legend of a breaking (leironuoth)
In the roaring fire, half-delirious from all the drink he'd taken in that day and all the heat that had rained down on his shoulders, Skandra could see a great many things. First, no one told you that nights were so gods-damned cold on a jungle island. He preferred the cold to the hot, but his face was red as an apple, and cracked besides. Water. At least his throat was burning like sand at the temperature. Aches and pains acquired in the fight were less pained now that it was cold out, but only because he was certain parts of him were numb. All in all it could have been worse. He was chewing jerky and smoking one of those fine cloves at the same time - damn propriety. If his companion cared he gave no sign. He just sat there, staring without staring at that sword. It was a pretty piece of work, but Skandra didn't know why it was worth the trouble.
Had to get it. That was what the elf had said. Had to get it.
That didn't mean anything, did it? Skandra was never accused of having an over-active imagination. Usually if he took the time to imagine it, then it was true, and there was nothing to be said about it but that. In this case he knew little of his companion. That was no common soldier's sword, and though he claimed to be a privateer, the pirate had called him a prince. A prince who was masquerading as a privateer usually meant a reward for their safe return. Skandra started fantasizing not about the history of this fellow and his odd sword but of the reward. How much it would be, and what Skandra could spend it on. A house was no good. But a fine horse, like the ones they sold in Simanel. A finer sword. Clothes to fit his arrogance. It was a measure he supposed of how addicted he'd become to the good life. The good clothes, the nice beds. That he did want a house.
There was no one to live in that house.
If he listened, at night, he thought he could still hear Anaiya's voice in the darkness. Whispering to him, those same whispers he'd ignored in their bed. Begging for help? Begging for some kind of... so long ago, but it made the night seem colder all the same. Skandra let the whiskey fall into his mouth instead of drinking it. The more, the merrier. When he thought his tongue was finally dissolving he forced that rough heat down his throat. All of that burn and sour taste that lingered in his mouth seemed worth it. For a moment it chased away the thoughts of how alone he truly was, and how little he would do with all that money if there were some type of reward. Enough to pay for ten thousand rounds in ten thousand taverns, and to stitch up the wounds of a half-dozen fights along the way. Maybe more. Skandra wasn't sure why he cared about money. This fellow hadn't offered a reward yet, had he?
Nor was he likely to.
They never did unless you asked.
Despite the cold, he could feel the oppression of the sun around the corner. It was happening next in his life. Soon there wouldn't be any other options. Out in the thick trees which was essentially a giant mass of green and black that ran together. Animals were out there, and they were feasting on the remains of pirate. Ought to have bothered Skandra more than it did. Aside from the fellow who'd fallen in his pit there were no graves and no energy in their killers to bury those empty vessels. Skandra should have felt awful about it, but the worst emotion he could muster was annoyance at all of the flies that were drifting toward them. The fire helped. The alcohol only helped him not to notice. And somewhere in the distance, to the south, was the ship. The ship they were going to have to take over and sail out of here if they ever wanted to see home again.
Home.
A funny word. Never meant what you thought it did.
That fat black bastard and his ugly black ship still had the Vel. Where was it, after that? Back to Shantar? The man said he had a dozen improvements to make to the damn thing, and Skandra wanted no part of it. As long as it worked when it was supposed to. Then what? Use it to find Gershul, to kill him? To back off a half-dozen gamblers intent on hauling him across coals for cheating? Kill those gamblers as if it were nothing? Skandra didn't know. It was cold, here. Seemed the night was colder all the time. No drink was going to drive that thought from his mind. There was something that Shantar wanted him to do and something which Skandra detested the very idea of. One or the other. He didn't want to be a hero. Didn't want to find a way to kill his father, and didn't want to be the one who was supposed to bring the world out of the dark plkaces it found itself in. A thankless job, and by thankless he of course meant there was no money in it.
"He called you a prince," Skandra remarked.
"Yes," Leir answered. "He did."
"Well?" the Immortal demanded with a broad sweep of his hands.
It was possible that elves didn't speak 'half-drunk half-dead non-sailor stupor' as fluently as Skandra liked to pretend they did, so he immediately held up his hands, as if to apologize. He did not actually offer an apology; his stance just seemed to indicate that it would. Instead of using that sudden silence to fill the void with his apologies Skandra went on to rephrase the question, somewhat more polite, but no less angry for it.
"Are you a prince, or aren't you? And if you are, how much of a reward am I going to get for saving your life?"