Post by Seek on Apr 5, 2015 19:58:15 GMT 10
Series: The Drowned and the Saved
Title: The Drowned and the Saved
Rating: PG
Event: 200 Freestyle
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 258 words
Summary: On the night Dunevon dies, Taybur Sibigat has a conversation with a priest of the black god, and comes to a decision.
-
He sits quietly before the Black God’s statue all night, contemplating death sculpted in basalt, until a cowled priest sits down on the worn pew beside him. His cuts still burn with sea-salt, and it’ll take more baths until he feels human again. The regents didn’t call him before them to account for his failure. They already knew, Taybur thinks, his mind dazed and numb, circling from thought to thought.
He’s still stumbling from the rough waters, shedding water, the still body of his boy-king in his arms. Forsworn.
“There are no reasons,” sighs the priest, answering the unspoken question. “The god takes all in the end, Captain.” And then, “The raka know this. They do not ask questions of the gods.”
Taybur’s eyes sting, and not with the salt. He focuses on his scabbed hand; his world narrows down to scarred flesh, blood-crusted, trembling, “I should’ve died for him. He was just a boy. All of them—they were just boys.” Cruel, that he can only think of Dunevon when other families have lost sons this day.
The priest replies, “It is pointless to seek to know the difference between the drowned and the saved, much less to search for reasons. They are what they are.” More gently, “To search for meaning is futile, Captain. You must make that, all on your own. The god does not speak to us in these acts.”
He clenches his jaw and comes to a decision. He stands.
“You are prepared, then?”
Mutely, Taybur nods.
By dawn, the temple is empty.
Title: The Drowned and the Saved
Rating: PG
Event: 200 Freestyle
Competition: Decathlon
Words: 258 words
Summary: On the night Dunevon dies, Taybur Sibigat has a conversation with a priest of the black god, and comes to a decision.
-
He sits quietly before the Black God’s statue all night, contemplating death sculpted in basalt, until a cowled priest sits down on the worn pew beside him. His cuts still burn with sea-salt, and it’ll take more baths until he feels human again. The regents didn’t call him before them to account for his failure. They already knew, Taybur thinks, his mind dazed and numb, circling from thought to thought.
He’s still stumbling from the rough waters, shedding water, the still body of his boy-king in his arms. Forsworn.
“There are no reasons,” sighs the priest, answering the unspoken question. “The god takes all in the end, Captain.” And then, “The raka know this. They do not ask questions of the gods.”
Taybur’s eyes sting, and not with the salt. He focuses on his scabbed hand; his world narrows down to scarred flesh, blood-crusted, trembling, “I should’ve died for him. He was just a boy. All of them—they were just boys.” Cruel, that he can only think of Dunevon when other families have lost sons this day.
The priest replies, “It is pointless to seek to know the difference between the drowned and the saved, much less to search for reasons. They are what they are.” More gently, “To search for meaning is futile, Captain. You must make that, all on your own. The god does not speak to us in these acts.”
He clenches his jaw and comes to a decision. He stands.
“You are prepared, then?”
Mutely, Taybur nods.
By dawn, the temple is empty.