#ethysil

Three days later, the permanent crew of the Runaway Scamp crammed themselves into Casethar's cornerclub atop the hill. The last of the daylight clung to the walls long after the rest of Blacklight fell into darkness and shone on the river until it burned. The name Firewater for the club had been well chosen. Before anyone could settle in with a glass of its other namesake, however, R'khan stood up on the bar. Although the wood was still gleaming, untouched since the day of Hazil's wake, Casethar didn't bat an eye at the boots scuffing across it. He had an arm around Vilayn's shoulders and seemed oblivious to anything else, least of all the sailors sneaking towards the bottles on the shelf.

'Hold yourselves, lads, I want you clear-headed for this.' R'khan paused, eyes settling on a cheerful, patient smile in the front row. 'Mr Braskan, what is Mistress Morinah doing here? I made it pretty damn clear that this'd be crew only.'

After a long silence, presumably spent hoping his captain would forget asking the direct question, a nudge from Morinah's elbow finally prompted Braskan to answer. He threw in a lazy salute as well, clearly hoping this would win him some favour from R'khan's stony face.

'Well, R'khan... there's this rumour, see, that ya's gonna ask us ta sail inta Oblivion, an' I might a' mentioned it ta Morinah. Only as a rumour, like, but she said if we was then mebbe she'd be useful, seein' as she works with all that Daedric shit.'

Everybody else in the room leaned forwards slightly while R’khan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Gossip spread through the crew faster than ataxia. It took the wind out of his sails somewhat, but then again, they had heard the rumour and turned up to the meeting anyway, which at least meant they hadn't dismissed the idea out of hand. He cleared his throat.

'I don't know how you does it, but you ain't far off. Most of you knows Farel Hazil, our own Mister Vilayn's husband, and his recent passing.' He paused, expecting Vilayn to flinch, or close his eyes, anything to show he was still alive, but no. Only stillness. 'And you also knows we can't go fishing every lost soul out of Oblivion, or wherever they ends up. But for reasons I ain't telling you 'cause it don't bloody concern you, this is different. Mister Ethysil believes that although the Oblivion Crisis sealed off paths from Oblivion to, ah--'

'Mundus,' supplied Ethysil, in an undertone. R'khan swept on as if he'd said the name himself.

'--there's still gates as go in the other direction, like the one Lord Seht used in 2920. There's reports of one underwater, out in the Sea of Ghosts, but with Ethys's magic and a bit of help from our... mutual friends, he believes we may be able to access it.'

He waited to see what effect his words would have. Perhaps he should have waited to make the announcement, let them get a good amount of the bar's contents down them before proposing such madness, but something had prevented him from doing so, in the knowledge that being tricked into an undertaking of this scale would kill their morale. Besides, he couldn't be alone. The years had been catching up to them recently, cold and relentless, and he knew no person could outrun them forever. Time and tide waited for no man.

So far the general attitude seemed cautiously positive. Most of the crew were talking amongst themselves, and there were heavy looks on all their faces, but only a few were glancing towards the door or outright scowling. One or two, most notably Braskan and Sham, were not excited, exactly, but already decided. They nodded unconsciously, settled, assured, eyes on their captain. Drasonval, sat beside them, seemed less certain, and as soon as the muttering died down he stuck a fist in the air.

‘What about getting back again?’ he asked. ‘Let’s say we find this gate, face whatever’s inside, and find what we’re looking for. How do we get home?’

R'khan stamped his foot on the counter until the whispers subsided.

‘You want the honest answer, Mister Drasonval? I don’t know. Could be a one-way trip to hell.’

‘Ya’s always sayin’ ya wants ta get away from th’wife,’ said Braskan. Somehow, faced with the prospect of his imminent doom, he still managed to maintain the lazy smirk. ‘Here ya go. Perfec’ chance.’

Before the exchange could develop into a scuffle or, even worse, a ruckus, R’khan kicked the counter again.

I came home to something very different after our last voyage. Not even Casethar waiting for me on the sea wall, and when I came home

when I came home

it was so quiet. Our little house. Sunshine filled the garden, autumn, late afternoon, sun on the bench which Sham helped Ethysil build so Hazil could sit outside. Cold inside, except for the sick room, which we never could keep as cool as Hazil wanted it.

That's where they were. In the sick room.  Casethar dragged me through the door and dropped me down beside the bed so I could see him and he could see me and everything went cold and grey, then hot and... a curious shade of orange, and then

He wasn't dead, but he was dying. I think he said my name. His lips were so dry it was hard to tell, but I kissed them anyway and held his hand and promised him I wouldn't leave and

Which brings me to what we knew was going to happen, really, from the moment we met him.

What do I say? What am I supposed to say?

I'll write it down, I said, but every time I think I'm ready to talk about it my hands start to shake and the ink goes everywhere and the parchment ends up too damp to write on. I can't light this damned hackle-lo without getting ash all over the desk. I want to go back. I want him back. I want to write him back into existence and I can't, I fucking can't.

The week after it happened is all in bits. I remember lying there holding his hand for hours (it was cold. It was so cold). I remember looking up and finding he was gone, because I'd fallen asleep and Casethar moved me into our bedroom. I remember staring at a bookcase when R'khan arrived to offer his condolences, but I don't remember saying anything. I remember my hands being too numb to fasten my sash on the morning of the funeral. I remember Casethar's hug hurting as he pushed his jaw against my head, pulled the bones of my shoulders into his chest. I remember a lot of hot soreness in my eyes, my chest, everywhere. I don't remember drinking but there are a lot of empty bottles around here and my head hurts so I think that happened too.

After all these fragmented images appeared and faded I was at the funeral. It was a nice evening. Warm air, purple sky. Dartwings in the firelight. The sort of evening we would have walked up the hill together. Ethysil said a few words and then so did everybody else. I had the violin, the painted one R'khan gave me on my wedding day, the one which sounded so beautiful it would have brought Lord Seht to tears, and I think they expected me to play it. I threw it on the pyre instead because how the fuck was I supposed to play in that situation? How do I ever play again?

And then I came back to a place which didn't feel like home any more, locked myself in here and picked up the quill. Now I know what it's like to lift a feather and find your energy drained. I know how he felt.

I can't go to sea again. I'm not sure I can go outside again, so my history of the Scamps ends here. I wish them well, whatever they find on the horizon, and thank them for all we did together.

I can't write any more, Hazil. I'm sorry.

.

.

.

Epilogue

'How is he?'

'Bad.'

'Can I talk to him? I think I can help.'

'You can try, but he won't listen. He doesn't want to hear any of it.'

'He might want to hear this.'

Vilayn stabbed at the parchment with the quill, blotting the page and upsetting the vase of stoneflower stalks. Before the water splashed onto the manuscript he swept it aside, letting every word fall to the floor, and picked up a new sheet to write on. His hand jerked angrily across the page.

fucking priests and their fucking bloody thrice damned words oh I'm sorry how awful how sad let me know if there's anything I can do think about all the good things he's safe now he's with the gods now isn't that lovely isn't that so fucking nice for them fuck that make them give him back he isn't theirs he's ours I want him back I want him back I want him back why can't any of them fucking do anything

There was a knock on the door. The nib of the quill ripped through the paper and scratched the desk below.

'Vilayn? It's Ethysil. I really want to talk to you. May I come in?'

'Fuck off.'

Silently, but with an eagerness that betrayed his gratitude, Ethysil took the tankard. There was an oily film on top of the liquid inside and its colour, as much as could be discerned inside the pewter, was a rusty shade of brown. Ethysil didn't give his mind time to reject the idea of drinking it before pouring it into his mouth.

While the concoction tried to eat its way through Ethysil's throat lining, Azareth found a crate and sat down, producing a pipe and biting into the stem. He packed it with hackle-lo and tamped it down, without much interest in the spluttering going on beside him. By the time Ethysil found his voice it was smouldering gently.

'As usual, Mr Azareth, you are a lifesaver.'

Azareth puffed out a lungful of smoke.

'Could of asked for it yerself.'

'R'khan would have noticed.'

'Think he noticed anyway when y'tried explaining Lord Seht's Sequence to him using a fork 'n some salt.'

'Ah.'

Another coughing fit prevented further embarrassment. When it was over, Ethysil joined Azareth on a box and smoothed a hand across his head, which was already feeling less sore than it had done five minutes ago. The sight of the feather on Azareth's hat swaying in time with the horizon didn't turn his stomach, either. He frowned at it anyway, then beneath the brim, where Azareth was watching his pipe smoke absently.

'While we're alone, do you mind if I ask you something?'

'Nah.'

'Did I see you calling in your debts back in Solitude?'

After a moment, Azareth slumped a non-committal shoulder.

'Aye. Needed gold for supplies.'

'You were doing it in Northpoint, too.'

'Needed a lot a' gold.'

'And yet you haven't asked any of the crew to pay up.' Ethysil waved away the pipe smoke, which clung to his hand for a moment and then faded away. 'Is something going to happen?'

'What makes y'say that?'

'You're a gambler. Nobody can call them like you. When I see you cashing in your old debts, I start to think that perhaps I ought to be doing the same.'

Azareth shifted on his crate until he faced the rest of the deck and crew, who were finished with the sail and preparing for a mage drill. Nobody had any reason to visit their corner by the prow. He waited until Oran had stamped below decks to marshal the newer recruits before turning back.

'It's a hunch, is all.'

'Your hunches are more reliable than a direct visitation from the Three accompanied by written scripture.'

The ashes in the pipe bowl glowed bright.

'Things're changing. Seen it in R'khan's face. Dunno what, dunno why, but I thought, mebbe now's the time to settle any outstanding scores. Don't hurt to be prepared.' He tapped the pipe against his knee a few times. 'Don't s'pose the Three've mentioned anything?'

'No, but I can ask. It's almost time for the Ritual, and thanks to you I might manage to get through it alive.'

No time like the present, either. Vilayn, overseeing the drill, had finally noticed the slackers to the fore of the ship, and if he hadn't stopped to criticise the formation of the mages along the side Ethysil knew he would have been the next up for a tongue lashing. As it was, he did his best to appear full of purpose as he strode towards the hatch, and only paused when Azareth coughed.

'Ethys?'

'Yes?'

'Y'owe me a septim for the cure.'

Azareth was smiling, but Ethysil knew better than to assume this meant it was a joke. He flicked his fingers into a gesture which definitely wasn't recognised by any subsect of the Tribunal Temple.

'Tight bastard.'