Chapter Text
No-one saw him leave, which, in a way, annoyed him.
It wasn’t so much that it was overly safe to have made a grand exit, not with a bounty that would have bought a reasonably sized town house, on his head, but something about sneaking away, half hidden beneath the nets and tarpaulin and clutter of a small fishing boat-in the dead of night, no less-felt cowardly.
In the half gloom he watched the only home he’d ever known slip away across the bay, the black peaks of the Imperial Palace jutting into the sky, the city, falling around it in messy, unplanned coils, like sloughed dragonskin around a shedling, beneath the cold winter stars. Despite the warm clothes-he’d made sure to dress well for his escape at least-he shivered, pulling the coat-his coat, he had to keep reminding himself-tight around shoulders too narrow for it to fit properly, and too slender to carry the weight of things done-and undone.
The minutes passed, the sound of the small crew shifting around on the top deck, voices indistinct, though a few words of basic, and a few more of one of the tiefling tongues that hissed and rolled like surf on shingle, filtered down to the back of the boat. He caught his name on the wind, and a few moments later, the tall orc that served as galley-cook and aftsman all but blocked out the retreating capital, a hand thrust down to pull netting and tarps and lobster pots away, and then to help him up.
A strong, calloused, but somehow friendly grip
Tam Bargeld stood and watched the last lights of the life he’d known up till yesterday slide into the gathering seamist, until even the lighthouses of the Great Harbour were little more than vague shifts in dusk’s colour, and then turned, pulling his hood up for a few moments, so that the tears didn’t show, following the huge figure into the galley.
It was rudimentary, even for a ship’s kitchen, though, this being the first ship that Tam had ever been on in his short life, he had little to compare it to but the bottle-strewn kitchen back at the flat he and Maria had shar-
Better not to think about Maria. The memories still hurt, still brought vividly to mind blood and screams and knifes in a backalley. Hand went to his coat, gripped the lapel, the leather already worn by her fingers, now worn by his, a shared little tic Tam didn’t even realise he’d picked up from her when she was stressed. It was where she felt most alive, in that worn, patched up jacket.
He found a seat, pulled down the hood, run a sleeve over his eyes to wipe away the streaked grime from his face. He wanted to ask the orc for a bowl of water, or a wet cloth so that he looked presentable, but before he could ask, the huge fisherman spoke.
“So” rumbled the orc. Tam searched for a name, came up short, and simply hoped it came up in conversation.
“You’re the Bargeld gasúrk, right?”
A nod, and the figure settled into a huge battered armchair across, pushed a bowl of something that smelt more strongly of the sea than the gentle waves passing by the door, and a hunk of roughly cut bread. He leaned back, so that the chair rocked slightly against the boat’s own movement, and reaching into his apron, withdrew a surprisingly delicate, if slightly bent set of knitting needles and electric blue wool, beginning to knit as he spoke, in a slow, deep voice.
“A bad business ya find yourself in, laddie, that’s a fact. I’ve no love for oathbreakers and turncoats” Here, he spat onto the floor, before continuing
“but there’s a way to deal with men like that. And vengeance in broad daylight is not on’ of the smarter ones. But, lik’ I say, I’ve no love for a turncoat. My cap’n neither. And trust me, my amadánd gasúrk, there are many men an’ ladies who raise a glass to you, and against Merritus Stormbrook’s mem’ry t’night.”
Tam shrugged. Thinking about Merritus was painful too, in a different way. The smirk, the sudden turn in his gait, as gunfire poured from somewhere alongside the barricade. Frankly, it hurt to think about anything but the food he was eating-for all the smell, to have warm food, a proper cooked meal going down his throat, when he’d been living off rations, or stolen, half cold street food for months. When had he last eaten, anyway? Yesterday? The day before? Before that?
His vision blurred, and this time Tam simply let tears roll down his face, didn’t care who saw, didn’t care about pride or what the huge figure would say or think or do, tasted salt on his mouth that had nothing to do with the broth. A huge hand closed slowly, carefully on his shoulder, the touch of someone used to handling small, skittish and easily frightened animals, a grip that took Tam completely by surprise and made him look up.
A smile, showing several silver’d teeth, greeted him. The orc reached behind him, found a large blanket, and, reassuringly patting Tam’s shoulder, draped it around his shoulders.
“Take it slow, gasúrk. Everyone makes mistakes. My dear ol’ diabhearth...my mother, that is, used to say to me, Garruk, you don’t learn from what you do right-that simply tells you what you already know. It’s from what you do wrong that you learn, that you understand yourself and where you can be a better person.”
Another broad smile, and then, from further up the boat, the clamour of a bell. Garruk clambered to his feet, brushing down his overalls
“Get some rest, Tam Bargeld. You need it.”
With that, he strode out of the room, to join the jostling voices. Tam simply stared at the space where the big man had been, words that no-one heard but him finally falling from his lips
“What can I learn from what I did?”
That I’m not a hero.
That I will never be able to go home, never be able to walk the streets that I know like the back of my hands
That I must keep running for my entire life, in case someone finds me.
Sleep found him, and dreams of blood and knives haunted him, before the pale light of a winter morning spilled in through the cabin door, and Tam Bargeld woke to his first day of the rest of his life, in exile.