Vercingtorix finds there is a cruel irony to his nightmares; it is one he begrudgingly laughs at, because there is no other choice. He dreams of seasickness. He dreams of his voyage to Novus and how the fear of the sea is so deeply ingrained in his being that he could not sleep for days at a time. He thinks of how the waves had bucked and kicked and made him wonder what it felt like to sink, and drown. He thinks again and again how humorous the irony is: the war leaders of his people believe they will become seafarers, voyagers, as they had once been.
But their prodigal son cannot sleep because he dreams of rocking boats and high tide. In its own way, this is how he meets Al’Zahra. Vercingtorix wanders at night and in his wanderings he encounters a simple bay woman with an even simpler gold chain. She asks passage to an island. She has heard he has been seeking employment, and is only the Old Gods’ humour that ensures she asks for the most difficult thing he could imagine.
He takes it as the Old Gods laughing. He takes it to mean that he must not fear this thing, or it will destroy him.
Vercingtorix does not deny her request, however. There is something tantalising about the idea of adventure, and the simplicity of it! It is absurd to Vercingtorix that, in this foreign world, a man can travel to an island as if the water is not cursed! And perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps that is the only reason Locust’s ship docks in the harbour of Denocte, and he finds himself waiting at the end of that same dock with a rented vessel. Vercingtorix stares at the surrender-white sail and tries not to think of it torn and blood-stained; he tries not to imagine it capsized. In the very act of attempting not think of the thing, he is forced to think of it, and he stamps his hoof in exasperation. It is just large enough for the two of them and, perhaps, limited cargo. Vercingtorix has provisions for several days onboard already, and he has been up for nights relearning the art of sailing. It is not so difficult, and despite his innate fear, he picks it up as easily as he does most trades.
He is there at daybreak, as they arranged. Vercingtorix waits patiently, quietly, observing as sailors emerge from their ships to begin the day’s routine. Despite the discomfort his nearness to the sea brings, the early light is beautiful and crisp as mint. His homeland never possessed the clear, bright air he finds in Denocte, once the woodsmoke has blown out by the sea. There is a newness to it, a hesitant and fledgling promise, ecstatic and eager-eyed as if just waking up. It reminds him of what it feels like—
No, don’t think it—
It reminds him of what it feels like—
No, stop—
It reminds him of what it feels like—
Why—?
to be in love.
The thought floods him with metallic bitterness. He feels sharp as a blade, rough as a goathead’s caltrop seed. It digs. It bites. It sticks.
What would you look for in a lover he had breathed against Vercingtorix’s neck.
Toughness, he replied. Toughness and brutal beauty. Passion; compassion. The ability to make me laugh.
He thinks of, despite himself—
Brilliant crimson eyes; like blood in clear water. Bright, like this morning is bright. Do I make you feel those things?
Yes.
He inhales sharply as the saltwater sprays in a fine mist against his face. He jerks his head up, and in doing so he finds himself face-to-face with the bay mare.
Al’Zahra.
Vercingtorix’s expression softens; he offers a roguish, apologetic smile. “You caught me daydreaming.”
That is one word for it. It is not the right word for it. "Are you ready, my lady..." he accentuates it, dramatically, moving aside so she has room in their boat. "... for adventure?"
He wonders what they will find.
But he can only think of all the beaches he has ever known.
Bright red. The sea churning up with blood and bone. Black, and demanding a toll for life.
