#Grimmond Shoalheart

[shoalbreaker]

The Promise (short fic)

Character: Grimmond “Grimm” Shoalheart

The mossy halls of the Boralus monastery were quiet these days… aside from a few acolytes on solitary tasks, there wasn’t much to break the aura of solitude clinging to the dark stone corridors. Too many sages lost, one way or another, and not yet enough time to replace them.

For the massive figure clomping down one of them, however, this was less of a tragedy and more of a small blessing. Grimmond wasn’t sure himself why he was even here, aside from the fact he really didn’t have anywhere else to go… at least, not anyplace quiet and unlikely for him to be disturbed. Right now he felt he’d had enough disturbance for the rest of the year. Probably longer. A combination of a sullen scowl and a largish item wrapped in burlap tucked into his massive arms was enough to forestall any questioning as the burly redhead made his way to a little used corner of the monastery, pausing now and again to check a door, and if left open, peer inside.

In time, he found one that suited his needs; just one storeroom among many, full of dusty crates in a variety of sizes, and lacking windows. Pushing the door open, he used what little light filtered in from the torchlit hall to set his burden on a crate, then fish a candle stub out of his vest. A match flares briefly, lighting it; a bit of wax is spilled to the top of the crate to hold it upright before he moves back to the door and pushes it carefully shut. He stares at it for some time, frowning at the green-stained old wood for a long moment, before turning, moving to a large crate, and shoving it deliberately in front of the door.

Only then does he return to his makeshift table, frowning at the item resting thereon before scooting a smaller crate close to it and settling down, arms resting crossed in front of it. And there he sits, silent seconds ticking away… of course, to him, they weren’t silent. Even though the thick stone and heavy door shut out what little bustle could be heard within the monastery walls, it just made the quiet roar in his ears all the louder by comparison. The sound of surf on a rocky beach, the hiss of waves on tumbling stones breaking up into half-words he couldn’t understand… a nagging thought in the back of his mind told him this was probably worrying, but he ignored it. He usually did, after all.

After a long while, he reaches out and drags the mouth of the bag open, letting it fall loosely around the base of the object within. A jar, slightly over a foot in diameter and somewhat taller, filled with a clear fluid that held a faint bluish glow only slightly dimmer than the candle beside it. And inside the jar…

Grimm’s lips tighten slightly as he studies the gently bobbing contents. Eyes closed, the head of his murdered cousin drifts in serene repose… if such a phrase could be applied to a severed head in a jar, anyway. Now that the shock had worn off, there was a strange, dull fascination with it. Alive? Dead? Both? Neither? A massive hand reaches out to turn the jar this way and that, watching her drift slowly in her glass prison. It’d be easy to think it was just a pickled trophy… if it didn’t keep moving slightly, every once in a while.

Eventually, he moves his hand from the lid to tap on the glass with a thick, broken-nailed finger. Dink, dink. The woman’s eyelids flicker briefly, but don’t open… probably, he muses, for the best. Crossing his arms, he leans on the edge of the crate, expression darkening slightly.

“…Dunno, if ye can ‘ear me, in ‘ere,” he rumbles after some time. “But… I promised yer ma I’ll do wot I can… tho’ Tides know wot that is…” After awhile, he lifts a hand again to press a fingertip against the glass for a little while, eventually adding “… Dead ‘fer a week an’ still pretty…” A low grunt, “…ain’t that jes’ th’ way.” Even in the candlelight, it’s easy to see the scars on the man’s hand; the blurry, blotchy tattoos, the thickened and distorted thumbnail he’d once torn off in a brawl. Absently, he rubs the glass with his fingertip, making a slightly cleaner patch, then lowers his hand again.

“… ‘Folks wot won’t be missed’,” he mutters, a little later. “Aye… that’s th’ truth of it. If it were me in there… Aunt Maeve would’a yes’ laughed, shrugged, an’ prob’ly said I d’served it. ‘Ow many others’ve they slaughtered that she din’t care ‘bout ‘till they took ye?” Bitterness curls at the edges of the man’s words as he frowned at the jar’s contents… though for all that, it’s anyone’s guess if he was actually looking at them.

“An’ she expects me t’die fer ye, too,” he adds quietly, a bit later. “‘Cause o’course she did. Life ‘fer life, an’ mine ain’t worth shit t’her, ‘specially if she gets ye back again.” Elena’s head doesn’t give any particular sign she can hear him, but Grimm’s need to talk to -anyone- at the moment outweighs the unresponsiveness of his target. “… S’ppose t’ain’t worth shit t’anyone, really. ‘Cept me. Hell, th’ damn Sages think’m an idjit… if they weren’t all mos’ly killed off, they’d’ve laughed me right out th’ door again. Th’ head o’ th’ Tideguard already tol’ me I’m goin’ t’die, so she did. But…” That scarred finger pokes the glass again, causing a slight ripple. “Well. I knew ‘at. But… mmmh.  Mebbe this way at least I’ll get rung out t’sea, instead’a bein’ left in an alley fer th’ rats an’ crabs t’find…” he mutters. Another poke is delivered to the jar as he falls momentarily silent again..

“…Wot’s it like, growin’ up bein’ loved?” he finally asks her, as if expecting a confided answer. “Knowin’ someone wanted ye t’be safe, not havin’ t’fight ‘fer scraps a dog wouldn’t touch, or goin’ ‘ungry? Not bein’ spat on an’ ridiculed?” He laughs a little, though bitterly, “Heh, even in a cell, even facin’ th’ damn ‘angman… she still ‘ad enough bile in ‘er belly ‘ta mock me, so she did. I’ll always jes’ be a worthless gutter rat ‘ta ‘er… Jes’ like th’ rest of ‘em…” He falls silent, staring at the jar, his expression sober and uncharacteristically sad.

“…. I let ‘er go, tho,” he adds, softly. “Like I tol’ the greencoat… I ain’t a good man. But I ain’t a bad’n neither. Th’ Tidemother wouldn’t want me t’let some’n die wrongly if I could stop it. So… I did wot I could. Doubt it’ll matter to ‘er much if she makes it through this, but… well… even if nobody else gives a shit, it’s b’tween me an’ th Tidemother, an’ I couldn’t live wit’ that on m’hands.” A pause, “Or… die wit’ it, I guess.” He sighs, eventually crossing his arms and putting his head down on them, silently watching the jar. This time. he’s quiet for a long time before speaking up again.

“Dun’ matter tho,” he mutters softly. “I promised.”