The Great War: Chapter 36
Thoughts are a man's best friend and worst enemy
“Hey, Mathew,” Lorn beams as he takes a seat on the long bench. It’s time for their first meal of the cycle, a steaming bowl of leftover soup. Mathew tries to reciprocate Lorn’s smile of enthusiasm, but it comes across as tired and defeated as he holds his spoon close to his chest in an attempt to conceal the frost that spiders out from his fingers.
“What have ye been doing all night, eh?” Lorn just laughs merrily as he begins to dig into his meal.
“Thinking,” Mathew mumbles. He sets his spoon down in his bowl, his food hardly touched, and runs his hands over his face in an attempt to rub some sort of alertness into it.
“Thinkin’,” Lorn echoes. “Thinking is a mighty plague, ain’t it? Too much of it and you start to break down!” He gives Mathew a playful elbow jab. The joke doesn’t lighten Mathew’s spirits, however.
“Sure…” Mathew only replies. He takes up his spoon again and shoves a bite of soup into his mouth. It’s not the best soup he’s tasted - the broth is more like flavored water and the small bits of meat and vegetables are nothing but sad lumps of sogginess - but it’s all he’s got until their midcycle meal.
“What have ye been thinkin’, then?” Lorn inquires by his side.
“Ah… nothing important,” Mathew responds, nodding ever so slightly to the rest of the meal room. They can’t exactly talk about magic in here, surrounded by so many other crew mates and overseen by silent, stony-faced Guardians, the glow of their armor almost blinding as they oversee the rowdy sailors.
“I’d say everythin’s important. It just depends on how ye phrase it.”
Mathew casts Lorn a glare as he sits with his arms folded and a stupid smile on his face still. He of all beings on this damned ship should know not to talk about magic in spaces like this! Has he even touched his meal since sitting down?
“What’s there to talk about?” Mathew grumbles. “I’m just trying to… sort myself out.”
“Aye,” Lorn nods, “we’ve all been there. Gettin’ held up on ships so long that sometimes we struggle to keep our business to ourselves.”
Mathew just turns back to his soup, his stomach and magic churning uneasily.
“It’s okay, mate,” Lorn chuckles lightly. “Ye just got to get over yourself. It’s not that difficult.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mathew sighs aloud.
“Every being’s a bit different. Easier for some, harder for others, but once ye know what to do, yer goin’ to be happier for it.”
Mathew gives his soup a couple of thoughtful stirs. He used to be happy simply ignoring it, but now that he can’t anymore he doesn’t think there’s much of a solution for him to find. At least, not any solution that he can use on a ship surrounded by beings itching to fight wizards.
“I know,” he says. “But… it’s hard to do much of anything here.”
“Ah, yer thinkin’ too much again!” Lorn says, giving Mathew a hard pat on his shoulder. “C’mon, mate! There’s a solution to every problem here! Yer just not askin’ the right questions.”
Mathew frowns at the strange statement. He’s not asking the right questions? He’s thinking too much? What’s Lorn going on about?
Unprompted, Lorn leans into Mathew’s ear and whispers, “How ‘bout this? You and I, top deck after nightfall. I can show ye how to keep it under control.”
“What about the patrols?” Mathew hisses back. “The helmsman? The crew?”
Lorn leans away from him with a carefree, knowing smile, his hand finally straying to his spoon.
“Just trust me, mate,” he says with a wink. He takes a bite of his soup and inquires offhandedly, “Ye worship either of the Spirits?”
The question makes Mathew frown even deeper. “No, not particularly,” he responds slowly. His family weren’t ones for worship, and honestly they were better off for it. However his mother and father stayed together as long as possible, Mathew is unsure of, but the lack of discussion of the Spirits probably helped to keep them both sane.
He expects Lorn to reply or ask something else, but instead he just shrugs back and digs into his meal quietly, apparently all talked-out. But he still smiles though, content with himself, open to act how he pleases while Mathew tries desperately to hide his frost from the others around them, taking each bite slowly and methodically. And whatever Lorn wishes to show him this night, maybe it’ll get Mathew back on the path he walked just cycles before.
But, sadly, Mathew never got the chance alone with Lorn to talk more about his magical problems. He got caught up cleaning the cannon hold, while Mathew was left alone on the top deck on standby, watching a dozen others swab and shine. Even the Guardians gave him wide berths without once acknowledging his presence, giving him a sense of relief that they weren’t paying him any attention if he were to make a small slip-up.
And he spends the entire cycle wary of touching anything with his bare hands for fear of letting his magic slip. He keeps them either clasped tightly together or in his pockets, trying to appear casual. And the whole time the icy storm that swirls within his chest expands bit by bit, trying to force itself out of his body as he refuses to give it an outlet.
The last meal served to the crew, there’s a casual yet exhausted atmosphere to the room, whereas Mathew is wide awake. The soft din of conversation is often interrupted by a strong wave of yawning, many exhausted by their long cycle of manual labor.
Mathew takes this as a blessing in disguise, although his magic still spins with unease and anger. At least now he might have a better chance of sneaking out of the sleeping quarters without waking any being.
“LIGHT’S OUT!”
And just like that, Mathew lays in the sleeping quarters in darkness for the third night in a row as the other crew members around him settle down on their blankets. He rests on his back, staring up at the black void that is the ceiling above him, listening to conversations fade into the blissful silence of sleep. Words turn to snores.
Time crawls on slowly as Mathew waits to hear the door to the sleeping quarters open, waiting to hear Lorn leave. Unless Lorn somehow fell asleep as well, forgetting all about what he promised at the cycle’s very beginning.
What could Lorn possibly show Mathew to help get his magic under control? He seemed so confident he had Mathew’s answer, almost eager to suggest it. Is it some sort of special training? Meditation? A magic item? His mind runs wild with all sorts of theories.
And what if they’re discovered by the Guardians? What will happen then? Lorn appeared not to be concerned with being discovered, but only a single stroke of back luck can land the two of them in a cell, or worse. Or does Lorn already have a contingency plan in the event that they are discovered? Has he does this sort of thing with others before? He did mention there were others with magic on this ship aside from them, so he might have…
A tall figure cloaked in darkness moves into Mathew’s view, making him shake violently as he jumps in his skin.
“Yer thinkin’ too much again, mate,” Lorn’s voice chuckles lightly, almost a whisper on the wind. And arm is outstretched to Mathew, ready and waiting. “Ready to go topside?”
Before he can start having second thoughts, Mathew takes the hand with as much confidence as he can muster. “Aye.”