What Might Have Been

[Xarkly 12614]

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

 

Spoiler

 

---

 

Sigismund blinked.

 

Suddenly confused, he looked around, but everything was as it should have been. The summer sun beat down on him from a clear blue sky marred only by a few wispy clouds, and the knee-high ocean of wheat around him glistened in the golden light. "What was I ...?" he began to ask himself as a gentle wind stirred the amber grains. With hands - dirtied and calloused from decades of labour - he scratched his stubbled cheeks. Something - something important - lingered just at the edge of his memory, but he could not quite grasp it.

 

Getting old. I'm just getting old, that's all.

 

He abruptly became aware of a weight in his hands, and looked down to see a bundle of chopped branches in his arms, and woodchips clinging to his rough farming woollens. Firewood! That was it. He had been out gathering firewood. Not that it would be needed - it was an unusually warm summer for Haense - but every sensible farmer kept supplies up during summer to help offset the demand during winter, and Sigismund was certainly a sensible farmer. He squinted up at the sun as a flock of geese crossed through the sky, and he whistled faintly when he realised it was dipping towards the horizon.

 

"Nearly dinnertime already," he grumbled as he adjusted his grip on the bundle. He had dallied long enough -- it was time to get back to the farm, and for good reason, too; Emma was stewing lamb tonight.

 

He hummed to himself as he started to make his way through the expanse of grain with the firewood in hand, in the direction of where his farm lay. It only took a few minutes of walking - and crossing from one field into another - for his farmhouse, his pride and joy, to appear on a grassy rise in the land a few fields over, thin streams of chimney smoke rising from its thatched roof. The sight of it filled him with a sense of accomplishment, but there was ... something else mixed in with that feeling. It felt oddly like a sensation of grief, but that didn't make any sense. Shrugging to himself, he climbed over a sty into another field - a cornfield, this time - and before long the cornstalks gave way to rolling, grassy pastures.

 

A flock of goats grazed in the open pasture, and despite the presence of a nearby shepherd, they had wandered far in small groups. The shepherd in question was a tall, broad-shouldered boy just on a cusp of manhood, with the same dark curled hair as Sigismund, but he wore a frown as he stared thoughfully into the distance while leaning on his shepherd's crook.

 

"What's the brooding look for, Sergei?" Sigismund called out to the shepherd - his son - as he passed. "Are the goats bullying you again, boy?"

 

Sergei jumped, as if waking from a trance, and his frown deepened apologetically when he saw he had let the goats wander. "What? Oh, no, I ... uh, I was just ..." Instinctively, he cast a sheepish look towards the distant feels of other farms in the east, and Sigismund laughed. To the east was were Aloisa's family lived -- the girl who had doted on Sergei ever since the pair of them were old enough to dance.

 

"Have you decided when you're going to offer her the marriage belt?" Sigismund asked through a grin, and his son blushed.

 

"I ... I was going to do it at Barovifest," he said as he rubbed the back of his neck, "but then I thought it might be better if I ..." He narrowed his eyes as Sigismund burst into chortles again. "What? What's so funny?"

 

"Ah, you'll see it when you finally wed her," Sig said with a dismissive wave. Everyone in every farm for miles around knew Aloisa would agree to marry Sergei, if he just worked up the courage to offer her the marriage belt and get it over with. "Come, now, you best get the goats back in the pen before you lose one. Besides, your mother will be serving up dinner soon, so don't dawdle, ai?"

 

Sergei bobbed his head, and reluctantly took his eyes away from the east as he began to whistle for the goats while brandishing the crook as Sig continued on his way. By the time he took to the old dirt road winding up to the farmhouse, the sun had began to turn a deep, burnished orange, and cast sharp shadows across the land. His smile did not fade as he walked; for some reason, something about today just made him ... happy. Something about him felt profoundly ... peaceful. He did not know what, but he did not care to question the feeling. The hens clucked as Sigismund made his way across the farmyard, and the sound of voices greeted him even before he pushed through the door.

 

"... it's for the chickens; not you!"

 

"But that's not-"

 

"Hello helloooo!" Sigismund chimed as he strode into his home, and his smile tweaked wider at the smell of roast lamb. The farmhouse's main open room served as kitchen and dining room both, and three women worked in it now. At the large long table in the middle, dark-haired Klara and plump Maya - his two beloved daughters - sat with their hair braided back, chopping an array of vegetables for the stew, while his wife - Emma - stood over a cookpot roasting above the firepit, flour staining her apron as she stirred the ladle. "That smells delicious!" he went on merrily as he deposited the firewood in a bin near the firepit, and pressed a kiss to his wife's cheek.

 

"Maya got caught eating the chicken feed again, papej," Klara said with a sigh, and her sister's pudgy cheeks instantly reddened.

 

"I did not!" Maya shot back.

 

Sig looked to his wife for confirmation, and Emma nodded with a small, amused smile. "I told her not to go near the pantry, and then I found her out in the yard stuffing kernels into her mouth."

 

"And so what if I did?!" Maya said, crossing her arms tightly. "It's just seeds! And there's loads of it! The chickens aren't going to eat all that!"

 

"Are you a chicken, sweetplum?" he asked his daughter with a doubtful smile. "Then don't eat the chicken feed, ai? Firr Eirik charges me more than it's worth for that." Sometimes, he was glad they were but a farm of modest means -- he often thought that had they been rich with all the food they could need, Maya would gourge herself until she was fat enough to roll instead of walk. What a strange life that would be. He pressed a kiss to the back of Klara's head, who he could tell was smiling too.

 

"Would you fetch the boys, Sig?" Emma asked as she took a sprig of thyme from the rows of herbs hanging above the cookpot, and sprinkled the herb into the stew. "I'll be dishing up in just a minute. Who's turn is it to lead prayers, do you remember?"

 

"It's Maya's," Klara answered placidly as she finished dicing a clove of garlic.

 

"It is not! I said it last night!"

 

As his two daughters broke into squabbling - Klara with her usual calm, and Maya growing more befuddled by the word - Sig shared one last smile with his wife before he made his way out the back door to gather the rest of his sons for dinner. Salivating at the thought of the roast lamb stew awaiting him, Sig crossed the backyard to where the animal barns and the stables were, and it was there he found Karl and Josef. The boys had pulled the wagon of fresh hay around to the front of the barn, and were using pitchforks to shovel it over the barn's half-door to a crowd of waiting cows.

 

"Hoi, finish up, boys!" Sig called to them. "Dinner's ready."

 

The two boys looked over to him at his call. Karl's hair swung about in the breeze - he made a point to grow it down to his shoulders - in contrast with Josef's close-cropped cut. "Papej," Karl, the eldest of the two, spoke up, "settle a debate for us. Who would win in a duel -- Steelheart, or the Fervid?"

 

"I keep telling you, it's Steelheart," Josef said with an eyeroll.

 

"And I keep telling you," Karl rebut, "that they say the Fervid once fought three Rimetrolls at once!"

 

"So? Fighting stupid trolls is different than fighting people."

 

"Well, papej?" Karl asked with a stubborn set of his jaw. "You said you've seen them both; which is it?"

 

Both the names of those famous Knights - Steelheart, and the Fervid - brought back pleasant memories. Sigismund had seen them both fight, even though the two knights were a generation apart; he had seen the unbelievable speed and precision of Ser Ailred Steelheart's blows at the 2nd Grand Tournament of Karosgrad when he had travelled to the capital for market during the celebration, and then, when he was just a young boy himself, his father had taken him to the festivities for the old King's second wedding, where Ser Antonius the Fervid had triumphed in the melee.

 

"Steelheart," Sigismund said at last. "I'd put my money on Steelheart." As Karl frowned at Josef stuck his tongue out at his brother, Sig could not help but smile again. "Enough playing, though. You heard me say dinner is almost ready, ai? Get the hay stowed away again, and change into a fresh shirt before you go eat. Your mamej will have you by the ears if you sit at her table covered in hay like that."

 

His two boys nodded as they set down their pitchforks and began to heave the cart back towards the shed. "Alright," Josef began as they worked, "what about Steelheart and the Lion Knight? Who would win that one?"

 

Before Karl could answer, though, Sig spoke up again. "Is your brother not out here with you?" He had thought to find the last of his sons mending a harness by the stables, but as he squinted towards the stables in question, he saw the unfinished harnessed lying abandoned on a stool.

 

"Oh, he took his sling up to the hill when he saw the geese fly by earlier," Karl explained, his voice strained a little under the weight of the hay cart. "He still thinks he can shoot one down one day."

 

"Of course he does," Sig murmured with an endearing smile. "Well, you two focus on finishing your chores and getting changed. You can talk about knights at the dinner table, ai?"

 

Both his sons grumbled their agreement as they continued heaving the heavy cart back, and Sig set off once again, this time to the hilltop just behind the farm. As he left his sons and the farmyard behind him, that strange feeling of mourning that Sig had felt earlier began to grow stronger. It felt odd, feeling both happy and peaceful, but with that longing intruding at the edge of his mind, like an itch he could not scratch. What is this feeling? Where is coming from, all of a sudden? It almost felt like something was ... wrong, or amiss, like something was not right. He could not place his finger on it, though. Doing his best to ignore that gnawing longing and instead enjoy the serenity of the day, he continued towards the hilltop.

 

Spoiler

 

 

He ascended the narrow dirt trail until he found himself on the hilltop, where the evening sun bathed everything in a deep, golden light. A lone young man, broad shouldered and proud-faced, stood along on the grass, with a leather sling in his hand. For a moment, Sig just watched his eldest son, and as he did, the feeling of longing swelled inside him. He kept trying to ignore it. "No geese today?" he called at last.

 

"I almost hit one this time," Edvard called back to his father without turning around. "You should have seen how close I was."

 

"I wish I had," Sig smirked as he crossed the hilltop, and stopped next to his eldest son. Edvard had made a habit of trying to strike down a bird from the sky with his trusty sling, but so far he hadn't managed to hit anything. That did not stop the boy from trying, though; each failure only made him more determined, and his optimism never wavered. It was one of the many things Sig loved about the boy. "You'll get it soon, though. I'm sure of it."

 

"I know," Edvard said, and turned to give his father a smile. Everyone said they looked alike, he and Edvard, but they were father and son, after all. Edvard arched a questioning eyebrow at him. "Are you alright? You look ... strange."

 

Sig nodded slowly. "I'm fine. I've just had this ... strange feeling all afternoon."

 

"A feeling?"

 

"I ... I'm not sure what to call it, but ... ah, it doesn't matter," he said with a dismissive wave. "Today's the happiest I've felt in what feels like years. Just ..." From this spot on the hilltop, he could see the sun-bathed world for miles around them. He could see his farmhouse below where his family was gathering for dinner, he could see their crops preparing to yield a bountiful harvest in the surrounding fields, and the animals out grazing in the pastures. They did not have much - just enough to live by - but Sigismund could not imagine asking for more. He could not imagine a life more perfect, more peaceful, than this. " ... I'm just ... proud of all we've built here."

 

For a long moment, there was silence. Sig's greying hair streamed in the wind as it briefly swelled. Finally, Edvard spoke softly.

 

" ... You know this isn't real, right?"

 

Like a cracked egg, the feeling of longing oozed all over Sigismund. It consumed him. Watching the farm in the sun, he felt tears brim in his eyes. " ... I know," he whispered back softly. "But can't I dream a little while longer?"

 

"The real world will not wait while you dream," Edvard intoned somberly.

 

Sigismund raised a hand - he was wearing gauntlets, now - and pressed it to his forehead. "Why couldn't it have been this way? I ... I don't understand. Why couldn't I have had a peaceful life like this?"

 

"You ... know why."

 

"Every farmer would trade their lot in life to be a king," Sig said in a hoarse voice as he felt the tears run down his face. "Why couldn't I have swapped with a peasant? Traded all the power and wealth and ..."

 

" ... Responsibility?" Edvard finished. When Sigismund did not answer, his son nodded slowly, and went on. "Perhaps that is God's test for us. We are given what we do not want, and forbidden from what we seek."

 

"What kind of test is that?" Sig asked through grit teeth. When he lowered his head, he felt himself standing in shallow water. Bloody shallow water. No longer did he wear his farming woollens, but he was dressed all in battle-mail, with the black-gold tabard of Haense on his chest. "You're not even alive," he bitterly told the image of the son who had never grown past a newborn. "You died in my arms. What kind of test is that?"

 

"God works in mysterious ways," the figment wearing Edvard's face answered placidly.

 

"I'm tired of God's mysteries!" he shot back, and his hands tightened around a sword in his hand, the blade of which was coated in blood. Around him, he was vaguely aware of men fighting, and dying. "I'm tired of being robbed of the only thing I seek! Why is there always one more battle to be fought, one more enemy to be slain! When does it end?"

 

Edvard slowly turned to face him. The two of them stood in the shallow bloody water, with bodies lying adrift as soldiers clashed around them. "It doesn't end, Sigismund." The form of Edvard vanished, and the dream shattered around him. The shouting, the rasp of steel on steel, and the ceaseless splashing of water roared in Sigismund's ears as black-mailed Brotherhood soldiers drilled their spears into the red cloaks and burnished breastplates of Orenians as they clashed in the low tide.

 

As the Battle of Eastfleet raged in the shallow waters around him, Sigismund stared at his bloodied sword, oblivious to the fighting, to the dying, to the ring of Marian Knights around him that cut down any burgundy-coated or red-cloaked Orenians who strayed too close. Despite the struggle for life or death happening before his very eyes, the memory of the farm, the memory of Edvard, stained his mind.

 

It doesn't end.

 

[zuziee 3219]

Safely tucked away in her spire, Maya opened another story book she has pinched from the library. Under quilts made by her grandmother Annika and donning one of her mothers old kokoshniks, the girl allowed an illusion to seep from the inky pages. Learning of scholarly trials and damsels that knights fought for. 

 

If she had gotten anything from her father, it was his imagination. 

[discojazz 306]

Spoiler

Song rec for the title <3

 

[MotherLay 815]

why am I crying in the club rn

 

[Seva 264]

Spoiler

 

[erictafoya 2308]

From the confines of his own lonely and depressing room, Andrik would lament on a time when he conversed with his brother on wishing that they were merely peasants, and not the sons and fathers of Kings. "Those days are gone..." he once thought. It is true, the years have aged the last remaining Barbanov siblings of their era.

 

However, Andrik was no longer a young man and with age came wisdom. He knew that his time was not yet over, and a new leaf could still be turned should he choose to act on it. No longer would he dream of that of a farmer, for he did not want to live a humble and simple life. The old Prince was starving, not for crop, but for adventure.

 

"Those days are gone... but my days are far from numbered."

[Taketheshot 3834]

The Duke of Azor pressed onwards to the north, his armor clanking and blood seeping from where he had tangled with and ultimately won against a man of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl. The aged duke turned aware of his own age for a long moment as he witnessed the column of Imperials retreating back into Lower Petra, a grim face washed over him as he observed the destruction below in the shallow waters. 

 

"It never gets easier." The Duke spoke to an Orenian Man-At-Arms whose pace lingered. The man looked up, revealing himself to be a boy, barely old enough to hold his sword and yet he marched south to do his duty. "Wha' do you mean moi lord?" 

 

Joseph sighed grasping the soldiers chainmail, urging him forwards. "All of it, the sooner you accept such the better..." Joseph d'Azor had stood in the same place as that young soldier many decades ago at Outer Arentania. An experience much the same though victorious then. The soldier hobbled on at the Dukes urging and Joseph turned back a final time to witness the flames. 

"And the nightmares never leave...." 

 

Spoiler

I gotta say @XarklyBASED Rp post.... 

 

[WestCarolina 1779]

Spoiler

Beautifully written

 

[CopOwl 1668]

Dame Lynette Mendez peers down from the seven skies to watch her King in the battle for Eastfleet. She frowns as she watches him still, that grimace of his so familiar yet foreign to her. "I told you," She says to the King although he cannot see or hear her, "You mustn't dwell. I told you, that there is nothing more we want from you." The advice of a dead woman can do nothing to change the living, but in her heart Lynette had hoped that maybe her dying words could have changed the King's mind and persuaded him to pursue his joy. "Nothing more ... Than happiness."

[garentoft 8353]

On a nearby farm, which lay close to the coast and had an accompanying fisherman’s wharf, Eirik finished wheeling in the last of today’s catch, which consisted of various amounts of salmon, sardines, and halibut. The fishermen had by now returned to the cottage, and it were only him and his two youngest daughters, Eileen and Freya, who marched back and forth with wheelbarrows full of fish. When they were all finally in the storage hut, they went through the process of putting them all into barrels of salt, preparing them so that Isabel could bring them to the market tomorrow.

 

“Why do we stop fishing at night?” queried the ever curious Eileen, her gaze peeled to the dusk’s setting sun.

 

“Because the fish need to sleep,” replied Freya matter-of-factly. 

 

Yet the duo both glanced to their father for confirmation of such a theory. He broke into a hearty chuckled, and wrapped an arm around each of them, before telling them an old Ayrian story about when Garen “the Seafarer'” first brought their people to the ocean, and how then they, too, had thought that it would be impossible to fish at night, until an old man, who was only remembered now as “the Nightfisher”, had pulled a sea snake from the ocean one night. Nowadays, however, everyone knew that the man had simply caught an eel.

 

The three followed the cobbled steps up to their main farmhouse, and the smell of roasted lamb wafted through the windows as they passed by, causing the two girls to rush head inside, they had been hungry from a long day of work. Eirik’s stomach, too, rumbled, but he thought to catch one last glimpse of the sunset. It was a thing he had always enjoyed watching, and he would not miss it, even for lamb.

 

As he made his way inside, he were greeted immediately by Isabel, who rushed up to offer her an embrace. This had been her traditional greeting for him returning home from the wharf ever since the day she had learned to walk. Anastasya stood over the fire, carefully tending to the lamb, though briefly turned to offer him a beaming smile. Upon hearing his entrance, Saoirse and Margrait, too, exited their room to greet him, “Cousin Klara said cousin Maya keeps eating the seeds you sell Uncle Sigismund for their chickens!” Margrait announced.

 

“You really ought to start charging him less for them,” Ana added, barely able to contain herself from chuckling, the imagery of Maya stuffing her face with seeds were one that everyone in the family considered hilarious.

 

“He really ought to lock his pantry properly!” He quipped in response to his wife, before he offered her a peck on cheek, “Food smells delicious.” Isabel had already sat herself at the table, patiently waiting for the food to be served, Margrait and Saoirse were discussing what they would wear to the upcoming Barovifest, and Freya and Eileen had broken into an argument about who would be able to catch a sea snake first. He stared at them for a prolonged moment, and felt a great sense of relief from the normalcy of their circumstance. A humble farm, a humble wharf, a humble family, and a humble life. There were no need for grandeur here, despite the fact that he possessed enough wealth to spend on vanities, if he had so desired.

 

The door to the study was ajar, and he carefully placed two knocks on it, before entering. There sat Alexander, carefully counting the money that Isabel had brought back from the market and updating the sales ledger. He took after his mother, she was always the smarter one of the two. “I’ll be done in a moment,” the boy stated, briefly looking up to his father. He had grown long brown hair, and his deep blue eyes almost felt piercing upon him, “Is mother almost done with dinner?”

 

“Aye,” he responded, and took a moment to inspect his son. There was something unfamiliar about him, as if the boy didn’t belong here. He, by all means, looked like a true mix of his parents, his father’s hair and face, while he held his mothers eyes. Even then, it were as if he were an intruder, a presence that was not meant to be here.

 

“I’ll come when I’m done.”

 

Eirik slicked out of the room again, the door creaking as he closed it carefully. His face scrunched up, and reality began to set in. Ana had always said that the miscarriage of Alexander had been a punishment from God, yet Eirik would never admit to her that he saw it as the opposite. To him, it were a gift. As he made his way to return to the dinner table, a simple thought prodded his mind.

 

“Who’s dream is this?”

[crazedpudding 2120]

Klara Elizaveta slipped through the Nikirala Prikaz like a ghost, passing her parents' door with silent feet, having long since learned where the creaky floorboards were. Her own dreams, or nightmares rather, were rarely tamed with the tea gifted to her by a dear cousin. Climbing through the various stairwells, Klara crept onto a balcony as high as she could go to watch the moonlight stream across Karosgrad. Unaware of her father's dreams, she curled up on the floor, leaning her forehead against the banister.

 

Her face and ribs were still bruised from battle, where a foot had met her middle and the pommel of a blade met her cheekbone, dazing her enough to allow her to be knocked unconscious. She was lucky. So many more weren't. 

 

In the quiet of the night, Klara allowed her thoughts to turn to grief before she once again put a smile on in the morning.

[ThanksChris 589]

Matyas clung tight to the rigging of the ship, hands calloused by years of fellowship with the thick hempen ropes. His hands were stained black in places with residue of the pine tar that kept the lines from fraying - the boards from rotting. There was much work to be done keeping even so humble a single-masted fishing boat as this afloat. He extended his arms for a moment of reprieve, leaning back into the brine-laden wind in hopes its sting would coax him more firmly into the waking world.

 

“Ea thought the early rising was vyr idea, Matyas.” Maric called from on deck below, no less groggy than Matyas was by the sound of his voice. It was their third morning at sea together, Matyas entrusted as he often was by Uncail Eirik to make a round of the rich fisheries farther from shore. Farming the smallhold occupied too much of his uncle’s time to make much use at all of the glorified tub they now sailed on, and Matyas never much minded the task. 

 

“I’ was my idea.” He called back down. He wasn’t always alone for these excursions, but this was the first time Maric had joined him - his dearest cousin’s betrothed. He was a longtime friend, and a close one at that, but Matyas couldn’t shake the ill omen being asked to teach him the ropes of the fishing posed. These were hard times for the family. For whatever reason, be it unusually poor spawning or the will of Godan Himself, their catches were smaller these past years. The modest harvests had to see them and the rest of town through the winter. Eirik had always treated his nephew well, practically raised him, but with so many mouths to feed - Matyas put the thought out of his mind. 

 

“Then surely vy will see more from the crosstrees? Or do vy plan to take a nap up there?” Maric continued with a wry smile. Matyas nodded, blinking from his eyes the salty spray conjured where boat met water and hauling himself higher, yard by yard. He scanned the waters from bowsprit to the horizon, noting the shapes and positions of the various rocky outcroppings the local sailors used as waypoints.

 

“St. Otto’s Bank should be a league or so tha’ way.” Matyas called down to the deck once more, louder this time. “Godan willin’, we can bring home enough haddie tae feed Lallybroch twice over.” He scrambled back down the ropes, and together the two began to adjust sail, catching a favorable wind to the bank. They worked in silence for a time, only birdsong and the rhythmic clapping of boat against sea providing a chorus for their labours. “Is i’ love, Maric? Or did ye just ask ‘er coz… well our families are close an’ the match made sense?” Despite having known him since they were young boys, he more often than not found Maric’s emotions and intentions impossible to read.

 

“Both can be true, Matyas. But Ea can see why vy might be confused. Vy have only ever felt love for a match that makes nie sense at all.” His friend flashed a smirk he had seen after a thousand such teasing comments since their boyhood. He did feel reassured despite himself, and despite the thinly-veiled slight.

 

“Why should love ‘ave tae make sense, Maric? How natural a match are man an’ the sea? We’ve no gills, the wood wants tae rot an’ the sails tae tear. But we’ve decided it’s worth the struggle an’ spend the whole of our lives out ‘ere anyway.” Maric hummed back to him, perhaps to consider tugging at one of the looser threads in Matyas’ little soliloquy before the conversation turned to more trifling matters. An assessment of their bearings, an adjustment of sail. And so they bore on, with a joke here and an instruction there, until Matyas found as they did that the sea around them warped… the birdsong deafened…

 

A shifting of logs in the fireplace had interrupted his sleep, summoning him back to his room at Lichtestadt as a plume of sparks spiraled updraft into the chimney. What an odd dream. The halls of Valwyck were quiet at this stage of the war, populated only by what staff had not followed to attend the Ducal family in Karosgrad. He was only there in fact to check everything was in sound order for his uncle. Despite the silence, he felt somehow he would have trouble returning to sleep. Donning a cloak and boots, the young Baruch set off for the boathouse. A bit of rowing would set his head straight, surely. 

Edited April 8, 2022 by Chris (Acaele)

[tcs_tonsils_ 2829]

Borris sat upon the ends of the docks, feet kicking out as they hung over the waters. The night was brisk, the wind rubbing against his cheek and playing with with his hair that was far too long at this point. He had his hands folded on his lap, grayish-blue hues locked onto the water. The waves clapped against the against the pillars underneath, sloshing, foaming, and breaking softly in the night. The young lord peered out into the water, even if he could only see the once part that was reflected by the moonlight. It flowed up and down, hills and vallies that moved in lines. 

 

"It's quite cold." A gentle voice rang out from behind him, the soft boot-steps causing the wood to shift and creek. They paused, watching the young man as the sat upon the edge of the dock, his head not yet turning to greet theirs.

 

"Et Es." He spoke, looking up from the dark waters before shifting, head twisting back to watch the the dark figure now looming a few feet behind him. Having been put out long before, no lantern light illuminated the form as they stood to the side. Despite the bitterness on the breeze, Borris did not shiver. Rather, he found himself warmed a bit. "Vy are late, as alvays." 

 

"As you always say." The person spoke, their voice somewhat haunting in the stil night. They stepped forward, not that the person infront of them could tell. "What is tonight's topic of discussion, my Lord Kortrevich." 

 

"Life, death, time. Same as alvays." Borris turned back out to the shapeless void infront of him. He had been sitting her for many minutes- or perhaps it had been a few hours. He figited with his hands, a soft exhale exsuding from his cracked lips. "Never ever slows down." He continued with a simple tone. "Seems to move at blazing speeds, forgetting all those who do not choose to move a fast."

 

"I do not think so, Lord Kortrevich. Time, often, seems as if it is at a standstill, never moving, making those who linger wait an eternity." He figure would move closer, a motion that brought them nearly ontop of the young man. "Time moves at the pace we do. When it goes fast, maybe it is just because we are doing things that don't allow us to notice. When it goes slow, maybe it is just because we are waiting for something to happen, so time is on our mind."

 

"Perhaps." Borris muttered, still looking out onto the waters. His head turned as the faintest hint of light creeped over the horizon. Just like that, all was still and the Lord Kortrevich was alone again with nothing but his thoughts and imaginations. "Nothing remains for all shall fall into ruin."

 

Perhaps Borris Iver Kortrevich was going mad or perhaps there really had been someone behind him. Either way, his mind continued to drift off as he stared out at the abyss.