I am jolted from sleep. The uncomfortable feeling, like the sharp prick of static shock, rushes through my body, bringing with it all the vivid sensations that distinguish the waking world from the dreaming. The air is cold, bitterly cold. Occasionally, a lashing wind blows by, intensifying the chill, and causes our meager vessel to tip and rock precariously. It was this that had awakened me. I blink a few times, feeling flakes of snow fall and perish on my eyelids. You notice that I am awake.
“We’re almost there,” answering my unspoken question, you tuck my scarf over my face and under my chin. The wind must have blown it out of place.
I look upwards. The tarp that covers half of the boat is only meant to keep out a light drizzle. We had known that snow was imminent, but money had been scarce, and it was the best we were able to haggle for. But it at least allowed us sight of the star-studded sky, calm and unshaken, completely separate from the icy storms below. I spend a few minutes staring, hypnotized by the white specks and the black velvet that held them in place, before another gust reminds me of our current situation. I wriggle my toes, afraid my inattention to them during sleep may have caused them to become frostbitten. But they are neatly wrapped and protected. Not my doing, if I recall correctly, though this is a fortunate discovery nonetheless. Slowly I prop myself up, breaking contact with you momentarily.
“You’re letting heat slip away,” you reach around my waist and pull me back.
“Mm, sorry,” turning my head, I pull my hood away and kiss you. I then lean back into you, and we sit, watching in silence as our boat presses on.
The wind has died down a bit, though snow continues to fall. In the distance, lights of our destination appear. They grow in number and intensity as we approach.
“Docking soon, misses,” a tired voice crackles behind us. A draught of snow tumbles onto my lap as our guide taps his cane on the tarp above us. He coughs, and I wonder if he ingests rocks; the rattling of his congested lungs is indistinguishable from a turbine.
The horizon is fully alit now. Gas lamps spaced evenly along the roads bathe the sleeping city in an amber glow. The waves near the docks are more volatile, and the boat tips enough that water splashes onboard as our guide ambles to the bow to tie up the boat. Grabbing my satchel and brushing the snow from my pants, I rise, trying to keep as steady as possible. Slipping out from behind me, you leave the vessel first. I take your hand when you offer it, and follow after. My breath leaves as clouds of precipitation, made visible by the cold of the city. It feels good to stand on solid ground again.
“That’ll be sixty-five kopens, misses,” our guide extends his thick mug of a hand, like a bear’s paw, gloved thickly in the black skin of some robust animal. You fish around in your bag, and before I can protest, you hand over the currency. “Mm, thank ye kindly, miss. Pleasure doin’ business with ye,” he stretches his lips back into what must’ve been a grin. His mouth is empty, save for a golden tooth on one side – golden, or severely stained, I’m not sure. Wiping white frost from his beard, he nods curtly at us and lumbers into the city, shaking his pouch of coins.
We stand on the dock for a moment and listen as the crunch of his boots fade away, admiring the still, winter silence that presses in around us.
Light, from the ebbing street lamps, and the stars that twinkle above.
Dark, from the inky blackness of the sea and the nocturnal sky.
Cold, from the frost that sticks to my skin, and the tempest that gusts relentlessly.
And warmth – you shiver, and I bring myself closer to you – warmth, from having you beside me.
We’ve made it. The city of Luthorn sleeps, awaiting the morning. Yet I can’t imagine sleeping now. Here, we’ll being our journey. At last, we’ve made it.
——
Author’s note:
I’ll think of a title for this one soon. (Pseudo)promise. Hope it will evolve into something more than a one-shot. I seem to be able to write intros, but that’s it.
–
