Click, click, click, click, click, click, ding, swoosh. Click, click, click, click, click, click, ding, swoosh. The sounds of his keystrokes, the crack of thunder, the hard pelts of rain, each amplified the presence of the isolation in which he worked. Click, click, click… a pause. The next few words, he pondered, with his eyes squinted — both blue ringed orbs glued to the candlelit wall ahead of him.

Click, click, click, his fingers moved unreliably as he continued to look straight ahead. Click, click, click, click, click, click… he paused again. His hands left their occupation of the keyboard immediately below him, to hold his face: his frustration arising as he sighed in a depression unlike any other. After three brief seconds, of allowing the silence of his immediate surroundings to seep into his consciousness, he shouted an expletive.

Alistair — now aged: old and weathered — had ruined the second to last sentence of the page he had been tirelessly working on, much to his annoyance. After several heavy, calming breaths, he defeatedly tore the page from the machine and tossed it aside, as he placed his hands behind his neck, his fingers interlocked.

It flipped and twirled about the stale air as it fell, unaffected by the words he whispered to himself… just as it had been for each sheet piled beneath it. Each in the pile found itself blanketed in marginally varying degrees of that black, mechanically-printed ink that attempted to further the progression of a story so meaningfully sentimental to Alistair.

Just before it touched down upon its discarded brethren, a soft breeze from the open window to his right wafted in: raising the topmost page’s bottom right corner. It was as if the wind had made its own attempts to read his mistakes.

Currently, all that existed to him was the desk he sat at; the pale, wooden chair beneath him; the wooden floor below that; and the wall immediately in front of him. The rest was dipped in that blackness, one illuminated only slightly by the aforementioned candle that sat at the top right corner of the desk he worked upon.

Click, click, click, he continued: pounding away at the keys in aggravation of the most recent encounter of his writer’s block. Disregarding any issues he came upon, he forced himself along his story. Just a few strokes away from the beginning of a new sentence, halfway down the page, he halted his progress mid-word. Once again, his hands took refuge upon the surface of his face; his fingers retreated to the inlets of his sockets, busy in their uniformity as they maneuvered across his lid-covered-eyes, both so painfully strained.

Alistair Clairemont, a man without a chunk of soil to call home… a stranger, stranded in a familiar place. He was, at this point, eighty-three years of age: leathered skin, a nearly full head of hair: each strand as snowy white as his skin. Atop his head sat that ever-present balding spot that most every man eventually comes to know (though, luckily for him, his big, bushy beard was quite resistant to such a test of time).

“Come on, come on… just a few more,” he pleaded only to himself: in the heart of war, his mind being the aggressor.

Eventually, he was able to force a few more sentences from the clutchful recesses of his mind. He hoped to have gotten more, but, these would do — even if they weren’t anything to be particularly proud of; quality wasn’t a matter of concern to him, though, not anymore.

Feeling somewhat proud of himself — albeit, in a pitiful sense — he stood from his desk and looked around the room, his eyes meeting only darkness. Once torn away from the monotony of his work, his mind was finally able to take in the natural creaking and groaning of his home. Such had become so commonplace that his mind began to sort it without issue. That’s when the atmosphere set in, as well.

His face, his arms and fingers, all of his body grew numb in suddenness — the chill of the air had fully settled into him, down to his bones; his breaths became weighted as his body started its attempts to warm itself: also something he had taken to doing. “Winter… this early?” he pondered aloud as he shivered, his teeth chattering.

Almost aimlessly, he wandered about his cabin as he searched for his leather coat: his breaths now noticeable to him. The only guidance present to him was the illumination of that nearly extinguished candle’s flame, the one that sat, previously, upon his desk. The creaking generated from the pressure of each step joined that of the ship’s.

Suddenly, the creaking outside continued on as the groans stopped: for a few moments, at least. Once his fingertips had finally touched upon the cold leather of the article he had calmly scrambled to find, the second noise restarted, as if coincidentally.

As he slipped it over his arms — across his back — his eyes fell upon the page still within the typewriter just a few feet away. His mind submitted to those words: they beat its back, whipped it over and over, keeping it in compliance as they declined and neglected its needs and wants, almost sadistically so. He hoped it would have given him, at the very least, some inspiration for his next paragraph, and that that one would give him the next, and so on. But, that was far and away from being a reality.

It had been too long since he had truly broken free of that blockage he had encountered… ten interminable years of lost time. Life was a cruel mistress: one who allowed him a drip-feed of creativity, though only through the inspiration of his day-to-day activities… that wasn’t remotely close to being enough.

Sorrowed, he grabbed up the candle by its holder, as he ripped the page from the typewriter, and carried them to his bed in the next room over. The furnished, dull wooden floor accepted each of his bare steps gracefully, as had the pages forgotten upon the floor.

Along the way to his bed, that straw and cotton mattress, he mumbled each word to himself; it was only when he sat upon it that the thoughts of how to continue his story came to him: what the next line could be. The flame dwindled further as he searched and scanned over that pulpy sheet in his hand; before it could extinguish itself — at the very last possible moment — he let loose the smallest of puffs over the ember.

Though his room was quite large, it was never occupied, in any capacity, by any but he. To the right of his bed sat his oak dresser, which held several decorative furnishings and adornments atop it that added very little to the overall function of his room: a white doily and a small memorabilia box for scrapped coins.

Beneath his reasonably sized bed lay a rug: one thickly woven, each thread having been chosen and sewn together by the delicate hands of the Mistresses of the Cult of Jan’avaste. It was a fabric that was unique and bright in its appearance; his blanket — soft and warm, even in the dead of frost — had also been graced by their talented and nimble hands. The rest of his room sat quite barren, really: he favored function over form… quality over quantity.

The next morning woke him with its break of light: his alarm being that of the calls of seagulls, rather than the crowing of roosters. In disappointment, he inclined himself to an upright seated position: his dreams, of late, frightened him. They had long proffered no fresh ideas — as was the case for that previous night.

He thought, and he thought, attempting to rectify such an atrocity… and, he nearly made a breakthrough; further through the cracks in the dam of his creativity, he inched. They widened, to allow him but a few partial glimpses at the whole of his story. Harder, he forced his way through, in the hopes to see the bigger picture… but, without notice, that opportunity was dreadfully ripped from his closing fists as his thoughts, instead, returned to those of home: of his childhood.

Born eighteen seventy-nine, in Southampton, England — to John and Marie Clairemont: an illed father, who would work tirelessly, each and every day, to provide food and shelter to his beloved family, arriving home only in the absolute dead of night, blanketed in filth; and a loving, overly caring mother, who would always, without fault, see to her husband’s various needs of comfort.

Then, his mind took to reminding him of the life he yearned to revisit: the life of a doting husband, his intelligent, beautiful, supportive wife by his side, his children, learning and growing with each passing day. It was the year nineteen hundred eleven, a year that had come to pass once he had already well matured.

He had found a true and honest love, one that made them unafraid of the horrors of the world beyond; such plights were of no concern to them. It was such a kind that brought forth three wonderful children: a girl and two boys, aged seven, five, and four, respectively. The girl always dressed herself in a dress (mostly of a single color), and the two boys oft shared clothes between themselves.

Much like his father before him, he, too, began work in the local factory, to provide a future for his family. Yet, unlike his father, he always made sure to have the schedule necessary to spend time with his children: even if this time was almost always the simple act of laying them down beneath their covers: tucking them in and telling them a story.

For them, he had crafted a story that felt all too familiar to him: it was a large, complex fantasy world, from which he was able to pull tales of a myriad of quests and deeds. Sometimes, he would talk of young Zalke, a nomadic boy, lost… in search of a home — in search of a purpose. Other times, he would talk of pirates and knights, kings and queens; elves and dwarves, witches and wizards; even religions and cults. There was little he felt was too adult for their ears.

The rest of the responsibility landed upon his wife Sarah’s shoulders. She was of ambered hair, chestnut eyes, and pale skin; the front few of the bottom row of her teeth were slightly crooked, but still retained their whiteness. When she spoke, her voice was smoothly satisfying… nearly the zenith of euphoria… to Alistair, at the very least. Never could he hear it enough… and that’s what made their long separation all the more unbearable for him.

As best he could, he remembered her voice, and couldn’t help but smile. It was the most sweetest thing he had ever heard: his most sought after treasure. As he chuckled in dejection, and as a tear ran down from his shuttered eyes, his mind moved from those memories to those of his three, precious children. Each of his children were once so very ecstatic at the prospect of playing with him at the end of each of his days.

At first, the two brothers would easily outrun their elder sister, but this never perplexed Alistair. Of course, it wasn’t long before she had learned to outrun them both; after this first happened, each night would begin with her jumping onto his leg in the few moments that succeeded his passing through the door.

As time marched on — in the slogging groove it would sometimes fall into —, he began to slip up more and more. At first, they were able to hear an hour or so of Zalke and his travels, or of the various other complexities of the world. But, before long, that time continuously began to diminish.

Initially, it was only a few minutes: perhaps five, at most. But, as life began to take its toll on him, that precious, precious time spent with his children only lessened from thereon… and, life, it seemed, relished in its evil: like a sadist hell bent on getting every last bit of pleasure it could from its unwitting subject. Unfortunately, the very last story time he had had the time for was a measly, short ten minutes in length.

The thought of his last night with them entered his mind… the memory of their smiling faces, his daughter’s and wife’s brighter than his sons’. He wished it was all a dream, that nothing of the past decades was real: that he had never left them. Yet, he knew it was what it was, and settled to wishing to never leave those memories behind… then, he began to hear a voice.

It was familiar, yet, not from his past. Again and again, it called out to him, managing to take his attention away from his memories: forcing him to mentally beg for the chance to remain as is. Nevertheless, despite his need to keep those most pleasant thoughts around, they began to fall away: much like the sand in an hourglass. Grain by grain, his remembrances began to dissolve — and he was helpless to do anything else but watch as it all melted away. Each face, each word, every single facet of the thoughts and recollections… gone.

“Alistair,” the voice spoke once more, just after the last smiling face had been replaced by the blackness of the bank of his mind. His eyes, then, slowly opened.

The originator of this voice was his apprentice, standing just beyond the door mold with his shoulder against the wall — arms crossed, as well as his legs: his left over the right. “What is it, Tarin?”

“Just something you gotta see.” His dulled white teeth — each having been just slightly crooked — showed themselves to him with every few words spoken. He had dressed himself quite comfortably: cloth pants, shaded a light, muddy brown; leather boots of brown, a tad darker than his pants; a white shirt that sat plumed enough to sit upon his person as if it was a sagging second skin.

This young man was equally as tall, and strong, as he was. His soft, auburn head of hair was of a shade that peeked into the void of coppery sandiness; and, though it was a unique color, it was one that complimented the gentleness of his olive skin, such a tone that had become most notable after the years of travels with Alistair’s crew.

After a slightly-motioned nod, he followed the young man. Down the bare hall, and up the wooden staircase of thirteen steps (unsupported apart from a single beam that ran through their exact middle). The dimness he chose to leave behind allowed for the brightness of the sun afore him to harmlessly assault his eyes.

As he stood statically — vulnerable and exposed to his harasser — blindness ravaged him for a few moments; once his eyesight had been granted back to him, though, he was greeted again by the beautiful scenery he had come to love: the calm, deep blue sea; the workers all tirelessly doing their duties; and, not to mention, the clean deck of his ship: Chandrall, the Sea Maiden.

Each of his men — black and white, tanned and pale, bald or entirely hairy — were dressed in a deeply red outfit; down the right of their tunics, and up the left leg of their pants, ran an off-grey colored set of horizontal stripes; their heads, down or turned away, had been clasped in a vibrantly bright red bandana.

His ship had a personality all its own: an outfit unique to it. It had been crafted to resemble the ghosts of battles past: an entirely white hull — the masts, and the sails, and all but the nuts and bolts that held it all together sat in the white chosen: those two lattermost objects were as black as the evil in men’s souls. Such a look was an overhauled one: a drastic shift from the previous owner’s vision for the vessel.

Genevieve Archibald, a feared, fiery-haired she-pirate — eyepatch and all — had named it: the Trumalia, oddly enough (a name she constantly spouted as to mean “Wrathful Siren”). It was quite unfortunate that she had kept her ship looking as plain as ever, as it hadn’t had the effect she wished it to: in fact, it often invoked little emotion apart from confusion from its intended victims.

Its mass, in its entirety, had been left colorfully untreated: its browns remained the same shade and tone with which it had arrived; its reds had stayed their same, plain crimson; and any wear and tear it had received over the year was left unrepaired. She had hoped and believed this appearance would strike fear into the heart of her opponents.

“Only a crazed Captain would allow their ship to remain in disrepair” she figured her opponents would think (albeit, in a very different string of words). She told her men exactly this, whenever they thought to kindly question her about her methods.

But, to them, it seemed she had no respect for their ship, for her position and power — case in point: there was one treasure hunt wherein she found a cumbersome figure head. It was large, and gaudy — a woman perched upon a rock, in attempts to lure sailors to their deaths. Its only purpose would have been to slow them down, not to mention such an object would have made them stand out like the targets they were.

But this logic was muted to her, just as their reasoning had been: all she wished to hear was, “Yes, Captain.” She couldn’t see past the immediacy of the object: the fact that it looked daring, that it would add an obvious, ominous presence to her prize and glory — a credence to the name she had chosen for the ship.

Under his command, the Chandrall — given to him by Genevieve, once she had grown tired of that way of life — had been kept free of such trophy-like qualities: function over form, as it were, just like his own cabin. Rather, he utilized the naturalness of their ship to best meet his own ideals.

Three holes were punched through the sturdiest section of their ship: its front. Behind these three, the frontward cannons had been placed. In the dead of night, lit by the fires of war or the bright of day, he believed this very formation — a dead man’s crying skull — would invoke the fear they intended: that which Genevieve had failed to.

“What did you see, Tarin?” he asked as they both slowly crept across the deck, his own boots clopping against the hardwood beneath him. He saw nothing… his gaze fixated over that silky sea, its waters nearly as still as ever. It worried him, as of late: their rage having grown more and more serene over the years, as Her Majesty’s reign darkened. “What is it I’m to be looking at, exactly?” There was nothing his eyes could detect as having been of importance.

“There, Sir, off in the distance,” he returned along with a gesture forth. Far off in the distance, he could see the basic shapes of a few rocks.

Even with the help of his apprentice, he was still at a loss, “You point, though I see nothing: rocks, the sky… the sea underneath us.”

“Private?” began Tarin, as he held his hand out, “The sightseer.”

“O-oh,” the man stuttered, “apologies, Sir.”

This “sightseer” — a telescope — exchanged possessions: from the private’s to Tarin’s, and finally to Alistair’s, the lattermost having then extended the item as fully as possible. With its newly acquired state, he was able to adequately peer out to the rock figures afar: to the three sculpted statues, each standing as tall as the titans of myth.

They seemed to have been erected in honor of guardians, of some sort: perhaps even as the safe escorts of passerby ships, guiding them to the safe haven of fascinating treasures beyond. It was their mysteriousness, above all else, that bore countless speculations.

In gentleness, he mumbled, “Why is this important, again? Remind me.”

“Two and one opposites,” the shiphand began, “tall and untested. They shall guide you ever onward, through those waters awaiting: ahead and below. An infinity waiting to behold, of the riches untold; though secreted away, to keep the day. The riddle, Sir.”

“And… you believe this to be our destination?” His words, though quickly spouted, had been steeped in a hope he long thought could never be fulfilled.

“Aye, Sir, I believe we’ve finally found it.”

With a judging of the distance, he optimistically replied, “Only a day away… if I’m to be generous.”

Seemingly hurt by his nonchalance, the shiphand stammered as he was returned the sightseer, “I-I-I thought you would have been more enthused, Sir.”

Already a step-and-a-half away, he smiled, “Lowered expectations, Private.” That dismissed man watched the two closest among them — Alistair and Tarin — walk to the helm of the ship, the former’s each step filled, subtly, with a determination long absent from his strides. “Onward we go!” he commanded, doing his best to keep his simmering excitement contained, even as he grasped the wood of the ship’s wheel.

“You know, Alistair,” Tarin began as he approached, “he isn’t the only one surprised by your lack of enthusiasm.”

“Too many times’ve I been misled… too long’ve I desired such passage,” he told him, lowly, without removing his eyes from that sight off in the distance: they had refused such an allowance.

“I understand,” he nodded.

As his hands slipped from the wheel, Tarin felt it was the time to part for the moment: each leg sternly in routine. And, as he stood there at the helm, his arms still at his sides, his mind returned to the recollections of his family stored within. Each visit to this pool of memories was met with relishment… as well as the ceaselessly tireless wish to be reunited with them. Unfortunately, the only memories he was now able to pull from were of dire times.

A quarter year before his daughter was to turn thirteen, the constant stress present from his employment had skyrocketed. Every morning, at the break of dawn, he would set off to the factory; every night, at the settling of dusk, he would sloth through the door with just enough energy to, regrettably, grab up only one of his children: their daughter, most times.

Thankfully, each of his children loved him just the same… at least, at first. But, with each additional night came yet another missed opportunity; soon enough, a perception took hold. His two sons, once naive and ever optimistic of the world, began to feel that such a showing — that he would choose her over them most nights — was all too indicative of how much their father loved them: far too little. But, who could blame them? It was only natural that they believed he considered them lesser than she.

Seven hundred and fifty-two lifts after that idea had slithered into their minds, Alistair had come home far, far earlier than expected. This time, he walked through the door with his head hung low; as usual, his first three steps gifted him the greeting of a hug from his daughter. Then, he greeted the others with a wait.

His home was small, but adequately spacious: their living room was the largest room in the home, and was immediately available to whomever entered through their front door, should they walk down the very short hallway. Off to the side of the living room, existing alongside the second hallway, sat their only restroom.

To the right — just before the living room’s entrance — sat an adjacent hallway. This led to the staircase for the upper part of the home, wherein each of the bedrooms were located. Across from the second hallway sat the kitchen, poorly tiled and smaller than a shoebox. This was the only portion of the home that had been updated in recent years: as evidenced by the fact that it was the only room that hadn’t been outfitted in wood.

As his hand lay on the top of his daughter’s head, both looking onward at the oft left out siblings, the air itself felt odd. On that day, they had grown tired of pining for their father’s approval… thus, they silently refused to approach him. It was only at the insistence of their mother that they did so. Even then, they moved along begrudgingly.

After he kissed his three children on the cheeks, and his wife on the lips, he sat them all down in their living room. To his right, upon their couch, sat his beloved Sarah, and to his left sat his daughter Amber: named, not so much for her hair, rather, for her eyes that differed from her brothers — Theodore and James. Both, rather than having been seated upon a piece of furniture, had been sat down upon the floor. While the former was the only to have contracted the red hair from his father, the youngest — James — took more after his mother and sister.

The couch, that most of them now sat on, was a bright strawbery red: somewhat weathered, apparent by the darker colored splotches, as well as the bowed sitting cushions. And, as he held his wife’s hand, he explained to them what had happened: each worker had been fired… without any form of severance.

It was fortunate for them that, initially, such misfortune had struck their family the least hardest of all the others. He spoke at length of how everything would be alright, of how it hadn’t fazed him in the slightest: “Everything happens for a reason” he told them. Yet, to Sarah, it was all too obvious that his assurances could not be further from the truth; she could hear — deep beneath the surface of each letter, of each word, of each sentence — that he was all too deeply afraid of such an uncertain future.

She had long been the emotional bedrock of their family, and it had now fallen upon her to take up the physical aspect of that role, as well. And, she knew it’s what she needed to do: to remain unwaveringly committed to him, and to remain level-headed all the while. Thus, with everyday that followed, he would spend an entire workday scrounging for any sense of employment he could find, and she would gift him with her encouragement and love.

Unfortunately, even the most delicate of planning couldn’t have saved them from the unanticipated hurdles along the way, though: not even the most strategic economist could have saved them. Chief among those issues was his lack of employment: day after day, each and every employer around them declined his proposed services. And, before long, their savings had begun to wear thin.

Nevertheless, she opted to retain her unusual positivity, that tenacious optimism that he fell in love with. Even when their dinners began to further and further reflect their dwindling finances, she stayed bright-eyed and ever hopeful, even if the latter had regularly dimmed just a bit. It wasn’t too long after that his mind received that dreaded signal: it seemed an eternity since it happened, the events that laid the foundation for a fear for his children’s welfare.

His mind dug deep into his past, on the third night when their food shortage had become so severe that he and his wife had to, practically, starve themselves, so that their children may be allowed to eat. It was a nightmare that transported him to that awful day in the month following his father’s death, when his mother Marie — that beautiful woman, with dirty blonde hair and porcelain skin — had taken him on a walk to his favorite candy shop.

This day was meant to be one of utmost joy for young Alistair. He was so very young, so very naive… having just recently celebrated his ninth birthday. To him, the world still retained its secretive luster, deathly afraid of spoiling such a kind soul’s innocence. Early in the morning — far earlier than usual — she woke him.

Immediately after he stretched away the exhaustion, she helped him wash in the bathtub, making certain to clean his curly, bright red hair: all before helping him into his finest wool clothes. Hungry, poorly clothed, and tired beyond all reasoning, they left the house before sunup… all of this was of no concern to Alistair: today was a very special day.

As they walked — quickly, further into town —, he could barely contain his excitement, and it showed: that faint sheet of freckles upon his face was lit up. As she helped him along, holding his hand as lovingly tight as possible, he took to skipping as well as he could, given the constraints. Just a bit past sunrise, they arrived at his most favorite shop.

It was a quaint, little, nearly run-down store, owned by an ever friendly elderly man (one who was quite like everyone’s grandfather); in his later years, his voice had sunken to being similar to thick molasses running, slowly, down the road: each word smoothly coated a gravelled throat.

From outside, he could see the owner at his counter, awaiting any potential customers. Its raggedy-wooded appearance drove away many a potential clientele, as had the interior. From the very first step, an eeriness would settle into your bones: it was all too akin to the tales of a pirate’s ship, ones they had heard of in their history books. But, this fact only added to the luster of the shop, to Alistair.

Above, in the cold, unventured corners, cobwebs tangled with darkness; between the beams of the rafters sat one large spider web: on this day, he recalled the image of a black spider making itself at home directly above him, as they entered through the door and his gaze had curiously shifted upward. Below, along the floor they stood upon, a rotting was present, one invisible to all but the termites whom found comfort within.

To the entrance’s right, the counter sat with the man and the container for his money, the glass cases before him to display the goods of the shop for the men and women — the boys and girls — so that they may choose that which they desired. Often while at the cases, Alistair’s glance would veer to his left, whereupon his sight fell a door that held the sole purpose of shutting away all but the mysteriousness which laid behind.

Though this particular store was quite often bare, in terms of product, Alistair had been able to try every bit of candy the old man had received, over the years: large, small, and anywhere in between; sweet, savory, sour, or bitter; chocolate, hard, sticky, chewy, pliable and soft, it didn’t matter to him. He loved candies of any type, of any size: any color and shape.

So, Marie, with a tear in her eye, allowed him the chance to peruse the current selection. She remained back, to watch him debate as to what he should get. Once he began his usual internal argument, she couldn’t help but smile. “Ooo, I should get this one!”, “No, that would be terrible… this one!”, “No, no, no, those are both bad, this should be the one!” But, ultimately, he chose none of those previously considered.

After she paid for his candy, they walked away, as he continued to enjoy the largest lollipop they had had for sale. It was striped in pink, and white, and purple, each swirling in such a way that they co-operated and conflicted with one another, all in a uniquely satisfying manner. Farther and farther he was dragged along that path she had laid out for them earlier that morning, all the while he busied himself with a focus on that sugary snack.

With each additional step, his tongue lapped again at that ridged, almost rainbowy surface. He remained, of that day’s events, just as blissfully unaware as that slowly dissolving treat. The same, however, could not be said for Marie: a sobbing mess. Nonetheless, she had kept herself busy by ensuring she had done as much as she possibly could to coddle him as she led him along to their destination: the city’s orphanage.

This was not a pleasant setting… it was much too dreary a place: a dark red panelling, littered with black, with three too many windows, and shabbily tiled roofing. Yet, despite its outward appearance, it happened to be quite the societal indicator: large, elegantly extravagant, and quite expensive. It’s just a shame the owners had allowed it to fall into such disarray.

While they stood there, beyond the gate, she did so in fear and worry for her child. A few tears lined her eyes, and she felt paralyzed… unable to move, almost unable to stomach the situation. Just before she could find the bravery necessary to move her right foot forward, a single tear had summoned enough courage to break free of the pack, and ran wildly down her cheek. It was without boundaries or governance, until her fingers acted upon it — wiping both it, and its trace, away.

After a few minutes, she crouched to look him in the eye… the sweet words of a whisper leaving her lips, “I’m going to leave you with the Terrence family, honey… I’ll be back soon, alright? J-just wait here for mommy until then.”

It was only after she received his answer — a sheepish nod — that she walked him over the emerald grass, to the door. With a kiss to his forehead, and a pained smile as saccharine as her parting words, she left him to the care of Mrs. Terrence: an elderly woman, who seemed to be as sweet as the candy he held in his hand.

She greeted him with a smile — her wrinkled lips and eyes scrunching to meet her demand. Her grey hair had been tied up into a bun, and he could see the liver spots sprinkled about her pale skin: the inches that hadn’t been covered in her pajama gown and her tan, thickly knit sweater. Her voice was as sweet as an angel: it provided him comfort in a time of bleak uncertainty.

With a grab of the hand, he was led inside, where he waited: just as his mother wished. Morning and night, morning and night, morning and night; for three days, he patiently awaited his mother’s return. Every waking minute of those days was spent peering through the living room window; each passerby who crossed into his sight left it just as swiftly.

The inside of the home, peculiarly enough, seemed both too large and too small. Its halls were narrow, yet its rooms were spacious. The front door placed whomever in a position of choice: to soldier forward, and arrive in the dining room, or to take the staircase to the right, where the three bedrooms and single bathroom awaited.

Once in the dining room, one was placed in yet another predicament of decisiveness. To their left sat the laundry room — piled with clothing of various sorts —,  as well as the living room… though, this room sat more so behind the person in question. Ahead of them, though, sat the best room in the house: the kitchen. Inside sat a two-sided sink, three sections of cupboards, an stove that was entirely disconnected from the counters which sat along the right of the room. Opposite the door sat two windows, and to the left of the entrance sat a door to the backyard. Every room in the home was floored with wood — brazilian cherry —; blue walls, the kind that calmed one from a single longing glance; and white ceilings.

His stomach grumbled too many times, in its hungered pains, while he sat there; even so, he refused to eat anything at all. For fear of ruining his appetite, he ignored his stomach’s best attempts to force him to partake in more of his sweet. It was something he wanted, terribly so, but he staved off those impulses… surely, his mother would appreciate some part of it, he believed.

As he continued to sit there, his chin resting against the top of his hand, his stomach soon quieted down. It, alongside him, patiently watched as the world continued to pass them by: ever hopeful for the next second to be the one in which she made her return. But, sometime after midday of that third, he happened upon the realization that that may not happen… a sense that very well could have eroded away parcels of his childhood innocence: those of everlasting wishes.

On the morning of that fourth day, when everything seemed as low as it ever could be, he looked to the sky. Those disgusting, willowy, fluffed up clouds: their precipitation ready to shower down upon the earth below. An odd rainfall would come to pass, this day: each drop would be cold, while the wind itself would be hot; each drop would carry much more weight than usual, yet would be far too compact for such a weight; most unusual of all, every drop would fall with the utmost perfect rhythm — teetering just on the precipice betwixt too fast and too slow: superfluously stable upon that edge.

It would be days after before he could recall the next event: that awful meeting. Two policemen had come to visit the orphanage, looking explicitly for Alistair. Though he couldn’t remember much from this encounter, he could recall his meeting with them, as well as several small snippets surrounding such. It was all nearly perfectly engraved in his mind. The only fuzzy and crudely-strung-together fractions were those that rebuffed any attempts to be connected: those bits and pieces that surrounded the main event, as it was.

As his mind proceeded through the motions of his next memories — of him walking to the men, specifically — he could feel his nerves snap freeze in fear and sorrow. Even now — even after having remembered those awful events over and over again, countless times throughout the years —, he couldn’t help but to grimace as the conversation replayed itself, once again.

His exit of the living room placed him in the dining room, wherein those men awaited. It was immediately from there that one of the men cautiously approached him; this was a pale, middle-aged man who looked far too exhausted for his own good. Even the hand he extended to the young man exhibited as much: it was still, yet active just enough to give Alistair heedance.  Not long after, young Alistair found himself upon a chair at the end of the table, nearest to the laundry: afore him sat a cold glass of milk.

Without missing a beat, the man slipped into the chair behind him, the one to Alistair’s right. “Alistair,” he began as the young boy took a small sip of the milk before him, “can… might I call you Al?” Naturally, he could only nod, partially out of confusion; he began again, though he struggled to find the right words, “Well, Al… there’s been an… um…” He paused to keep himself from tearing up as he looked down upon this young, naive boy; it was he, like all other children, who most certainly should have been spared such an atrocity by life and God, themselves.

“There’s been an accident…” his slightly more prepared partner began, as he stepped in to assist. He was fresh-faced, and of black descent, though it was evident he was no stranger to the horrors life provided.

“An accident?” The words had come out with a bit of issue, as if it was the first time he had ever heard the word.

“Yeah,” the first man responded, his voice more considerate than usual: his tone far more somber. “It has to do with your mother, Marie.”

As both of his hands grasped the tall glass, he asked the men around him, “My mommy?” He now took a gulp of the milk, it now slightly warmer: unnoticeably so.

Softly, he told him, “Yeah… she… she’s not go— you…” He choked on his words, to find the right ones to tell him without causing the young boy distress, of any fashion.

Behind the boy, Mrs. Terrence’s jaw dropped slowly as her hand moved over her gaped mouth. His partner, meanwhile, continued in his ever helpful manner, “You’re going to have to stay here a bit longer… if you’d be so kind as to accommodate him, Mrs. Terrence.”

“Of course,” she immediately snapped back, in an understanding, humble manner… yet, it seemed as if she hoped to defend herself from nonexistent accusations.

He wiped away the moustache the dairy had produced, “How much longer?”

“We aren’t quite sure about that, Al… just, please know that we’re so, so sorry this has happened.”

The understanding he held was about as great as any child his age could hope to have. The adults all sat in silence as he finished his glass of milk, and continued to do so during his move to the next room. It was half to mourn the dead, as well as to give him the allowance — the distance — necessary to cope, if need be. It was only with the knowledge of his permanent residence there, in her home, that he was finally able to begin to warm up to the dozen of other children.

As he recalled first telling his name to a small group of the other children, as he thought on that window sitting in the corner of his eye — in the periphery of his mind — he was called, “Captain.” But, his mind refused to let him avoid the last few crude memories from that time: the arrival of two men from the local factory, intent on doing their bidding.

“Captain!” he was called, again. But, still, his mind moved forward with its desired slideshow. These two men — dressed in white, with their short hair tucked into their hats — were allowed to select who they desired from the line of children, as if they had been a buffet line.

He was called again, this time with much more urgency, “Captain!” His mind rushed, swiftly, back to reality and, through the tears, he saw what lay ahead: a far larger ship, one lying in wait. It was a simply normal ship: unmodified, unwounded… perfectly, symmetrically, normal.

“Everyone to their stations,” calmly, he stated to the shiphand to his right.

“Stations!” the man parroted in his british-like accent.

The shiphand who still possessed the sightseer approached him as quick as his hardened, splinter-ridden bare feet would allow. With each step, his soles smacked against the wood that direly needed replacing; without a word, he held forth the telescope, its metallic shaft fully extended. In curiosity, he stared at the telescope as he reached out to it.

As his left hand grasped its end, with reluctant caution, he asked, “What’s this?” in the same manner with which he had approached it. Without a word, he knew: the simple look from his shiphand was evidence enough. In frustrated disbelief, he fully took it.

He dreaded the familiar sight of that man that had been following them for so long… yet, there he was, atop their new foe’s largest mast: his red, tattered scarf whipping about in the winds accompanying the coming storm. Its red was as pallid as the sickly grey behind it, his pants nearly as black as the sky beyond.

His torso was bare and scarred terribly from each of their four previous encounters: the last of which having been just three years prior. The last features of note was his long, silvery hair that rested upon his head, as well as his shimmering red eyes… oddly enough, his neon-like grey skin was quite common among the Elvish.

“Why?”

“What do we do, Sir?” the man asked, as he was returned the sightseer.

Though he was certainly concerned for their wellbeing, Alistair gifted him an answer that contained no words… only one that held a slight gesture: a simple nod. Having been forced to accept such an response, he reluctantly returned to his post: the manning of the frontward cannons.

“Alistair…” Tarin, at his left, began, his words gluttoned with a sense of scolding.

“I know, Tarin,” he sighed as he gripped the wood of the wheel far mightier than recent memory could provide; with his determination and fury, his fingers turned pale, his knuckles cracked like the thunder now above.

Those immediately around him could hear his taut skin wring against the cold, increasingly wet wood as he looked onward, his sight unbroken. Without warning, he threw the wheel as powerfully as he could to the right. The ship’s entire being heaved harder and heavier than it had ever before as it turned considerably faster than necessary. Within a matter of moments, their vessel had become fully horizontal… then, the directive was issued.

“FIRE,” he shouted as loud as the crack of the bolt that tore through the sky.

Each man lit the match of the cannon to which they had been assigned, loosing the iron projectiles they contained within. Those twenty cannonballs soared through the air, crushing the drops of rain that were so unfortunate as to have crossed their paths. Sadly, even as the opposing ship had slowed to a halt, only seven had made their target, with the other thirteen being lost to the raging depths below.

Without discouragement, the men all took to reloading the cannons. Naturally, they followed the necessary protocols: the spinning of the wad-screw; the cleaning of their insides with the wetted utensil; both, at last, proceeded by the insertion of the powder bag, the cannonball, and, finally, the coil of rope at the end. Even with all of that having been done as swift as they could muster, they had just missed their opportunity: their opposition had fallen into position, so that they may take the shots they desired.

From the distance they sat at, this ship looked to be about as average as ever… perhaps even smaller than theirs; yet, the closer they drew to each other, it was all too apparent that they had been outmatched. Those opposed them must have been twice their ship’s mass — at the very least.

They could see but a glimpse of the man above — a sight that grew more defined the more they marched onward —… a glimpse that robbed them of his visage: arms crossed, his eyes filled with sadness; the entirety of his stature was draped in a sorrowful vindication: one of reluctance.

The enemy’s Captain shouted the same as theirs, “Fire!”. His command found its fuel in his rage: where it had garnered its strength. Thirty projectiles — half of the ship’s portside cannons, along with ten smaller bulleted ones — soared toward them, and brought forth their Captain’s determined fury. Two-thirds of that which had been fired made contact, riddling their ship’s portside hull.

It was now, once more, their turn, and they immediately took their chance: the projectiles were finally loosed upon the wild. This time around, thankfully, their accuracy was substantially better. Yet, their success was just as limited as their luck: despite their attacks, the opposing vessel had only just begun to show the signs of wear: a few splinters here and there, a chunk or two missing from a few planks from around the windows through which the cannons peered.

In a quickness like no else, the men took to busying themselves with the reloading of the cannons. The curious ponderance of why they had yet to receive a second round of firing crossed Alistair’s mind, quite brazenly.

The storm surrounding them had become strengthened: now influxed, the drops alike bullets to their cold, hardened skin; beyond that, they found themselves met with an impenetrable darkness that had come, seemingly, out of nowhere. Through this torrential storm, and the other occurrences that plagued their fortunes, not one man aboard the Chandrall could see past the bow of their own ship. But, there was hope.

With a few sparse lightning bolts that shattered off in the distance, they had been provided a bit of assistance. Every additional bolt cast from above allowed the watcher high above — he, in the crow’s nest — a few illuminating seconds to frantically peer across the horizon ahead; each and every sliver of time was utilized to its maximum in his desperate search for the ship abroad. they used each and every sliver of time to search desperately for the ship abroad.

After a few dreadful minutes, the sky was split by the unbridled fury of that hoped-for bolt — tearing across its blackness in agonizing slowness: as if it were a zipper. The man trapped in the perch high above was finally able to see that awful silhouette: it sat, waiting, one hundred and fifty feet away.

“Portsi—” began the man, a split moment before a chain severed, cleanly, through the mast he stood upon. In a scream, he was cast to the sea below, wherein he was warmly embraced by the Sea Mother, Dourai’in: the Goddess of the Seas. Much to her displeasure and joy, he had finally been returned to her, the mother of all seafarers: of pirates and sailors, alike.

A second chain soon followed, through the same mast. It was fortunate that, for the moment, their two sails remained wholly intact. In a reflexive swiftness, Alistair shoved the wheel as mightily as he could in the opposite direction; though the ship jerked and swerved mightily, the men did their best to remain standing.

As his men made their attempts to fire the projectiles they had prepared, lightning continued its barrage on the seas around them. This round was much less accurate than their first firing: only two had shattered into their target; an additional ball almost missed its mark entirely… and several of the men atop the deck sorely wished it had.

“Fire!” the man afar shouted, again: only, this time the order had been issued to the men manning the cannons of their starboard side.

Several more holes now detrimentally riddled their ship, yet they were able to remain just barely operational; water began to flood the bottom of their vessel: a fact that hindered their ability to strategize. Half of his men began to plug up all of the holes, while the other half continued on, as if nothing was the matter.

“FIRE,” Alistair, again, issued as he did his best to steer the ship, to “keep her steady”, as it were.

Ten were loaded, yet only seven fired off. In three of the cannons, a caking of soot on the insides — as a result of long term neglect — produced a series of misfirings. First, the ship was wracked by the shock of the explosion… the screams of the few hapless men rattled their souls: those that huddled around those weapons of war. Then, a raging fire broke out: one that dodged the swift extinguish of the heavy downpour.

Their misfortune was far from over… as each of the seven projectiles had missed entirely. Even with complication after complication, Alistair hadn’t lost sight of hope. With the safety of his crew sternly in the fore of his mind, he could only see two options before him… toward their opponent — that ominous craft currently positioning itself — or to turn tail and run. Without much thought, he felt inclined to take the latter, as no quest in life could ever be worth the lives of his own friends.

As the sheep began to turn away, one of the shiphands alerted him of another possibility. “Captain,” he shouted, “storm ahead!”

“What about it?” he shouted in response.

“It could help us evade their chase, Alistair,” Tarin calmly told him.

“It’s too dangerous!” he shouted back to the shiphand.

“Captain?” the man returned, and waited for his response. With such, he continued, “With all due respect, I think that’s fucking ridiculous.”

“You’re sure you want to risk it?”

“Aye, Sir,” he said without hesitation.

“And what say you all? Shall we face the storm?” he asked, smiling: in a rousing shout.

Each of his men all answered the same as his apprentice had, and in the same jubilative,  raucous roar,  “Aye, Sir!”

Immediately, he threw the wheel in the direction of the storm, all hands aboard praying to the Sea Mother for their swift travels. The Queensguard Captain, aboard the opposing ship across the battlefield, simply smirked as he watched the ship break free from its predictive strategy; he was genuinely shocked: surprised, even.

This tall man was clad in a sheet of fair, porcelain skin, as well as a dark green royal shipman’s outfit: one that sat upon him entirely smooth — no wrinkles, no imperfections. He was a posh individual, having only known a uniquely satisfactory livelihood: having long since earned the attention and respect of the Queen herself. His powdery white hair misguided the expectations of any onlookers, pertaining to his age: a misconception that his green eyes instantly rectified, as did the youth found in his visage and voice.

As they drew further away from the men, in seeming fear, he stood still as his own men went to work in preparation for their next firing. He watched them run, “Like the feeble dogs they are,” he thought to himself.

Each of these lightning bolts had come from Jaarimn — the God of the Skies — as he vainfully attempted to send his love to Dourai’in; as with every stormy night, he had hoped to finally reconnect with her after their long separation. Every successive bolt allowed them to see the fleeing ship rudder farther away. “Captain,” one of his shipmates began, — a prisoner, dressed in their entirely white prison garb. “What do we do?”

He scoffed, “What use is there to chasing such a man?”

From above, a voice was cast forth — from behind the ship’s wheel — “I’ll do to remind you, Captain, he is a wanted man, by Her Majesty’s orders.” The man who had spoken was his most trusted shipmate.

“Let—”

“You don’t want to upset Her, do you?”

In the same irritation that had been forced upon him by his years-long manhunt — that he wished, so very much, would end this night — he walked forward just enough to allow him sight of the man who had addressed him. “Let his vessel rip itself apart in the storm they so feverishly chase; let them all reunite with their… mythical sea mother,” he proclaimed as he turned on the heel of his exquisite boot.

“She wants him killed by our means,” he hesitantly barked back.

He smirked, “What’s the harm in a little embellishment?”

With their exchange having finished, he began for the doors now ahead of him, fully intent on retiring to his cabin for the night: to listen to the drops of rain shatter themselves willingly against the deck that would soon be above him. His determined, relaxed, steps were able to be heard as clear as the thunder around, but it was only as he reached for the knobs of the doors to the below of the ship that the man above called out to him, “Captain.”

With a twist of the neck, a spin of the foot, he looked above. “Yes, Aeris?”

“I do believe it is imperative we not allow them any larger a distance.”

“And, what’s in it for me to risk my men’s lives? One understandable reason.”

“The greater good, naturally! I require this of you.”

With a single sigh, and the unnoticeable rolling of his eyes, he let loose a nod: a gesture for his men to follow the mercenary Aeris’ orders. Yet, the ship did not begin forward… they simply rotated as needed. With but a second passing, a third, final, chain shot was loosed upon the ship on the run. It soared through the air, across that great distance — entirely unaffected by the harshest winds in too long a time.

But, before he could disappear as he so desired, the shiphand now immediately to his right asked, all too nervously (as if with a frog in his throat), “What should we do a-after?”

“Once they’re immobile, I expect their ship destroyed. Should there be any survivors, I expect them drawn and quartered.” He paused to glance over his left shoulder, at the deck behind him: now that the men had calmed and stilled themselves, he saw it as the free and open space it was. “The deck should suffice,” he said with a smirk, his sight returning to the man.

Just before the mast of the ill-fated Chandrall fell — with all the violence they braced for — the doors closed behind the Captain. With the pirates now stranded, the opposing ship — the Seafarer — restarted their chase… their hunt. There was a lack of intent of taking prisoners in the crew’s minds — but, that isn’t to say such an absence was present in their hearts.

They may have been prisoners — convicted murderers, thieves, and the like — but it seemed they may have been more human than their Captain… he who seemed to have lacked the depth of human conscience — a complexity such as empathy; they may have been more human than even their Queen. But, that is a story for another time.

With their doom assuredly rushing to meet them, the only one amongst them to panic, oddly enough, was Alistair. It was his retention of the belief that their fortune had started to wane that sent him into a frenzy as he incessantly barked orders at them.

“Captain,” began one crewmember: invisible to his eyes amidst the intense darkness of the night, the heat of the moment.

“Tristan, Johnson, Brett, help those bel—”

The same man repeated himself, “Captain,” albeit, much more sternly.

It was now that he could see the reality before him, as the fires roared and the lightning’s fury quickened: his men were refusing his orders. “What is it, Balthazar?”

“It’s time for you to abandon ship.”

“A Captain’s never to do such a thing,” he spoke, lowly: his words woefully draped in the tattered hope he once held whole.

“We require it, Sir,” Tristan statically told him, with an inched smirk and a tear in his eye.

Alistair made way to attempt to persuade his crew to flee with him… but, before he could, Tarin grasped his right shoulder and tightened his fingers’ hold just enough to garner his attention.

“Can you hear it, Al?” he asked as the crew silenced themselves and only the atmosphere could be acknowledged. Amidst the roaring flames, and the miscellaneousness of the storm, a faint sorrowful moan could be heard all too well. As the men came to increasingly accept their fate, the moan grew deeper and more horrid. Yet, Alistair only heard the flame’s speech, and the applause of the storm.

“...Hear what, Tarin?”

He smiled, “Precisely, Sir… Mother calls to them. It remains silent for your ears, and yours alone, because you were never meant to drown this day, Alistair.

“I can’t just lea—”

Balthazar shoved his collected manuscript against his chest, each page having been safely secured in the leather bag that had been gifted to him by his family. “Yes, you damn well can.”

Shock and dismay coagulated on his face as he languidly grasped at the perfectly sealed briefcase. As it sat in his hands, he looked to it with a reluctant, passing interest. His eyes were drawn, instantly, to the metal clasp… to a series of indentations he oft felt when the dark of night had grown long. Yet again, Alistair tried to convince his men otherwise — to perceive the Sea Mother’s cries as, perhaps, groans of hope… that they wouldn’t perish that night — even as they persisted in their resolution. Each of the shiphands available above surrounded the two men, and moved them near to the back of the ship: against one of the edges.

Tarin, having also heard her call, looked at his brethren in bewilderment. “Wha—”

With no exit, save the one that lay behind them, Balthazar spoke. “We can’t let either of you die here.”

Though they were saddened, in his heart and mind, he understood. “You’re… you’re all sure?” Alistair questioned.

“Of course!” they all, essentially, answered.

With that, and after a spat of hesitation, they leapt from the back of the ship, plunging into the blackish waters below. They had been far colder, far harsher, than they had anticipated; the moment they broke the surface, the water swallowed them whole, without a smidge of remorse: it bit and it gnawed at their skin, it hungrily pried for their bones. These two men would not face the being of Death on this night: Dourai’in’s love assured them that much.

More than one hundred feet away, that disgustingly larger ship halted its breakneck pace as it began its final rotation, toward its starboard side. The men aboard that wooden vehicle felt their stomach drop as the surface beneath their feet shifted in its purpose. They were forced to watch those aboard the Chandrall stared at death, without a thing to do but accept it… and that they did.

The pirates joined together, to hold hands as they harmoniously sang a song befitting of their journey together. It began somberly, as you would expect: a song meant to soothe the soul before their passing. Yet, before long, they turned their song of sorrow to a song of a new tomorrow, even with the knowledge that such would never come to pass: they laughed in the face of their own demise.

Amidst the final chorus, the hollowness of that final “Fire” rang out: more unsettling than ever. As that regrettable shout quieted — as it faded out of existence — the cannons each roared: their death unstoppable. Some fired off in a uniform manner, others lagged behind… but, sure enough, each iron projectile tore apart the ship, as if it were tissue paper. The crew of the Seafarer couldn’t bear to witness the horror as the gunpowder reserves held within were ignited. There was no hope left for any of the crew of the Chandrall.

There were men aboard that doomed vessel who had been birthed with the necessary fortune to perish in the explosions that wracked their home; their shouts of torture were paltry compared to the screams of agony those of less fortune had let out; these men found the sour embrace of Death beneath the falling masts. There were only a few who had been allowed to find such an end in the waters that had lovingly, warmly, greeted them.

Those looking on at such… travesty found themselves forever changed: sick to their stomachs every morn from then forth. But, they kept watching… unable to turn away from their crime of Fratricide. They knew not why they were forced to watch their brethren become nothing but bloats or ash — perhaps it was by will of nature, the only punishment the Goddess of Creation saw fit to assign, or the scolding from their Mother.

They witnessed the ship’s stockpiles explode in a quick succession… the shock of each rippled through the water; the tiniest of molecules found themselves torn apart in their wild pursuit of the two men who had been implored to abandon their friends. Within just a fraction of a second, they had been found… and thrust into unconsciousness, without remorse, by their aggressors.

Alike a child’s tantrum — his tireless feet stomping against the floor in show of his anger — the storm raged above them as their crew’s wrenching, harrowing cries fell on their now-deafened ears. As that all transpired — largely above them —, Tarin began to dream of a deep blackness: a light eternal, shining ever onward: unreachable and blinding..

Alistair’s dreams consisted of the memories that still remained: those that most pained him. These last few were of his children, now in their early teens. Their savings had dwindled to nothingness, even though he and his wife had begun to starve themselves for the sake of their younglings. It was a time in which depression had settled itself confidently within his mind… it had cozied itself within that organ and refused to leave: its approach having been signalled by his failures.

Initially, she was able to assuage his mind: to coerce it through caring persuasion into ignorance of the potentiality of such a bleak circumstance. Eventually, those thoughts had eroded his mind’s capabilities. The idea that his three young children could be robbed of a future of any kind — a chance to fulfill their purpose on this earth — could not escape him. This, essentially, forced the depression into his lap.

The last morning he could recall began with him awaking in a cold, sticky sweat. His chest hurt as he huffed with the loss of breath, having just relived his childhood, yet again; his heart strained for a rhythm as his lungs refused to allow him the exhalations he required: in the hope to find just a bit more oxygen before, finally, allowing him that pleasure.

Their bedroom — his and Sarah’s — was just large enough to allow them room for a few pieces of furniture, with little room for much else. As they entered the room, from the door of pine at the bottom left corner of the room, they were greeted by the claustrophobic area; their just-large-enough bed sat flush against the top, white wall, with two nightstands of birchwood sitting on either side. Beneath that bed sat a cheaply made rug, and just beyond that fabric’s reaches sat an antique desk, one gifted to them by her father: made of maple and cherry. Just beneath the desk sat a weathered chair, hardly used: of sandalwood.

He wheezed and his body shook gently (much more like vibrations than convulsions). Both, in tandem, was enough to stir Sarah from her slumber. She, briefly, moved with grogginess: her body still required the adequate time to fully wake. Once she had come to, once she realized what was happening, she quite literally jumped to the occasion. Both were dressed in their cotton pyjamas, of baby blue: he without a shirt, her in a robe.

In as frantic a manner as possible, she slid to his side and began to aid him as best she could: she held him close and comforted him. It wasn’t much, in the way of physically aiding him, but, the fact that she was there to calm him allowed her to help him mentally, at least. For the next half-hour, they sat exactly like that until his symptoms had begun to gradually diminish. She finally parted from their closeness once the only thing he felt was an overt exhaustion.

“Are you feeling alright, love?” she asked, hopefully optimistic, as he sat still, his back and chest shaking with each new breath.

Though he wished to respond to her, the exhaustion prevented him from doing so. All he could do was nod in a delicate manner: almost as if his neck was made of brittle bone. With a tearful smile, she placed his head upon her shoulder before she placed her own atop his: her right hand gingerly grazing his overgrown, fiery beard.

For a few minutes, they sat there, exactly as they were: statically, her warmth embracing his. Without a word, she helped him lie back down, to help ease the stress on his body. Moments later, once comfort had finally returned to him, she placed herself behind him; her arm dangled over his torso, to hold him close.

“Thank you, Sarah… for all of this,” he told her, weakly, as his body allowed him the breath necessary to speak.

Her delicate hand began to play with his hair, “It’s what I’m here for, Ali; I promised to love and care for you… to tend to your wounds.”

Once he felt strong enough — after her long, slender fingers had had a few moments to course themselves through his thick, red hair — he moved his hand to embrace hers. As the warmth exuding from his touch — that of love and intimacy — seeped into hers, it forced a smile from her, as well as a sigh. Slowly, and with a bit of struggle, he brought her hand to his lips. Quickly, before the last of his strength had been able to leave him, he planted a few kisses along the ridge and top of her hand.

“It’s still imperative, I feel, to show my gratitude,” he told her as a redness flooded her cheeks.

“Alistair…” she said, incredulously, “how many times’ve I told you? I love you… you don’t need to make up for anything.”

“I do… I really do.” His hand gripped hers tighter, now; in his touch, she now felt desperation and worry.

“What brought this on?” she asked, in a sullen manner, as her fingers raised goosebumps for his lips to touch.

“My dreams…”

She pulled him closer, so that his head lay on her breast: her fingers once again beginning their slow marathon through his hair. “I’ll never leave you, Ali,” she asked, as soft as her pillowed breasts.

“I know,” he, almost mutely, told her, “I’m… I can’t stomach the thought of n—”

“Shhh,” her voice gently soothed, “we’ll pull through… just as God intends. He always has a plan, honey.”

“If he were as merciful as we’ve been taught to believe, I doubt this would be part of any plan of his: this suffering.”

“What if this is to strengthen our resolve?”

He sighed, depressively, “Regardless of the possibility of some sort of a divine plan, we need to come up with one of our own. Because, what matters, right now, is what happens to us: to our children.”

“I know,” she painfully relented. “ And, you’re sure you’ve exhausted all options?”

“Every single one.”

Her next words were ones that she considered greatly, “Do you remember the stories you used to tell the children?”

“Of course.”

“Why not try your hand at that?”

“Writing?” he asked aloud, in thought.

“You could very well become a novelist: certainly you’ve the imagination.”

“We can’t afford that…”

In a swiftness he’d rarely seen from her, she parted from his side with a smile, disappearing entirely from the room. A few minutes later, she returned, a heavy typewriter in hand. It was one of the better models of typewriters, and was colored a dingy bronze-ish black: the keys moreso the last color than any of the former.“I told you: God has a plan.”

He sat up, “What is this?”

“It was my father’s,” she started as she walked it to the desk just beyond the foot of their bed. “He swore a curse on the thing, once he found boredom in the tasks of an author… then, it never saw the magic of work again..”

“And, he just… left it for you?” asked he, confounded as she placed it on their bedroom desk.

“Mhmm,” she nodded, “And, with this, you can begin work on your masterpiece.”

The final thing he remembered — the last that his mind could allow — was him and Sarah standing afore the desk: its wooden chair pushed in, her hand rubbing his naked back as the most gentle rays of the early morning’s sun illuminated that which gave them the hope for the future. Its keys shone to him unlike anything ever had before as thoughts of his storied world, fantastical and mighty in nature, trickled in. Those thoughts, as he would come to know, were of the life he was to live.

The images dissolved from his memory, much like sand atop a desert hill: each fraction having been equivalent to a grain of sand; each second — a single gust of wind. With every passing, one gust would take just a few grains. Time forced him to watch those precious sentimentalities wash away, until all that remained of the dream was a blackness that he could never shake. “Everything’s going to be fine, Ali…”

Next Chapter: The Long Road Ahead