knew not to go there, not to go near people. He had a fear that drove him, he knew better. Others would end him, he feared them, and he wanted them gone. He did not care how but he honestly wished all people to be gone, to leave forever and never exist again. He would have them all dead, so that he could feed. On them if he had to. He did not think sanely in that time, in that state.
Groping in the darkness he found what he searched for, a hole, a window to an above deck cabin. He looked through it, and saw nothing. Oh but he smelled, and this drove him wildly forward, as if beckoned and called by these smells. He smelled alcohol in the air, sweat and body oder, and most of all stew. All, however, seemed edible to him. He would eat anything. He had no choice. Pulling himself through the port hole seemed an epic chore, and he more fell than moved through its opening. He groaned at distant pain, overshadowed by hunger, but fear of discovery stopped his vocals short.
He groped in the darkness, in the shadows. He grabbed for everything, and fed it to his mouth. Fabric was turned away in disgust, thrown to the side. He was angry, angry at that which could not be imbibed. Until finally, he discovered it. A pouch, inside the unmistakable smell of stale bread. He tore at the bag, but could not open it. He started to cry dryly, his mind unable to unfasten its simple buckle, his frozen fingers denying him any celerity.
Then he jumped at a sound. It was soft, but struck terror into his mind. A women's voice. It sounded familiar, but it spoke words he did not know. Did he not understand because it was Fravata or because he was too far gone for Common? He did not know, all he knew was danger. His food was in danger, and as some hostile assault the soft glow of candlelight spread over him. His wet back, showing deep grooves of ribs, and curveless outlines of a spine glistened with salty wetness. His black hair stuck sparsely to his head, and his blue eyes shown like sapphire fire in the shine as he moaned back at the light, unable to make out faces or shapes.
The whole world seemed to trail behind in time, his mind unable to cope, unable to follow movement coherently. It all streamed together, and it all hurt his head. She spoke more, still softly, but she moved toward him, so Trente moved back, hitting his head on a near by piece of furniture. He tried to growl, or hiss, but it came out as a horse keening moan. Had she seen his mark, the deep red strike upon his shoulder blade? She must have, he wore no shirt. He registered a gleam, a flash of metal. This he focused on, a dagger, firm in the palm of the women. She was going to kill him, gut him, and he would not be able to eat.
Her free hand came toward him, and he batted it harshly away, but she shooshed him softly. It reminded him of something, something terrifying, but he couldn't remember. Something had happened in candlelight, a women silencing him. Trente could not cry, for there was no moisture to give tears with.
She parted lips, and a short call to others came, to be silenced a moment later. She was going to call for others, they would kill him? Trente was confused, and scared. But something sentient in him responded, churned in his bones. Coldness grasped him, and he feared she was coming. The demon spirit was coming, so he tried to fight it. But, to his surprise, and utter confusion she did not take him this time. No, there was a wavering in the air before him, a light, a transparent wave of kinky dark hair, and transparent flickering glows of skin, met with the vivid and familiar oder of the acidic herb. It dove from him toward the women, and her voice cut off with a start, her panicked eyes struggling.
Then with a startling change in tone her lips moved, a choking quiet hiss of words came out, this time in common. They were said without reception once, then with severity grabbed Trente's attention. It took great focus to understand them, the sounds that seemed to hold no meaning. But with a strained mind Trente managed to understand.
"End her." Trente knew the voice all too well. So long since she had spoken directly to him. "Hurry."
The women was fighting the tormenting spirit away quickly. The spirit had strengthened but not enough to hold the conscious for long. Trente knew not what to do, he did not have it in him to defy her. He forced the energy he had left into sprawling forward, not truly standing, and took the dagger, cutting himself, but managed it into his left hands. His right refused to let go of the pouch of bread.
"Stab her." The deathly hiss came again, and without hesitation the dagger thrust forward with no restraint. The sensation disgusted Trente, but the emotions were dim and removed, hidden behind fatigue.
Flesh was soft, forgiving, and the gush of following blood came warm and in pulses. There was no scream, or resistance. The possessed women didn't even recoil in instinctive pain. It was unnatural. Trente pulled the knife back, and the smell of blood came. It smelt good. Trente hated that, and so he stabbed again, and again. All he felt was hunger, though. And the words of the dying body came into meaning only later.
"You are mine, child. You will take lives. You will take Reginal Gernold's life, and free me. Feed, grow strong, and kill for me, swine." The words fell into darkness, like the room as the candle spilled its flames, and dissipated, just as the Svefra women's life faded to the beyond.
Hungrily Trente drank a lap of the crimson liquid in darkness, without thought, and then fled with his bread. He had not the mind to be disgusted by the blood. He had not the heart to care for that women's life. With his dagger, his bread, and his spiritual guardian, and tormentor, he continued through the Flotilla for a time he had no way of tracking, walking the ridge between the valley of life, and the valley of death, housing both within his body. When his pain kept him from moving she took him, used his body like a puppet, urged him forward. Forced him to live when he would die, and guided him with sinister whispers into strategy that was simply beyond him. With ghostly clairvoyance he stole food and drink, and through ghostly intervention he escaped when caught. His life was pitiful, but with time he strengthened.
With strength the guilt found him. Hatred toward himself, toward that spirit. And worst of all was that he felt her, understood her more and more.
Every time she stepped into his frail body she stepped into his soul, and they shared themselves with one another. He felt those strikes more and more vividly, that life lost in Syliras. What horrors it held before, and the sensations though holding little meaning to the starving boy, gave birth to an understanding. He understood insanity, and hunger, and he understood evil.
Secret :
The maps sprawled out haphazardly before the old Svefra captain's hard wooden desk, bolted securely to the planked floor. His aging eyes struggled against the flickering lamplight, and his head throbbed at the sounds from the galley seeping through the wooden frame of his ship, his home, in chaotic and intruding bursts. The full moon was coming, and he knew better than to risk morale on a talk of civility for old men's comfort, even his own. He was experienced enough to know the crew's moods, his family's moods. As they sailed farther from land those moods would wane into manageable, like that of Leth's light. Hell, he was one of those young men long enough, long ago, though none who knew him would believe such, he knew how such things worked.
Amongst the chaotic bursts of noise was a series of thuds, disregarded at first, but when accompanied by a shout the Captain realized the origins, tucked blatantly on the opposite of his cabin door. "Cap'in, you are going to wana see this one fur y'rself, we got ourself a pint sized stowaway!"
He frowned, though his face did not change. With disturbances like this it came as no surprise that the captain had found himself in a permanent scowl years before. "Well bring it here, then!" He yelled back in a hoard but commanding baritone, without rising from his chair. Just as the door opened the ship gave a gallant pitch upward, then sink back down. The Captain's trained hand, though shaky, reached out for the lantern and ink well upon his desk just before the shake, as if taken by some stroke of clairvoyance. Once his ship settled he let the objects of his desk settle as well, and struggled to permeate the darkness before him with his fading stormy blue eyes.
A boy, raven haired, darker than the shadows themselves, and pale skin compared to that of the crew. He was petite, no sailor's boy, nor did he seem ready for a strong swim. Still, a single look at his eyes, bright, almost glowing upward showed his heritage. He was at least in part Svefra, and for that reason alone the Captain did not order him away. He could not justify throwing one of his own, for whatever reason, to the winds of fate without a trial.
"Cap'in, we found him tucked amongst the cargo, he done stole some bread. Made a right mess down there too, could smell him from the galley." Ruise was a talker, he talked, and talked, and the Captain never appreciated that much. He had adopted a view of the world over his long years, that a man can only speak so many words before he falls mute, but a man can only hear so many words before he falls dead. Ruise was some nephew or such, but the Captain gave no heed, he wore on the Captain's life more than the Captain felt fit.
"Shut up, Sailor." He said in sudden Fratava, more severe in dialect than his nephew. He listened to the words of command, and the shock even caused the young Svefra to pull his hand from his captive's shoulder. The boy shook with unlearned sea legs, but did not fall upon release.
The Captain looked at the boy, and the boy stared directly back. Those nearly glowing eyes fixated. The Captain could smell fear from a mile away, but something told him that this stowaway feared all right, but not the Captain, and certainly not Ruise. For chimes upon chimes the two locked gazes, and there was a full conversation given, one that lent no knowledge but created a certain understanding of souls. The boy was a coward, no doubt, but not out of choice, but necessity, and the captain knew the boy would speak nothing of his past before words were demanded.
"Son-" The Captain began, only to be halted by the boy's eyes. They shifted, swirled with an indigo streak of pure emotions, flexing the dim glow without warning, then a streak of nearly white frosted blue, like the foam of winter waves burst from the border of his pupils as he opened his own mouth to speak in a breathy and quiet youthful falsetto, ravenged by days without proper water.
"You may murder me if you wish, Sir. However, I must respectfully decline any demands put upon me to deliver forth information regarding my past. There will be no negotiation on the matter. None." Through his words of peculiar common his eyes burst rapidly and repeatedly, over and over as he spoke, and it became apparent in the following moments of silence that they responded to the child's beating heart, threatening to burst straight from his chest. The Captain suddenly doubted the boy to be Svefra, even in part. No Svefra boy was taught to speak in such concise riddles.
The eldered man knew not what to say at first. He was shocked, the boy had either courage or some bazaar training with words. A boy resembling that of a ten year old spoke demands at him, set terms, and interrupted him in his room. His blood boiled, but he was impressed. He glared into those blue eyes, furious and undefined intimidation. The child who stole himself away within his home did not blink, he stared back, and so the Captain gave a sudden roar. Saliva flew from his thin chapped lips, and without fail the boy's eyes looked away, shaken, and a step back was intercepted by Ruise's leg who did not go unshaken itself by the roar.
The Captain laughed. "So you do have a soul, Boy!" He declared in common, and won openly a wounded glare from the unnamed child. "Step into the light." The boy did not move. "Ruise." The meatless child was ushered forward with little struggle.
Light washed over him and revealed streak of tear and snot valleys down his grime covered face. He did smell, of indisposed human byproduct, and the Captain's nose rose in disgust at the pungency. The boy's hands were clenched, and lips taught, bit between well kept teeth. He had been in good health, well kept before the journey began. The Captain suspected a rich background. He pondered, but only shortly, the idea of delivering him back for a bounty. But, no, there was Svefra strength in the child, even if his charm was unfit.
"We travel for the Flotilla. Do you know where that is?" Again a flood of common.
The boy did not shake his head, despite his fear and anger, but forced more haughty words from his swollen throat. "No, Sir, I do not know where the Flotilla is located, nor what purpose it serves." The Captain fought a chuckle, at the honest yet drawn out words, the boy entertained him with his oddity of mannerisms. Still the Captain refused to appear as a kindly old man, and continued his usual scowl.
"Give us a name to call you by. You will ride with us, and work for your food." Ruise looked genuinely shocked at the forgiving sentence, never had the Captain took kindly on a stowaway, nor had he ever been unduly cruel, however. Still, this was undoubtedly kind for the bitter old man.
The boy uttered his name, proud and extended as he always would, through his entire life. "Trente Ostentatoire-Criard Eclatante." The Captain just shook his head in amazement at his utter ignorance, or unshakable pride.
"Ruise, string him a net in your room for sleep, and have him cleaned up - he reaks." He ordered not in Fravata, but an unwelcomed but unchallenged command. Then turned to the raven haired boy once more with a final string of common words. "You will speak Fravata on this ship, Trente. If you have common words to spare, silence them. Learn, or die. You will not disobey Ruise here. Without him you will be sunk to Laviku, I promise you this. Impress him at all costs."
The boy's eyes turned to Ruise, his new life line. And his brow furrowed. He did not know Fravata, and so he said nothing, a new sensation for the boy. His only training, his only tool, had been stripped from him.
They were both dismissed with a crude wave of the Svefra Captain's thick hand. Ruise followed order without a word, taking the boy's shoulder as he had when they entered, but he gave an off look, which flared a foreboding sensation to pit in the Captain's drunken gut. Looking to the boy's eyes once more they flickered in panic, growing more vivid in appearance, till the Captain realized with experienced observation it as a trick of the eye. The boy's skin grew whiter, his hand's shook, and he clumsily turned away. A step was taken into Ruise, and he nearly tripped to the ground, if not for a steady hold by the junior sailor, as the hefty ship gave to a slight rock of the waves. The boy's shaking lasted only for a moment, before his composure returned...
Ruise smiled uncomfortably, and offered a joking reprieve, "Learn ta read Laviku's nudges, or learn ta meet the deck with grace." The words were in Fravata, and he laughed uncomfortable, implying the child a simple newcomer to the moving waters. The Captain's eyes narrow, and he gave a sterner expression, implying they should go, and they did.
Disappearing back into the shadows, then out of his cabin the Captain said a prayer to Laviku. Something stirred in his bones, ached, like a storm, though he knew well no storm of the skies approached. Something more devious had come upon his boat, and he felt fear of something other than Laviku for the first time in years.
"Laviku, guide us, and forgive us our laziness. Forgive us our ignorance. Please, purge the danger I sense from our family, from our home."
___
Tear's whelmed in Trente's eyes, fearful tears. The steady and repetitive creaking of the hamic, strung to iron bolt above him creaked eerily in the darkness. Snores came from the carefree, the ignorant Ruise from across the room. They seemed alone, but Trente knew otherwise. He had thought Laviku, and the winds would save him from the monster who lurked within him, but they had not. Distance had not given reprieve, and he feared for his mother, for himself. He even feared for Ruise, the severe sailor who discovered him.
Trente refused to sleep, for he feared the weakness it brought. And, he was glad for Ruise's snores, they proved to Trente that he was far away, on the opposite of the cabin. Sleep meant vulnerability, it gave a doorway to his haunting, his ghostly aggressor. He promised himself he would not sleep, as he had been trying to deny for three extended days on board that Svefra sea craft. A battle Trente knew better than have confidence he could win. Still, he fought, for desperate fear.
The creaking churned his belly, his nerves raising and falling with the waves, only to rise again when his lulling head snapped back up, trying deathly to avoid slumber. He shook again, not like he had in the cabin, but out of fear. She was there, the spirit, and she had tried to take him in that cabin. He felt her grow bolder inside of him, felt her strengthen. She hated him, and he felt it now. He began to feel her, and her hatred, swept across him with that numbing cold. It made it all that much harder to resist her.
He took crying as a welcomed distraction from sleep, and indeed made it through the nights without incident. Though, the consequence was the crew's fowl opinion. They thought he stupid of practicality. His sleep deprivation hindered his work, and stole his wit, that he was unallowed to exercise for lack of words in any case. Still, Ruise's manner improved little over the following days. He hated, and pitied Ruise. None liked him, and Trente was forced to need him. Trente feared for his life, just the same, however. And for good reason.
Two sleepless nights later, and the approach of the full moon gave way to true weakness. Parties, and some forced alcohol in jest, not denied by the boy, bred this weakness, and the need for slumber. He remembered little of the night, not for the alcohol, but for the lack of sleep. He would forever remember his rude awakening, however. Worse than any before it.
A coolness shot through him, a numbing terrifying chill. It was intrusive, but met no resistant, only a distant disdain. It hurt, though his body was numb from cold and alcohol it still struck in his mind. Violated, invaded. It cut into him like a knife, impaled by a stinging burning pole of coldness, like how one would sense the depths of Laviku's realm. Hot tears poured from somewhere, but all that he heard were screams. A women's screams, not in Fravata, no. In common? They were raspy and distant, and he felt strikes upon him, distant like that of the invasion. Like some retired memory, resurfacing with vengeance. He did not understand, but he felt the sorrow, and the pain. And he felt embarrassed, and humiliated. He accepted it, for lack of options, and cried. He felt unlike himself, and could not in that shapeless world, remember who he might be. All he felt was the chill of icy wind upon skin that was not his, through skin that was not his. Breasts, and hair, and unwelcome wetness.
His head throbbed as he awoke, screamed in pain. A high pitched yell of a Svefra women caught it with a mirroring and searing pain, which reached to the center of his cooled skull. Yes, cooled, like his numbed fingers, and weak legs. He felt some warmth, however, not within him, but upon him. Thick and sticky, with smell of metal. He knew it, and acid rose in his throat, from his alcohol sodden stomach. Before he opened his burning eyes he knew tragedy had struck.
Darkness surrounded him, with nothing but Leth's harsh rays casting a colorless blanket of contrast over the scene. The wetness sheened with silver, one eye was inundated with it, the other registered more clearly upon the floor beside him. He was laying there, his neck aching, and his body unmoving. A strike fell on him, hard in the gut, and slurred Fravata swears came in agitated Ruise's voice. A spit of metallic flavor hit his face, and it caused Trente to look up in delirious pain. Sure enough Ruise stood over him, and with the arrival of a candle's warm light, from outside the boy's awareness there came the clear site of blood over him. A wound lay across one arm, and Trente slowly recalled the sensation of cutting into him. But with what? He wasn't sure. Trente's head screamed at him as he tried to recall, as another harsh kick came from the still standing Ruise.
Trente felt blood from his ear, and his chest and gut burned as vomit came forth. His neck was injured, he had been struck. The spirit was angered by his attempt to ignore her, she hated Trente. But did she wish him dead? Truly. Trente did not think of her, or of the Svefra that beat him. He thought of little over the hours that followed. He was questioned by a furious captain, who had grown to like the boy. Still, it did not save him from solitary confinement. It did save him from death, however. Ruise marked him, however, where a tattoo would go, not just printed but gauged with a burning hot blade. A thick, and deep "X" upon his shoulder blade. Red with ink, so that no Svefra pod would take him again. He was marked a threat, and Laviku and all of his followers would know it.
He was told about the foreign words he spoke while in his rage, his changed voice, his hateful tone. Told of how he attacked Ruise, and how he seemed to feel no pain when struck. Trente made no apologies, nor excuses. He felt the pain then, he felt it plenty, and again fought sleep as they traveled the remaining days to the Flotilla. He ate little, and drank less. He was not given his shirt when he left, to cover his back, which still healed. He was kicked without mercy from the boat, straight into the water surrounding the Flotilla, and forced to pull himself aboard a merchant ship, before the sharks found him and his bleeding mark. The transient denizens of the Flotilla gave even less pity, as he was forced to travel unwelcomed from ship to ship. He invited any opportunity to fight sleep. He made the mistake only once of drinking salted water, and twice the mistake of getting caught stealing food. The days were miserable blurs of heat, and the nights challenging and timeless events of fighting the coldness within him.
Time meant nothing, only survival, and as he grew weaker the curse grew stronger within him. But, she did learn. She did not wish his death, no she wished his suffering.
____
Lost in the sea of time, Fall 498
The black water embraced him as he waded, treading dangerously, neck just above the water. He was starving, not hunger, like he had felt in Syliras when gone a day without food for lack of his mother's waiting, but true starvation. His fat had been depleted, and had reduced him to all but skin and bones. His head always ached, and his eyes had dried to nothing but hollow shells. He had begun to understand this new existence, and it seemed easier than what he had attempted upon the ship, simpler, but more painful. He hunted always, the food and drink of others. None would take him as a ward, and if caught none would spare him. He fought the world, and it fought back. It was winning, slowly, but he did not think of that. He did not think of the future, or even the present. Most days he did not think at all.
Legs flailed directionless beneath him as his weak arms propelled him toward the base of the small merchant vessel. It was night, and fall, so he understood his limitations, he could only remain within the water for a short time. His body was weak, was prone to sickness. But his stomach gave him an other worldly endurance. A wilder endurance. He had it in him to understand theft, he had it in him to understand all things. He would eat anything that gave him strength, and risk anything for a single scrap.
Struggling against his dying shell he felt along the invisible exterior of the boat before him, feeding himself along the side till he found it, the ropes which held the ship tied to the Flotilla itself. They were thick, more so than his arm. Trente waded another few moment, clinging to the hefty rope, gathering his strength, before finally pulling. He failed at first, with a splash of water, luckily unnoticed. It took three more tries to get the momentum, the focus needed to pull himself out of the water. He achieved this by letting his stomach guide him, he let the pain of his stomach rise over the pain of his extremities. They were cold, unprotected by fat, and weak from lacking nutrients. But he was lite, and he knew not consequence. He pushed himself past potential, into the impossible. Pulling, and hoisting his nearly dead weight up, across the burning rope, legs and arms clutched without restraint to the rough fibers, and finally to the wooden railing itself.
Awareness was severally limited. The boy could not see in the darkness, but he groped outward, water striping off of him along with his precious heat. He spilled onto the deck, and rolled through the shadows. He precieved some voices, crew members, along with light just outside of his safe shadows. He knew not to go there, not to go near people. He had a fear that drove him, he knew better. Others would end him, he feared them, and he wanted them gone. He did not care how but he honestly wished all people to be gone, to leave forever and never exist again. He would have them all dead, so that he could feed. On them if he had to. He did not think sanely in that time, in that state.
Groping in the darkness he found what he searched for, a hole, a window to an above deck cabin. He looked through it, and saw nothing. Oh but he smelled, and this drove him wildly forward, as if beckoned and called by these smells. He smelled alcohol in the air, sweat and body oder, and most of all stew. All, however, seemed edible to him. He would eat anything. He had no choice. Pulling himself through the port hole seemed an epic chore, and he more fell than moved through its opening. He groaned at distant pain, overshadowed by hunger, but fear of discovery stopped his vocals short.
He groped in the darkness, in the shadows. He grabbed for everything, and fed it to his mouth. Fabric was turned away in disgust, thrown to the side. He was angry, angry at that which could not be imbibed. Until finally, he discovered it. A pouch, inside the unmistakable smell of stale bread. He tore at the bag, but could not open it. He started to cry dryly, his mind unable to unfasten its simple buckle, his frozen fingers denying him any celerity.
Then he jumped at a sound. It was soft, but struck terror into his mind. A women's voice. It sounded familiar, but it spoke words he did not know. Did he not understand because it was Fravata or because he was too far gone for Common? He did not know, all he knew was danger. His food was in danger, and as some hostile assault the soft glow of candlelight spread over him. His wet back, showing deep grooves of ribs, and curveless outlines of a spine glistened with salty wetness. His black hair stuck sparsely to his head, and his blue eyes shown like sapphire fire in the shine as he moaned back at the light, unable to make out faces or shapes.
The whole world seemed to trail behind in time, his mind unable to cope, unable to follow movement coherently. It all streamed together, and it all hurt his head. She spoke more, still softly, but she moved toward him, so Trente moved back, hitting his head on a near by piece of furniture. He tried to growl, or hiss, but it came out as a horse keening moan. Had she seen his mark, the deep red strike upon his shoulder blade? She must have, he wore no shirt. He registered a gleam, a flash of metal. This he focused on, a dagger, firm in the palm of the women. She was going to kill him, gut him, and he would not be able to eat.
Her free hand came toward him, and he batted it harshly away, but she shooshed him softly. It reminded him of something, something terrifying, but he couldn't remember. Something had happened in candlelight, a women silencing him. Trente could not cry, for there was no moisture to give tears with.
She parted lips, and a short call to others came, to be silenced a moment later. She was going to call for others, they would kill him? Trente was confused, and scared. But something sentient in him responded, churned in his bones. Coldness grasped him, and he feared she was coming. The demon spirit was coming, so he tried to fight it. But, to his surprise, and utter confusion she did not take him this time. No, there was a wavering in the air before him, a light, a transparent wave of kinky dark hair, and transparent flickering glows of skin, met with the vivid and familiar oder of the acidic herb. It dove from him toward the women, and her voice cut off with a start, her panicked eyes struggling.
Then with a startling change in tone her lips moved, a choking quiet hiss of words came out, this time in common. They were said without reception once, then with severity grabbed Trente's attention. It took great focus to understand them, the sounds that seemed to hold no meaning. But with a strained mind Trente managed to understand.
"End her." Trente knew the voice all too well. So long since she had spoken directly to him. "Hurry."
The women was fighting the tormenting spirit away quickly. The spirit had strengthened but not enough to hold the conscious for long. Trente knew not what to do, he did not have it in him to defy her. He forced the energy he had left into sprawling forward, not truly standing, and took the dagger, cutting himself, but managed it into his left hands. His right refused to let go of the pouch of bread.
"Stab her." The deathly hiss came again, and without hesitation the dagger thrust forward with no restraint. The sensation disgusted Trente, but the emotions were dim and removed, hidden behind fatigue.
Flesh was soft, forgiving, and the gush of following blood came warm and in pulses. There was no scream, or resistance. The possessed women didn't even recoil in instinctive pain. It was unnatural. Trente pulled the knife back, and the smell of blood came. It smelt good. Trente hated that, and so he stabbed again, and again. All he felt was hunger, though. And the words of the dying body came into meaning only later.
"You are mine, child. You will take lives. You will take Reginal Gernold's life, and free me. Feed, grow strong, and kill for me, swine." The words fell into darkness, like the room as the candle spilled its flames, and dissipated, just as the Svefra women's life faded to the beyond.
Hungrily Trente drank a lap of the crimson liquid in darkness, without thought, and then fled with his bread. He had not the mind to be disgusted by the blood. He had not the heart to care for that women's life. With his dagger, his bread, and his spiritual guardian, and tormentor, he continued through the Flotilla for a time he had no way of tracking, walking the ridge between the valley of life, and the valley of death, housing both within his body. When his pain kept him from moving she took him, used his body like a puppet, urged him forward. Forced him to live when he would die, and guided him with sinister whispers into strategy that was simply beyond him. With ghostly clairvoyance he stole food and drink, and through ghostly intervention he escaped when caught. His life was pitiful, but with time he strengthened.
With strength the guilt found him. Hatred toward himself, toward that spirit. And worst of all was that he felt her, understood her more and more.
Every time she stepped into his frail body she stepped into his soul, and they shared themselves with one another. He felt those strikes more and more vividly, that life lost in Syliras. What horrors it held before, and the sensations though holding little meaning to the starving boy, gave birth to an understanding. He understood insanity, and hunger, and he understood evil.
To be continued...
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