Chapter Text
some nights you are the
lighthouse / some nights
the sea / what this means
is that i don’t know / desire
other than the need to be
shattered & rebuilt
- night sky with exit wounds, ocean vuong
The sea is winter-bright and as blue as a promise on the morning when the blind man comes to visit for the last time.
Elmar raises a gnarled, sun-spotted hand to his eyes, squinting against the pale cast of the sun that has shed its golden-red glow so soon. The mornings are coming earlier and earlier with the onset of spring, and with them, dawns that are made more crystal than of fire. Elmar has seen his fair share of mornings that span the seasons, summer and autumn and spring and, of course, that one terrible, terrible black winter so many years ago.
He does not linger in his memories though. The salmon have returned in droves in the narrow, rushing streams adjacent to the sea. His little cottage is nearer to the streams than the rest of the village, and he has spent many a recent evening roasting dozens of fish over spits with his two great-grandsons and a few of the other children of the village. They watch as the silvery scales turn crisp and black in the fire, the plump red meat turning pink and fragrant with honey and fresh thyme, before the rest of the village gathers around with brown bread and stewed turnips, sweetcakes filled with figs and nuts, and fat apples soaked in brandy.
Once the sun sets, they will trade food and stories and laughter. Some young men will steal young women off into the night. Children will giggle around the campfires playing games that only children know the rules to. The adults will speak of the harvest and of trade and of old memories beneath the stars.
Last night, the talk had been of Falla’s babe, newly arrived with the turn of the moon. The grandmothers of the village had been full of advice, while the young men who had not stolen off into the night squirmed. But the babe had been the center of attention, her eyes big and green and full of wonder when they were not squished with tears.
Elmar smiles to himself, humming. He and his Bertha had eight children of their own, and gods be praised that all of them had become strong and healthy men and women. Some had gone away to other parts of the realm, and a few he has not seen in years. But the others are near at hand with grandchildren who are sun-bronzed and hearty or with big bellies and bigger families.
It is a lovely, quiet, peaceful life.
As Elmar approaches the stream, the bubbling of the clear waters greets him like an old friend. His old, sturdy boat is somewhere farther down along the shore, closer to the mouth of the stream that gives way to the sea, but he does not need it for this. He tries to avoid stomping in the row of pale violet flowers that line the path down to the stream. His granddaughter would be very upset if he did.
He is nearing the stream when movement flashes out of the corner of his eye, and he catches sight of a figure quietly moving along the shore. It is not too strange to find others from the village awake at this hour, though most usually tend to the animals that need milking or the steeds that need grazing. The sea and its streams are his at this hour, and for a brief moment, he wonders which of the lads has come to join him.
It is only as he gets closer that he stops, taking in the man’s appearance. This is not a man of his village. He is no stranger but it has been some time since he saw him last.
It is the blind man.
He opens his mouth to shout a greeting so as not to startle him, but the blind man has already turned his ice-pale eyes towards him, a small smile on his face.
“Good morning, Elmar.”
Many years ago, he may have believed the blind man to be nothing more than a liar, capable of seeing as clearly as any of the hale and hearty youths of the village. The sword and scabbard that are strapped to his hip speak of someone who may well know his way around a fight, a feat only heard of in the great tall tales the young girls giggle over in the midst of their chores. He has never tried to prove this suspicion of his. He is well past his eightieth nameday, and he is no great knight. Besides, the man’s eyes never quite focus on anyone or anything, not truly, though Elmar supposes that could be a mummer’s trick too.
He gives the blind man a smile, even though he knows he cannot see it. “Good morning to you, too, my lord. It has been some time.”
Elmar does not know if the blind man is a lord or a knight or neither. He does not even know the man’s true name. Every time he visits, there has always been a different name on his tongue. Alyn. Gareth. Eddard. Martyn. He does wonder if perhaps the man has told him his true name once, though he doubts it. He does not press the issue nor the mystery—let the man have his secrets. How much of a threat can a man whose eyes are useless be?
“A year at the most,” the blind man replies with a nod of his head. “How was the winter for you?”
“Cold,” Elmar laughs. Though not near as cold as the Black Winter that fell across the land when he was little more than a babe, he wants to add. But no one speaks of that anymore, no more than they speak of dragons or lions or wolves or stags. With a fond smile, he adds, “My Bertha knit me enough stockings to last through twenty more winters, if she has any say in it. Warm and toasty, they is, but a bit more than one man can bear.”
The blind man chuckles too. “I am glad to hear the village was well-warmed this winter. Give Bertha my greetings.”
That takes him aback. “You’re not staying this time?” The man visits once every few months or every few years, never staying for longer than one sunrise to the next. There is never a new horse in the stables to mark his arrival so Elmar has always assumed he arrives on foot. “Not even for a day?”
The blind man shakes his head. “No—and no longer even that. This is my last visit.”
Elmar frowns. The news upsets him for some reason. He does not exactly consider the blind man a friend, but he is always a welcome surprise when he turns up in the spring or the summer or the autumn (he never arrives in the winter). The others in the village like him well enough, and the blind man often tells stories to the children (and to the adults too, though they pretend that they were never listening in the first place). The stories are fantastical things, but told with such subdued sincerity, it almost makes him think that they might be true.
He steps closer to the man as he begins to pull his fishing supplies from the bag he has been carrying. “A shame. Are you going away? Seeking your fortune across the sea? Chasing a lady love?” The blind man snorts a laugh, his eyes slightly crinkling at the edges. Elmar has never been able to pinpoint how old the blind man is. He may have said twenty or thirty or fifty, and all of those numbers never seem quite right.
“Something like that,” the blind man admits with a twinkle in his unseeing eyes that makes Elmar believe he is missing a part of a joke. “But I wanted to say my goodbyes nonetheless.”
A strange thing to do with passing acquaintances. But Elmar still feels oddly torn about this. He wants to pull the blind man back into his house, to introduce him to Falla’s babe, to feed him a plate of freshly-caught salmon doused in beer and mushrooms, to listen to another story, genuinely this time, and he would make sure all the others listened too.
But he has the feeling that he cannot sway this man to do anything he does not want to do. He is not sure why, but he knows this as certainly as he knows the blind man will not return.
“Do you do this to other villages too?” Elmar asks as he preps his fishing spear, kneeling in the mud by the cold rush of the stream. He does not truly need to do much other than refit the spearhead but it is something to do with his hands. “Appear like a ghost or a demon and then tell me farewell?”
He does not expect an answer. Perhaps his tone is too biting. But to his surprise, the blind man kneels next to him, his cloak billowing in the mud. Elmar notes that the weave is fine and dark, certainly worth more than any cloak he has ever worn. After quietly perusing the bag’s contents with his hands, the blind man hands him a spearhead—sharp and black and perfect.
“I do, though not as often as I’d like,” the blind man says with a guilty shrug, oblivious to Elmar’s begrudging nod. “Winter is hard.”
For a blind man, aye. “You’ll have to tell the others. Bertha will skin my hide if she knows you came and left without letting her feed you.”
“I’ve known many people with a kindness for cripples, bastards, and broken things.”
A queer thought, but Elmar pauses, thinking about his Bertha and her jolly smile and her warm embrace, and then nods. He adds in a chiding tone, tying the spearhead into place, “You’ll break her heart.”
“That would be a shame.”
But he does not bend in his resolution. And Elmar does not know what else to say. Should he bid the man farewell and send him on his way? It seems a cruel thing to send a blind man off without at least giving him bread and shelter for the night. Unthinkable.
Instead he finds himself saying, “A story then, if you will.”
“A story?”
“Aye. If you are so insistent on leaving with no kindness from us, at least do me the kindness of giving a gift to the children. Tell me a story I can take back to them.” The other man looks thoughtful, and Elmar quickly scolds, “And not one you’ve told before. I’ll know. I remember these things.”
The blind man blinks, and then he laughs, settling himself into the damp earth near the shore. It is something, Elmar supposes.
“I know a few.”
“Good. It’s a beautiful morning for it.” Perhaps if he draws the story out long enough, the man will be forced to at least stay for the rest of the day. Bertha cannot fault him for not trying then.
The man’s pale gaze is more distant than it normally is. As Elmar carefully wades into the stream (a fall at this age would be both embarrassing and far more trouble than it is worth), the blind man seems to be weighing the worth of a story in his mind, a story that fits a goodbye, a story that is both capstone and farewell and a legacy.
Then, a slow, hesitant smile slips across the other man’s face. “I’ve never told you my true name, have I?” Elmar shoots him a suspicious glare.
“A name is not a story, my lord, if you’re trying to find a way out of this.”
But the blind man’s face reveals nothing beyond that knowing smile.
“It can be. And it is.”
And then he begins.