Sumia

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Few know this wandering spirit, but many may remember his name.

In years long past, Freyr was alone. That's all he would give away of his earliest years: that he wandered alone, scrounging up food wherever he could and with no place to call home. It was a simple, sad story.

But he was not alone on the streets, nor was he alone in the wilderness. It was the rat's cliche: he had to learn how to defend himself at an early age, lest he lose all hope of surviving alone. He grew into a fighter not hoping for glory, but hoping to live. All it took was a different perspective, he thought – and then they'd consider him a coward.

And still, he had to survive. At all costs.

Even if they'd see him as that vile street rat he pictured whenever he drew his blade. Even if they did.

But they didn't.

Why? Freyr would gladly have asked himself that. But as he stepped out onto the arena sands, right in the Ruins' fierce sunlight, greeted by countless cheers, he only had one thing to think of.

Get gold. Get food. Survive.

It was still a simple story at this point: even after he'd moved from thieving and brawling on the streets to fighting for some feigned glory in the many arenas that welcomed him, his existence was a straightforward one. He fought and he won, many times over; if the streets taught him to do one thing, it was that.

Sooner or later, they would see him fight his final battle. They would see him fight, and fall, and not get up again. They would move on to a different champion, a different face to cheer for, and he'd be forgotten. Freyr was surviving, but he was not living. Maybe it was time.

But it never happened. Freyr never fell. And that, perhaps, was the greatest loss of all.

How sickening had this life been! The cheering was a horrid buzzing, a droning that followed him wherever he went; the sand felt as if it would scorch off his soles and then his legs; the gold seemed poisoned. He could do one thing, only one thing, and that was run. If he could only reach someplace where they didn't know of him, then...

What a shame they couldn't kill him. To go out with honor in the arena would be nice; to give up would be a disgrace. He was nothing but a fighter who'd never had any coin to his name, but he had standards. Was it time to finally abandon them?

The prize money paid for the drinks — it was in a hot, noisy tavern just beneath the cliffs where Freyr now found himself. He had to get away, he had to flee to the west, he had to run! But first, he'd have to forget.

How could he forget that voice, though? A few tables away, a Coatl called him over. He was impressed by Freyr's drinking, yet curious about his identity. After all, the Coatl mentioned, he'd been here countless times and never saw him before. But for a newcomer, he was passing gold over the counter with surprising ease. Didn't he know, the Coatl asked, whose land this was?

A joke, a joke, the stranger assured him. He was a fledgling captain: the sea had been his home for long, but being a leader, well, that was all new to him. Perhaps one day it'd be his, he mentioned through the clinking of glasses.

Stories would have to be repaid in kind, and so Freyr told the captain of his dreams: to find some new ones. He hadn't been living for much, and it was time to change that. But what could he do? He was skilled with a blade, he was perceptive, he was so much that couldn't ever help him now.

The captain only grinned. It was clear what he was hinting at: he had his own dreams, and was perhaps more persistent into turning them to reality than Freyr had ever been. He remembered the moment vividly — the captain's silence when asked about the pay, then Freyr's mocking laugh, moments before accepting the offer.

And Freyr felt confident, that first moment he boarded the ship. He hadn't lied; the crew was small, almost pathetically so, and no one had ever heard the Tethys' name before. But it felt more like a home to him than anything before.

Over time, Freyr grew accustomed to the sea. The captain, now much more often called Alastair by Freyr, spent the evenings telling tales — legends of the sea, or stories from his youth. He had no instruments, else he'd accompany the long nights with song, for that'd always been his passion when he was but a child. But it was a passion he could never afford. The next skirmish out on the sea, Freyr promised, he'd check if their victims had anything laying around. Because it was now, more than ever. that Freyr knew for sure that they'd win.

Alastair knew a little of swordmanship, but his fights were improvised whereas Freyr's were calculated. Even so, the two were almost unstoppable in battle; perhaps it was precisely for that reason. How strange it was to see them side by side! The captain and his newly-promoted first mate — bickering one moment, but leading their crew to victory the next.

It worked, though. It worked so well.

It was a matter of weeks, or maybe months — time on the sea was getting hard to keep track of by now — before the first crewmates had their suspicions. The same could be said for Freyr himself, and the captain he now affectionately dubbed 'Alay'. Was there some love between them?

If there was, the proof lay in the way Freyr always was the first to rise and defend his captain, and the first to ask afterwards if he was all right. Or how Alastair, who so fiercely wanted to gather himself a reputation, let his guard down entirely in those quiet nights the two of them spent alone.

If there was, the proof lay in what happened next.

The winds turned, and turned, and turned again. None of the crew had expected it — how could they? The Windsinger's children, in the west, were just as lost. Strange things had been happening, but all had been well and no word was received to disprove it. The sea was safe. For too long, this crew was nothing but a group of fledgling sailors with nothing to their name — or no name, for that matter. Now, however, they were experienced. They knew to trust the waves. They didn't know that it was misplaced trust.

The wind howled out, as if the tide itself was in pain. And, pained as it was, it would have its vengeance on whatever it could find. The Tethys, brave as she was, was also in its grasp. The ship itself had withstood so many battles, but this would be too much. She wouldn't last.

The crew tried, though. It was that smallest bit of faith that had gotten them so far,