NaNoWriMo Chapter 1

The ocean doesn't care. The ocean doesn't give a shit.

It does no good to talk about it; the ocean won't listen. It sprays without notice to whether or not its visitors spit in it. It moves, but not in response to anyone else, and when it consumes it does so without pause or mercy, and the moment after its victims disappear and the last of their bubbles crack open, the ocean will resume the same casual undulations that occupied its time yesterday morning, the same ones that occupied its time a thousand years ago. The ocean is unchanging; it was here long before you, it ignores your presence, and won't remember you when you're gone.

The ocean would be the last thing Gisbert would see.

He was propped up against a rock, so that his head and shoulders could look out on the sea. It was the western shore, and if Gisbert did not have other thoughts occupying what little time he had left, he might have been struck by the fact that so few of his people ever saw this side of the ocean, let alone at sunset. But there were only a few hours left before nightfall, and while his circumstances may have caused him to forget the rarity of such an experience, the beauty of it did not escape him, and Gisbert resolved himself to linger a few more minutes to see the sun slip past the ocean.

Next to him, Finley chewed on a bit of jerky, and bounced a bit in a low crouch next to the dying man. Finley was his guide, but if the lean and fair-haired man felt any sorrow for Gisbert, his face did not betray it. He took short, stunted bites of dear meat, chewing thoroughly, and made an absent motion to offer Gisbert some, but Gisbert had a vicious wound that was spilling his innards out, and the thought of food was almost as painful as the wound itself. Gisbert had accepted a bit of his water, and few chewed roots to dull the worst of it, but there wasn't much more that Finley could do. The Beast had ripped his gut open, and it wouldn't be long.

"Will you talk to me?" asked Gisbert.

Finley turned to look at him. He talked with his mouth full of deer jerky. "What do you want to talk about?"

"I don't know." Gisbert frowned. He would have hoped to have something better to say at this point in his life. Finley took a good look at him. Gisbert had been, back in Timber, a stunningly good-looking man, with straight golden hair that looked as though it had been painted on, and a face and body that was the perfect mix of youthful beauty and potential for violence. Even now, stained with dirt and covered in sand from the beach and with his blood and intestines staining his breeches red, he was still strangely handsome. Finley wondered if he would leave such an attractive corpse. Finley often had strange thoughts like that one.

Finley got tired of crouching and sat next to Gisbert to watch the sunset himself. The ass of his trousers got damp with Gisbert's blood, but Finley spent most of his time outdoors and wasn't bothered by such things. "Do you want me to tell your mother anything?"

"I suppose I should."

"She's probably worried about you."

Gisbert took a moment to look at the Northerner. He had met him just south of Timber, near Firsforth, when he realized he had needed a guide to take him into the hinterlands for his hunt. Gisbert was relatively sure that Finley didn't like him, presumably because most Northerners didn't care for Heorots. In fairness, Gisbert didn't particularly like Finley, either. For a final companion, he would have preferred his wife, or perhaps his brother. But there was much about his predicament that Gisbert would have preferred to be different. "You know my mother?" he asked.

"No," said Finley.

"But you know of her?"

"No," Finley shook his head. "But every man has a mother." He finished his last bit of jerky and pulled his waterskin, and offered it to Gisbert. Gisbert shook his head. "You looked young enough that she was still alive. So she must be worried about you."

Finley thought about that for a moment. He was severely uncomfortable, though, and it made it hard to think of anything. Truly, he was in pain, but pain was generally a sudden and overwhelming experience, and this was a more constant experience. The best description was that it was warm and calming, like a blanket on a cold night, only that it was the complete opposite of warm and calming. "I thought this would hurt more."

"It's because you're close. It hurts at first because you're still alive, and then as you die, you feel less and less, until you feel nothing." Gisbert looked disturbed at Finley's conjecture; Finley continued, "It's not a bad thing. All the little pains you feel every day? Did the joyful parts account for them? Even if they did... if I could save you right now... you'd never walk, at least not easily. You'd never fight, and never ride a horse. You Heorots like riding horses. Would you want to live like that?" He thought about it for a moment, about his own words. "I suppose you might. If you had something else, but I don't think you do."

Speaking came difficult to Gisbert, but the sun was still a few minutes away from the horizon, and he needed something to cling to. "Why do you say that?"

"If you did you'd be more upset right now."

Gisbert thought about that. It gave him something else to think about. "I suppose that's fair," he said. He suddenly felt the urge to cry. He didn't want to die. He wanted his mother. He wanted to go home. But instead of crying, he choked a bit, and coughed, and that rocked his bowels, and he winced in pain, and he was better at fighting back tears of pain than of despair. He understood that kind of fortitude, and so Gisbert resolved himself to focus on his pain as much as possible, rather than the fact the pain would be over soon. "Do you have my sword?" he asked.

"The Beast flung it into the brush," Finley said. He thought a minute, and said a bit more carefully, "I could probably find it."

"I would like my brother, Berson to have it. He..." Gisbert swallowed, and focused on what he had to say, "he has his own, but I would have him have mine. Tell him to name his son after me, and give it to him." This helped Gisbert, he could do this. "I have a ring, a seal, in my pouch. See it returned to my father, it is his. And to my wife..." he trailed off. It was getting cold now, even though the sun was not quite set. He was tired and almost asleep when he heard Finley's words, waking him.

"What of your wife."

"I should give her something. I... I don't think I did too well by her. I'm not the best husband."

"You weren't."

"I should... I should..." he tried to find the words but they weren't coming.

"I will go through your things, and find something she would carry easily so she might remember you."

He wanted to thank Finley, but could only nod.

The sun was close now. It was red and yellow at the same time, and the sky was black behind them but in front of them, it was every color but blue. The water rippled, cutting dark lines in a perfect reflection of the sunset. For a moment, when the sun first touched the horizon, it was impossible to tell when the sky began and the world ended.

"Stay just a bit longer. You should see it." Finley nudged the dying man. "You have nothing else to do."

"I wanted to kill it," said Gisbert.

"All you Heorots do. I've seen the bodies. Not one of them got this view before they went."

"It doesn't... kill Aels?"

"No," said Finley, "or it hasn't so far."

For a moment, there was anger. A hot flare of emotion directed at the only one who could notice it. Finley should have fought it too, he had seen Finley fight, and knew the Ael to be a better swordsman. It was Finley's fault he would die. It was Ael's fault the Moorstepper came. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't fair.

And then, the anger was gone, and it was just him and Finley and the ocean and the sunset. And the sun was almost gone. It was like quicksand... it was like an hourglass... the last bits went by so quickly, the part he really wanted the most was the part that went by the fastest.

"What about your mother?" Finley asked.

"What?"

"Your mother, what do you want me to tell your mother?"

"I hadn't thought..."

"You Heorots never do." He was looking at the sunset. The sun made his face red and yellow like the sky. For a moment, he almost looked sad, and Gisbert almost thought the man was sad about his death. "I will tell her you died well, and wounded the beast." He paused. "I'll tell her you thought of her."

Gisbert nodded. "Do you think it means anything?" he asked.

"Does what mean anything?" asked Finley?

"The sunset... right now?"

"No," said Finley, "It happens every night."

And then, Gisbert died.