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“The ocean... cold and wild the surf, rushing in to overwhelm the beach, the wind, stinging my cheeks, enveloping me
in total freedom...”
- Scott Holman
“I’m gonna do it.”
The salty air was thick and tangible from just outside the servant quarters window. It coated his tongue and made it difficult to breathe, forcing him to exhale harshly. The humidity caused droplets of sweat to gather behind his ears, making even his threadbare shirt unbearably discomforting. It stuck to his skin and dragged with every small, twitching movement whether it be his breathing or the way his hands wrung together in response to his raging heartbeat. It was a distraction, one he couldn’t avoid. You couldn’t avoid yourself, after all.
Despite that, days like those were considered peaceful. The sound of softly crashing waves lapping at the rocks far below was soothing in a way that was both familiar and foreign. The kind of sound one could fall asleep to in the evening and work diligently to at high noon. It provided a rhythmic lullaby that soothed the aching heart and washed away one’s fears and worries. In some ways, that sound was synonymous with stability. It was constant, never-changing, and reliable. The waves would always crash against the coast and that sound would always carry up the valley to their small windowsill.
Philip liked the waves and the sounds they made, even if he didn’t like the humidity and sharp winds of their home.
“I promise I will.”
In spite of his grievances, Philip liked to think the gods had blessed them when they had been brought here. Philip wasn't a particularly religious person. In fact, more often than not, the boy could be seen passing temples left and right with nary a thought put into the action. There were no offerings made in his name, nor did Philip go out of his way to follow any kind of doctrine. After all, how could one give away their own possessions when they had none? In Philips mind, the gods were gods and therefore had enough all on their own without Philips meager rations aiding them. But in this instance, Philip could get behind an idea that gods can grant miracles. Looking at the sky before him, Philip felt pretty blessed.
Life could always be worse.
Philip turned to the boy to his right, a woven basket in hand filled to the brim with all types of herbs and medicinal weeds that he knew the master had requested. The boy beside him was gazing out to the sea, taking in the sight which stretched far beyond any mile Philip could count. His face was wistful, wishing, wanting, craving . He looked so at peace, in that moment. Like gazing at the open ocean was what gave the boy meaning in life.
Philip didn’t understand it.
“One day, I’m gonna go. Far away from ‘ere. Out to the sea.”
The words sounded so sure of themselves. Like they were repeating a promise rather than a fanciful fleeting dream. They were spoken with such confidence, as if the words themselves would defy reality. The assurity of it all made Philip want to callously deny any kind of daydreaming brought on by that fantasy. Reality was often a much colder and unforgiving place than dreams. That was a fact that Philip knew all too well.
They couldn’t leave this place; they would never leave this place. Philip knew it, and the boy next to him certainly knew it too.
Yet, that expression on his face always seemed to break Philip’s dark demeanor and complicity. A face full of so much wonder and hope. Exuding a confidence that things will get better for them. That there was always going to be a bright side to the darkness they both found themselves in. The expression on that face made Philip feel weak in the knees. Just the thought of it ever dying out made Philip’s fist clenched and his jaw tighten. The boy next to him was filled to the brim with dreams and optimism. He was like the sun, casting his rays of warmth on Philip’s skin and making his life all the better. Being next to him was exhilarating, and also exhausting.
Idly, Philip wondered if you could sunstroke from a person. The thought was quickly shaken from his mind.
Despite Philip being the younger of the two boys, he had always been the more practical one. Always the more pragmatic. Philip wasn’t a dreamer. He was one who made sure their assignments were done on time. The one who tracked which shifts they needed to take, and made sure they avoided the whip. Philip wasn’t an optimist, he was a realist. He made sure they both didn’t die. He made sure they both stayed safe.
Roger liked to always say he was too much of a pessimist, that he worried too much and didn’t live quite enough. Philip liked to think he was just being responsible. If Philip didn’t make sure they stayed out of trouble, who knows what Roger would get up to.
Who knew if Philip could protect him if Roger went too far.
The boy next to him — Roger — finally turned his head after a long moment of still, comfortable silence. On his face was a bright and unhinged smile. Philip notices the creases around Roger's eyes, how his dimbles indented his skin and his eyes folded into crescent moons. The chipped tooth — the one that Philip knew was from accidentally biting into a wayward pebble — peaked through Rogers lips. Philip thought he was so bright at that moment. It made his heart race and his face heat up.
“When I leave Phil, you’ll come with me ‘ight?”
Those words were more of a statement than a question. Always so sure of himself, brimming with confidence and swagger. That was always just how Roger was, though. The world would never get him down. No one could make him question himself, no one could ever get him to give up on an idea that’s taken root in his mind. Philip pitied the poor fool who ever thought he could deny Roger anything.
It was just that thought that caused Philip to look at the brown-haired boy and sigh so deeply that his entire body sagged. His hand moved from under his woven basket and placed itself at his temples, messaging gently as an exasperated expression formed on Philips face. Before he could stop himself though, a smile had already begun to creep its way onto his lips. Philip was the pitied fool, the one who couldn’t deny Roger anything. It’s that fact that leads Philip to gaze fondly at Roger with eyes softer than silk and, with as much assurance as a fourteen-year-old boy could muster, nod his head astutely in his direction.
“Of course I’m coming, Roger. Who else would keep you from stealing from all the vendors on the way to adventure?” Philip would only ever joke like this with Roger. Only Roger could ever see this side of him, the side of him that wasn’t so uptight all the time. The side that beat back Rogers' own teasing with fierce jabs of his own and playfully shoved his shoulder in response to a jest. Only Roger could bring this side out of him.
Sometimes, Philip wondered how much power Roger had over him. Philip knew it was way too much.
The seventeen-year-old looked almost relieved for a brief moment, before regaining that sense of self that Philip always saw him possessing. Roger gave Philips shoulder a shove, playfully knocking him back a foot or two and causing his basket to stumble dangerously from his grip. A half-hearted scowl adorned the ginger's face, his tongue sticking out in retaliation. It was a childish gesture, one he rarely indulged in. Yet, in that moment, it was the only response Philip could think of.
The bell tolled from the tall tower at the square, its ringing echoing across town and reaching even as far as their place in the meadows. Temple worship must have just gotten out, meaning that their time was up. Philip put on a strict face, wiping his smile away as fast as he could while watching Rogers' impish expression. They were on schedule and Philip didn’t have time to deal with Roger and his stupidly happy grin. Turning his step, Philip stalked towards the servants quarters with a vigor only men with a mission had.
“Come on, Roger! The Master will be back soon, and last time he caught you not doing your work, you got lashed.” Phillips stern voice could be heard over that familiar jingle of chains at his feet. The tone he took was stern, bordering on no room for nonsense. His eyes gaze back to Roger with an expectant look, only to pause.
Roger never looked like that. Roger shouldn’t look like that.
Perhaps that should have been the first clue that something was wrong. At the time, Philip couldn’t see how deeply affected Roger had been at their situation. He couldn’t see the almost broken expression that Roger wore as he gazed at the waves over the hillside with that ever so small smile. He couldn’t see the watery shine his eyes had taken, couldn’t comprehend what Roger would do to finally feel the sea breeze crash against his face as he sailed away a free man.
Philip had always been observant. That day, though, Philip wasn’t observant enough.
As soon as it came, the moment passed. Roger was once again all smiles, picking up his dirt ridden ax and barreling forward to the garden with a determined look set into his brow.
At the time, Philip thought nothing of it.
It was one of his many regrets.
It had only taken two years for Roger to fulfill that promise from that day. It only took two years for Philip to break his own. Roger had left. Philip had stayed.
Now sixteen and feeling twice his age, Philip sat in silence just outside the servant’s quarters window and gazed at the sea. His hair hadn’t grown much and his clothes remained the same, but the boyish demeanor and that stern cold silence he brooded in when he was younger was gone. Philip only looked tired now. Tired of the mess that was his life, and tired of the life the gods had granted him.
His hair tossed in the salty breeze. His nose guided his gaze to the playful waves of the ocean. The smell of sea water, the taste of salt. Located just over the hill next to the house they grew up in, down the cliff side and past the docks. The sea was there, gentle and calm. It stood just as it had two years ago, gently lapping at the shoreline and singing its soft tune. Philip couldn't help but feel bitter at its unresponsive, unchanging nature.
How silly was that? Being angry at a body of water.
Yet, Philip couldn’t bring himself to care.
“I hope you’re happy Roger.” His tone was biting and soft, barely a hair above a whisper. It was a rather unusual tone, sounding bittersweet and broken all at the same time. “You got your wish”.
For years following that moment, Philip would have denied every choking up at the last sentence. Denied how his eyes watered and lower jaw flexed. Denied how his cheeks flushed and his mouth went dry. For now, in that moment, the tears fell down his cheeks unencumbered and his pale skin darkened as he tried to regain control of himself. His hands shook and his body trembled. Philip wanted nothing more than to curl up into himself and wallow. He couldn’t afford to do that though. That wasn’t his right.
He swallowed, choking down a sob. Standing upright from his place against the wall, he fully turns to face the sea. He gazed out upon the ocean, knowing that was where his destination lay.
Roger pursued his dream. He had left, grabbing the first rowing boat he could at dusk and begged Philip to go with him, to get away from chains and masters. Philip still remembered how desperate Roger looked, how scared his trembling form was in face of continued bondage. He remembered the feel of Rogers hands gripping his face, forcing Philip to look him in the eyes when Philip refused to. Remembered Rogers wild hair and the sound of snapping metal. Remembered the cool air against his bare ankle for the first time in forever. Remembered the feeling of the kiss that seared itself onto his lips like a branding iron.
Philip remembered how he still refused to go.
Come the next morning, Rogers' body washed up to shore with bullet holes in his chest as newspapers spun the story of a rogue slave invoking rebellion in his insanity. The town guards had salvaged Rogers' destroyed boat, its contents collected as evidence. Roger was sure it was all incinerated.
Another one of Philip's greatest regrets.
That day had been the worst in Philip's short life. Roger — his friend, his brother-in-arms, the sun which lit his way in the darkness — was gone. He’d never be coming back. Philip had broken his promise, had broken his own heart, and had nothing to show for it. Instead, all he had left was the normalcy that he had chosen to surround himself with.
And for what? To lose everything he held precious? For forsake the only meaning his life ever held? Philip felt like a fool. A true and utter fool. There would be no more smiles, there would be no more laughter. The small actions that Philip had grown so used to seeing and experiencing would be gone, absent from his life forever. He’d have nothing. Philip was alone.
And it was all his own fault.
Just another regret to add to his ever growing list.
Philip’s eyes softened as his gaze caught sight of the small rowboat he meant to use for his escape. A glance his cash over his shoulder, eyes staring at the dark servants quarters that they both used to reside in. Even now, Philip can see a mirage of childhood memories filtering across his vision. Turning away for a final time, Philip spoke not to himself, but to Roger.
“I’ll follow your dream.” He turned his back from the memories he was sure will haunt him for the rest of his days. All that’s left in that house were phantoms and ghosts. Nothing alive remained. There was nothing to stay for, nothing that meant anything to him.
“For you, I will do anything.”
As he walked away the wind lowered its sound, almost as if it was listening. Behind him, a sword was planted in the ground surrounded by flowers of the brightest and deepest blues. Blood cascaded down the sharp edge, still wet. Still fresh.
There was no longer the sound of rattling chains from Philips ankles.