Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 3: For the Sustenance of Charon
Title: For the Sustenance of Charon, Chapter 3 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,000
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
The Keeper skipped breakfast and forewent the usual post-storm inspection of the lighthouse. He dressed hastily before descending to the basement mere minutes after he spotted the debris.
He reached for the door handle, and his heart raced as his breath cut short. He staggered back, cursing quietly, only to discover that backing up calmed his fluttering heart.
"Bloody hell."
He tried bullying himself, but he knew it was no use. He hadn't seen or spoken with another living soul since the day he set foot on Stagrock, and there was a reason.
As a young man, Killian had served in the navy, and there was a time when he believed he'd spend the rest of his life on the open seas. Yet those memories had long ago faded into indistinct stories, and he sometimes wondered if he had ever lived out in the world among people.
Now, he could scarcely approach a place that might contain someone without his body betraying him.
Come on, Killian, you old fool.
There could be someone who required aid that only he could provide, yet the thought did not move him. His fear was stronger than his will.
That was what cowardice was, wasn't it?
All things considered, it was far more likely that he would discover bodies than an injured survivor. The storm had been terrible and lasted until the dawn, and the debris he saw were all from a small vessel. Anyone traveling in something like that in such weather wouldn't live to tell the tale.
His entire body relaxed, and though it disgusted him, he indulged the thought. The Keeper would do his duty, discover any bodies, and inform the Dockmaster so that they could receive a proper burial.
His breathing returned to normal.
He carried his vessel out, oars and all, meticulously placing it in the sea before taking a moment to survey the effects of the tempest. Nothing was afloat nearby. He pushed off from Stagrock and began his search, gradually increasing the area he circled, but he spotted nothing but jetsam.
There was nothing amiss, so he ventured to Cellar Island and secured the boat to its mooring at the beach. That was when he saw the bloody footprints, which led in the direction of the cellar.
He didn't give himself a chance to think on it - for thinking might immobilize him - but instead barreled forward in a foolhardy rush. There was only one place they could lead, and sure enough, he found himself outside the familiar door. The lock had been smashed open, yet the door remained shut. Whoever did this was no pirate here to divest him of his goods; no, someone had sought shelter, tying the door closed from inside when the lock could no longer hold it shut against the wind. That was the only explanation for why it wasn't ajar or shifting with the breeze.
Someone was inside the cellar.
As he knew it would, the realization sent a wave of numbness over him, freezing him in the kind of stillness that took hours from which to recover. The tracks suggested one person, but he knew precious little about tracking on land. There could be one, or two, or some dozen lodged within.
He suddenly pictured an entire crew of sailors crammed into his supply basement, ready to spread onto Stagrock and press him for shelter till some far away king finally sent ships to bring them home. His mind went blank, and he felt faint.
The blood, the blood, remember the blood, you fool, he chastised himself.
One person or one hundred, it mattered not. Someone had been injured, and it was his duty to see that that individual survived.
The Keeper stood rooted to the spot outside the cellar, a figure rigid as stone, revealing nothing of the furious war blazing inside him.
A very long time ago, in the Northmost Lands, the Recluse hid himself in the basement of the harbors' smallest tavern, coming out only in the dead of night to do the thankless chores required to pay off his private residence. He donned a heavy-hooded cloak to cover his face, which prevented many an uninvited conversation.
"You disfigured?"
It sounded like a passing grunt, so he continued onward, ignoring the question. Alas, the speaker refused to ignore him.
"I said, are you disfigured?" the man repeated, stepping into the Recluse's path.
"After a fashion," the Recluse replied, his mouth drying instantly.
He rustled the left sleeve of his cloak, revealing the hook and brace that stood where his hand should've been.
The speaker let out a hiss while his hand tossed the Recluse's hood back, revealing the unkempt scruff of his dark beard, his unruly hair, and his piercingly blue eyes. The stranger let out a low whistle as he devoured his features. It was as if he were inspecting a horse before the purchase.
The Recluse dragged his hood over his head again. Obscuring his face not only prevented unnecessary attention, but it concealed his eyes, allowing him to discover escape routes without anyone becoming the wiser. He saw it as prudence.
The smugness of the stranger's face made it clear that he regarded the Recluse's prudence as cowardice. It was a common fault among men in positions of authority. They believed that the power they wielded provided protection. It was obvious folly as far as the Recluse was concerned, for if he were to rake the man over with his hook, spilling blood from his scruffy neck down to his pudgy belly, his power would neither shield him nor stitch his wounds together.
"You're pretty enough to make your way by your looks," the stranger said crudely.
Someone speaking to him was enough to make the Recluse run, but from his demeanor and response, it seemed as if this man had come looking for him in particular. Fleeing would simply delay whatever came next.
There were few things he'd fight for, but his life was one of them. He served as a sailor and fought valiantly in his day. He would not meet his end in an alleyway at the hand of some bawdy bureaucrat. That was as sure a fact as his born name was Killian Jones.
"I have much work to do," the Recluse responded.
He made to pass by, but the stranger blocked his path. In that regard alone, his girth served him well.
"People talk about you," the stranger said. "Specifically the Tavern Keeper whose employ you've garnered."
"Aye, what of it?"
"It's not so much what he says about you," the man replied. "As much as what he doesn't say. Never once has the Tavern Keeper complained about you or your work."
"Something of a compliment, then."
"From him? It's the highest praise," the man continued shrewdly. "Make no mistake, I've known that man since before his first title, back when people called him Blackbeard. If he's breathing, he's complaining. I should know, I worked for him for a time. Nothing was ever good enough."
"Indeed, harrowing."
"Hardly," the stranger said. "I've been told you were once a sailor."
"I was."
"So you know about life at sea?"
"As it was," he replied. "I've not sailed in a very long time and with good reason. If you're looking for a seafaring man, look elsewhere. Now let me pass."
"I'm a man who procures difficult to find things," the stranger replied, not moving one inch. "And as of late, however, I have failed to find the right man for a job."
The Recluse knew men like the one before him. They came in many guises, but there was only one position in this town that would suit a man like this.
"And what would the Dockmaster want with a one-handed former sailor?" the Recluse asked. "As you can see, I'm not much in the way of company these days. Ships aren't sailed by one man alone."
"Indeed not," the Dockmaster replied. "I'm not looking for a dime-a-dozen sailor who'll drink himself stupid while singing a sea chantey. I'm looking for someone who can keep Stagrock."
"The lighthouse?" the Recluse inquired. "The Old Man has kept the beacon for an age."
"Aye, but he sets sail in a fortnight. I've been tasked to find a new Keeper. That would be you."
"I'd be alone?"
"A place with nothing but solitude, reflection, and the sea," the Dockmaster replied. "I hear you dislike the marketplace. Arrangements could be made so you'd never have need to return to the mainland."
"I doubt that I'm suited for the work," the Recluse replied stubbornly. "I am lacking a prominent member. Perhaps it's best for you to let me pass and forget all this."
"Suited or not," the Dockmaster began, his voice suddenly harsh. "Someone like you, who lurks in dark places in the dead of night, hiding himself from others. How long do you think it will take before the people's idle curiosity becomes suspicion? A pretty man like you, sulking around under a hood? Make no mistake, the Northmost Lands are no place for a man without family or friends. He might find himself in dire need of aid, or perhaps taken advantage of in a way no man would ever dare admit, not if he didn't wish it to happen again."
"Unless he were apart from those who would visit such misery upon someone," the Recluse completed. "Laboring for the very people who would perpetrate a shameful crime upon a man who was wounded in service of the navy. Or at least threaten him with such things."
"I procure rare and hard to find items," the Dockmaster repeated. "I am exceptional at it. Make no mistake, Recluse, you will be on Stagrock in a fortnight. How difficult things are before your change in residence is solely up to you. Take the day to think on it. I'll return tomorrow night. But I warn you, if I have to track you down a third time, you will regret it."
The Recluse forced himself to remain calm. He had lived in this town for a long time, and he had spoken with precious few, all by accident. Someone would mistake him for a wayward member of a traveling party, approach him with a friendly greeting, promptly apologize for the confusion, and leave without a second glance. The only exception to this had been the Tavern Keeper, though these days the man left written instructions under the Recluse's door.
To meet a man so bold as to corner him and threaten life and limb awoke something within that was dark and wild. It was a dangerous kind of anger that had his hand tighten around the handle of his knife.
The Dockmaster gave him a smug grin as jutted his rotund belly forward, adjusting his belt, then his shirt, then his coat. Every movement was composed and unhurried, and as the minutes ticked on, the Recluse saw a glimmer of pleasure in the man's eyes. He relished the fact that he could torment a man with threats and then force him to wait until he was ready to take leave.
Finally, attire righted, the Dockmaster backed away a few paces before turning and walking away.
The Recluse waited for a few moments and gathered his strength. His arms were shaking in fury, and his legs felt heavy. Though there were yet many hours before dawn and he had much to do, his will to do it crumbled. He wasn't fit to hold a hammer, much less repair a wall, and he could not recall a time when such a thing had happened to him before, this sudden weakness sweeping over him.
He made for the tavern, walking with more haste than usual. The knots in his stomach tightened, and he scrambled into a dim alleyway before the retching came in earnest. The contents of his stomach sprayed hard against the brick wall and stone alley, splattering him in a fine mist.
He steadied himself against the wall. He fumbled for one of the rags in his cloak pocket and wiped his mouth, tensing slightly when he felt the course, ragged material against his skin. He continued, cleaning his cloak and boots, and a deep sense of shame overcame him.
How many people had he seen heaving and hawing in this very alley as he passed by each night? He was certain most were there for the sake of their drinking. As for himself, there was no accounting for it. He hadn't had strong drink since his days as a sailor, and he had felt no sickness, no illness before he began his rounds.
The Recluse carefully folded the dirtied rag and placed it back in his pocket. He had no reason to be ill, save for his conversation with the Dockmaster, and such a reaction was extreme, even for a hermit like himself. While threats to his physical wellbeing were disconcerting, they were hardly cause enough for him to tremble and vomit.
He returned to his quarters swiftly, avoiding any avenue where people were sure to see him. The shame did not abate; in fact, it stiffened and deepened upon his return when he realized how much of the night's work he had left undone. For the first time that he could remember, the Recluse shirked his duties. His sense of honor forced him to scribe a note to the Tavern Keeper. He selected the kindest, most apologetic words and explained that a fever forced him to retire for the night.
The Recluse placed the letter by the Tavern Keeper's door. Then he returned to his bed, still quivering and nauseous. He wondered if his aversion to people had somehow increased during his many years of solitude. If that was true - and he feared it was - then the sudden need for a Keeper at Stagrock was serendipitous, despite the manner in which it was brought to his attention.
Tomorrow, he would speak with the Tavern Keeper and then Dockmaster, for becoming the Keeper of Stagrock Light might be the only way to save his life.
On Cellar Island at present, the Keeper remained motionless in front of the door for a very, very long time, desperately fighting off his impulse to run. Every moment he stood his ground was a triumph.
Yet, his duty was to any survivors that might be within, and while not fleeing was a personal victory, it wasn't enough to fulfill his oath. The first step was to take the handle and open the door, yet every time he tried, his arm became like lead, too heavy to lift.
When had this become his life? It was after his injury in the navy, though he couldn't rightly recall that incident. The missing member on his left arm was evidence enough, yet the circumstances surrounding its loss escaped him. With certainty, his missing hand was the reason the navy relieved him of duty and discharged him, though he distinctly remembered acquiring his first hook so that he could continue to sail.
It never seemed important enough to dwell on, but the Keeper appreciated the fact that he had once served on a crew, which meant there was a time that anticipating the sight of another person did not make him quiver or freeze. If he could only recall a moment from back then, perhaps he could conjure that version of himself and imbue his current self with that disposition and potency.
The more he considered past events, the less he recollected. It was as if he were remembering a dream upon waking; a thing so delicate and ambiguous that it slipped through the mind as sand through fingers, destined to fade and to be forgotten. What he knew came from scars and other such souvenirs. Everything else was a foggy haze that eluded him the more he pursued it.
It was maddening.
He was certain that if he could remember a time when his courage hadn't failed him, he'd be able to muster his bravery now. The only moments when he was unafraid of others was in his dreams with the mysterious lady of his heart, and only there, as all his other imaginings were nightmares.
You've never been brave, you hapless cur. You sailed the seas under the protection of your brother. It wasn't your hand that ended your time at sea, it was his death.
The nagging thought came from somewhere old and deep. Some ancient part of him that never failed to remind him of his faults, lest he forget that he was not the man he was supposed to be. He was not the brave Keeper, rushing to aid the wounded after a storm. He was the cowardly Recluse who abandoned the world so long ago that even his own memory could not say when.
Perhaps he'd been brave once in his life, but those days had passed. There was nothing more to be done about them. Today was an entirely different matter. Having limited or nonexistent experience in the application of bravery was no excuse for cowardice.
Today he would be brave, and not for the sake of his duties nor to prove his position as Keeper. His courage in this moment would be the foothold to his past, to that old part of himself that had frayed and decayed.
His hand surged forward, and he grasped the handle of the door in a strong but shaky grip. So often was his visitation of this cellar that the rest occurred without thought, so that when he was met with resistance, he was more confused than startled.
Without pause or consideration, he swung his hook up, then down through the space between the door and its frame. It caught on something below the inside handle, and he pulled against it until he heard a tearing sound that was oddly satisfying to his ear. Once free of its binding, the door swung open, and he crossed the threshold with ease.
The Keeper had assumed that he'd sweat every footstep, but instead he sensed a lightness akin to parting with a heavy pack that had been shouldered too long. Though he thought not on it directly, some sleeping aspect within considered the nature of such a shift and could not conclude that it was for ill or naught, which left but one possibility that even the most private element inside himself dared not contemplate: the betterment of a man.
On some level he sensed all his own inner workings, but the Keeper's focus did not falter from the task at hand. Once he saw that the footprints inside were of bare feet and stained with blood, his single-mindedness became absolute. He followed their path to the back of the cellar, where upturned baskets and mislaid comestibles assured him that whoever stumbled inside was in a bad way.
He noticed a skein of uncut cloth was missing, along with a bag of rice, a measure of dried meat, and a handful of bandages and other wound treatment supplies.
He imagined an Old Salt, too stubborn to die when he was marooned in a storm, and he wondered if the man he pictured was in the form of one of the many sailors with whom he served. He doubted it, for how could he remember another sailor when the Keeper couldn't properly recall anything from those days?
In the back of the cellar, there was a lump on the floor, which appeared to be covered with rice, though his initial assessment was that his eyes had failed him. He stared in confusion at the shapeless mass for several minutes before he understood that the long, golden lines on one side were locks of hair and the radiant white that stood out in harsh contrast to the patching linens piled on top was fair skin.
Yet it wasn't until the lid of an eye pulled back and revealed an orb the color of jade that he realized the shipwreck survivor was woman. Had he wits about him, he would've observed far more about her, but all he could think was that, even in her present disarray, she was the most beautiful woman alive.
"Are you alive?" he asked. He immediately regretted the stupidity of his question. "You must require aid. I can - "
He did not have the opportunity to finish his introduction, for the woman reacted like lightning against the rain. The pile of cloths were abandoned, and she rolled to one side before her feet hit the ground. It took only a moment thereafter for her to grab his hair and put a knife to his throat.
"Am I in the Northmost Lands?" she demanded.
"Yes," he replied calmly.
"Where?"
"Cellar Island," he replied. "It serves as the stock and store for Stagrock Light, where I serve as Keeper."
Her grip tightened, and the point of the knife dug into his skin slightly. Her arm shook but not from fear or reticence, which reflected in her comportment and diction.
"Are you a bounty hunter?" she asked again.
"As I said, I am the Keeper of Stagrock Light, the sole Beacon of Northedge."
"Are you a bounty hunter?"
He scoffed. "Why bother asking? You've decided who and what I am, if you knife is any indication."
"I can tell when someone lies outright," she replied. "Answer me!"
"No, I am not a bounty hunter."
The knife left his throat, and she released him, stepping carefully back the way she came. She held the dagger aloft, as if she yet expected him to harm her.
The Keeper had no way of knowing what transpired in her mind. In fact, she herself could not describe the many thoughts colliding in her head.
"I've recently become no one," she said, not quite looking at him. "I was... it doesn't matter. I'm not any longer, and I'll never be again."
She had meant to explain everything to the Keeper, but the freezing cold and the injuries from her storm-swept retreat to shore depleted her strength and stamina. She hadn't noticed until her arm went slack without her intent.
The blade clattered to the floor, and the Keeper, taking it as a sign that she had extended him her trust, smiled at her with his maddeningly lithe lips. His eyes, bluer than the Great Untamed Ocean, lit up with warmth, as if hospitality was common practice for those lonely souls who keep the beacons alight.
That all ceased when her legs failed her, and she followed the weapon to the floor. The Keeper nimbly swooped in, catching her midsection and easing her the rest of her way. He had a kindness to him that contradicted his fierce countenance and hook, yet she had no trust for strangers. She went deep, seeking the determination to right herself, but there was none. She was utterly at his mercy. The terror that thought inspired made her heart race with anxiety.
"You were out in that storm?" he asked. "You need only nod your head, or blink your eyes twice."
She blinked twice.
"Were you on an island?"
She didn't respond.
"On a ship?"
She blinked twice, and she added, "It went down. The ship."
"Listen to me," he said calmly. "I've weathered too many storms to count, and for you to arrive here after being caught in a gale like that, aboard a ship, no less... you're a survivor. The Survivor. The only one who has made it to Stagrock after a shipwreck. The only one I've ever been able to save, and I intend to do just that. Lie back and rest."
The Survivor blinked two times, but she didn't believe it. After everything she endured, the idea that there may yet be an honest and true person in the world seemed an impossibility. But she could perceive deception, and she found none in him. He spoke the truth and promised his services genuinely.
Perhaps that was what gave her the strength to stop fighting. Terror and pain gnawed at her heart, yet she closed her eyes and let the blackness overtake her with nothing more than the faint hope that the Keeper was as true as his word.
The Keeper had no knowledge of her inner struggle, though it was apparent that a shipwreck had been the least of her ills. He put it out of his mind to tend to her wounds. He had a long day ahead.
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Chapter 4: In Memory of Charybdis
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
Charon ferries newly deceased (and occasionally, living) souls across the rivers that divide the Underworld. Charon's obol refers to a coin that is placed in the mouth of a deceased person during burial, that they may pay or bribe the ferryman to transport them safely.