The Man and The Sea

[wooz 388]

 

Spoiler

[!] Contents of a journal. Not IRP accessible. 

 

Page 1 (Day 1:)

 

I spent the last 3 days tying logs and sticks on the beach at home. It was almost ready, all I needed was my journal. I grabbed my journal, headed out to the beach and I tied Bodakur's stones to my waist as tight as I could. The raft was ready. 

 

I pushed the raft into the slow waves licking the sands. Crawling onto it was a pain, but I managed. It was just for a week. A week to prove my worth. To make something of myself. I could handle that, I'll show them all.

 

I watched home fade away as the currents washed me away. They were faster than I anticipated. But there's nothing I can do about that now. Just a week. Just. A. Week. A week is doable. I have entertainment and my mind. I can do this.

 

Page 2-4 (Day 2:)

 

The sun woke me up. Hot and suffocating. Nothing I can’t manage, I resided in that furnace of a volcano for years anyway. Speaking of, I wonder what it’s like there now. I haven’t returned since I left that letter to Bodakur in front of his ruins. I’d rather not return either. Not until this is all done.

 

I guess I’ll sit and think for most of today. 

 

Maybe I will write a new book about drive. I haven’t written a book in forever.

 

Pain is the motivation of all things, the big mover. The impetus of Man, one could say. The drive of Man is a constant strife and struggle to see self-serving goals made manifest. Canonist belief, National determination, just being, living. Take your pick. They are all the same when stripped of their contextual meaning.

 

Or perhaps, the meaning is what gives it the motivation? One needs not worry about the enemy and their beliefs, if they’re the same or not when yours are supreme. Dreadful. I regret even starting. 

 

I’ll work on it later. I have time. Not that it would help. I am a dreadful writer.

 

The clouds in the distance are a bit worrying. But I should be fine. It’s the wind that’s a problem right now. It’s blowing my hair in my eyes and making the waves horrendous. 

 

The waves and wind make it hard to write and think sometimes. I thought the sea was supposed to be calming? Put a shell to your ear and hear the waves. It’s been more troublesome than it has been relaxing. The sun is going down and the clouds on the horizon are making it harder to see my writing.

 

(The writing for these pages would be substantially more jagged and sloppy.) Page 5 (Day 3-4:)

 

It rained. Correction, raining, it’s raining. I woke up with my body almost half in the writhing sea. Any later and I would’ve rolled myself to my death. It’s petulant, annoying and terribly, terribly busy. 

 

Busy, busy, busy. Bump, bump, bump. The waves and winds, and the rain, oh, the rain is never ending, it is terribly annoying and stressful. I am wet, I am cold, I am hungry. But hunger can wait, I have to survive, and persevere. Persistence is the key here. 

 

I will write when something important happens.

 

The rain has not let up for hours, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I am shivering and cold. I’ve been rubbing my hands together and blowing into them for some warmth. But there is no warmth that stays from that. I saw a whale though, what a glorious thing it is. 

Maybe I am like a whale. Surviving in this tumultuous sea.

 

Page 6-7 (Day 4-5:)

 

I will say that it is quite nice today. Calm waters and the sun is out. Drifting slowly forwards. Ever forwards. Or maybe back? Who knows, I don’t. It’s of little interest to me where this raft goes. As long as I live and make it back. I have to make it back. 

 

Making it back means opportunity. Chance, making Bodakur proud. Staying means death. 

 

Red waters, Gold waters. Little of it matters now. I’ve read my fill of Asioth, I don’t need anymore of it. I gave an eye just to taste it. I gave my mind for it too. 

 

Maybe that is its purpose, to drive one mad in its labyrinth of “self” and “thought.” I consider, or maybe considered, myself a man of thought. But promise a man that he is his own God? Give them the keys to salvation through the search of attaining “Asioth,” the Self is paramount, the paradigm. I have killed a man and who are you to say I am wrong for I am God. 

 

A God drunk off the ambrosia that they can never be wrong because Morality is nothing but a sham made to inhibit your inhibitions for a God that is absent. The ambrosia of their own making, one sip and forever you are drunk. But you are God, and since you are God you make the world, and if you make the world then you can do whatever you want in it. 

 

Can one not see how that would drive a man mad? 

 

Or are they, too, drunk off their own ambrosia like the rest of us?

 

An eye lost for it. To understand it. I have come to peace with it, I do not need the eye back. Nor do I regret giving it. I am writing as if anyone else is going to read it. It’s cathartic, so why do I care? 

 

Anyway, it’s a pleasant day. I am going to take it easy and sleep.

 

 

Another day has come. I can see a tiny spot in the distance. Maybe it is land, maybe it is not. It has almost been a week. It is almost over. I wonder if the war is still going on? How many years has it been going on now? Seven? Eight? Longer? I’m not keeping count. 

 

I’d like to see what comes of it though, mayhaps. Granted that is if I live long enough to see it end. I will, though. I have to. I have to keep moving forward until I make it there. I will see it, and many other things.

 

That is all for today.

 

Page 8 (Day 6-7:)

 

The dot on the horizon is getting closer, and with it a bit colder. That at least tells me that it is land. I will make it, and with it I will see that the smugness is wiped off his face. I have lived, and I have persisted, and I have persevered. No one can say that I have no worth now. That I am not strong. I have conquered the sea. Unforgiving and maleficent. But I lived. 

 

With this I’ve secured my spot in eternity. For eternity I will live and for eternity I will carry the memory of You. I will put you back together, and maybe, just maybe, you will wake up and see me. How I cannot wait for that day when you can see me and say you are proud of me.

 

Proud of me. I will make sure of it. That day will come.

 

Then there will be nothing but Days, never ending. 

 

Never. Ending.

 

And we, together, will talk for days. Share our stories. 

 

But that is for the future. I am not there yet, I still have a day to make it to land. I will see it done. For myself and for him. 

 

For today I will try with all my power to hold myself on this path. I will see the land again.

 

It has been a few hours, it’s gotten darker and closer, the land is getting. I can make out the forest on its shore. I recognize it as somewhere close to the north of Aevos. It is taking me everything to hold back my jubilation. For that will raise my hubris and then I, like always, will make a mistake and be back at square one. Or dead. 

 

I can’t have that.

 

 

It is the final day. In a few hours, I will be back on land. Closer it gets, taunting me. Closer, closer, and closer, ever closer. I wonder if Balian ever got wind of my murder? Hopefully not, and if so hopefully it is blown over now. 

 

That’s not my problem anymore. Just keep my eyes forward. To the end, it is over, and it is no longer something that needs to be done. Just forward now. Ever forward. Condemnable fool that I am, I will see this done, and the rest. 

 

I deserve a long rest after this, but I doubt I’ll be granted that. Respite is not something I am often granted. Well, I’ll soon have all of eternity for that. So I can wait however much longer.  

 

I landed. The cold shores of the forests near Talar’nor. Or is it considered Celia’nor? Whichever it is. I am back, where it all began. I will make my way back down to the south and see this through. 

 

 

You better be waiting for me when I get back, Hiroto.

[rukio 8910]

A particular bundle of stone that Median had carried so often was taken on this journey. When it felt difficult there was a warmth to the elf's marks, though without pain. While he could not speak and though he could only dream, Bodakur was with his herald. He would always be with his herald on this path.