10th of Summer, 510 AV Ravok. How he despised it. Always, he felt the touch of eyes upon him here. The Ebonstryfe, the Black Sun, or even the citizens, he did not know. And trusting none of them, he wondered, did they watch even now, as he sat at his little table drinking away the day? And though he was not a fresh arrival, the feeling never passed. He was uncomfortable in this city floating on water. It felt unnatural to him, a man bred as a farmer, with fields and dirt all around. Keating missed the greenery, the open expanses and the smell of hay. Even after a decade gone, he missed the damn smell of hay. In Ravok though, a sense of confinement threatened him, the buildings were pressed in upon one another and the streets overflowed with water. Give him a farm any day! Putting his large fists to his eyes, Keating rubbed them harshly. Dark stubble hugged his tanned cheeks and chin. His eyes were hard and cold as he watched the followers of Rysol stroll past. Rysol! That dark god probably laughed long and hard over the whole of Keating’s pathetic life, he thought. Daily, Keating was reminded of the people’s devotion to their god, and daily he was reminded of all the misfortunes that had befallen his family over the years because of Him. The baby Heath, Lilly and Violet, not to mention his parents and the other children all long lost. And the most torturous loss of all, Rose! It was ironic that Keating was even here. Snorting, he shook his head. Not long would he stay in this place, his job was complete. He was free to leave anytime, tomorrow or the next day if the weather was cooperative. And while the work had been simple, help transport goods to Ravok, this city was better off behind him. The type of cargo made no matter to Keating, and he knew better than to ask. A man had to work, had to live… not that he would call this hollow life, “living”. But what else did he have? The farm was long gone and Rose with it. Keating took a deep draught of the ale, emptying the glass. Heavily, the tankard dropped onto the table, and he squinted to look at the cluster of wet circles on the wooden slab. He had been here long enough. It was a fine line he walked, the invisible, shaky line between soberness and inebriation. With a quick motion of his forearm, he wiped the wetness away. If only his past could so easily be erased. With a groan he pushed his bulk upwards from the table, and headed in the direction of one of the brothels. The pale, dark haired girls all knew him by name now, for Keating had been kindly to the whores, though he was never gentle. And with his anger blanketed by liquor, his mood was softened and the ache dulled inside. It would not last long, he knew, before the yearning returned bringing with it his temper. Small crowds closed about him as he walked, shop keepers, mothers rushing home with children, slaves, and always the travelers hurrying to pubs and taverns. Amid the crowd, a bobbing darkness caught his eye. Surprised by the blackness of it, Keating took a step forward… That dark hair, could it be? Rose? He lumbered after the girl, in her blue skirt and red apron. She was small, yet womanly curves were there to see. Staring at the back of her, she was exactly how Keating remembered her. Rose! He almost tripped over a cart before she rounded a corner. Stopping at a seller’s booth, the girl inspected the dried fruits and candies, and Keating was able to catch up to her, almost running into her in his disbelief. Sweating, not from the exertion of the chase, but from renewed hope, he stood behind her. It had been so long. Towering over her, he almost wept. Hope had been missing so long from his life. One shaky hand, rough and bruised from unloading crates reached out and Keating gripped her delicate shoulder. Perhaps the touch had been a little too forceful, for she spun in shock. “Rose!” But it was not her. Alarmed, her eyes flew open and Keating immediately withdrew his hand. “My apologies! Sorry Miss…” he shook his head, staring at the offending hand as if it was foreign to him.. “So sorry, I…” he mumbled as he backed away, the faint hint of alcohol hung in the air between them. “I thought you were…” He had been so sure! Unable to finish the sentence, his head hung low and he turned to go. Petching hope! What was that to someone like him? Harshly, he pulled his face downward, before his right hand ran thick fingers through his black, cropped hair. His eyes had played tricks on him. Never would he find her and now she haunted him, his dark sister. At every turn and every corner, he expected to see her. It was the same. In all the cities he had visited, he imagined her dark beauty waiting for him. But she didn’t. Shaking his head once more, Keating decided that once he got to the brothel, he was going to order a stiff drink. Hell! Tonight, he’d take the whole bottle. |