#kinda like the names broenfedar and grymaent though

[dumb-hat]

Prompt #07: “Nonagenarian” - FFXIV Write 2020

“We had to call it, man.” The gruff voice was heavy with the weight of sadness. It was like gravel. Like sad gravel.

“What? No. No! But I liked Runy!” The lighter voice had a breathy quality to it, threaded through with dismay.

“That’s not her name,” Sad Gravel responded. 

“C’mon, man, you know I can’t do that weird ‘yuh’ thing.”

“It’s not ‘a weird ‘yuh’ thing,’ it’s a part of her language. Her culture!” Sad Gravel sounded exasperated now, too. 

He also sounded like he was stepping out of the cabin, which meant it was safe for Evander to slip out of the coat closet he was hiding in. The lockbox was in hand, so once he was off this boat, he was free and clear, the job was done, and his debt was paid. All he had to do now was keep behind these awful, terrible guards, whose conversation he had listened to all night while they camped out in the cabin, ignoring their duties and trapping Evander in the closet. Luckily, they seemed pretty self-absorbed.

“Anyway, the point is, I’m sorry to hear it, buddy. I liked her. She was good for you, you were good for her.” Evander was somewhat surprised to see that the breathy-voiced guard was a Sea Wolf. “What happened?”

“She was older than I thought,” Sad Gravel, who was no_ a Roegadyn, but was in fact an especially and truly unfortunately lanky Elezen replied. “Like, a lot older.”

“So? That’s not that big a deal.” Breathy Broenfedar, as Evander had dubbed him seemed committed to his coworker’s relationship. No doubt, these two had been talking about this subject for weeks. The thought made Evander nauseous.

“No, like, a lot older, man. You don’t get it.” The Elezen sighed deeply. “She’s like… 90.”

There was a furtive pause from the Sea Wolf. The two men looked at each other for a long moment before he shrugged his massive shoulders and repeated his earlier question. “So?”

“You don’t get it, man. Think about it. How old are you?” Sad Gravel asked as they crossed the prow of the small ship. He leaned against the railing while he waited for his friend to respond. Evander cursed and ducked behind some crates. 

“I’m 30.” Breathy Broenfedar sounded skeptical of this line of inquiry. “Why? I don’t care that she’s three times older than me.”

“It’s not about the number, Grymaent.” Ah, so his name wasn’t Broenfedar. A shame, Evander liked it more.

“Okay, okay. So clue me in. What’s the big deal?” Grymaent also leaned against the railing. Evander heard a creek and the two men chuckled, then the larger man stepped away from the rail.

“It’s about experience—”

Grymaent guffawed. “Well hell, Nate, that don’t sound so bad either!”

Evander couldn’t see, but he could imagine the withering glare that Nate must have sent to his companion. “Think it through, you dullard. Five years ago, you were 25. Were you the same man you are today?”

Grymaent was quiet for a moment. “No, no I guess I wasn’t.”

“And five years before that?”

Evander could hear Grymaent take a deep breath. “I see your point.”

“Now consider that she’s three times your age. If you feel like a different person every five years or so... “ Nate trailed off.

Grymaent finished his sentence. “Then she’s done that, what? 18 times? She’s been 18 different people.”

“Yeah, I just… I couldn’t… Look, I know it’s shitty, but one day we were just sitting there, eating mashed popotoes and things were fine. The next day, it was like… I dunno, she grew two heads or something. I wish it weren’t the way it was, but well…” Nate coughed and sighed, and it sounded like someone wheezing through wet gravel. It sounded vaguely familiar, and Evander wondered whatever happened to his old friends, in much the same way that you wonder about what happened to an old stray dog’s leg when you see them limping down an alley. He felt compelled to try and get closer to this Nate, but they were already making their way away from the railing. 

He could stay. He could stick around, listen to more of their conversation, find out if this was indeed someone from his past… or he could slip right past them, right now. He could deliver this box, clear out another debt, sever another tie. One less obligation over his head.

The weight of a life unlived weighed on him. Countless answers to countless questions wondered over the years could be answered right here. He stared at the lockbox. His knuckles were white from the strain. Answers.

He stood from behind the crates and watched the men round another corner before creeping away. He thought about who he was five years ago, and five years before that, and wondered about who he’d be five years from now. 

Answers wouldn’t help him. One less obligation would.

The Nonagenarian is a stupid name for a boat anyway, he thought to himself as he stepped off the boat and onto the wharf. One less answer. One less obligation.

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