Chapter Text
It makes little sense to him when he wakes in the back of a covered wagon. He does not remember getting into it, does not remember anything from before this moment no matter how hard he strains to do so. He looks about the wagon, picks up every tool, every little thing he finds as he hopes that one of them will jog something within him.
The temperature outside is frigid, snow blankets the ground, and he grabs the nearest fur, wraps it around his body as he steps out onto the frozen tundra. He is unsure why he does so, but the thought of stepping out naked gives him pause. It is not what is done.
The ground is covered in snow, ice clings to the bits of vegetation that manages to survive in the harsh conditions He breathes in the air, he feels a relief that he doesn’t understand. He lets it settle over him, breathes in again, lets out a slow breath as he wraps the fur tighter around his body.
His breath comes out in little puffs and yet he does not feel the cold. That doesn’t seem right. He should feel it. By all rights he knows he should be freezing, that the snow against his bare feet should have him leaping back into the wagon, desperate for warmth. He knows it's cold, but it doesn’t affect him.
He feels hot.
As if there’s a furnace inside of him, one he cannot see.
Another mystery to add to the myriad of others before him.
Slowly he begins to inspect the outside of the wagon. There must have been a horse but it's long gone, broken free for some reason. Perhaps the reason he can’t remember heads from tails. The hoofprints break off in one direction but he sees no others. Not animal, not human. Nothing but his own as he walks the length of the wagon.
He runs a hand along his face, blinks at the feel of stubble on the lower half, along his chin. That doesn’t feel right and yet somehow does at the same time. Reaches up to his hair, runs his fingers through it, over his ears, his lips.
He feels no wounds, sees none as he inspects his body, before he gets back into the wagon. The clothes he finds are smaller than they should be if they are his but he pulls them on, arches a brow at how the pants barely go past the knee. The boots are harder to handle and he gives up on them quickly.
There’s little chance the horse will return and he might not remember who he is but he doubts being on the middle of the road at nightfall is a good idea. Stuffs all of the food he can find into a pack, rolls the furs up as well. Adds the alcohol he finds as well, some items he can use to start a fire and hopefully keep it going. There’s little in the way of weapons, but he keeps the knife at the ready.
A small box in the corner catches his attention. It opens easily enough for him and he pilfers through the contents. A few pieces of jewelry that he pockets, a piece of parchment and a torn note. The parchment holds little value. Some love poem that’s seen better days. But there’s a name scrawled along the torn note.
“Halbrand,” he says, twitches his lips.
That feels right.
He turns the paper over in his hands before he stuffs it and the key back into the pouch. Is that who he is? Halbrand. Someone must know him. Though whether they are on the road behind or the road forward he does not know.
He steps back out of the wagon, hoists the pack and furs onto his back. Looks behind and then forward, brow furrows before he takes a step away from the mountains and wagon. Part of him wants to look back, but he pushes that down, buries it deep within.
All he can do is move on.
****
It takes six days before Halbrand comes across another human. He’s lived off the few snow hares he’s managed to catch and the bits of food he scrounged up from the wagon. The snow is to the back of him, greener pastures to the front as he follows the rising smoke from a chimney. It's funny to him how he can remember these words, how he knows the names of the different trees as he passes by them, but he can’t recall where he’s from.
He takes clothes off the line, leaves behind one of the jewels as repayment. These ones fit him better, comes down past his calves, the tunic one he needs to keep secured by some twine.
He takes boots from the next dwelling he passes, pilfers bread that cools on a windowsill. Never stops to talk to any of those who live in the area. Takes what he needs and continues on until he reaches the first actual village.
There’s a distrust in the air, a wariness when he first approaches. But he has fresh game to offer and the small tavern owner is willing to exchange it for some ale and to cook the game hens he’s got into a nice stew. Halbrand sits at one of the tables, devours the meal he didn’t need to cook, and watches the others that move in and out.
“Where you from?” one of the men asks.
Halbrand shrugs, tears off a piece of the bread and dips it into the stew. The vegetables are meager but better than anything he’s found in the beginnings of spring on the land. “He came from the north,” another man comments. “Not much good comes from there.”
“Not much good comes from the south either.”
“Nor the east or west.”
Halbrand doesn’t reply to any of them, but he watches, waits to see what they’ll do, how they react to him. Wariness he understands.This village is isolated, must not get many visitors from the lack of signs of anyone else on the roads he’s traveled. He’s seen no footprints, no wagon wheel tracks or hoofprints in the mix of snow and mud behind him. Nothing but his own.
He doesn’t think they fear him. Isn’t sure why that rankles him a bit, even as he reminds himself the anonymity isn’t the worst idea. Not when he remembers nothing. No one reaches for any of the weapons he’s taken note of on their persons. No one reaches for the knives set out in front of them as he slurps up another spoonful of the stew.
“Are you passing through or looking for a place to settle,” the tavern owner asks as he drops off another mug of ale.
“Passing through,” Halbrand replies. “Headed south.” He doesn’t know why. Only that to the north is that dreadful icy landscape and he does not want to linger there.
“Better be careful, there’s tales of orcs to the South.”
Orcs.
His chest hurts at that word. Mouth twists as flashes of angry faces play out in his mind. Not human looking. Are those orcs? Phantom pain erupts in his sides and he coughs, clutches at the table. The tavern owner claps his back, helps dislodge the piece of meat that nearly gets stuck in his throat. “That what you running from, boy?” the man asks, and Halbrand realizes that the other conversations have died around him. That the tavern has grown quiet.
He wonders what haunted look he must be projecting because their wariness has turned to pity. “You from one of them towns they…wiped out?”
Is that what happened? His head pounds as he tries to force the memories to expand, rubs at his temples to soothe back the pain. Halbrand catches the way the tavern owner looks to the others before he steps away.
He leaves that night with what little vegetables some of them can spare and a sword hanging at his side.
****
Halbrand remembers the orcs more little by little in the next few days. The trees grow greener, the coolness of the north gives way to slightly warmer temperatures as his steps take him southward. It's strange how parts of the paths he takes look familiar and yet he swears some trees have doubled in size from what he recalls. Structures that he passes are rubble when he remembers watchtowers being in their place. Even the river seems wider, stronger than it once had been.
He does not remember walking the path before though, cannot recall who walked beside him or what he was doing at the time. But he still knows the trees. Knows the places he steps and is certain that the orcs are in the direction he ventures.
It feels as though he is missing something. Some integral part of him that is locked away, the key misplaced, unable to be open without it. He tries to lock onto it, presses against his mind to reveal a little more, for his body to hint at what isn’t there. But all that brings about is pain in his head, along his neck. A stabbing pain that he haunts him like when he thinks of the orcs.
It's probably a fool’s journey to head toward them and think he can slay them all with the paltry sword at his side, but it's the only plan he thinks of. All that matters now.
He’ll get it back or he dies trying.
It's not the first group of people he sees fleeing from the direction he seeks. But this time one of them stops to speak with him. It's an older man, one who looks as weary as Halbrand feels. He’s not sure when he’s stopped last to truly rest, naps here and there when he can, but mostly he’s kept to the road, determined to get to the end.
“That way lies death, friend,” the old man says.
Halbrand knows this already. “That is my path.”
“An army of orcs moves against men,” the man persists. “We were the fortunate ones.”
Halbrand turns back, looks at him. “Perhaps the fortunate ones are the first to die.” There is a truth in it that he doesn’t understand and yet feels deep within his bones. Some days it feels as though death lingers around him but he does not know why.
“I know you’ve suffered. I can see it in your eyes,” the man continues and Halbrand can’t look him in the eye, wonders what the man sees in him. How he knows of the suffering Halbrand can’t even name, can’t even remember. “There’s another life waiting for you. You just have to turn toward it.”
It's the pouch on the man’s neck that sticks out the most to him. It's familiar but he can’t place where he’s seen it. Knows it's important. “That heraldry. What is it?”
“A symbol of kings long dead.”
He sees ripples of a face, almost like when he looks at his reflection in moving water. High brows, a distinguished nose, ruddy hair. It morphs into another, darker hair, sharp eyes, and on again into another face entirely. All of them with a similar crown, all of them bowing at the knee.
He sees none of their features in the man before him. “Your family?”
“No, my family served them.”
It rankles Halbrand for reasons he doesn’t understand why a servant of kings long dead would continue on with their heraldry. With a reminder of their failure. “Then why wear it?” Why carry around a symbol of loyalty to a kingdom long gone? Shouldn’t the chains of servitude be broken?
“As a reminder that our fates are never certain and fortunes can turn for even the most powerful.”
The words cut him, land a blow he wishes he knew the meaning behind. “A grim reminder.”
“Or a hopeful one,” the man counters. Hope. The word sits heavy in Halbrand’s stomach. Causes his lips to twitch.
The old man nods back toward the road he’s come from. “A sure path may crumble but there’s always another. After, it can lead us some place better. Some place good.”
Good.
It's not a word Halbrand has considered much in the last few weeks and yet it shakes him to his very core. What is good? Is he good? He does not know but there is yearning that sparks within.
“They say there’s places across the sea where a man can escape himself. Find another path, perhaps another life. Come with us if you like.” The man nods towards the way Halbrand was heading. “Or walk on. Keep chasing death.”
Halbrand looks back for a moment. Sees the line of people still coming, that looks to escape the horrors of the orcs. He feels the need for revenge slip from his fingers and turns away from it.
“Good man,” the man tells him as he comes to walk beside him. He reaches over, offers his hand to shake. “Diarmid.”
The weight he’s been holding on his shoulders seems to lift with each new step he takes, as he shakes hands. Hope curls through him a little, he’s not sure if he welcomes the feeling or not, but whatever name he might have once had is lost to him.
He’ll go with the one he found, the one he picks. “Halbrand.”
“Good to have you with us, Halbrand.” Diarmid smiles and Halbrand looks back out at the horizon. Breathes in and out again, just as he did when he stepped out of the wagon weeks back. He looks up at the sky, takes in the blueness of it with wispy white clouds. Not at all the mess of smoke in the other direction.
Takes another step and then another, each one feeling more right than the first.
****
“You’ve brought in more game than any other,” Diarmid says as he joins him by the fire several nights later. Holds out a small waterskin that Halbrand takes one whiff of and knows is not full of water. “Were you one of the hunters in your village?”
Halbrand takes a swig before he offers the pouch back. It seems it's another night that will be full of questions he can’t answer. Shakes his head at this one. “It doesn’t hurt to know how to do it. What did you do?”
The old man smiles. It confuses Halbrand how often he does it, how cheerful, how hopeful Diarmid can be in the face of all the devastation he’s experienced. The others don’t have his exuberance, though Halbrand notes their flickers of hope, especially as they move ever closer to the sea. The smoke further behind them each day.
“Looked after the cattle,” Diarmid says. “Until they all were gutted.”
“Gutted?”
“And left for dead. For us to find.” The old man shakes his head. “A warning that our village was next.”
“This conflict is new,” Halbrand remarks after a moment. He remembers little about orcs, only the flashes that he gets every so often, but from what the others have said he knows they are vicious, ruthless. Seems as though they rarely leave survivors. There’d be no men left if they’d been doing this for years.
“Aye,” Diarmid replies, takes a drink. “They started showing up a year or so ago. Expected the elves to do something about it but, well.” He holds out the leather flask again. “Don’t think they’ve fared all that well against them either.”
Elves.
Halbrand has heard tales of them as he’s moved from one place to the next. Whispers in the wind, but he doesn’t know why talk of them reminds him of singing. No one ever mentions singing when they speak of them. But a song plays so clearly in his head. Not his voice, but another’s. Strong, beautiful and heartbreaking, but he’s never able to make out the words.
“As if they’d step in to help us anyway,” one of the others spats. Actually spits on the ground in front of them before her lips curl into a sneer. “That lot only looks out for themselves. Don’t give a lick about us.”
“Only good elf is a dead one,” another mutters.
Some echo those sentiments, but he sees others look away. Notes how they try not to draw attention to themselves. An uncomfortable silence stirs and he exchanges a look with Diarmid. The old man is usually the voice of reason, the one who gets the others to calm their nerves, who stops little incidents from growing larger.
“Give us a song, Mikail,” he starts, nods towards one of the young woman on the other side of their fire.
She starts, a tale about brothers and their separate journeys that meet up again at the end. Her voice is nothing like the one he remembers, but it's sweet enough. It's the tale that captures his attention the most though. He pictures the faces of the brothers, as real as if they were sitting right in front of him as the others are. Their images distort until he sees them again, clearly dead this time. Throats cut, eyes bulging as blood drips from their necks.
Halbrand scrambles backwards at the sight. Nearly topples over into another as he pushes himself up to rise.
“Halbrand?” Diarmid calls, but Halbrand moves as he reaches for him.
He shakes his head, touches his throat as he presses back into the darkness and away from the song.
He won’t be able to sleep tonight.
****
“It does help to speak of it sometimes, my friend,” Diarmid remarks a few days later.
The scent of salt lingers in the air now. The sound of the waves lapping against the shore grows louder with each step. There’s a vibrant energy to the others they walk beside, an eagerness to hurry their steps, to get to the docks. Halbrand tries to shake off the lingering images from his dreams.
None of them ever makes sense. Nothing lasts long enough for him to grab onto, to understand. It's mostly feelings of dread that lingers, that sticks to his mind and makes him look towards any shadows. He cannot wait to be away from this place, to find what waits for him across the sea. Wonders if he goes far enough if he can leave behind what haunts him.
“I do not even know what to say,” Halbrand replies, grateful that the others pay them little attention. “I don’t remember anything from them.”
“Except the feeling.”
He nods, confirms.
“Do they speak in them?”
Halbrand frowns, tries to recall any words, but even those slip past him. All he knows is the words are nothing like he hears now. Some are harsh, their tone and inflection almost brutal. Others are gentle, but those slip past faster than the rest. “Nothing I understand.”
Diarmid nods, reaches over and touches his shoulder. Halbrand stiffens for a moment but forces himself to relax at the touch. Knows the old man means well. “We will be free of this place soon enough.”
Halbrand releases a breath, nods as Diarmid starts to walk again. He can see the ocean peeking out of the treetops now. It nearly blends in with the sky, but the joy the others feel as they clap their hands, as they hug one another is overpowered by the dread that suddenly stirs within him at the sight.
The sea is not his friend. Not anymore.
Halbrand blinks. Not sure where thought has come from but he’s certain it's true. Glimpses a…not a man but he’s not sure what to call it. Blue hair with a crown on its head. His skin has a hint of blue to it too. Recalls its laugh and then its rage. Sorrow. He looks back out at the sea and draws his cloak tighter around him.
****
The port bustles with people, but its few between that welcomes the refugees. Halbrand and his group are hardly the only ones pouring in, all with similar tales of orcs invading. Anger roars through him with each recounting, stabs of the pain comes to light with every mention.
The group he’s with makes camp along the outskirts of the port town as they wait their turn to board one of the ships. The sea stretches out, seemingly neverending in front of them. That same uncertainty from before curls within Halbrand whenever he looks towards it. Images flicker in his mind, recalls the being with the blue hair and crown. Sorrow and anger tied up within.
Halbrand doesn’t mention him to anyone. Doesn’t hear any of the others mention that being either. They occasionally speak of the One, to his so-called mercy. Halbrand isn’t sure why talk of Him tightens his chest, sometimes has fear rushing at him while at others he turns his face up toward the sun. Breathes it and the air in around him as though he hasn’t seen either in ages.
Slowly he gets to know the others in their group. Notes which of them he can learn something from—whether that skill or information. Pavel teaches him how to fish, shows him how to tie various knots. He excels at each of them, knows the steps of a few as Pavel begins to showcase them, but follows along. Simply lets the man think he’s a quick learner.
He hunts with some of the men, helps bring in meat they eat and trade. Learns quickly who is quick to temper, who’s drunk most of the day, who struggles.
From one to the next he goes. They wave to him when he passes now, seek him out to speak to every so often. Before they had stayed back, watched him as he still watches them.
“A copper for your thoughts?” One of the women in the group asks him. Freckles dot her nose, her cheeks as she smiles at him, as she plops down beside him on the log where he sits.
He hears some of the other ones giggling in the distance, knows if he looks to the right he’ll see the lot of them urging the one near him on.
“They’re not worth nearly that much,” he replies, his hands still moving, carving the wood.
Halbrand spies Diarmid looking their way. Shakes his head at the old man’s arched brow and amused smile. It’s the other men that Halbrand knows he needs to worry about though. The ones who glance their way, their lips thinning, annoyance swirling through them.
He’s a novelty, not a relative, not one the rest of them have known all their lives. And his face is handsome enough, has seen the way their gazes linger on his arms, on his torso when there is cause for him to remove his tunic.
The one that talks to him now is a favorite among the others. One the men fall over themselves trying to please, to speak to, all the while he whittles away, nods when it seems appropriate, gives an actual answer when it's needed.
Halbrand finds the conversation rather pointless. Talking about the weather amuses him very little and even the idle gossip is a bore. He doubts very much if he’ll see any of these people again once they are across the sea. Finds he doesn’t care much one way or the other.
Except Diarmid.
He looks back toward the old man. He reminds him of…he’s not sure. Someone that Halbrand thinks he did not listen to before but perhaps should have. Maybe a father but that doesn’t feel right.
“They say we’ll find lands of plenty across the sea,” the girl says. Gretta. That’s her name. “Lands with no orcs. Do you think it’s true, Halbrand?”
“Yes.” He says it with a certainty that surprises even him. “Orcs only inhabit this land.” Again with certainty.
“That is what my father says but Igor says they are everywhere.”
“Who do you deem to be wiser among the two?”
“I suppose my father.” She drones on after that. Halbrand continues to whittle, keeps a cursory ear on the conversation. Nods when needed.
He spots Igor walking by, watches as the other man stops. Satisfaction whirls through Halbrand as the other man’s nostrils flare, at the narrowing of his eyes. At how his knuckles turn white around the wood he carries.
Usually Halbrand excuses himself politely, but this time he smirks at the young woman, gives her a wink before he rises. Dusts off his hands as he walks away. There’s a fit of more giggles behind him as girls hurry over to the first. He feels every glare at his back, but Halbrand ignores them all, hands off the little wolf he’s carved to the first child he comes across.
That one’s delight thrills him, brings out a real smile, has him reaching over to jostle the boy’s hair before he heads over to Diarmid.
“You invite enemies,” the old man chides.
“I believe you told me to talk to the others,” Halbrand counters as he walks beside him.
“You have no interest in the girl.”
“No, but I cannot help that she seems to have some in me.” The look Diarmid gives him causes Halbrand to sigh.
“I am certain you can converse with the others without inciting rage. You manage to do so with the children.”
Halbrand grouses, the delight he’d felt moments before evaporates quickly. Leaves a bad taste in his mouth, a desire to do better. He nods his head and Diarmid pats his shoulder before they continue onward.
It’s late in the evening, the sky moonless, the fires on their last legs when Igor and his friends show up. Halbrand lays on his side on top of the bedroll, eyes closed, breathes shallowly as if he’s asleep. Diarmid snores nearby on his own. He’d thought it odd that none of the usuals had come to camp by them that night and now the reason why seems fairly obvious.
He feels them near. It's an odd sensation. As if the darkness speaks to him, whispers its secrets and lays them bare at his feet. Halbrand spots the gleam of a dagger in the flickering firelight. He drives his foot into his attacker's shin as he leaps up to his feet. Igor stumbles but quickly rights himself, slashes out with the dagger again, but Halbrand leaps backwards. Ducks as another tries to slam into him from behind.
It’s the way Diarmid sputters, the old man’s choked gasp that has Halbrand seeing red. He doesn’t hesitate as he reaches over, as he slams Igor’s face into the nearest tree.
The sound of the man’s nose breaking satisfies him, brings a wicked grin to Halbrand’s face as he breaks the man’s arm next before he hurls him away. He pants as he rounds on the one who holds Diarmid. There’s horror in both their gazes as they look at him, but at least the attacker drops the old man.
Pain erupts along Halbrand’s back and he whirls around, catches the other man around the throat. Squeezes. The man claws at his hands but he only squeezes harder, sneers as the man tries to breathe while the others run.
He hears Diarmid say his name, feels the old-man’s hand on his shoulder. “Halbrand.” More insistent now.
It's as though there is a furnace within him. One that grows hotter with each passing moment, ready to boil over. The fire that had been dying out roars back to life, flames rising higher than they had before. Almost an echo of the rage that burns within him.
Diarmid repeats his name. Halbrand’s breaths are harsh, in and out, one after the other before he finally releases the man. Doesn’t take his eyes off of him until he scrambles away. Lost to the night.
The rage within him slowly subsides, leaves a coldness within that he doesn’t understand. He remembers the horror in Diarmid’s eyes, suddenly doesn’t want to look at his friend. Does not want to see that same look reflected back again. Images flicker through his mind, too quickly for him to latch onto any of them, but it's the eyes in each face that haunts him.
All with a similar look, all directed at him.
Halbrand looks down at his hands; he’s certain he’s strangled a man to death before. That he’s done far worse than that, but he cannot recall why. His hands can carve the most beautiful figurines out of wood but he knows now that’s hardly all they can accomplish. He’s not sure if that should bring him satisfaction or fear.
The heat that had coursed through him subsides, leaves his shoulders drooping, a kind of exhaustion tugs at him. He flinches as Diarmid touches his shoulder, the urge to throw it off one he has to shove down. He doesn’t want to inflict pain on the old man.
“We should get some ointment on your back,” Diarmid says and all Halbrand can do is nod.
Not that it stops him from using Gretta’s mouth for his own satisfaction the next day, his hands tight in her hair, moving her along the length of him as Igor rounds the corner of the building. Halbrand smirks at the other man as he spills himself in the girl’s mouth. The fury in the other man’s gaze only bolsters Halbrand, wipes away any of the regret he’d felt stirring within the night before.
****
They’re herded like cattle onto the ship, packed like sardines with little space to move. It feels as though there’s little space to breathe. The sun doesn’t touch the space below where Halbrand and the other refugees are allowed to congregate. Fresh air is a thing of the past, the stench below deck overwhelms, the heat even more so as their ship sails onward.
Weeks, the captain had told them. That’s how long they can expect to be on board and there’s no guarantee that where they land will even take them on.
“Have hope,” Diarmid reminds. Whatever lays ahead is already infinitely better than what lays behind.
Halbrand mostly recalls their first conversation and wonders if he’d been correct back then. The lucky were those who’d died first. Those who didn’t continue to suffer as every single person who made it away from the orcs seems to.
Water is a scarcity, food even more so. Both carefully distributed. Fights break out over both, arguments ensue every time either is doled out. Someone always takes more than their share. He sits to the side, watches, makes sure Diarmid gets what he’s supposed to but makes little fuss about his own share. Tempers flare too often and he calculates when a new one is about to blow, steers the old man far from the chaos that erupts.
Halbrand notes how some poke at the others, how they instigate the arguments, how they manage to take a little more while the others scream and shove. It fascinates him, even more so when he points it out to another and watches as more chaos unfurls. The delight he finds in watching them argue and shout, in them attempting to tear one another apart terrifies him after the deed is done. Especially when Diarmid steps in and attempts to calm tempers.
He’s not sure they’ll make it weeks.
“There will be cooler tempers in the morning,” Diarmid tells him as they settle down in their area.
Halbrand snorts as he leans back in his makeshift hammock. He’ll eat it if that actually comes to pass. “Just watch your back,” he murmurs before shutting his eyes.
He never really sleeps.
It's odd because he knows he should. The others do around him, can hear their snores, their evened out breathing. Sometimes images flash in his mind, bits and pieces that he never adds up, but Halbrand doesn’t think he rests like they all do. Another question to add to his ever growing pile. He lets the sound of Diarmid’s snores lull him into a sense of listlessness. Allows his own breathing to even out like the others do, even if he knows he won’t dream as they seem to do.
The ship moves through the water, a steady pace. He’s not sure how but Halbrand knows they’re far from any shore now. That water is all around them, all they would be able to see if they could head to the top of the ship.
His whole body tenses as he senses something. His ears prick and it's as if he hears movement outside the ship, something swimming through the ocean, something that heads for them.
There is a presence in the water.
He jolts, eyes quickly open.
“Nightmares again?” Diarmid asks but Halbrand barely pays him any mind. “What haunts you so?”
How many times have they had this conversation now, Halbrand wonders. How many times will they have it going forward? He shakes his head, lets out a sigh before he hears the rumbling in the water, knows what is about to happen.
“Grab hold of something,” he orders Diarmid just as something slams against the ship.
It sends everyone below deck scattering within. Confusion ripples throughout but Halbrand barely manages to get to his feet before the ship is being torn apart. Water begins to flood into the compartment, wood splinters and cracks, beams fall, boxes and other equipment shifts as everyone around him begins to scramble for the stairs.
“Diarmid?” Halbrand calls, glances around for the old man. Watches as another shoves his friend out of the way, sends Diarmid sputtering into the rising water. Halbrand pushes his way through, determined to reach him, to help get him up above.
Another bang and the ship breaks further, sends him toppling into the water as others are sucked out into the vast ocean. He grabs hold of Diarmid, but blood seeps from the old man’s mouth as he tries to pull him to his feet. It's only then that Halbrand notices how the old man has fallen. Only then that he notices the sword shoved through his stomach.
Diarmid presses the pouch into his hand. Coughs up blood. “Go.”
Halbrand doesn’t hesitate.
He flees up the stairs as the water below swells, as it pulls one he called friend into its fathomless depths.
Another set of eyes to add to the ones that haunt him.
****
Halbrand is certain he was right about the lucky being those that died first as he sits on the raft. His fellow survivors whining grates on him and he wonders how quickly he could dispatch each of them. Choosing good feels like a fool’s errand. It did little to save Diarmid. It did little to save the children on board or countless others who no doubt had deserved a different fate.
He looks about the raft as he tries to squash the idea of mutiny. Calculates how long it’ll take him to unlink himself if needed, whereabouts it would be best to stick to on the raft so he can get away quickly. The creature lingers. He can feel it, somewhere in the distance.
There’s little chance of anyone else on board doing so. They’re all looking for it, scanning the horizon, muttering words to each other about what they should do, but he notes how they never quite look in the direction they should. Halbrand stares at his hands. They’re big but no bigger than some of the other men he’s been around and yet sometimes he feels as though his skin is too tight. As if it isn’t quite right.
He rubs at his neck, blows out a breath as one of the others wails. The temptation to shove her off the raft and deny her readmission to the raft bubbles within him but he leans towards the water instead. Scoops up a handful of it to wash over his face and hair. Anything to beat the unrelenting heat.
“Over here!”
He spots the woman in the water first. Her hair stirs something within him. Not a memory. A warning perhaps? But her eyes. He’s never seen blue as sharp, as bright as hers. Her hair, even in its waterlogged, beleaguered state shines like the sun that beats down on them.
He holds up a hand as he looks her over. Remembers the tales of sirens and mermaids that the others told, of how they sing and drag men and women to their watery depths. For a moment he thinks he would not mind being dragged to those depths if it's by her.
But she is no siren, no, she is something else.
There is an intensity to her that he doesn’t recall feeling from anyone else he’s met. She’s more. He’s certain of that much. Worth more than the other sniveling survivors that make up his temporary group. He thinks she could definitely be more useful than any of them. But would she want to be of help?
He’s seen what becomes of those with power these last few weeks. Heard enough tales told by the group he’d been with before. Not that being without power is any better considering all of them lay in a watery grave. Is it not every man for himself now on the open sea?
That cuts him to the quick. He doesn’t want to go back to wandering on his own. Doesn’t want to deal with the turmoil that loss has brought upon him either.
But now she’s in front of him and he’s not sure whether to welcome her or rebuff.
“The tides of fate are flowing. Yours may be heading in or out.” He smirks at her as she stares up at him, enjoys the confusion and then determination that flickers in her gaze before one of the others drags her up onto the raft with them.
Halbrand lets the others fret over her, lets them argue but he sees the curve of her ears before one of the others drags her hair from her face, revealing the newcomer to them all. An elf.
But there’s little time to focus on her, on what it means to find an elf in the middle of the sea when he senses the monster’s return. His eyes widen as they send the elf back into the sea, knows that is a mistake and gets to work on his own plan. Pulls at the ropes connecting his area to the others.
He keeps the elf in his periphery as he grabs an oar and pushes his own raft free from the others. Works it in the water to paddle away as the wyrm devours the others before it plunges back down into the watery depths.
He could keep going, paddle on and leave her to the sea. Perhaps the wyrm would go for her next, but Halbrand senses it leaving them, not working to turn back as it had before. There has to be a reason she’s in the water. She has to be strong to be swimming in it as she was.
You have to choose it again, he recalls Diarmid telling him. And the next day. And the next. Diarmid who lies beneath the sea now. Any hope he once had extinguished when he took his last watery breath.
Or does it live in you?
He touches the pouch that now hangs from his neck. The last link to one he could call friend.
Halbrand alters his course, heads in the direction of the elf. She could be useful. And at least he won’t die alone if it comes to that. He drops the oar once he’s near enough, works to pull her up onto the raft before he moves to pick it back up. He can’t help the way his gaze lingers on her, the white shift she wears reveals all, especially with how it clings to her, the fabric practically translucent due to how soaked it is.
“What are you called?” he asks as she drinks from the waterskin.
There’s no smile. No thanks ever comes from her lips as she looks at him. There’s a challenge there in her gaze as she assesses him, as he assesses her back. “Galadriel.”
It doesn’t ring a bell.
“I’m Halbrand.”
She simply nods. Sets the waterskin back down. “What’s our heading?” he asks, arches a brow as she looks over at him. As she furrows her own before she looks back out at the endless sea.
“East.” She points in the direction she means.
He has no clue if it is east or not, but acquiesces, begins to steer them in that direction. Halbrand lets his gaze linger on her again, takes in her backside as he continues to row.
At least the view has gotten better.