‹ Prequel: Ninety Days of Water
Status: Active.
Tundra
Chapter I – Bleak – Part II
Far away from me as I pondered my future text, the forgotten son rowed. He felt his muscles knot with raw, unbridled power. Hated seized him up, and flooded him with warmth. He heaved, and every sinew in his body obliged in perfect synchronisation. It was a kind of magic, the way he could manipulate physics. His strength was unholy. He lunged again, his shoulder blades separating, sliding back like a hundred heavy weights on pulleys, as though he were just an extension of the machine he moved, beautiful, mechanical, and faultless. He moved with furious speed, hauling oars like sorcery. With each stroke, his scar rippled. It stretched down his bulging back in waves. The length of a cracked whip or a rope of seaweed, it was a reminder of everything he fought for.
There was no fear or nervousness in him. His hatred was the calm that steers a perfect storm from its unblinking eye. It was a well-oiled kind of anger.
The rower’s name was Eiron, and he was a Seafarer, part of the ocean’s war with the land it beat down constantly, from fiefdom cliffs to smooth, packed beaches. In this war, Eiron ranked highly. He had his status to thank for the various kraken and sea serpents that coiled around his arms and thighs, and spread their tentacles across his broad chest. In Seafarer tradition, only the strongest, the oarsmen, could wear such signs. More land-bound fishermen, net menders and carvers of ivory wore tattoos of seals and crustaceans. The Seafarers who ranked lowest were the ones who took to the land, running along the lines of cliff tops, keeping watch and fanning fires. Those sentries wore wolves and mammoths on their shoulders, and their tattoos were rendered in fireplace ash. Because they did not live off the sea, they did not deserve the midnight black and bruised purple that came from the ink of squids and crushed shells respectively.
Soon, Eiron would be as bad as those land dwellers, for he was forsaking his tribe. He would be as bad as the mammoth riders, with their protruding foreheads and prominent brows, who were robust but ungraceful. He would be as bad as the ones who wore furs instead of eel leathers, the magical properties of which were known to the Seafarers alone. Eiron knew he would be outcast when his deeds were discovered. He would be forced to hang around campfires burning sticks instead of the driftwood that gave off the sacred blue flames.
He knew he would be a nomad, with no home and only the purpose the druids gave him, but still, Eiron rowed.
There was no fear or nervousness in him. His hatred was the calm that steers a perfect storm from its unblinking eye. It was a well-oiled kind of anger.
The rower’s name was Eiron, and he was a Seafarer, part of the ocean’s war with the land it beat down constantly, from fiefdom cliffs to smooth, packed beaches. In this war, Eiron ranked highly. He had his status to thank for the various kraken and sea serpents that coiled around his arms and thighs, and spread their tentacles across his broad chest. In Seafarer tradition, only the strongest, the oarsmen, could wear such signs. More land-bound fishermen, net menders and carvers of ivory wore tattoos of seals and crustaceans. The Seafarers who ranked lowest were the ones who took to the land, running along the lines of cliff tops, keeping watch and fanning fires. Those sentries wore wolves and mammoths on their shoulders, and their tattoos were rendered in fireplace ash. Because they did not live off the sea, they did not deserve the midnight black and bruised purple that came from the ink of squids and crushed shells respectively.
Soon, Eiron would be as bad as those land dwellers, for he was forsaking his tribe. He would be as bad as the mammoth riders, with their protruding foreheads and prominent brows, who were robust but ungraceful. He would be as bad as the ones who wore furs instead of eel leathers, the magical properties of which were known to the Seafarers alone. Eiron knew he would be outcast when his deeds were discovered. He would be forced to hang around campfires burning sticks instead of the driftwood that gave off the sacred blue flames.
He knew he would be a nomad, with no home and only the purpose the druids gave him, but still, Eiron rowed.