Difference between revisions of "Logs:Promises Made and Kept"

Waves pound the rocky coastline night and day along the edges of this
  small cove, just a short walk from the main hold. Standing watch, the tall
  column of the lighthouse stretches high into the sky above the beach its  
  rosy stones sparkling faintly when the sun's rays catch just right. The   
  beach stretches as far as the eye can see, eternally washed by the salty  
  sea as it relentlessly carves pockets and crags out of the scattered      
  boulders and spiny ridges of Reaches' shores.                             
  
  The snowfall is light and intermittent throughout the day until it tapers
  off completely into a frigid night. The ground is damp, though very little
  sticks.

It's a terrible day for being out and about, with the snow, and thunder and lighting looming large in the sky for most of the day. No work has proceeded on the skeleton frame of High Reaches Hold's next ship, the shadow of it looming over the cove. There are, however, certain rituals to be observed, and thus a fur-cloaked Devaki is down by the sea's edge come sunset, watching the light start to drain from an already murky sky while snow falls around. In his hands is a little boat made of twigs, and in the little boat are stuffed small items, food and a couple of trinkets, waiting for that point at which the sun sinks below the horizon, even if he can't see it.

How many turns has it been, now? Enough that Rilka is no longer a child; no longer a teenager, no longer a young adult. She's wrapped her feet in rags rather than give in to shoes, even in this weather, and still walks without a coat quite as if she fails to feel the chill of the air. There is a dance to her step, though the music is all her own-- or conjured, perhaps, from the sea she serves. "It is time," she tells Devaki, stepping up alongside him on silent feet. "The sea waits for you. It yearns."

He's used to her silent appearance, and rather than startle, her voice makes Devaki smile at her mere presence. After a moment of pause, he adds a mark piece into the boat, taking a step forward into the shallows, swirling up around his boots. Turns of living in the Hold, now, has softened him, his coat and boots a contrast to her state. He crouches, lowering the boat into the water, waiting for the tide to rush out and... lets it go, stepping back to Rilka's side. "I feel like... I've been remiss. That I've lost my way. That I've become too much like... them."

"Yes," says Rilka, without artifice. Yes, he has been remiss. Yes, he has lost his way. And yes, yes, he has become so much like them. And yet, there's no judgement in her voice, nor even something so simple as sorrow; it is, in the end, merely a statement of fact. "The sea sees that. It knows you better than you know yourself, Devaki. You send out your ships; you use it." A beat. "You should bring your daughter, next time. It is time. The sea will have her." She doesn't specify which one; clearly, she expects this to be understood.

The Exile Lord exhales a long, slow breath, letting shoulders, tense from Turns of mental ministrations, release. He accepts Rilka's words, just as he accepts her judgement. It's understood. She of the beseeching eyes. "I will," Devaki murmurs fervently, eyes still on the tiny boat, slowly making its way out to the darkened horizon.

Rilka accepts this without comment, her own eyes seeking out that tiny boat, watching it. "The sea will have you too," she warns. "I have seen the way it boils; the way it reaches. Serve it, Devaki. Remember where you came from; what brought you here. The omens are grave." She shivers, a gesture that seems less to do with the temperature of the air so much as the weight of that inner life of hers.

Devaki's frowning now, visibly uneasy at her words. "I'll go out to the Islands, after Issedi's Turnday celebrations are past. Vinien and Sealene will come." It would be his eldest girl's first time, but he sounds like he's anticipating rather than anxious about it. Her shiver makes him turn, body facing her rather than the sea. His hand brushes at her hair, leaning close. His, "What can we do?" is barely audible above the soundtrack of the ocean, the crash of the waves.

Instead of answering, or acknowledging that hand upon her hair, or Devaki's general proximity, Rilka steps away: into the freezing shallows, one foot after another until the waves lap around her ankles and reach higher, towards the length of her skirt. Finally she turns, shaking her head in answer. "The portents are bad," she says, sounding surprisingly solid about it; not airy, not lost. "I can't see. You must set it right. Prove your loyalty. Will you sacrifice, Devaki? Will you acknowledge? I cannot see any other way." It bothers her; anxious, those blue-grey eyes fill with tears. "Promise me you will."

Devaki stares at her for a long moment, watching her as she steps into the water, watching her like he's caught in her stare, breath held. Silently, the High Reaches Lord shrugs out of that thick, furred coat. With deliberate gestures, he pulls off the first boot, then the second. The air is chilled; no worse, perhaps, than some of their winters on the Island, but he's been five Turns as a Lord, and they've been eleven turns on the mainland. He's soft, and it shows in the wince as he steps into the freezing waters, in the taut, strained lines of his face as the sea swirls around him, welcoming and fighting him in measures, until he reaches Rilka's side. His voice, again, is soft, but somehow easily audible over the swirling of the sea around them. "I will. I always will. For our people." It's a measure long stated, but one always adhered to. For their people.

Rilka's expression is grave as she waits for the lord to join her, her thin shoulders quivering with anxiety. "For our people," she repeats, sonorous and sing-song. "The sea will protect us for always. It is known. It is known." That's less sing-song; there's an edge of hysteria, there, those eyes wider than ever; full of fear. "I can't see them. I can't see. She has chosen you, but she won't tell, and something terrible-- it has to be enough. This has to be enough." She reaches now, grabbing for Devaki's hand to squeeze it with everything she has. "You've promised."

When her tone shifts, when he hears the fear, Devaki's breath catches, catches and holds, like he daren't interrupt her even with a breath, or his shivering reaction to the wintry sea. He's quick to take her hand, fingers lacing with hers; his is warm, compared to the chill of the sea, steady, despite the same, as his breath finally releases, the cold night air seeping into his lunges as he takes in another. "I've promised," he says, reassuring. "It will be enough. Come, Rilka. The offering has been made," the boat no longer visible, "Let us go inside."

Rilka shakes her head: no, no, no, no, no. For a moment, it's as though she's liable to yank her hand away and-- what, turn into a fish and swim away? Instead she stops, breathes, her eyes closing against the cold and against the tears that still threaten to fall. "You've promised," she repeats, voice just short of a keen. It's all she is; another moment more, and the fight abandons her. Her shoulders shake, her eyes continue to tear, but she's docile and quiet; easier to draw out of the water and back towards the hold than most children, certainly. "The sea has claimed you for her own, for always," is what she says, back on land. "And your children and their children, forever more. Never forget."

Devaki's hand slips around Rilka's waist, guiding her, not so much fighting the sea as moving whenever it propels them towards the land. Although he stops to collect his coat and shoes, he doesn't put them back on. Soft, indeed, and there's a hardening of the Islander's jaw, as bare feet pick across the rocky path leading back towards the Hold, keeping pace with his fellow Blood, his fellow Islander. "I won't forget," he says, voice firm, despite the chill. They might enter the warmth of the Hold, but the touch of the sea lingers long after they've done so.