Murk

[Unwillingly 11105]

 

It was never the cold water itself that Eir'thall feared. Rather, it was what lurked beneath. The looming threat that, if he stayed in for too long or went too far from shore, something would grab him and pull him down. The feeling never left him. It was always there. So, he stayed away from the water. Usually, he'd resort to small rivers or ponds, but even they caused a sense of anxiety to flicker in him. It was always the thought that if he got too close or started at his reflection long enough, something would reach out and pull him under. 

 

The seemingly inevitable sea-voyages that happened every few hundred years always made him sick, enough to throw up his meal the night prior. Of course, he could always stay behind, but what kind of man would he be? A brother of the bear, son of brimstone, an ally of flame? No — Disowned, rather, and frowned upon. So every time, he’d follow them over the waters, resigning to the lower decks of the ship as he feverishly tucked his head into the pillows and blankets while he waited for it to be over. 

 

Wildfire quietly approached a stream in the Hinterlands, his face ridden with sweat and bruises after a rough brawl in the grove. Tiredly dropping to his knees, he peered into the gently flowing water to take a look at his reflection - a bruised face littered in scars and red ink, his right eye blinded by a trickle of blood running from his scalp. Of course, it was nothing to worry about. He's suffered far worse before. It’ll take a damn lot to kill me, he always told people. 

 

Reaching down, he cupped his hand into the stream to splash over his face. The cool water trickled from his eyelashes and chin, landing back into the brook in the tiniest of ripples with a mix of blood. He watched this for a few moments, and for a split second, he questioned himself. Why am I so afraid of this? He thought. It was only momentary.

 

Then the ripples faded away, returning to his foggy reflection in the water. 

 

Drowning was never loud. It's never something people will hear, but rather, it's quiet above the surface. The idea terrified him. The idea of being trapped in the water, thrashing and kicking below the surface, completely unheard by someone even a few meters away. They could be so close but would have no clue. The intrusive thoughts terrorized him over and over. The thought of burning lungs, the suffocation, the inability to scream, the silence, the— 

 

Oh, the silence.

 

A quiet death. Something he too feared greatly. He always imagined that he'd go out in a blaze of glory, under a sky of arrows or rain of blood, rather than being snuffed out below the waves. It was always about being seen. Be bold, be brave, be louder than everyone, he always told himself. Nothing speaks of a muddied death like a silent one. 

 

He reached for a weathered beige rag tucked into his belt, brushing it over his back and neck as it dampened with cold sweat. Soaking it into the stream, his jaw subconsciously clenched while a snarl tugged just shy of his features. 

 

It made him angry, and he felt that deep, core-wringing hatred begin to kindle again. The burning outrage that oft accompanied his misfortunes, usually sparked by his own foolish wrath. He knew it deep down, that he had a desire for something beyond a memorable end, but he didn’t know what it was. That was the most frustrating part. A part of him felt incomplete, like there was something more he could do to satisfy his turmoil, and he’s felt this way for a long time.

 

But what was it?

 

He couldn’t help but mull it over, thinking, thinking, thinking on the notion. Damnit, He thought through clenched teeth, what’s wrong with me?!

And then his mind fell to strawberry kissed locks, matched with eyes that he swore had been dipped in gold once before — akin to stars that had fallen back to the realm from whatever lies beyond the world. The thought of her, for a moment, brought Eir’thall relief. It was the reminder, the recollection of when he wept more than he thought he was capable of, more than he had in decades when the abandonment of the firestarter finally struck him.

As much as his love was for her, his dearest sister, he wouldn’t find an answer with her. No — not yet. And what of a man of justice and order? One hailing from a land of utmost perfection, yet, who would see something so great within the green motherland. Perhaps he saw Her in it, or perhaps it was a true love for what some would deem impure upon their own accord. The thought had crossed his mind, a man of wise words and even wiser actions who could give him the answer, but it was too soon. Too early. It will wait.

 

The firebird, perhaps? Despite the burning passion he displayed, Eir’thall noticed that he often wore hues of blue and cerulean, while his eyes fell to an otherworldly icy reflection matched with a golden arm. It was funny. The contrast was ironic, yet, Wildfire naturally felt a kinship for him — the man who could start a fire to a war, who could bring a monster to its knees without struggle, who could end the world. Was it their mettle or ignorance that made them so like minded? Both, probably. 

 

Oh, those chocolate coils that fell among the endless green pines, gleaming with emerald and verdant flora. A world Eir’thall wished to get lost in, but always found himself helplessly drawn back by a smile of grace. Yet, the problem remained that he hadn’t spent enough time among the pines, but rather squabbled with pointless happenings — something he always kicked himself for. He told her that he would make it up, that he would lose himself in the forest the moment he stepped in, but he never did.
 

He pulled his hands out of the stream, squeezing the water from the rag before tucking it back at his hip. Restlessly biting at the innards of his cheek enough to draw blood, the familiar taste of iron, he glared down at the stream in thought, unable to scratch the itch in the back of his mind. What is it? What. Is. It?

 

His mulling continued, every scenario, every route taken to figure out what it was he wanted, what was bothering him so persistently. Every friend, ally, even enemy crossed his mind in a desperate attempt to figure out what it was he wanted so badly — but still, there was nothing. No sign. No answer. It made him groan in frustration, his head lulling back with a more than prominent grimace while his hands gripped the attire at his knees.

 

It never came to him. Instead, Wildfire reached for his belongings, pondering the thought for a few more moments. Still unsatisfied, he ultimately decided to return to the grove, wordless on his walk back, and wordless to those who spoke to him.

 

There was nothing left for him here.