A Long Walk Home

It was dark. Every person that has lived a day in their life has seen the shadow of night, but darkness like this is only found in the hearts of men. From every angle and every perspective, dark is really all it is. In that place there are no stars, and no moon; no wind and no sound. Only a chilling silence that is so deafening it could drive anyone mad.

He was frozen there, blindly turning his head and whirling around. There was no remembering where he had been, or how he came to be here. There was just this prison of emptiness, and him, all alone. He would run, but his legs would only drag. He would scream, but his throat would only whisper. It was a place only dreams could realize, and a forboding fear only nightmares could muster--and within all the chaotic, racing thoughts that plagued his mind, there was a lingering sense that he had been here before.

Daramyr woke with a start. He could feel the sweat running down his back and chest. It was cold, as though he had gone for a splash in a stream somewhere, and couldn't remember when. While his thoughts lingered on the cold sensation of his own perspiration, memories of the dream slowly faded into the foggy realms of their homeland.

He sighed, sitting up slowly and kicking off the old blanket. There were pins and needles in his hand, dancing happily under his skin to celebrate the return of blood flow to their region. He shook it absent-mindedly, swinging his legs down to the floor and standing. From his window, he could see the sun rising slowly over the bay, and the first gulls arriving for their daily jaunt. By now his dream was all but forgotten, and everything seemed as dully usual as always. Now, instead of shaken, Daramyr felt oddly similar to a gull.

This made him chuckle to himself. Unfortunately, there was little time this morning to link the behaviour of small minded birds to the daily tasks of the working class. He had things to do before heading to the docks, and those things needed to get done. So, throwing on a pair of trousers and his best tunic, Daramyr crept out to his boots, then waited patiently to greet his father and to be waylaid by his mother. Myrna Shellhorn was very adamant about eating before starting your day, and no Shellhorn in their right mind dared question an order once Myrna put her foot down.

"Captain! Captain!" Someone hollared from the bow, "Land Ho!" The message was relayed around the ship, one man yelling out to the next until the sound of their joyful cries could wake the dead. The light of day still barely whispered across the waters they called home, and there is no man more superstitious than a sea-faring man.

Captain Oryn Thelloneus Frostholme stepped out from his cabin, his hands rested firmly on his waist and his coat billowing wildly in the salty winds. As though he were the sight of death itself, the whole ship fell to silence in unison, and stared at the man they both feared and respected. He stood there, without a word, for a long time, staring out over the water with a solid, commanding expression on his face. Finally, he nodded. This seemed to say more to the crew than any words they could have spoken, as they have seen that nod many times before. Despite their excitement, still, they all remained silent until their Captain returned to his cabin.

It didn't take terribly long for Daramyr to finish his small breakfast and make his way out the door. His father, too, was in a hurry to escape his wife's critical glare as he wolfed down a bit here and there and hurried off. She was a nice, jolly woman, but liked very much for things to happen as she thought they should.

Now, Daramyr paced nervously in front of a small shop a few blocks away from the wharf. It belonged to Paulie, but was tended and run by his daughter, Annalenne. Daramyr had met her three years before, not long after he had begun his work with the men on the docks. She was a beautiful young woman, and always smiled at him in a way that made his heart jump and his head float as though he were drunk. Of course, he hadn't ever had the nerve to tell her that. However, things would be different today. He'd go into that shop, as he does every morning, buy two pastries he never did like, a glass of clam juice he never did drink, and he would tell her they should run away together.

As he paced, he recited the short speech he thought up on the way down, slowly building up his confidence. All that confidence came crashing down, however, at the sound of a voice, soft as velvet.

Daramyr looked up to see the beautiful Annalenne standing in front of him, with a puzzled expression on her face. He wondered if it was because of his punctuality or the lack of colour in his face.

"Oh, uh, A-Annalenne. Good morning!" He chuckled a bit too shakily, forcing a big smile, "Just here for the usual, that's all."

"Of course!" She smiled, then turned to unlock the shop's front door. Annalenne wore a light green summer dress, and had her wavy, auburn hair pulled back loosely with a lazy ribbon.

She smiled and laughed melodically as she pulled the door open and faced him, her green eyes glinting brightly in the morning light, like emerald jewels resting softly underwater. "Come on in!"

So, he did--and bought two pastries he didn't end up eating, a glass of clam juice he didn't end up drinking, and had a bit of light conversation. Then he headed to work, almost late again, and no better for it.

At the docks that day, things were particularly busy. Paulie had spent the entire morning cursing and yelling at everyone who passed, commanding them to get to work, or work harder. The surprised looks on the faces of numerous patrons that passed by innocently said more than enough for the old man's mood. Some almost rushed off at his cries to haul line and tie pegs--although, once they realized they did not even know the man, let alone work for him, they were satisfied to just scowl and carry on with their business.

Daramyr was not exempt from Paulie's terrible mood, either. He had been yelled at, chewed out, and called more names than he would care to remember. He'd given up on correcting him in the early morning, after being called Darem, Duncan, and Darcy, of all things. So, silently and dilligently, Dare worked tiredly into the late afternoon. By that time, Paulie had calmed down quite a bit. The ships were not near as many as they had been earlier.

There was one of particular interest, with weathered sails, a worldly hull, and crew that appeared to share their vessel's less charming qualities. Their Captain, however, was a different story altogether. He seemed a bit out of place on such a scummy ship, commanding such a questionable crew. He was an older man, possibly in mid-life, and looked more like he belonged on a naval vessel, brandishing battle scars in the name of his homeland. Daramyr took careful notice of this, as he had never really seen a man like him before now.

As the Captain walked down the gangplank to the old dock below, Daramyr could see a small grin on his lips. It was somehow intimidating, the way he carried himself, but at the same time there was a certain quality, somewhere, that made several of the dockers turn and watch. Daramyr stood near the end of the plank, holding the ship's loose landline in his hand. He had almost forgotten all about it, until the Captain reached the dock and looked at him.

"You there, lad," He said, grinning broadly, "You'd best be mindful of your work, before my dear ship decides to float off on her own."

Dare blinked, as if coming out of a trance, then nodded without a word. He knelt and began quickly winding the line around its peg, until he was able to have it secured. To his surprise, however, the Captain still stood at the bottom of the plank when he looked up again.

"That's a good lad," He said, "Now, if you don't mind me askin', where could a man and his men find something cold to wet our parched tongues?"

Daramyr pointed to the north, and mentioned the name of one of the many pubs the dockers tended to frequent. They were close, and had better ale than most others.

"Good lad." The Captain offered again, then reached into his pocket and produced a gold coin. He flicked it in the air, and it spun end over end. Even now, Daramyr can remember the way the sunlight flashed and flared off that coin as it flipped toward him. It was almost as if it weren't gold at all, then. It seemed alive in the air, spinning and turning, boasting its glorious shine. He caught it in one hand, then looked at it. It was just an ordinary coin again. Strange how the small things are what you remember best, looking back.

This time when Daramyr looked up, the Captain had his back to him and was walking calmly up the dock with his fingers clasped behind his back. His men were filing off the ship and trailing behind, looking parched and wobbly, as though it had been some time since they'd even thought of putting on their land legs. Back then, Daramyr didn't understand why, but he couldn't help but grin as he watched them all walk away and out of view. He did, at least, until Paulie stormed by to give him hell for his slack idleness.

As the day went on, ships continued to come in. Nowhere near as many as there were in the morning and afternoon, but certainly enough to keep the men busy. Paulie stayed in his shack for most of the evening, probably to nap until sun went down. When it finally did set, Daramyr didn't spent much time lagging at the docks. Instead, he made his way down the usual route he took home, which happened to pass by the old pub he had sent the seamen and their Captain earlier. As he approached, he wondered if he sent them here only because he saw it so much, or if in the bottom of his mind, he was curious to see more of them.

He stopped in front of the pub's window, and peered inside. It was a nice quiet place, usually, but what Daramyr saw inside was a far cry from the pub he'd taken for granted. There were men in almost every chair, and some on the floor, some standing, all singing, laughing, and talking while they spilled their ale. Occasionally, they'd even drink some. The barmaids were flustered, forcing their smiles and trying to laugh each time their bottoms were patted or slapped. Really, they were doing a pretty good job with their cheerful facade. He could barely tell the difference. In the corner opposite his window, Daramyr could see the Captain, watching his men, laughing here and there, and drinking his own ale. He watched the man for a bit, curious still and wondering who he and his men were. Finally, the Captain looked up from his drink and stared right at him, then raised his glass and grinned cheerfully.

With that, he left the window and walked into the doorway. As he opened it, his ears were assaulted with the sound of piano music, loud yells, and the tail end of a dirty joke one of the nearby sailors had been telling. Those sitting with him seemed to think it was a good one, for they cackled, stomped, and knocked over one or two ales. They obnoxiously hollared for a barmaid, then laughed some more. Daramyr couldn't help but think he missed out, on that one.

Looking around at the drunken, surly sailors, Daramyr felt a bit--small? If any of these men decided to pick a fight (he had already noticed two men with black eyes and bloody noses cackling and drinking at their own table, and a broken chair nearby), he'd surely not get home on his feet tonight. So, having second thoughts, he turned to leave. Almost made it, too, had he not spotted the Captain again from the corner of his eye. He looked over to see him wave his hand, his glass in the air once more.

He decided to turn back around, and work his way past the jokers. They were still laughing at the one told when he walked in, though surely the barmaid, stepping over passed out men as she headed towards their table, would inspire them to tell another. While it took a few minutes, Daramyr was able to make it to the far corner where the Captain sat. The older gentleman was still grinning as he motioned to the chair beside him.

"Well, hello again, lad!" He shouted in a gruff, jolly voice, "Take a seat, have a drink. Oryn's the name! Captain Oryn Thelloneus Frostholme."

The land was dark and the sky was bright just north of Aina, where our young Daramyr had collapsed in a drunken stupor to ponder the events of the evening. The stars above him were brilliant, painting their infinite black canvas with faint blues, reds, and yellows. It was like travelling through time, watching these stars. They were the only things that hadn't changed since he was a child. To the east, he could picture a great sword of many colours forming from the small points of light. To the west, a great, black stallion. Above him, where he had been staring for quite a while, he could see the shape of a large cat. Its eyes sparkled like tiny diamonds, staring down at him with what almost seemed to be disapproval. He frowned, then shook his head. That was the ale talking.

At that point, he began to wonder how much talking the ale had done, that night. He arrived at the tired old pub as a curious young man. He could remember the laughing men, and their dirty jokes, and then, he sat with the Captain. They drank and they talked, they laughed and they spilled their drinks. The Captain was far different than he had originally imagined. He told Daramyr stories of his travels and of his ship, regaling memories of long chases by sea, treasure hoardes, and easy women. By midnight, Daramyr listened as though he were under a spell, enchanted by the glory of slightly exaggerated battles, and whispers of dark creatures that lurked silently in the great blue.

Now, this whole night would have been nothing but good excitement, had things not ended on a strange note. Perhaps it wasn't so strange, really, but it seemed that way to him now.

"You're a fine young lad, Daramyr." The Captain had said, slurping down the last of his ale, "You'd be a welcome man on my ship any day."

This gave Daramyr pause. This man, of whom he had only sat and drank with one night, had given him what was--with little room for doubt--an open invitation to start fresh and new; an exciting life, sailing the seas with a bunch of less than desirable pugs. Of course, who's to say that they could really be as bad as they seem? The Captain himself seemed much more imposing than he was in reality (or at least it seemed that way now), so who could say that they too would not welcome him, should he take the Captain up on his offer?

By sunrise, when the watching cat had disappointedly moved on to other things, Daramyr had a bag slung over his shoulder, his boots tied, and a note in his hand. It was written for his mother, explaining the events of the night, and what he planned to do. She would read it and be heartbroken, but every mother knows that someday, her children will leave the nest. Most often, they'll do so in a way that could both shock and surprise them, and at the same time seem perfectly typical. Daramyr was no exception to this. He made sure to note that they were loved, and that he would be back to tell them of his life someday. Though, this morning would be the last time he would ever see his mother. Just a year later, she would take ill after a hard winter, and pass away in the night. Daramyr would not hear of this for another ten years.

And so he left his note at his parents' bedside, took one last look at them and his old home, and then nodded. This would be the beginning of his life. Where it would lead, time could only tell, but it was right this way, whether or not the stars offered looks of disapproval while he drank.

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