*
Trente lay pain stricken as the small boat bobbed steadily along the smooth morning water. Matthew's bay appeared a lifeless grey, covered by a gentle veil of white fog shifting rapidly by Zulrav's will. The crew of three appreciated this, it swept the foul stench of infection off board before it could inundate their senses as it likely would the bulk of their journey. The kelvic and his superior senses were especially saved misery by the breeze, though he still perched at the small craft's edge with vigilance, black canine nose stretched outward to the wind.
Perhaps he struck the pose to seem proud, or perhaps just to reach his nostrils as far from Trente's decaying flesh as he could. Despite their past the feral wolf had shown unprecedented sympathy toward Trente since he had been stricken ill, and his son nearly murdered. This sympathy, of course, came sparingly and in waves. His general attitude of persistent unsophisticated dislike had maintained throughout the event quite in tact despite what Trente may or may not have done to save his child. Still, neither Trente nor Matilis had shared the entire story. Not truthfully in any case.
Matilis on the other hand had been far less forgiving. It seemed ironic to Trente that the same event that sparked the closest sensation to a fatherly love for the boy in him had equally as well instilled a sense of disdain from the child. Trente couldn't say that he particularly regretted his actions in the dispute, he had, after all, done the best he could. Still, children were by nature entitled and self absorbed, unaware that a larger world closed upon them on all sides. Trente could forgive the child his moods as long as Matilis could maintain his duties. Perhaps by the time he learned some manners Trente would find the occasion to develop a working hypothesis on the god's interest in him.
"Dig harder on the right side, you are going to steer us straight into the rocks if you ignore the wind. Oaring is as much about Zulrav as it is Laviku." Trente despised how weak his voice sounded, despised the sensation of cold sweat and itching throbbing pain of infection. He couldn't remember how many times he was told to stay in the hospice, remain with the healers. He wasn't listening. He knew what others did not, that they could only suspect. A god wished a blight upon the city, and what Vayt wished he received, without exception. Trente believed entirely in avoiding any situation that allowed his own body to become a war ground between Vayt and Rak'keli. Divine battles concerned him little, and if Zeltiva was a battleground then he would leave by any means necessary.
It wasn't far enough yet, he could tell, the water still had that unnatural dullness and the seaweed that rose to the surface appeared an unhealthy yellow, and clumped revoltingly with diseased and uneaten sea life.
He could see the fatigue on the child, he was weak as well, had a horrible cough which rung periodically out over the even waves, for miles most likely. He was unaccustomed to toil, and his arms shook with strained pain through each stroke of the oars as he fed the craft forward through the thick water. Still, Trente had to admit each stroke fell true, not too deep, not too shallow. If only he could put more force into them.
"Harder on the right side." Trente said again giving a kick to the hard wooden seat his son sat upon. The jolt invigorated the child, at least for a minute, and won a baleful look from the wolf perched upon the bow.
More than that Trente concerned himself with the shot of pain which rose then fell within his side. He had been advised to keep the wound from the moist morning air, and so he just lay his hand upon the soiled bandage with an audible wince. It confused him, that state of the body, how Rak'keli could close a wound to but a miniscule cut just to have it open again with undesirable pustules and part aggravated pink then yellowed skin. He felt like the seaweed, yellowed and spoiled. It hurt and he knew his life was in danger. He had no idea how far Vayt's grasp would hold to him, and so he let not the thought of hope or finality into his mind. Forward was all that mattered, forward.
To Trente this wound was like combat, though admittedly a slow and grueling one. In combat death is often dealt in moments. In one you live in the next you die. In this battle for his life, this chase as it were, the moments stretched on in the floor of that boat for what seemed like eternity. What fool trick had Tanroa played upon him to draw out a battle so long? He asked not "why," he never asked "why." To Trente "why" was the bane of man, the mind's folly, and such questions could destroy the psyche from the inside out. The only words more dangerous than "why" were perhaps the answers to such questions.
Forward, forward. Through the sweeping fog, across the death filled water, bobbing in his tiny craft afloat with a child and a man little better than an animal. Oh how grim his life had become.
*
Winter 512, 46th
Trente lay pain stricken as the small boat bobbed steadily along the smooth morning water. Matthew's bay appeared a lifeless grey, covered by a gentle veil of white fog shifting rapidly by Zulrav's will. The crew of three appreciated this, it swept the foul stench of infection off board before it could inundate their senses as it likely would the bulk of their journey. The kelvic and his superior senses were especially saved misery by the breeze, though he still perched at the small craft's edge with vigilance, black canine nose stretched outward to the wind.
Perhaps he struck the pose to seem proud, or perhaps just to reach his nostrils as far from Trente's decaying flesh as he could. Despite their past the feral wolf had shown unprecedented sympathy toward Trente since he had been stricken ill, and his son nearly murdered. This sympathy, of course, came sparingly and in waves. His general attitude of persistent unsophisticated dislike had maintained throughout the event quite in tact despite what Trente may or may not have done to save his child. Still, neither Trente nor Matilis had shared the entire story. Not truthfully in any case.
Matilis on the other hand had been far less forgiving. It seemed ironic to Trente that the same event that sparked the closest sensation to a fatherly love for the boy in him had equally as well instilled a sense of disdain from the child. Trente couldn't say that he particularly regretted his actions in the dispute, he had, after all, done the best he could. Still, children were by nature entitled and self absorbed, unaware that a larger world closed upon them on all sides. Trente could forgive the child his moods as long as Matilis could maintain his duties. Perhaps by the time he learned some manners Trente would find the occasion to develop a working hypothesis on the god's interest in him.
"Dig harder on the right side, you are going to steer us straight into the rocks if you ignore the wind. Oaring is as much about Zulrav as it is Laviku." Trente despised how weak his voice sounded, despised the sensation of cold sweat and itching throbbing pain of infection. He couldn't remember how many times he was told to stay in the hospice, remain with the healers. He wasn't listening. He knew what others did not, that they could only suspect. A god wished a blight upon the city, and what Vayt wished he received, without exception. Trente believed entirely in avoiding any situation that allowed his own body to become a war ground between Vayt and Rak'keli. Divine battles concerned him little, and if Zeltiva was a battleground then he would leave by any means necessary.
It wasn't far enough yet, he could tell, the water still had that unnatural dullness and the seaweed that rose to the surface appeared an unhealthy yellow, and clumped revoltingly with diseased and uneaten sea life.
He could see the fatigue on the child, he was weak as well, had a horrible cough which rung periodically out over the even waves, for miles most likely. He was unaccustomed to toil, and his arms shook with strained pain through each stroke of the oars as he fed the craft forward through the thick water. Still, Trente had to admit each stroke fell true, not too deep, not too shallow. If only he could put more force into them.
"Harder on the right side." Trente said again giving a kick to the hard wooden seat his son sat upon. The jolt invigorated the child, at least for a minute, and won a baleful look from the wolf perched upon the bow.
More than that Trente concerned himself with the shot of pain which rose then fell within his side. He had been advised to keep the wound from the moist morning air, and so he just lay his hand upon the soiled bandage with an audible wince. It confused him, that state of the body, how Rak'keli could close a wound to but a miniscule cut just to have it open again with undesirable pustules and part aggravated pink then yellowed skin. He felt like the seaweed, yellowed and spoiled. It hurt and he knew his life was in danger. He had no idea how far Vayt's grasp would hold to him, and so he let not the thought of hope or finality into his mind. Forward was all that mattered, forward.
To Trente this wound was like combat, though admittedly a slow and grueling one. In combat death is often dealt in moments. In one you live in the next you die. In this battle for his life, this chase as it were, the moments stretched on in the floor of that boat for what seemed like eternity. What fool trick had Tanroa played upon him to draw out a battle so long? He asked not "why," he never asked "why." To Trente "why" was the bane of man, the mind's folly, and such questions could destroy the psyche from the inside out. The only words more dangerous than "why" were perhaps the answers to such questions.
Forward, forward. Through the sweeping fog, across the death filled water, bobbing in his tiny craft afloat with a child and a man little better than an animal. Oh how grim his life had become.
*
