#broten

Goten loved the sea. It was an undeniable truth sewn into his body, for his family had built their entire life upon it. His father was a famous, respected sailor in the country who was beloved by lords and publicans alike, smiled upon others, cheered for his endeavours and adventures he had endured for the sake of the village—the bakers made sure they always had the warmest of buns and pies in the morning, the farmers gifted them vegetables just ripped from the soil. For forty years he had fed the townsfolk, and before him his own father had hauled fish into the city for just as long. Goten, just like the rest of his family, liked fishing. He never kept track of the hours spent before the still surface, sitting in the boat, watching the water toy with the birds on the horizon. They dipped too close, split their small beaks in search of supper, then fled when the sea struck back. Goten looked down at his hands—there were marked by deep scars, carved by twine when he pulled heavy fish from the depths. The rope burned when it cut, but he never let go. Pain was part of the work, as ordinary as salt on the skin, as expected as the pull of the tide. Goten lived a good life. His family had never known poverty. All the children were strong, their skin sun-kissed and marked by the rays of warmth in the late mornings—his neck, always bare, was freckled with small, harmless spots.