Open That other Horizon

[Jens]

The beam of moonlight coming in through the four-paned window was of the deepest blue, lending everything it touched a radiant, electric halo. Staring at the ceiling in the night, he could almost pretend he was underwater — somewhere deep and far away, the particles of dust swimming like bubbles. That was, had not someone been snoring magnificently right next to where he lay on the floor upon folded blankets.

Delilah had her face turned away on her pillow, sleeping on her stomach with one elbow jutting out past the edge of the bed. There was only one in the cramped room, but they’d not fought over it — the poor piece of furniture looked none so sturdy as to even accommodate him had he won and it had been his idea to begin with that they ought share a space if possible. It’s cost-effective — and Crown’s Hold wasn’t exactly famous for being cheap to stay at, no matter how extensive the patina upon any which part of town.

This one had the added charm of being right beneath the route where majority of the airships traveled to land. It was almost cozy, the boom of shroudengines, paddlewheels, propellers and roar of airflow as vessels traveled upon unseen waves. Periodically, a shadow cast from one of them sailed into the light on the floor, then away again.

He was used to noise, so he’d figured that wasn’t why he couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t some ungodly ache this time either, be it from a day’s hard work or just plain age, let alone too much sun or dehydration. Nay, it was something worse — thoughts kept spinning, ricocheting within his thick skull.

It was the land, the waiting. The fact that one should’ve had time to think — no orders of another captain and all the grumbling to be had about them, no maintenance of another ship and the pecking order within. No uncertainty whether himself and those he’d grown fond of should survive the sea. When there was nothing that one should’ve been used to, the easier thoughts of everyday, what was left?

Distant shores, old feelings. Regret, maybe. He’d consoled himself with the thought that even if he’d had the means, he couldn’t have just up and left, gone home. Delilah had chuckled when he had expressed this, a sort of dark knowing in her look that he hadn’t particularly liked. Life is so damn short.

On the ship it had been easy to just walk the deck on a night like this, to stare at the line in the horizon until the new day should’ve sprouted from it if nothing else. The city was different — though one could be by themself, there was no being alone as there was on a ship. Every inch here seemed to belong to someone and with that, came supervision. Doubt, so often extended betwixt strangers. Was there for a man to just loiter, minding one’s own business?

Chest expanding in a breath, he rose and as quietly as he was able, put on his overgarments. It’d snowed yesterday, again, and while their lodgings weren’t exactly cold, it wasn’t warm enough to get undressed for bed either. Delilah had slept with her coat on the entire time they’d been here.

She barely stirred as he moved on the worn floorboards and slipped through the door, pulling it closed.

*​

The shroudlights about the quay were brilliant, warm as fires and a perfect complement to the moons’ glow. A great vessel sailed past where he stood, watching, perhaps a little too daringly at the edge of one of the wooden piers. So far none had told him to fuck off, which was a pleasant surprise as far as he was concerned, or perhaps just manifest to the fact he hadn’t been on anyone’s way yet.

He barely looked like he belonged, after all. Not so much for how he looked, with his all too chewed up twice spat out appearance and mismatch of knitwear, the patched up, grey overcoat and how pleasantly it both clashed and harmonized with the fancier if still washed out red corduroy of his open vest. The nondescript, almost military breeches that terminated beneath the knee to worn, many times resoled boots.

As fine a sailor as any, if not for the wonder about him. He’d never been on an airship, nor really inspected one up close, the workings of the solar sails as fascinating as the intricacies of navigation in realms way cloudward. So he stared and smiled, with the leisurely manner of one who had neither desire nor obligation to be anywhere else.

At present, anyway.

 

[Vyn]

It wasn't so much that she followed him. And she did. She stalked him. It was the absence in his gaze that she recognized. The recognition came not in a feeling, but a question. What was left? The same one she asked herself every time she woke in an unfamiliar place, Loneliness having taken its due. She did not feel the dread closing around her, but she did remember it. Part of being Elum was fabricating joy. Part of being Vyn was knowing that some sadness simply runs too deep.

So she came closer. No permission or ceremony. If he was to jump, then he'd have a witness. Story joining the world. A covered eye and an unfinished arm. Clothing tattered but cared for. Each piece of him remade until only the question was left. It could only ever be asked for so long before she too wanted to jump.

Sat down. Didn't talk. Didn't look. No need.

She remembered a thing that mimicked them both. Two sacks just heavy enough for wind to skip. If they were to topple over, it would be a decision. And yet, some days staying upright felt incorrect. But the Road waits on no man. In a practiced manner of someone who was used to spinning dangerous things, a small thing of wood materialized in her hand. Bird, carved of Wagonwood. Broken, used, repurposed and still here. That was a good story. A strong name.

„This one broke near the Tip.“ Still not looking at him she'd gesture towards where she felt Unicorn Bay should be. To the place her people often called Hornfjord. „Wheel slipped on shale. Snapped. I found it in the dust.“ She rolled it in her hand, struggling against the urge to throw it up with some company. She held it out instead. A maybe.

„You don't need to keep it. Just give it a look.“ She kept her eyes on the shroudlights, pretending they were pretty. And maybe they were.

Some grief could not be turned to joy. But the wheel still moved easier with more spokes.

She said nothing more.

Because being there was the point.

 

[Jens]

In the hum of the wind and the vessels overhead, the comforting ambience of a pier, he’d barely heard anyone approach. Not until she spoke, already so near he visibly started, flinching to attention. A questioning, wide look in his eye he would spy the little bird. Without asking, the stranger would let him in on details about it’s life, even offered it.

On instinct, he reached out and accepted it, a puzzlement breaking the surface tension of surprise. The worn wood was warm, like it’d lain in the sun. The same colour as all those weather-bleached pieces of dirftwood about the pier at Astersaar. Home.

He adjusted the figurine his hand, inspecting the carved feel. A breath left him, like a laugh, some disbelief in it just as there was in his smile that grew wider, baring sharkteeth. And he would look upon the stranger, sidelong, admittedly fascinated by the way she’d made herself known.

“ Who are you? “

 

[Vyn]

She did not feel the need to apologize as he flinched. Reaction proved there was still life inside, and that was precious. She watched him meddle with the bird. Like it mattered. Because it did. The sharkteeth did not startle her. She was relieved in knowing that whoever he was. He once again was.

Her eyes still measuring him, she'd repeat. „You don't need to keep it. Just the memory. It's what people do“ Voice fell off towards the end. A hint of a smile as she was asked for her name. She had so many after all. But today...“I'm Vyn“ another offer. This one not a maybe. „Sometimes of the Wagons of Elum. Sometimes of nowhere at all.“ She shrugged like it meant something to him. „But always Vyn.“ Some days she wondered if she could still say that with a straight face. It was against the law to speak open deception after all.

She didn't need to ask. Shoulders turning in expectation. Brows lifting in mock impatience. Her own sharp teeth baring more than they were normally allowed to. Perhaps there was yet room to fabricate, after all.

 

[Jens]

Memory. Which one?

He bobbed his head, accepting the answer even if it’s cryptic nature made all this feel like a dream. Tucked thought into cotton, suspended sense in empty air like it’d stumbled off the ledge while he wasn’t looking. So much felt possible, untethered and uncertain. The wagons carried a fabled name, whereas hers was not. Neither was his, just the singular.

“ Jens. “ He said and hesitated, the bird in his hand imposing conflict upon his instinct to shake hands in greeting. So, he replaced the gesture with another, offering the figurine back. “ Thank you for the memory. It’s a fine little thing. “

The sharp smile he’d gotten in turn made his linger, even as he’d consider the middle distance again. Though his comings, goings and occupations had kept him deckborne for most of his life, a lot of the tales told upon ships were equally of the shore as they were the sea. He was not ignorant of the Wagons of Elum, if only due bounty of second-hand accounts.

“ I’ve not encountered your Wagons, but I’ve heard of them. “ He started, curiously. “ Where are they now, Vyn? Are you ‘of nowhere’, presently? “

Even out here, having traveled to the ends of the known world, he’d not ever felt like he was ‘of nowehere at all’. There was that somewhere and it’d always be there, whether he ever got back to it or not. Although, he had to suppose, those islands could always just — sink away. Unmoor a man forever.

“ Where are you headed? “ Marking, his eye fell on the airships about them.

Somewhere different, every eve?

 

[Vyn]

She nodded at the name. It made sense. It was a quiet name. He was a quiet man. His Truenamer hit the mark. She repeated his name quietly. To make sure it was proper, that it was remembered.

„Jens“

She would take the figure back gently. Almost as if speed might scare the giant. „Then I will keep it. You take the memory. And you take the name.“ She paused because she wasn't prepared. He was witnessing the bird's latest Nameday. „She was called Wagonborn and Unbroken. I gave them both away. Yet the bird always comes back. Tonight she is Remember.“ She looked at him satisfied with that. „She was. Now it's just a bird again.“ She hoped that Jens would grow into his new name and not forget himself again. She wasn't important enough to believe in the weight of her own Truenaming, but it was a start. With that it was done. She appreciated the gravity of it for them both.

Her smile as wide as she could fit it, she wasn't sure whether he was teasing her. „I'm glad you know of us. Then you surely know we're likely the finest entertainers you'll ever see.“ Pride, because to speak falsely was not the Elum way.

„We're all of nowhere.“ She struggled with it. „Until we like it enough to stay.“ She would refuse to give melancholy a root. She had found her somewhere after all.

„You should come see us. The camp is by the waterline. Just follow the new lanterns they put in, the crooked ones.“ She had to count to be sure. She had lost a day recently after all. „We stay there for two more nights.“ Satisfied with the number. „After that it's south again. We rarely go much further north than this.“ Was he inching to join them? He didn't need to ask. She'd take him. He was Wagonfriend, far as she could tell.

The invitation hung between them. They both did. One just forgot to be spoken.

 

[Jens]

Wagonborn. Unbroken. Remember.

It was a whole string of monikers, ones he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hold onto for long, if not for that image of a carved bird. Something real for the words to anchor to, sat on the palm of someone with not half the glamour to her name. But perhaps, if all else faded, he’d remember at least that one.

He had to suppose she made sense — had he not liked that distant archipelago at all, would it still have been home? There was much to hate and to like about that tiny part of the world — whenever he dreamed it was always summer there, with the violet blooms and blinding sun that’d sparkle on the waves, white linen about one’s shoulders alive with a warm wind. Even though, if he thought about it for longer, colder months had their own individual charm.

Fires, smoke, layers of wool that made everything feel softer. Crafts at the little plank table in the middle of the room, when all were done braving the bitter outdoors. They’d tell stories then, maybe invent them on the spot with one another.

His eye sought the lanterns as she pointed them out, consideration in the look. He’d seen those crooked things before, that is, in the past couple days since they’d appeared, but their purpose had escaped him until now. They’d just been another quirk of the city, signaling something he had no concept of. Despite the threat of a late hour and the invitee’s sudden appearance, he failed to feel suspicious.

Was that the impressionable bumpkin in him or just inclination for any which wanton adventure? More than average size more often than not forgave a man his reckless ways.

“ I’d love to. “ He said finally, buoying his head. “ Only a fool should pass on a chance to meet the finest entertainers he’ll ever see. Might we’ll be the only one I’ll get, as my being on shore in these parts is more an anomaly than anything. “

He shifted on heel, looking downhill where paved roads and paths snaked away betwixt buildings. Out there was the broad riverside, which he’d not strayed for days. There had been— other things.

“ How would you like to walk with me— “ Jens continued, beginning a step away from the pier, unhurried. “ Maybe you can show me where the lanterns lead, for later? I don’t assume to visit you and yours right now, what with it being in the middle of the night. “

But if you’ve nothing else to do—

 

[Vyn]

Her head went for surprise. Neck to the side, a sidelong glance and an eyebrow raised. Like it wasn't expected. Not from someone who flinched at birds and memory.

„Of course you'd love to!“ the quietest exclamation she'd ever performed. Light and teasing. A feather really. She knew how to be warmth incarnate. Even if stretched a little too thin by the hour.

Her gaze confirmed his. Those were the ones. Whoever was putting in those must've been drinking better wine than she'd tasted earlier tonight. Perhaps it wasn't the people. It could've been the Road. Twisting and turning, not allowing them to decide what straight meant that day. It made its mind of course, the next day, when the work was done and the alignment final. Road was fickle like that sometimes. She would savor that flavor. There was a story there.

Judging him him enough to walk again, she'd shoot up to standing as suddenly as she sat. Blinking away the dizziness, she almost flourished in what could've easily been a bow. She realized then. This is how the actors first started doing it. She would tell that story once. The fire would appreciate it.

„You've got one thing wrong tho!“ A pause for dramatic effect. Mocking them both. The situation itself. A smile as she continued. „Not your only chance. Not if you take it.“ Her hand extended to him. An offer. Two of them really. One to follow her. One to help get him there. There was a reason Wagons never rested on a single wheel. Some weight didn't come in odd numbers.

Whether he took it or not was of little consequence.

It was time for them to go.

She was heavy on foot. Solid. And she appreciated being smaller for a change. There was a good story in that.

„I'll show you the way down. If I disappear halfway down, it is not personal.“ She looked sly, but felt everything but. Was it truly this week that Loneliness already took her? It was hard to keep track sometimes. Days bled into each other. Holes in memory so poorly outlined. „Some nights are meant for walking. Others for vanishing.“

Whether it was Vyn or the Road that might to disappear tonight, couldn't say.

Road shared.

 

[Jens]

Not the only chance. Though he doubted that, he wouldn’t let it show on his face, Vyn’s little affirmations and encouragements allowing his smile to linger. The extended hand hovered in the air for but a second before he took it and let himself be led along. She may have been smaller but for the moment she was the frigate and himself the little boat at its wake, tugged along by a line. Unresisting, surrendered to the current and the will ahead.

It was assuring, somehow. A halved vision made a man likelier to bump into things he’d not seen, instinct usually tethering him to the vicinity of a wall at his side if there were any. It was a predictable front, solid plaster and logs, even at night when the hazard of a rogue passerby was less. The damn lampposts crept up on you.

Vyn at the helm he allowed himself look at things around them as they went down the street, her wit navigating for the both of them. He didn’t know these streets, so it was a welcome change to all the humming and hawwing he’d had for himself every time he’d ventured out. A strange deadend or a bad turn.

Not that he’d be absolved of all adventure — his company appeared to be teasing him with a possible disappearance. A nigh meant for walking or vanishing.

Jens blew a sharp breath through his teeth, a half a laugh.

“ You’re not a ghost, are you? “ He asked, eye narrowing like he meant to squint through her. “ The way you speak would warrant that. “

The light of the blue moons was cut off shortly as they passed to a narrower alley, the emberlike glow of her eyes appearing brighter in the deep shadow betwixt buildings. Perhaps not a ghost, but— Something else. Was this a part of some theater of hers, mystery?

“ I’ll make sure to not take it personally, should you vanish. Everyone ought be allowed their whims, this late in the day. The witching hours. “ He’d still know his way to the river, should it come to it. But that’d have to be later, perhaps tomorrow. It’d be enough for the rest of tonight to find his way back to his bed.

“ Does every one of your kin take part in the performance arts? “ He pried, head cocking curiously. “ What’s your talent? Apart from sharing stories with strange sailors at piers. “

 

[Vyn]

He took her hand. That's what it was there for. His grip steady and light. He accepted her role quickly and allowed himself to be dragged along, as she did her best to keep the pace. To not pull.

That must've been the sailor in him. So they went on, him a small boat behind a wagon. She liked that story.

„A ghost?“ she didn't turn around, but she was amused. „That'd make you haunted. I thought you sailboys had issues with that.“ Her turn to tease.

„I am known to disappear on people though. Maybe you're onto something.“ Her grin wicked.

„You'd make a fine Elum, Jens. Most people get annoyed when their questions go unanswered. You just ask better questions.“

When he asked again, she felt the need to turn back. It was good to look people in the eye when the conversation was personal. „I juggle dangerous things. Knives. Fire. Words. Company, and birds apparently.“ Her other hand tapped the pocketed trinket. „Have no fear, I won't throw you up for a spin!“ Eyes back front.

„Others are much the same. You see life is art.“ She taught him like she did the little ones. „Some sing. Some dance. Some cook. Some mend Wagons. All is equally beautiful.“ She remembered how she sneered when first told that story all those years back. So she squeezed his hand a bit tighter.

„You should tell me of your art.“ For the Road was long, and often dull.

 

[Jens]

Ghost or not, at least it was pleasant hauntings for once. It was hard to not keep a well-humoured smile with someone this daring, be it in the way she spoke or the things she apparently juggled. Knives and fire, but—

“ Company, huh. “ He half-exclaimed in the midst, lips pursed to elicit a round whistle at the mental image of it. Impressed, perplexed and perhaps just a little bit frightened for effect. A proper circus then, sounded like to him. All good fun.

Art, as she called all skills. Life itself. A quietness took him for a generous second as he mulled it over, somehow the concept of sailing being seen as art never having crossed his mind before. It was a profession, a skill that anyone could learn, but then again — When one should so intimately know his field or even the rigging of a ship, artful execution could well bloom. Maybe even creativity.

All that considered, as they walked, he didn’t know if he wanted to claim his sailor’s life as his art. He felt like art was supposed to have purpose, even if it was just enjoyment, and didn’t those things require passion? He wasn’t passionate about the sea or the act of sailing, even if he could appreciate the craftsmanship of an excellent vessel or the swiftness of any which crew member. He did his work efficiently and well because he had to, had had to since he first stepped on a ship four decades ago. At this point, he was too good at his job to even quit, felt too old and withered to seek some other horizon. What was there to get good at, enough for a living.

It was an idyllic idea. And yet, even without being some perfect ideal of a life, his was fine enough as it was. It had to be.

“ I used to play the fiddle. “ He spoke with a little tilt to his head like a man sharing a cheerful little secret, all in a wolfish grin. “ This was years ago, over a decade. Music is a novelty at sea, as not everyone can keep up the practice, let alone afford an instrument. “

He wouldn’t have been able to buy one either. Old Verna had given him hers to keep, once the joints in her fingers had grown too stiff with arthritis. Considering what happened to himself, perhaps that fiddle was cursed.

“ Having that skill earned me some friends too, even if, in my younger years, I mainly used the damn thing to hide behind — learn to play so I didn’t have to talk. “ A bit of nostalgia came upon him, visible in the depth of his look and the faint smile.

“ Shocking, I know — That all ended when I lost the ability to play, suddenly. “ He explained, without excess detail for he’d figured most were able to guess the reason for such a misfortune from a mile away. Granted, he’d lost the ability to do a lot of things effectively all at once, for a time — it was a lesson in humility he would’ve rather left on the shelf, but it’d proven true some things about the spirit. None of that shit had made him stronger, he felt, but maybe it’d made him more hopeful.

He’d worked through that. He’d work through the next seagull’s turd coming up too.

“ I wasn’t terribly good at it, mind, but perhaps one day I would’ve been. “ He shrugged, all with the knowing he had cared about that— music. Not enough to go through the hurdle of figuring out how to play now that he hadn’t the hand to hold the bow, though, apparently. Something about losing those practiced movements, the muscle memory, had been too depressing. And with everything else, playing the fiddle hadn’t really been a priority, was one to put it mildly.

“ Perhaps I’ll pick up some other instrument, later. Something more accommodating— “ He mused, a little hum there in his tone. “ Like a harmonica. Or a fife. Even if I should loathe to play anything that so completely hinders my ability to run my mouth. “

Is telling fishtales an art? That could be it, if nothing else works out.

 

[Vyn]

She didn't interrupt. Not once. Not even when he got smart about the harmonica. Some things deserved silence. Like the memory of an old woman's fiddle passed down from hand to hand, or the shape of grief in a grin.

„Then let me say it.“ A soft offer. „You were good. Or you wouldn't have earned so many friends.“ And a steady smile. Earnest. She remembered Gallen who had no idea what he was doing. The only people who'd approach him would be those who really wanted him to stop.

„And if it was hiding, that still counts. It's brave really. If it was me, I'd be hiding five steps down the hall. Behind a barrel.“ She pondered keeping the moment serious and decided against it. „With some salted fish hopefully. The hour gets long and waiting is hungry work.“ There really was bravery in not running when you hid. You were still right there! The thought horrified.

„A fife would suit you.“ Teasing, but she meant it. „Loud and sharp. You'd have the goats dancing and the little ones wide-eyed with joy. Or maybe it would be the other way around.“ She suggested, appreciating the story of wide-eyed goats. „I know we have some fifes around the fire every night. Jem has a really nifty one. Goose bone. As loud in death as it was in life. Just don't play the wooden one if offered. That one is...eh... cursed?“

And her voice got serious enough to drop the play for a moment.

„You should play again, Jens. Whatever it is. However bad it is. Doesn't matter what. The world doesn't get better with quiet. It's on us to make it better. Louder. Dumber. Brighter really.“ Soul opening enough to feel like it, she would go back to lighthearted.

„And besides, I'm the one that juggles fire. We can't both be impressive.“

 

[Jens]

The little bit of humour was welcome, made her smiles brighter and more beautiful. He felt warmer for it, the effortless dashes of levity in the stories she told in turn. A balm for the heart that should’ve been too tender yet. Encouragement and hope, on top of the splinters he’d held onto out of as much spite as survival.

Loud and sharp. The fiddle had suited him too, he liked to think. He’d regretted how little time he’d had to play it for Mirka, who still loved the sound of all instruments — back then she had been so young too, he was quite sure she’d not retained an actual memory of it. Like he’d never played at all.

“ Colour me swayed — “ Even if the curse should be awful intriguing, at this point. Fits the theme? “ I’ll have to ask Jem for it should I figure out who that is within your group. “ He said in that easy way of one who’d trust to fate that introductions be made one way or another. Curious, if non-committal — asking without asking. If he could walk an unknown street at night with a ghost and not die, surely the rest would figure itself out too.

He barked a loud ha of a laugh at her last remark, the sound of ricocheting off the empty street and tall walls.

“ Are you calling me unimpressive? “ He inclined his head haughtily, if with a grin so wide it completely gave away his lack of offense taken. “ Though granted— Juggling fire probably does outmaneuver my simply being tall and devilishly good looking. “

For effect, he tossed his head like a dandy flipping aside a lock of hair. For lack of that, merely the ends of the wrap about his head changed upon which shoulder they rested.

“ With a fife, I’ll be unstoppable — dumber, louder, brighter, maybe all three. And cursed too, if I forget about your advice. “ Self-assured, he watched his company with a eye that narrowed a touch, as if measuring her.

“ But what was that about hiding behind a barrel with salted fish? I’d never believe such a thing of one with preference for impressive performance art. Let alone reaching a hand as you have. “

 

[Vyn]

It was good to see some confidence.

„Safer behind the barrels than to be seen sometime.“ Eyes ahead. On the path. No need to make this personal. „If someone finds you hiding, they ask. Gotta say something. And if it's the truth they think less of you. Lie, and you will.“ She thought about pulling on her hair to yank the thought out. Decided against it. If they were so easy to remove well she'd be happily bald by now.

She hated the truth of it.

„I only ever reach for fire when I know how not to get burned. You're just yet to notice that bit.“ A quick smile for a quick line. „Jem's easy. You will hear him before you see him. A thousand pockets and something lives in each one. The fife does too.“ And only then she realized the struggle. „Finding the pocket will be the hard bit.“

„Wouldn't call you unimpressive.“ A short glance his way. „We just both know to bluff.“

The clearing was wide enough to get some distance. She slowed her step and gestured into the dark. Faint shimmer this far out. The big fire. „That's us down there.“ Even this far she could recognize the slight aftershock of music. At this distance it wasn't even a note, just an uneasiness to the air that was stuck telling a different story.

 

[Jens]

“ A thousand pockets. “ He muttered, thrilled by the whimsy of it. “ I’m not opposed to a treasure hunt. “ Metaphysical or otherwise. From her his eye bounced to the distance as she indicated a direction, the ripples of light betwixt stray trees that’d been let live at edges of meandering streets and buildings that’d grown smaller towards the river. A waterwheel creaked, adding to the ambient noise of a sleeping riverside. Only—

Was that music? In their slower pace on the cobbles, like the drifting of leaves in a stream, it was just about audible in the cold air.

“ Merriment, at this hour? “ He remarked, half pleasant surprise and the rest a sort of familiar fondness. “ Or do they know you yet stray and decided to keep vigil? “