Owl Knight
Don't let it ruffle your feathers, my liege.
This was originally going to be a little character study on a new OC I've been working up, but it turned into a whole chapter of something.
Aleric's feet were bare, his goatskin sandals abandoned on the flat rocks high above the cliff ace he now scaled nimbly, with all the concern of a seabird. His toes and long dexterous fingers found a familiar path down the jagged tumble of great black rocks that poured down into the southern sea. The salt breeze toyed merrily with the unruly swoop of red curls he was ever brushing away from his sea blue eyes. The boy seemed almost a part of the island, a being composed of the shifting sand, beach grass, and deep waters.
It took him little time to reach the bottom of the black rocks. He had made the climb many times before, and in poorer weather than the balmy spring morning now offered up to him like some beautiful promise. Shelea was waiting at the bottom, as she had promised. She, of course, had not climbed the rocks to their secret grotto, nestled amid the rocks, but had come along the shore from the west, her basket of mussels, harvested as she had come along the stony western shore amid the tide pools, tucked under one arm as she watched Aleric leap the five feet from the top of the last rock onto the soft sand below, a smile of triumph on his lips.
"One day," she said, reprovingly, "you'll slip and break your neck." Aleric smiled and reached out to select one of the mussels from her basket.
"Will you sing the mourning song when they push me out to see in my burial barge?" He asked, with a grin. She struck at his probing hand with a huff.
"Mothers and wives sing the mourning song," she said, "and I'm certainly neither of those." She turned, and set off along the narrow strip of shore that skirted the rocks. He followed after, relishing the feeling of warm sand between his bare toes.
Around the black rocks they came upon their secret place; a small grotto, sheltered from the north wind by two of the large boulders that leaned against one another, forming a tall depression in the chaos of the stones. Beyond the mouth of this little hideaway the sand street he'd down to the rolling blue free of the sea, stretching out to the end of the world.
They settled down as they had often before during these heady days when spring chills gave way to the warmth of summer. When they had first discovered the grotto in their youthful exploration beyond the village, he had been ten, and she just two seasons his junior. There had been more then as well, Avrin, the fisherman's son who was swept overboard in a storm just a few seasons ago, Della and Murag, Sharsea's brother and sister, older than Aleric by a few years. Della was wed now, and Murag worked the docks with his father, helping the fishermen bring in their loads.
It was just the two of them that came to the grotto now, and they were no longer ten. He was two seasons past fifteen now, and she, still two seasons his junior.
He reached into his belt and pulled out a short bladed knife. The edge was far from sharp, but all he needed was the hard point. He helped himself to a mussel from the basket, Shlsea did not protest. He worked the tip of the knife slowly through the edge where the two shells met and pried it open.
The raw mussle tasted rich and salty as the sea. He swallowed it whole and reached for another.
"Don't be greedy," she insisted. "Mother will suspect something if I'm at the shoals too long and don't have any mussle to show for my trouble."
"I'll help you gather some before we leave," he promised as he pried open the second shell.
She drew up her knees and held them with her arms, watching as a grey winged sea bird circled out above the shallows before diving down and springing back up with a small silver fish glinting in its beak. Aleric was not watching the bird. His eyes were drawn to the black curls that she had tucked back behind one ear. Lately he had begun to wonder what it might feel like to run his fingers through those curls. He had thought on more than one occasion that if he had the chance, he would become entangled and he would never be able to let go. As though she felt his eyes on her she turned and met his stare. He darted his eye up and away towards the clouds gathering above the horizon, but he could feel the heat of embarrassment on his neck like a fisherman's burn.
"Mother says Della's baby will be born within the month," she said. "Under the sign of Yanach if the timing is right."
"The fisher-god," he laughed, taking one of the mussel shells and rolling it between his fingers. "That should please her." Sharsea stifled a laugh. She was watching him now, he could tell, but he wasn't able to meet her gaze. He gazed contemplstvely down at the sand and stones between them and saw that she had slipped off her shoes and was resting her bare feet in the soft sand. The hem of her skirt drew up and he could just see the shape of her leg. He had been thinking quite a bit about the shape of her legs as of late, and the other shapes he had begun to notice when the wind caught her dress in just such a way.
"Ethred came to visit my father yesterday," she said. Aleric's face was still as the black stone above their heads. He laid the knife in the basket beside the mussels and reached down to select one of the small wind ground rocks from the sand. He toyed with it idly.
"What did he want? " he asked, feeling something as hard as the pebble rising in his throat.
"He's been building his own boat," she said. "I heard Murag talking about it. Ethred and his brother are going to start running trade to Elga."
"Is that what he wanted to talk to your father about?" Aleric asked. He cocked back his arm and the pebble launched out to the edge of the water where it landed with a splash. Sharsea was quiet for a long time.
"I think he intends to ask for my hand," she said. Her words sounded flat, as if she were measuring each one with a trader's scale. Aleric did not respond, but probed in the sand for another pebble. He could feel that heat on the back of his neck again, but it wasn't embarrassment now, but something else, a sickly feeling that made him want to get up and run full tilt along the coast until his feet gave out.
"It wouldn't be so bad," she said, "Being a trader's wife. He wouldn't come home smelling like fish. I swear, Della lost her sense of smell the day she and Uther bound the knot. And I've heard the dock at Elga sometimes get spices from the south, or rare stones from Bremmerlund..." Aleric sent another pebble whizzing into the water. Sharsea took up the knife and one of the mussels from the basket.
"It's young, isn't it," Aleric said, starring off at the horizon as if his gaze might bore a hole into the heart of the sea. "Fifteen is young to be a wife." He wasn't looking at her, but he could feel her scowl.
"My mother was sixteen years when she and my father bound the knot," she said. "Besides, it wouldn't be right away. Ethred has no cottage yet. But if he can start trading he could afford to buy the land from King Craddock."
"If he doesn't drink his profits first," Aleric said, rising and brushing sand from his knees. Her scowl was almost palpable now, if his neck wasn't already burning with that restless feeling that refused to subside, her gaze would have charred the skin there. She jabbed the tip of the knife into the mussel shell and began to pry it open.
She let out a shocked gasp and Aleric heard the mussel drop to the sand. He turned quickly and saw her still gripping the dull knife in one hand and holding the other up as a rivulet of blood ran down from her fair hand to her wrist. The blade had slipped and gouged deep into the flesh of her palm.
Aleric was kneeling beside her in an instant, taking her injured hand in his own. She cringed at his touch for a moment, but as he closed his palm over the welling cut, blood dripping between his fingers, she met his gaze.
"Hold still," he said. His eyes closed and he drew in a long deep breath. The sound of the surf and wind seemed to fill the grotto as they held those position in silence. The red haired youth drew deep breaths, his nostrils flaring with each inhalation and releasing in warm rushes from his open mouth. He seemed almost to be breathing in rhythm with the sea, but Sharsea could feel his hands shaking.
At last he gasped and opened his eyes, his hand still clutching hers firmly. She did not pulled away, but remained there, staring transfixed into those eyes that seemed to move like waters in the deep of the sea. At last he unfolded her hand from his own and, though still smeared with blood, a fine white line barely distinguishable from the skin of her hand was all that remained of the deep gash the tip of the knife had left.
Aleric's shoulders rose and fell as he caught his beath.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice heavy with concern. "Do you need to lay down?" the boy shook his head.
"No," he said between breaths. "No, it wasn't that hard. It's been... It's been getting easier to do it."
She stared down in wonder at the faint scar. She had seen him do his mending trick before during their childhood excursions to the shore, but it never ceased to amaze her. When they were young, he would attend the minor cuts and scrapes they received scrambling over rocks on the western shore, but on those days he would often need to lay in the shade of the grotto for hours while the rest of them played in the shallows.
"I helped my mother tend to that trader a few months ago," he said, "The one that they brought ashore with the infected leg wound. It took some doing, but I was able to break the fever and even cure some of the infection. Enough that my mother's poltice was able to take care of the rest. She told me I was asleep for nearly a day and a half afterwards. " He sat back in the sand with a satisfied grin on his face, though he looked a bit ashen for her taste.
"You never told me," she said softly.
"Mother said I should keep it secret," he said. "I'm sorry I did, but she was so worried afterwards. I don't know what she's so afraid of. If I can get better at it, maybe... Maybe I could help people on the island. People who are sick or hurt. Even on the other islands, Lygan or Elga..."
He paused then, words falling away just before they could reach his lips.
"Maybe," he said slowly, "Maybe I... I could talk to him, to your father and..." but Sharsea's eyes were no longer on the youth's erstwhile face, but on the horizon behind him and they were filled with rising alarm.
Aleric turned to follow her eyeline and, for the third time that morning, he felt heat spread across his neck. For moving along the horizon like an adder in the grass was a line of three long low ships, born towards the western coast by full red sails.
"Warships!"
Aleric's feet were bare, his goatskin sandals abandoned on the flat rocks high above the cliff ace he now scaled nimbly, with all the concern of a seabird. His toes and long dexterous fingers found a familiar path down the jagged tumble of great black rocks that poured down into the southern sea. The salt breeze toyed merrily with the unruly swoop of red curls he was ever brushing away from his sea blue eyes. The boy seemed almost a part of the island, a being composed of the shifting sand, beach grass, and deep waters.
It took him little time to reach the bottom of the black rocks. He had made the climb many times before, and in poorer weather than the balmy spring morning now offered up to him like some beautiful promise. Shelea was waiting at the bottom, as she had promised. She, of course, had not climbed the rocks to their secret grotto, nestled amid the rocks, but had come along the shore from the west, her basket of mussels, harvested as she had come along the stony western shore amid the tide pools, tucked under one arm as she watched Aleric leap the five feet from the top of the last rock onto the soft sand below, a smile of triumph on his lips.
"One day," she said, reprovingly, "you'll slip and break your neck." Aleric smiled and reached out to select one of the mussels from her basket.
"Will you sing the mourning song when they push me out to see in my burial barge?" He asked, with a grin. She struck at his probing hand with a huff.
"Mothers and wives sing the mourning song," she said, "and I'm certainly neither of those." She turned, and set off along the narrow strip of shore that skirted the rocks. He followed after, relishing the feeling of warm sand between his bare toes.
Around the black rocks they came upon their secret place; a small grotto, sheltered from the north wind by two of the large boulders that leaned against one another, forming a tall depression in the chaos of the stones. Beyond the mouth of this little hideaway the sand street he'd down to the rolling blue free of the sea, stretching out to the end of the world.
They settled down as they had often before during these heady days when spring chills gave way to the warmth of summer. When they had first discovered the grotto in their youthful exploration beyond the village, he had been ten, and she just two seasons his junior. There had been more then as well, Avrin, the fisherman's son who was swept overboard in a storm just a few seasons ago, Della and Murag, Sharsea's brother and sister, older than Aleric by a few years. Della was wed now, and Murag worked the docks with his father, helping the fishermen bring in their loads.
It was just the two of them that came to the grotto now, and they were no longer ten. He was two seasons past fifteen now, and she, still two seasons his junior.
He reached into his belt and pulled out a short bladed knife. The edge was far from sharp, but all he needed was the hard point. He helped himself to a mussel from the basket, Shlsea did not protest. He worked the tip of the knife slowly through the edge where the two shells met and pried it open.
The raw mussle tasted rich and salty as the sea. He swallowed it whole and reached for another.
"Don't be greedy," she insisted. "Mother will suspect something if I'm at the shoals too long and don't have any mussle to show for my trouble."
"I'll help you gather some before we leave," he promised as he pried open the second shell.
She drew up her knees and held them with her arms, watching as a grey winged sea bird circled out above the shallows before diving down and springing back up with a small silver fish glinting in its beak. Aleric was not watching the bird. His eyes were drawn to the black curls that she had tucked back behind one ear. Lately he had begun to wonder what it might feel like to run his fingers through those curls. He had thought on more than one occasion that if he had the chance, he would become entangled and he would never be able to let go. As though she felt his eyes on her she turned and met his stare. He darted his eye up and away towards the clouds gathering above the horizon, but he could feel the heat of embarrassment on his neck like a fisherman's burn.
"Mother says Della's baby will be born within the month," she said. "Under the sign of Yanach if the timing is right."
"The fisher-god," he laughed, taking one of the mussel shells and rolling it between his fingers. "That should please her." Sharsea stifled a laugh. She was watching him now, he could tell, but he wasn't able to meet her gaze. He gazed contemplstvely down at the sand and stones between them and saw that she had slipped off her shoes and was resting her bare feet in the soft sand. The hem of her skirt drew up and he could just see the shape of her leg. He had been thinking quite a bit about the shape of her legs as of late, and the other shapes he had begun to notice when the wind caught her dress in just such a way.
"Ethred came to visit my father yesterday," she said. Aleric's face was still as the black stone above their heads. He laid the knife in the basket beside the mussels and reached down to select one of the small wind ground rocks from the sand. He toyed with it idly.
"What did he want? " he asked, feeling something as hard as the pebble rising in his throat.
"He's been building his own boat," she said. "I heard Murag talking about it. Ethred and his brother are going to start running trade to Elga."
"Is that what he wanted to talk to your father about?" Aleric asked. He cocked back his arm and the pebble launched out to the edge of the water where it landed with a splash. Sharsea was quiet for a long time.
"I think he intends to ask for my hand," she said. Her words sounded flat, as if she were measuring each one with a trader's scale. Aleric did not respond, but probed in the sand for another pebble. He could feel that heat on the back of his neck again, but it wasn't embarrassment now, but something else, a sickly feeling that made him want to get up and run full tilt along the coast until his feet gave out.
"It wouldn't be so bad," she said, "Being a trader's wife. He wouldn't come home smelling like fish. I swear, Della lost her sense of smell the day she and Uther bound the knot. And I've heard the dock at Elga sometimes get spices from the south, or rare stones from Bremmerlund..." Aleric sent another pebble whizzing into the water. Sharsea took up the knife and one of the mussels from the basket.
"It's young, isn't it," Aleric said, starring off at the horizon as if his gaze might bore a hole into the heart of the sea. "Fifteen is young to be a wife." He wasn't looking at her, but he could feel her scowl.
"My mother was sixteen years when she and my father bound the knot," she said. "Besides, it wouldn't be right away. Ethred has no cottage yet. But if he can start trading he could afford to buy the land from King Craddock."
"If he doesn't drink his profits first," Aleric said, rising and brushing sand from his knees. Her scowl was almost palpable now, if his neck wasn't already burning with that restless feeling that refused to subside, her gaze would have charred the skin there. She jabbed the tip of the knife into the mussel shell and began to pry it open.
She let out a shocked gasp and Aleric heard the mussel drop to the sand. He turned quickly and saw her still gripping the dull knife in one hand and holding the other up as a rivulet of blood ran down from her fair hand to her wrist. The blade had slipped and gouged deep into the flesh of her palm.
Aleric was kneeling beside her in an instant, taking her injured hand in his own. She cringed at his touch for a moment, but as he closed his palm over the welling cut, blood dripping between his fingers, she met his gaze.
"Hold still," he said. His eyes closed and he drew in a long deep breath. The sound of the surf and wind seemed to fill the grotto as they held those position in silence. The red haired youth drew deep breaths, his nostrils flaring with each inhalation and releasing in warm rushes from his open mouth. He seemed almost to be breathing in rhythm with the sea, but Sharsea could feel his hands shaking.
At last he gasped and opened his eyes, his hand still clutching hers firmly. She did not pulled away, but remained there, staring transfixed into those eyes that seemed to move like waters in the deep of the sea. At last he unfolded her hand from his own and, though still smeared with blood, a fine white line barely distinguishable from the skin of her hand was all that remained of the deep gash the tip of the knife had left.
Aleric's shoulders rose and fell as he caught his beath.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice heavy with concern. "Do you need to lay down?" the boy shook his head.
"No," he said between breaths. "No, it wasn't that hard. It's been... It's been getting easier to do it."
She stared down in wonder at the faint scar. She had seen him do his mending trick before during their childhood excursions to the shore, but it never ceased to amaze her. When they were young, he would attend the minor cuts and scrapes they received scrambling over rocks on the western shore, but on those days he would often need to lay in the shade of the grotto for hours while the rest of them played in the shallows.
"I helped my mother tend to that trader a few months ago," he said, "The one that they brought ashore with the infected leg wound. It took some doing, but I was able to break the fever and even cure some of the infection. Enough that my mother's poltice was able to take care of the rest. She told me I was asleep for nearly a day and a half afterwards. " He sat back in the sand with a satisfied grin on his face, though he looked a bit ashen for her taste.
"You never told me," she said softly.
"Mother said I should keep it secret," he said. "I'm sorry I did, but she was so worried afterwards. I don't know what she's so afraid of. If I can get better at it, maybe... Maybe I could help people on the island. People who are sick or hurt. Even on the other islands, Lygan or Elga..."
He paused then, words falling away just before they could reach his lips.
"Maybe," he said slowly, "Maybe I... I could talk to him, to your father and..." but Sharsea's eyes were no longer on the youth's erstwhile face, but on the horizon behind him and they were filled with rising alarm.
Aleric turned to follow her eyeline and, for the third time that morning, he felt heat spread across his neck. For moving along the horizon like an adder in the grass was a line of three long low ships, born towards the western coast by full red sails.
"Warships!"
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