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Davenport commanded respect. He did not like to admit it (it’s against the nature of a good captain after all) but he was proud of that respect. It was hard won, with his gnomish stature doing little to lend him authority. He was a leader, and a strategist, and a force to be reckoned with.
He stayed strong for his crew. He saved face. That’s the role of a captain.
So when he relapses, he acts unchanged.
It was easier when there was no-one around to pretend for. At sea, he didn’t need words. That twinge where his thoughts would circle his own nature, where the words didn’t come or would trail off… He could leave it at sea, allow it be marooned at some point that would never be revisited.
But he wasn’t at sea now.
He had been invited by Merle to the anniversary party of defeating the Hunger. Truly, he had been invited by everyone, but Merle’s invitation was the one he took. Merle wasn’t a man of many words, not anymore. He simply had the note appear on Davenport’s ship tucked into a flower that had bloomed between the boards of the deck.
It said:
“Lets fuck this snooze fest up! M”
And then on the back:
“The good M. Not Burnsides.”
It had made Davenport smile.
So why not?
He’d had fun. He’d even had a few glasses of wine, reminisced with some of the party members. He’d gotten his stutter under control that evening, helped by the wine. He avoided the soft “s” and harsh “t” sounds that he was so often tripped up by, smiled as often as possible. He was happy enough to stand of the head of the table, and nod at the drunken chants of speech. Then he opened his mouth and announced:
“Davenport!”
The effect on the room was instant. Faces fell. At least one glass shattered. The silence was suffocating. Davenport froze, glass still held above his head with vanishing confidence. He cleared his throat.
“D-Daven-” he began again, placing a hand over his mouth. “Ex-ex-excusse Davenport.” He managed to say, stepping down to take a breath. He exited the room as quickly as he could without appearing to be running, taking a few steps out onto the porch. He took some shaky breaths. He didn’t turn around to acknowledge the presence he knew would follow him.
“I’m fine Merle.” Davenport said, looking out to the sea that lined the property. Trying to focus on the ebb and flow of the tide. The way it dragged sand out to sea, and erased the heavy footsteps people had left behind them.
“I-I’m not getting you Dav.” Merle said, with agonising sympathy that Davenport could feel in his bones.
“I’m fine!” Davenport snapped, turning to Merle. Davenport realised that his mouth kept moving of its own accord, making shapes he did not want it to.
It made sense.
There were two syllables in what he had meant to say, and three syllables in Davenport. And that’s all he was saying.
“No.” -venport. “I’m fine.”-port “Damn it.” -port.
Merle hovered by Davenport, raising his wooden hand to place it on Davenport’s shoulder, but stopping just short.
“This okay Dav?” Merle asked.
Davenport felt tears prickle in his eyes, but he blinked them back and set his jaw.
“No.” Davenport said, ignoring as his mouth formed his name, his damn name that haunted him. He hated it. He hated this name which he wore like a brand: a short hand of idiocy, of farce, of absurdity.
Merle put his wooden hand down, giving Davenport some space. He walked past the gnome, instead taking a seat on the white sands of the beach. He patted the space beside him as he stared off into the sea.
Davenport was left a little raw by the bluntness of this, standing somewhat lost on the porch. Merle did not look back at him, genuinely losing himself in seeing the break of the waves.
“I love it out here. Always have. Somethin’ ‘bout the waves and the breeze… There’s nothing like it.”
Davenport did not move, rooted to the porch. Staring at the dwarven figure bathed in moonlight, absently digging his fingers into the sand.
“It used to be because it’s always changing. Maybe I’m getting soft, or the kids are getting to me but… it’s not changing. Not where it matters. There’s sand under foot. Stars over head. Tiles on the roof and boards on the floor.” Merle’s wooden arm dug deeper into the sand, letting it run between his fingers. “It’s just the foundations that matter. You’ve still got those…”
Davenport finally joined Merle on the beach, sitting close enough that their hands met.
“We’ve still got Davenport. Everything else is just decoration. That’s all I ever wanted. The Captain’s fine. But Davenport?” Merle turned to Davenport and winked. “I’ve heard he’s a bit of a catch.”
Davenport laughed. He didn’t expect it, the noise catching him unawares and making his snort into more laughter. He laughed and he laughed, and he had tears rolling down his face that he didn’t try to stifle.
Merle held his hand, and told dirty jokes, and didn’t expect anything from him.
It was a different kind of respect. One that Davenport had been proud to earn, though he could not figure out what he had done to deserve it.