Side Story - Reborn From the Waves

Hermit's Notes: Today, I actually wanted to write an April Fool's chapter, transform my novel into an exploitativepowerfantasy  nonsense harem thing for a day. Then I realized taht I was wasting my, and your, time. So instead, I wrote a side story I've been wanting to write for a while now. This one slots in somewhere in the first book, after Chapter 16 - Three Captains. Enjoy.

At first, he had been engulfed in a storm of feelings. He had felt pain, regret, desperation, exhaustion. However, after a while, he had been left with nothing but resignation, and a faint hope that it would be over soon. After their attempt at a mutiny had failed, he knew that his life had been a failure, he knew that he wouldn't achieve a thing, not anymore, but he had accepted his fate. Even the man who had sealed his fate wasn't someone he was willing to blame. For once in his life, he had tried his best and played the cards he had been dealt, but it hadn't been enough. In the end, he had blamed no one but himself, and found peace. Even then, life would not be kind enough to let him go with only that.   

What woke up old John was pain. A cold wave of water had carried his body onto a hard shell and forced his mind back to life. Through his body's exhaustion, the old man rubbed his sunk-in cheeks over the coarse, wet sand and somehow managed to open his eyes. At first he was only confused. How had he not died? After the big guy Atau had put them into that life boat, old John and his crew had done their best to stay on course, to stay alive. However, in the vicious currents of the southern coast, they had soon lost control and then their footing as the men tumbled into the embrace of the stormy sea one by one.

Strength reached his arms from he wouldn't know where, and so old John could press his fingers into the ground and made his trembling body rise up, enough to get onto his knees. In great confusion, John looked around to find nothing but gray. A gray beach, made up of gray cliffs and gray sands, bombarded by a constant assault from a gray sea, under a sky of dark gray clouds. With his sharp eyes, the only thing the old man could still be proud of in his later days, he looked around, in search for his companions. When he couldn't find any of them, he looked for their cargo, or a plank of wood, anything. However, in the end he failed to find a thing.

Of course he would fail to do so. Within his bones he could still feel how they had been whipped through the waves and reefs by the currents; It was almost impossible to survive this kind of situation. Old John had no doubt that this had been Atau's plan back when he had put them on that boat, to kill them without blood.   

The great Arcavus himself must have looked after him to prevent his own death. However, for John it was no comfort. He understood very well, he had sinned. Through his own greed, his own wish to be closer to the gods after death, John had tricked all those youngsters into the mutiny and killed them, every last one. No punishment would be more fitting than survival. Overwhelmed by guilt, John let his torso slump back into the beach and lay there, to wait for the last fire to go out in his aching body.

After a while however, John began to feel something beyond pain and exhaustion, but it was no improvement. His limbs felt a pain and stiffness, clammy, while his stomach tried to pull all of his body to its center, intent to swallow his own flesh if he couldn't provide any better. Yes, his body told old John to get up and move. Although he had already made his peace, although he had no desire to prolong his suffering, John thought it would be unseemly to choose for himself. Without a doubt, Arcavus himself had looked upon him and prolonged his life. Without a doubt, suicide would be nothing less than blasphemy. How could he deny the great Lord his punishment?

Thus, minutes later, the old man had raised his tormented body to his feet and left the beach, dressed in nothing but wet rags and strings of kelp. Soon after Arcavus led him to a road, where he chose to go east, away from his old life. Not long after that, Arcavus sent him a guest, someone who would shape his future and help save John's life. Once more, he chose to let himself be led.

“Hey there, old man! Where does your path lead you?” a man's voice asked from behind John.

“Wherever the good Lord takes me.” With a tired, toothless smile on his face, John turned around and looked at the donkey cart, as well as the man sat above it. Although he had said nothing but the truth, the stranger began to laugh.

“How rare, to see someone pious in these days of duplicity. Does the Lord allow you to travel with a stranger? In good conscience I cannot let an old man walk this empty road all by himself.”

Without another thought, the exhausted John stepped towards the cart. Just as Arcavus intended, he took a seat on the cart, next to the gray-haired man who wore the expensive smell.

“Good Lords, you look awful.” His eyes enlarged, the rich man observed John's disheveled state after he had gotten a closer look. Unfazed, the old sailor only smiled.

“Anyone would be if they came where I come from.”

“And whence would that be?”

“Sent by the great Arcavus, I hail straight from the sea of course. My robes should tell you as much.” he said and raised the strings of kelp which hung from his arms. Since the rich man only answered with stunned silence, John decided to ask a question himself.

“You're a merchant?”

“How do you figure?” His voice filled with suspicion, the rich man pulled back on his seat. Faced with such a bum and all alone, any rich man would be worried about their possessions, so John wouldn't mind the reaction.

“Your clothing, your shoes, your hair and everything else about you smells of wealth. However, you don't flaunt and you don't brag. You don't travel with soldiers and slaves, so you cannot be one of the so-called lords who would use any chance to show off their greatness before us normal folk. So all you can be is a merchant, right? Who else would be this wealthy?”

At once the rich man's body relaxed again. “Since there has been an emergency in my family, I had to travel back home mid-trip and leave my cargo with my men. I made ever attempt to appear as a normal craftsman and believed my disguise to be impeccable. It appears I still have much to learn. However, calling the lords 'so-called', is this not sacrilegious for such a religious man?”

With a scoff, old John brushed off the merchant's foolishness. “How could it be sacrilege? Whoever of these fops counts for anything? Why would the great Arcavus care about them so much? Because they're his descendants? In the end, aren't we all children of Arcavus, isn't that what the priests and the lords tell us as well?”

Encouraged by the rich man's cautious nod, John continued. “Then why would they be worth more than you or me, only based on their birth? If your son was a little monster, ungrateful and useless, would you love him more than your loyal and industrious friend?” In spite of his exhausted state, in spite of the pain caused by sin, John kept talking. Somehow, he felt like he had to continue his sermon, to make the man understand what he had learned of the great Arcavus. Once more the merchant had fallen quiet, both eyebrows raised in shock. While John continued, the rich man looked behind them, to make sure no one would listen in on the dangerous words.   

“Here's the truth, and you can believe me on that: The gods don't care for the noble folk all that much. Why would they? Those people have done nothing since they were born. That's their greatest feat. No one will love you, or care for you, for only being born. No, in fact, wouldn't the great Arcavus be disappointed? Wouldn't he want his children to have their own merits, to prove their virtue? To build, create and grow? Why, from all of his children, would he love those who only sit around and leech of all others?”

At first the rich man had still eyed John with suspicion, but by now his chin had sunk into his hand and stared at John with great concentration written all over his furrowed brows. At least the donkey knew the path, or they would have gotten lost on their way.

“You know who the great Lord really cares about?” John continued. “It's the people who have worked hard, those who have done great things, like you. The merchants have gotten all that money, done all that work, built all the cities and lands under the watchful eye of Lord Arcavus. Of course they will be the ones with a seat at Arcavus' table. Of course you will be a great hero in the next life!”

This epiphany had been the very reason that he had been worried about his own future, the reason he had tricked Polder into the mutiny. Now that he had failed, missed his last chance to feel the glory of the Lords, the old sailor shouted out all of his pain and desperation.   

However, what answered John's rant wasn't what he had expected. Rather than contempt, John's gaze was met by eyes as large as buckets. For a while more the rich man seemed incapable of any proper response and only stared at the strange man from the sea. Just as John became nervous, before he could apologize to save his ride, the rich man answered at last.

“How do you know all this? Did Arcavus speak to you?” Jumping forward on the narrow cart, the merchant grabbed John's shoulders and shook him in search for answers.

Right away John understood the man. Throughout all the Arcavian lands, merchants were maligned and despised, their attempts to take power from the lords seen as an attempt to overthrow the lords themselves. Just like John was desperate for the Lord's attention, so were the merchants. Just like he hoped for salvation, so did the merchants hope to be legitimized. At last John understood that he had been led here, by Arcavus himself. At last he knew that the great lord had given him one last chance at salvation, at last he understood his purpose in life.

“The great Arcavus wants nothing more than success for his children. So there's nothing nicer for him to see them do well. Those who work hard shall be granted success by the great lord. Those who reach success in this life shall sit besides him in the next!”

“Truly!? Praise be, a message from the Great Lord, to release us from ailment!” With an awkward move back, the rich man turned on the thin wooden board which was their seat and lowered his head between his knees, in an attempt to show his deference. He, the rich man, the great master who would always tell John what to do, where to sail and where to stash the cargo, had lowered his head. “Oh wise master. Won't you do this simple mortal the honor to be a guest in his house? No messenger of Arcavus should resemble a beggar! Any man in Arcavia should hear of His divine message!”

Gratified that the adherent understood, John tried his best to show a benevolent smile, despite his lack of teeth.

“Indeed they should, but what can I do? I'm just a poor man, straight from the waves. I have none of the things I will need to spread the Lord's word, no matter how righteous I may be.”

As if he had waited for the words, the rich man raised his head again, his beaming face ready to drive back the gray world around them.

“Oh, not to worry brave man! I, this simple servant, I this pious man, shall provide you with all you need, to fulfill your divine mission!”

“Arcavus shall thank you for your piety.”

While John's mind was already farther down the roads, with warm clothes and a full belly in the rich man's home, he was confronted with a question he had not expected.

“Please, oh great saint, tell me your name so that I may spread it all throughout the south,” the merchant asked.

For a moment, John just sat there and thought. In fact, the question had been so simple so trivial, that he understood his answer couldn't be obvious. How could he call himself 'old John' anymore? It was a name he had carried all his life, but now he was reborn. Now, the great Arcavus had given him a second chance, to continue on and spread His divine word. He would need another name, one of sufficient weight, fitting for His divine servant. Throughout his years at sea, John had come across all kinds of folks and heard all manner of language. In the north, they sometimes still spoke the tongues of old, the words from the days of Arcavus. Up there, the name John was still preserved in its old form, a name Arcavus would surely smile upon.

“Joannis,” the prophet said. “My name is Saint Joannis.”