Completed A Lonely Place

[Autumn Rose]

Fall the 10th, 519 AV

Ahger Ocean, a day out from Lhavit

If ever there was a place more lonely than the sea, it lay so far detached from the world that the world itself had forgotten it. Endless skies raced away from each other and dispersed to the unbroken horizons, leaving the rest behind but never getting anywhere. Even the storms that raged in the sky threw their tantrums over nothing and directed their anger at no one. They shouted to be noticed and, more often than not, went unheard. Only the sun seemed to have any sense of direction, and even it plodded on its path as a loner, unaccompanied and unhindered.

It wasn’t just the skies that were lonely, but the water and waves as well. One wave chased the next, never meeting until at last they ended, dying on some distant shore. At sea, with this union never witnessed, there was only the monotony of one wave after the next, no one ever meeting, a sea of water separated by nothing yet never joining.

On the sea, there was a boat; and on the boat, a man, and despite sharing the close quarters with a dozen others, he was lonely, too. These were the people he knew best, but just like the waves, even in their nearness, they were separate. Somewhere, beyond where the ocean ended, where loneliness was just a long forgotten notion, he had left a woman he loved.

In the loneliness of the sea, no one could blame a man for talking to himself, which was exactly what it would appear he was doing to anyone watching. Legs long accustomed to the tossing of the sea trundled him over to a small locker beneath his bunk, and in the light of a candle, he muddled through its contents until he found a battered old tome, the writing on its cover long-ago smudged out by use and by age.

He set it down on the only table available and set the candle so it’s meager flame would light the pages. Looking to the one bunk that had been vacant for two seasons since the sailor who occupied it last had left with a severe case of homesickness, the man tapped the open book. “Shall I read us a story, Windy?”

The sea is a lonely place, sparsely inhabited by lonely people, and the empty cabin gave him no response. Shrugging, he started the story, then stopped, then started again. His was a stumbling voice, not the cause of a stutter or impediment, but rather for the lack of an education. When words became longer, he had to sound them out questioningly to the empty room until, satisfied, he moved on, broken words falling on his own lonely ears.

Though it was a collection of fairytales, it was written with a more advanced reader in mind, and the big words came more often than he liked. One he came to he couldn’t sound out no matter how hard he tried.

“But here in the... pan... pant... pan... p-“

“Phantom,” Autumn interjected.

The man’s eyes shot over the porthole she had materialized at to watch the first stars as they began to show themselves in the meager dusk light. “Phantom. Thanks, Windy.”

It was the nickname he had given her when she hadn’t given him her name. Probably something to do with the swirl of her soulmist. He went back to the book but stopped before he even started again. “That don’t make a lick of petching sense. There ain’t even an ‘f’ in the word.”

Autumn shrugged her wispy shoulders as a gust through the porthole tugged at the strands of loose soulmist around her. “It doesn’t have to make sense. Somebody said it was that way, and now it is.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” He was about to go on when something occurred to him. “How’d you know what the word was? You weren’t even reading.”

As Autumn’s eyes returned to the stars, Syna’s light was fading fast, and the many sparkling lights Zintila had ruled over began to shine in their truest splendor. “I have them all memorized. I’ve been over them all a few dozen times since...”

That hurt to say aloud. The man knew this. He had seen her this way often in the short time they had known each other. He knew this, but even more, he respected it. He had never asked her what she had lost. He was a good man, and it made Autumn hate him even more that she had no good reason to hate him.

Since... Since what?

Since Maro. He had been everything good about her death, everything good and decent about her world. He had been everything. And now, everything was gone.

The man went back to the story; and Autumn, to her half-listening, half watching of the skies, hoping to find some solace there. She didn’t. Even the stars looked lonely, as if their twinkling was a cry to the other heavenly lights to beg for a friend, a companion, or even just a stranger to share the journey with, a cry that went unanswered and fell only on the deaf ears of those watching from the face of Mizahar.

There were lonelier places than the sea. The living just hadn’t discovered them yet.

[Autumn Rose]

The man continued his short spurts of reading while Autumn existed, half in the story and half in the concentration of trying to keep herself in the boat. Travel was unique for her. While those with physical bodies stayed in the vessels that carried them, the soulmist that comprised her being slipped through physical barriers with ease. When she had been stationary in her various homes, she didn’t have to worry about the house moving away from her. But ships sailed seas, and as lonely as they were, seas were not still places. With it constantly on the move, Autumn had to focus, tethering herself to the wood of the boat to keep herself from drifting away.

It made travel a little less dull. When Noah, the man who had brought her on this voyage and promised to keep her little book of fairytales safe, was busy with his work on the vessel or was sleeping, keeping herself attached to the ship was a task that kept her mind busy. Whenever she wasn't consciously moving her form along with the boat, Autumn let tendrils of her soulmist wander freely out from her body and work themselves into the wood of the ship, slipping between the grain to anchor herself in place.

But in her connection to the ship, Autumn found something odd. The old girl spoke to her, not in the way living things spoke to each other but in the way something long passed but still present could. The two of them were kindred spirits, and Autumn had formed a bond with it like the one she had formed with Noah. It spoke, not with words but with memories, sensations and ideas of things it had seen.

Once this wood had been a living thing, a tree, and no insignificant one either. Mightily, it’s branches had reached out and scraped at the distant heavens, as if long ago, they had lost something there and yearned for its return. It remembered bathing in the light of the sun, drawing life and strength from Syna’s incomparable power, but even though the sun was the light that brought existence, it wasn't the old girl’s favorite. No. When Syna’s light was long forgotten for the day and on nights when Leth’s light had waned, that was when her favorite light appeared, the light of the stars. Here in the dark where the majesty of all visual things on the face of the world was forgotten, the light of the stars let its full wonder be known. This memory was not of the stars’ pattern but rather of the texture of their light. The stars twinkled, reminiscent of the way light danced through the leaves of the tree, as if the stars knew and understood and yearned to connect with the life below.

But the wood of the ship was a thing long dead, like her, but like her, even in death, it formed new memories. She was an old girl, this ship, and had existed longer in death than she had in life, much like Autumn. Death was a lonely way to exist. Sure, there were those living who brought a joy to existence, but they were living, and living things were fragile. Living things died. And death left the dead lonely.

The ship was full of loneliness and memories that brought loneliness. None of her original crew still manned her. Most of them were probably long dead. Autumn felt this and understood it. The living always let one down. The ship, though, grand girl that she was, had done what Autumn could not. She had found new companions among the living. This new crew had become as dear to her as the first.

And one old friend still remained. The stars. These memories of starlight were fresher, and the focus of these was on their pattern. The familiar shapes they traced in the sky and the way those patterns moved guided the men on the ship to take her on courses that kept them all safe.

Autumn was unsure if she could ever be so brave as to trust and love another living being again.

Her eyes scanned the stars, but her mind returned to the story. Noah’s voice filled the small room, lonely with the lack of response, but they were not left alone for long. A door opened, and the creak of wood told Autumn that the ship was greeting the crew as they came in. Noah’s voice didn’t stop, but rather seemed to build and grow and take on a new inviting character.

At the other sailors’ arrival, Autumn dematerialized, her soulmist dissipating into the void, filling the space where nothing existed with a different sort of nothingness. Anyone who stood where she existed without existing would sense it, an odd sort of something in the void, a cold. One of the miraculous parts of an existence like this was that no door was shut to her. She existed where nothing existed or where anything existed. Solid matter could mean everything but only out of habit. Most times, it meant nothing, as it did now when she slipped through the side of the ship. There was a window that she could have used, but instead, her ghostly frame just sank between the grains of wood, sunk into and through the planks as if it was the planks themselves that didn’t exist.

Outside, away from even the meager light of the cabin, the stars became more alive in their sparkling light, as if they had grown more desperate in their plea for a companion, but loneliness reigned supreme. Their shout went unanswered once again, and Autumn herself ignored them, focusing instead on the words that came from the living beings with whom she shared a ride on the Ahger Ocean. Unfortunately, out here was where she belonged. The men inside, as lonely as they might have been, held a camaraderie that had been built over years of having served together. Even the newest to the crew had seen seven seasons aboard the ship. Yes, she didn’t belong with them, and if they were to discover her presence, she was certain they would not be glad for it. The words they shared spoke of their friendship, but the silences between spoke of something else. While the mood was kept light and cheerful with playful jesting, no one addressed the loneliness.

“You reading fairytales again, Noah?”

Noah left his finger on the page, so he wouldn’t lose his spot. “Of course. I can take it elsewhere if you want.”

“Ain’t fairytales for children?”

Autumn peered in through window to watch the antics of the sailors. Noah shrugged. “I suppose they can be. Do you want me to stop?”

The one who had first given him a hard time for reading the story leaned over his shoulder and peered at several lines before shrugging in return. “I don’t remember you reading this one.”

“That’s ‘cause I ain’t read it yet. Do you want me to stop?”

“Nah. You’ve already started it. Might as well finish it.” The other man started for his bunk, thought of something, and spoke over his shoulder as he took the last few strides to his bed. “Maybe start from the beginning. We don’t want any of these idiots interrupting with unnecessary questions. They get lost easily.”

Noah shrugged and thumbed back through the pages to the start of the story, beginning once again. As Noah continued on, he came to another word he couldn’t get through despite many valiant attempts, and as he struggled to find its pronunciation and meaning, Autumn yearned to mutter the word aloud. She hated to see him flounder like this in front of his comrades, and it took everything in her power not to reveal herself. As he tried again and again, another sound could be heard, and Autumn peaked through the porthole to see what it was. It was his sailor friend from before, the heckler, and he was plodding over to the table. He was not light footed, and the sound was the heavy strike of each footfall.

He stopped when he was behind Noah and peered over the other man’s shoulder, reading the offending word once to identify it. “Laughter.”

Noah started silently at the word for several moments before bursting out angrily. “There ain’t a gods damned ‘f’ in the word.”

The other sailor shrugged. “Petch if I know, but that’s the word. Laughter.”

Noah glared at it for a few minutes more before conceding victory to it. “Fine. Laughter. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

There was a silence as Noah prepared to read again, but he stopped before he could start. “If you’re so smart, why aren’t you reading it?”

“‘Cause you’ve got the prettier voice.”

There was a murmur of agreement that made its way in a ring around the bunks. It was true. By far, his was the most attractive voice on the ship, carrying a timber that priests and politicians would kill for, and when shanties were sung, Autumn noticed the other sailors would quiet their own voices to better hear his. It wasn’t the grumble of thunder or the gravelly tone that some had, but a smooth baritone that spoke of trust, a brotherly voice. Noah sighed, restarted the sentence, and let his voice fill the cabin once more.

Listening a little longer, Autumn grew distracted by the stars once again and drifted up on to deck. One man was on deck still, the first mate, and his eyes were turned heavenward to search for guidance, not godly guidance but the navigational direction only the stars could provide on a landmark barren place like the sea. Even though both watched the stars, they didn’t watch those stars together. They were both alone, and as if already sensing this would be the case and not wanting it to be so, the old ship let the timber of Noah’s voice carry through her timbers. Though it was muffled, it let each know of a presence not their own. Some would have been satisfied with this company, thinking they were not alone, but she and he both were too old and too wise to fall for this deception.

The sea was a lonely place.

[Autumn Rose]

Even though she couldn’t hear the story, Autumn followed along with the pacing of it, tracking certain increases in speed and tone to identify each part of the story until it finally came to its close. Other voices picked up where his left off, and meaningless conversation or world-shattering philosophy (she couldn’t be sure which through the heavy wood of the ship) ensued until one by one the sailors began to fall asleep. Eventually, silence ruled once again. Even the sea, usually alive with the whisper of wind, was quiet, the air stifling in its stillness. The wind had left them without its company, and the sea felt even lonelier for its absence.

Autumn was so lost in the stars that she almost didn’t hear the cabin door open again and a sailor stride across the deck. Letting her materialized form slip away into the dark of the night, if Autumn had breath, she would have held it, waiting to see if the sailor had seen her. Footsteps slapped across the deck until the sailor stopped at the rail, turning his own eyes heavenward. Jittery, Autumn waited, hating being unmaterialized as it made her vision worse. With the mild impairment and the lack of light, Autumn couldn’t identify the sailor.

Her fears were put to rest though when he whispered into the night low enough the first mate couldn’t hear. “Don’t worry, Windy. It’s just me.”

She materialized again, keeping herself out of the view of the other sailor. “Don’t you need rest?”

“I’ll get it. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

Autumn was about to ask what he meant, but the first mate spoke, cutting her inquiry short. “Come up for the view, Noah?”

“You know it.”

“I know what you mean. I don’t even mind being stuck on the helm overnight on this night each trip.”

Both men went silent again, but it wasn’t the sort of silence Autumn was used to. This one was anticipatory. Despite having made this journey a plethora of times in their lives, these two sailors had never tired of whatever it was they were waiting for. Unable to quell the curiosity that Maro had nurtured in her, Autumn voiced the question burning in the heart of her soul.

“What view?”

“Just wait for it,” Noah whispered back. “Keep your eyes northward, to that point ahead.”

To their starboard, eastward, the monolithic shores of Kalea rose out of the darkness, devouring the horizon that should have existed in that direction, swallowing the stars that should have dotted the heavens. This towering cliff shore ran southward for as far as her eyes could see in the depths of night, but ahead of them to the north, it swept westward out into the ocean, creating a point none of them could see past. Their anticipation built hers, and a palpable tension filled the air with the changing of Autumn’s mists. Her eyes locked on to the rocky cliffs and waited for whatever would come.

The waiting felt like an eternity, and in all truthfulness, it was nearly a full bell before what they waited for came into view. Into the dark of the night came a light that put the stars to shame. Atop the silhouettes of five different mountain peaks far out ahead was a glittering light, like the light of the stars if they were far closer than human eyes could understand. So bright it burned that the light of the stars in the sky behind it was lost to view. It was light, but it was bound to buildings and bridges and roadways. That much was evident even from this distance.

“Woah,” Autumn breathed, a whisper only Noah could hear.

“Woah.” Even Noah was not free of wonder, and this was a sight he had beheld dozens of times. Something about his voice said he was as awestruck this time as he was the first.

“Woah,” the first mate agreed. Apparently, several decades more of the sight had not lessened the experience anymore. His wonder built in him and bubbled over into song. It was an old tune, one that had been popular when Autumn was young, when she was living, and if she had had real eyes, tears would have stung at their edges. His was an old voice, breaking on the notes as he sang them softly, trembling as if uncertain of whether or not his breath would give him the next note and his mind, the next word. It was the most beautiful thing Autumn had ever heard, and she didn’t want to leave as Noah made his way to the bow of the ship.

She told him as much in an angry whisper. “Why are we leaving? I want to hear more.”

Noah nodded in agreement. “There’s something charming about his voice, ain’t there? We should give him his space though. It’s not often he gets time to grapple with his feelings. When you live as long as he has, you tend to have lost more than the anyone our age could ever dream of gaining. He was married once.” Noah left it at that, no explanation as to what had happened, and Autumn knew better than to ask. “Besides, he’s a touch self-conscious about his singing voice. He’ll sing louder if we go away.”

It was true. As they made it to the bow of the Mary, his voice picked up, and the more volume he gave his voice, the more it found its strength. It was still an old voice, still breaking and trembling but in a way that spoke of his heart and not his body.

They watched Lhavit in the distance for nearly a bell in complete silence. Autumn was usually content with silence but not here in this overwhelming world of the sea. “It’s beautiful.”

It was just something to say, however true it was, but Noah was content to use it to start a conversation. “It really is. Just wait ‘til you walk it at night. The entire city alive with the light of the stars, everything sparkling and shining and battling away the shadows, and if you’re lucky, you may even meet Zintila, lady Alvina of the Stars, wandering the streets, skin aglow with light of a million unsung and unborn constellations, and even if you encounter all of these things, it will still only be the second most astounding sight you ever encounter in Lhavit.”

Autumn knew that tone, had maybe even heard it in her own voice a time or two. “Someone special?” she asked, knowing full well that was the case.

“Mm-hm. Gweneveh.”

“Does she love you as much as you love her?”

“Yes.” He nodded, then shook his head. “And no. She’s a lady of the night. I’m sure I should mean nothing to her, but every time I’m with her, I’m convinced she loves me. I know that that’s her job, to make men believe, but I’ve been with my fair share of women in her profession, believe me,” he admitted guiltily. “Not one of them made me feel loved the way she did.”

“Well, she’s lucky to have your love, whether she returns it or not.”

“And I’m the luckiest man in the world, even if she only thinks of loving me.”

“I know what you mean.” Autumn’s eyes swept back to the lonely stars calling their lost Goddess in the brilliant city below them. “I met a Goddess once, was even offered Her mark, and it was still only the second most miraculous thing that has ever happened to me.”

Noah was careful with his next words. “But you lost him, didn’t you? Is that why you stayed?”

Autumn shook her head. “No. I met him long after I had died.”

“You’ll have to tell me about him sometime.”

“No, I won’t.”

Noah gave her a look that said he knew otherwise. “One day, Windy.”

It was enough that he had said it, and he seemed satisfied with that. The two went silent again, all three watching the city and the stars without the company of the others. Only their thoughts were with them as they sailed the night, and there were few places lonelier than one’s own mind. Another bell in, Noah wished Windy and the first mate a good night, and Autumn was left with only the sound of the waves and the singing of the first mate which only grew stronger and more brittle at Noah’s absence.

Autumn watched. She watched the city and the stars, the unbreaking dark of the ocean’s surface and the mountain shores of Kalea, the wood of the ship and the old man sailing it. She watched and waited, alone. The sea was a lonely place, but there were lonelier places yet. Autumn had been there.

[Autumn Rose]

Grades!

Autumn

Skills

● Materialization +1
● Possession +1
● Soulmist Projection +1

Lores
● The sea is a lonely place
● Windy: Noah's nickname for Autumn
● Noah: a stumbling reader with a pleasant voice
● Phantom and Laughter: There ain't a gods damned 'f' in either one
● Autumn: Has memorized her book of fairytales
● Maro: Everything good about Autumn's death
● Noah: The sailor who delivered Autumn to Lhavit
● Haunting: A mixture of possession, materialization, and projection
● Haunted objects have a sense of being to them
● The Mary: The ship that delivered Autumn to Lhavit
● Autumn and the Mary: Both longer lived in death than in life
● Lhavit: Glittering city above the Ahger Ocean

Comments

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