Rhyan looked across the sea, the night was calm and cool. Most of the crew were sleeping; Rhyan had given his first mate the night off, he liked being on the prow of the Freedom, he had grown accustom to her very quickly. There was not a sound barring the flutter of the sails, the lapping of the sea on the hull of the ship. The others on deck also appreciated the silence, so any order was spoken softly. Each man enjoyed his thoughts. And still Rhyan looked out.
His had idly reached into a pouch on his belt and from it he pulled what appeared to be a handkerchief. Rhyan ran his fingers across it, taking in the feel of the cloth. He opened it out and looked at it. The cloth was unadorned saved for a red 'L' encompassed by a ring.
'Where are you?'
Rhyan looked around, fearing that any of the crew may have heard him. The only souls awake on board were up at the tiller. Through the darkness a figure waved down to Rhyan. Rhyan waved back.
'Not falling asleep are we, Father?'
The last word was not meant in any way as a term of offence. The crew of the Freedom saw Rhyan as an older father figure. Still the word tugged at Rhyan's soul. But with a commanding voice Rhyan called back:
'You'll be picking barnacles from the Hull for a week because of that, Johansson!'
Rhyan chuckled as he heard both the groan of disapproval, and the quiet mocking laughter of the others up with Johansson.
'Father'
This time Rhyan heard the word again, not from behind, but from within!
'Father...Tell me about Lord Corvus!?! Father, tell about your travels! Father Uncle Amos is doing his trick again...Father...Father'
Rhyan groaned. And looked again at the cloth. Damning himself for leaving on that day! The day was clear in his mind, there was a cool breeze in the air, and the sky was a mackerel's back, promising good weather. Rhyan bid his farewells, expecting to return after only six days. His thoughts were of his sons, the eldest wanting to travel with his father and his 'Uncles' to the court of Lord Corvus among the lords and lieges of the other factions.
'You would not like it Laoch Òg! Too much politics. Wait a year; wait until you have more patience with you. Besides would you like to listen to old men talk about land and war?'
'I've put up with Amos and Chareos!'
With a gentle slap that mussed his son's hair, Rhyan added.
'Not all these men will be like those two. Don't listen to them; they're a bad influence. Look at what they have ME doing! Now run back home, your mother will need a strong arm to hew the wood for the fire. And a man about the house to deal with the youngsters. I'll be back before the week.'
The next image that came to the forefront in Rhyan's mind was the walls. Those walls that Rhyan counted as his prison, and probably his tomb. He grew to loathe the walls very quickly, and from deep within his bitterness grew. Bitter and anger were all the Rhyan knew for a decade, for he was constantly reminded of all that he hated! The walls and that damned Red Tide that arrived as regular as the tide each and every summer.
At first Rhyan even thought he hated the people too, for he would often snap at those around him. For that he felt sorry, ten years those simple people had put up with his foul humour and dark moods. Amos often suggested bedding some of the women. They were only children to Rhyan, and always he thought of that autumn in Erin!
Again the time wound back for Rhyan. Back to a time when the trees were golden brown as the leaves began to fall; the setting sun turned the lake into molten gold. Everything about then was golden. Louise wore a simple yellow tunic, with buckskin boots, and her blonde hair fell about her shoulders. Rhyan was so caught up in the view and spectacle of it all that he almost ignored the words of the Ritualist
'...And in the eyes of the ancestor, and before the gathered friends and witnesses, do you, Rhyan, promise to cherish this woman as your wife and mate? Never to leave her, never to scorn her, always to hold and protect her?'
'YES! Always!' Rhyan did not take his eyes of his wife. 'Never shall I mislead you. Always shall I love you, my little Realtìne.'
'And with this cord I bind your hands. The hands of man and wife, the hands of friends, the hands of lovers. This cord shall signify the bond between you, never cut this cord, and never lose it lest your coupling fail, and ye shall be stricken barren! But go now with gentler words, go now with my happiness for you both, and the good wishes of those around you.'
The memory faded with the raucous cheers of all present. Rhyan wiped a tear from his eye. He shook his head clear of the thoughts, trying to bring himself back to the present.
'No use crying about the past' Rhyan whispered to himself. 'Its gone, let the memories lie.'
Rhyan put the cloth away, but not before one last affectionate look at it. He cleared his throat and looked out over the horizon. There was the telltale pale yellow shimmer the heralded the coming of the dawn. Silence still lay about the ship; it was not yet time for the change of crew. Rhyan enjoyed the short time left to himself before the normal daily routine began.
Rhyan let his mind wander once again, this time to the place that he had called prison for so long. And the people that he for so long he called his tormentors. At first they were nothing but children to him. Children playing at soldiers! Little boys and girls who wanted to be heroes.
'Foolish old man, they were as much prisoners as you thought you were!' Rhyan muttered.
For so long he had scorned them, and for what reason? Rhyan did not know why? All he felt was the pain of isolation as the weeks grew into months and the months into years. Amos, Madra and Chareos were his friends and companions, but he did not feel the desire to hold them close, nor bed them. Rhyan only longed for four people, Louise and his children.
'Children!' Rhyan snorted, but his tone eased to a whisper. 'The ones I wanted, I could not reach! The ones I didn't, I could not leave!'
Rhyan shook his head. Questioning himself as to why he had said that? For more and more he had begun to see them as peers and no longer as the children as he saw them once. And sure he had at times despised the Armengarians for all his trouble and woes but he began to see them as a family. Not his family but people he could stand being around. And despite his ill temper, he could not help but be taken in by the 'children'. And indeed Rhyan had taken a shine to some of them, infact one in particular. Rhyan smiled at this fact. For although he saw him as a son, Rhyan had still kept his foul temper up at all times except when alone in his chambers.
Another memory took hold of Rhyan's thoughts. And all around him were the calls and cries of battle. The Calebii were marching forward and had begun their attacks. During a fierce mêlée, Rhyan had been fighting away, his mind wandered as it usually did, to a nicer place. Leaving his body to fight, and if it failed, Rhyan's mind would be away from the pain of death and would eventually find its way to the ancestors. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy he secretly called son fighting a Caleb, but unaware of another circling behind him. Without thought Rhyan sprang over and swung his hammer with full force. The Caleb died, but the force of the blow shattered to the shaft of Rhyan's hammer. Without weapon he had to grapple his next opponent, but not before the Caleb pierced the armour under his armour.
Rhyan idly rubbed at the scar, it ached as the weather changed. Again he smiled, as he knew the boy had not seen the Caleb, or Rhyan behind him. The young man lingered in Rhyan's mind; he remembered the questions he had been asked. And they reminded him of his son.
'They're the same!' Rhyan laughed. 'At the same age one is a boy, the other a man, like me a father. But they would enjoy each others company.'
Rhyan chuckled again, the smile quickly faded from his lips as he remembered the last question he was asked, the last piece of advice that was sought. Rhyan thought that his new son had grown up, and was leaving. Rhyan, although spending less and less time in Armengar, would miss him. He had grown quite fond of him.
'Fare thee well, young Praetorian. Fare thee well!' Rhyan whispered, the wind taking his words.
'CAPTAIN! LAND HO!'
Rhyan was alert, scanned the horizons and got his bearings. The sun was up and the crew was about its business.
'To Starboard! To Lantia we sail!'
Rhyan strode to the tiller to oversee the changing of the crew. Already, the memories of the night were put back into their place, for the Freedom needed her captain, and not an old man reminiscing about times gone by.
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