by Rance » Mon Jan 11, 2016 1:33 pm
Sometimes, there are things that can snap you — if for a hostile, short-lived moment — out of a drunken stupor: a slap across the face; a punch thrown in the midst of a drunken brawl; a sword drawn over a friendly game of bones and a few heavily-poured glasses of whiskey. But those, because the reaction often boiled down to sheer instinct, were hardly as sobering as the admission that rolled out of her right then, as I lay sprawled and reaching for her fingers, her reciprocating in kind with a touch, a squeeze. I loove ye, Elias.
And I said, not because I was drunk, but because I was honest and swollen with affection for her, for this rough and beautiful and passionate and devoted and daring and wonderful woman; and I said, not because I was lying, but because I was suddenly, intimately filled with unencumbered truth of what I'd once feared was only a boyish infatuation; and I said, not because I was trying to please her, but because I must tell her, for fear I'd burst like a fucking blister if I didn't:
"I love you too."
And then I was drunk again, and we were laughing, and I couldn't even remember if I'd taken off my last boot. Oh, I was drunk, with drink and with the lightness brought by feelings cut free to the world.
In the quiet of the night, while waiting for sleep to come, I thought back on little bursts of images burnt into my brain over the years, memories that had lost their sensations, their reality, but that tenaciously carved themselves trenches in my brain to occupy—
I felt the sea-spray on my cheeks as the cutter darted through the waters, turning blue to frothy white across the creased bow. The small sails rattled in the wind, blew themselves up like great canvas cheeks above us. Captain Arom put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed until his fingers bit into my collar. He breathed into my ear, "You don't hesitate. You kill the whoreson the minute you see him. You close your eyes if you have to. Men's eyes sometimes plead for their lives. Don't be weak, or it's your—"
And then—
They had her hands lashed with hemp. That was the first thing I noticed when I stepped in to see her. The cell was cramped and wet, less like a box and more like a tiny pocket in the wall the architect had forgotten to brick. A smudge of black was on her forehead. The woman wore wrinkles that reminded me of old parchment. A few ropes of gray lightened her hair. She had a smile you could have seen in the dead of night. She said to me, "You're my son, aren't you," and I said, "I am," even though I barely had a voice, and she said, "You grew up to be quite a handsome man," and I said, "I'm afraid," and she said, "Why," and I said, "Because they're going to kill you," and there was youth and fright in my words and she reached out her arms and said, "I know, but that doesn't mean I can't get to know you," and we cried together—
And then—
I was standing next to the river feeling my boots sink into the sand and mud. Or maybe it was clay. That part wasn't clear. But The moon was tall and fat and seemed closer than it had ever been. Myrkentown throbbed with a candlelight pulse. I rattled my hands in my pockets trying to keep them warm. The handle of the rusted knife I'd stashed there kept knocking against my knuckles. A thunderous rumble of hooves cut through the darkness. The rider threw herself down to her feet with a confidence that I knew I had to match. When she spoke I saw her gold teeth and my first thought was, I wonder how much I could sell those for—
I'd done some things. But I'd never loved a woman. Not until now.
Sleep came, drunken but clear as a crystal.
Filled with her.