I
truly did not expect after twelve years or more to see him standing on
the dock waiting for us to collect him again. But there he stood in
the flesh, the only foreigner that all of Atlantis saw as one of our
own. I must suspect that the newly appointed head of the Royal
Kitchens, Chilörąn, knew Lord Kestrel was returning upon this day.
The feared and respected foreign head chef sent us here to collect an
order of specialty food supplies that could not grow on Atlantian
soil. I suspected now as I stared at the dock seeing a man I
deposited here reappear after over a decade had passed. He still wore
the Atlantian leather armour of his office and the rest of his gear
in the same fashion as when he departed. My elation was tempered by
chills of foreboding crawling down my spine while watching him move
to stand at the foot of the Herald's gangplank. I moved to meet him.
“Permission
to board?” he called up to me. A gruffness and hardened edge in his
tones was the only changes wrought upon his voice.
“Granted!”
I responded in a cheerful shout. As he slowly marched on heavy feet
up the board that connect the Herald to the stone dock, I examined
him. His movement were stiff which showed either age or injuries
caused him great lose of mobility. It was odd to me and my crew that
only after ten years, the feared and respect Lord Kestrel seemed
suddenly fragile and aged. His temples were lightly touched with grey
heightening the feeling that his hundred years spent on Atlantis were
not forgotten by his body. His eyes had lost the gleam of merriment
they wore when last I saw him. An icy hardness replaced the spark
many of us knew well. “Welcome back to the deck of the Herald, Lord
Kestrel!” I announced with a salute. Closer members of my crew
cheered but he responded with nothing but a sloppy salute back and a
sad smile. During that return trip, my entire crew saw and cringed at
that sad smile and those cold dull eyes crowning above it.
“Have
you spoken to him captain?” one of my crew asked me quietly.
“Not
yet.” I replied in false calmness. “Is there a problem sailor?”
This was the fourth or fifth member of my crew that had asked this
question based on an identical reaction. I was happy they had not
turned closed mouthed like the beginning of Kestrel's last voyage
upon my ship.
“He
does not seem himself.” the sailor answered. “Even his
friendliness appears cold and empty when he speaks kind words.” he
added quickly as explanation.
“More
likely a lost on convictions.” an older sailor remarked. “A
person plagued with self doubt can turn into a cold hard being.” he
supplied. “Even gods can have bad moments.” he added with a wink
to me.
“It
is possible.” I admitted. “Or a decade away from his Atlantian
Paradise has damaged him to the quick.” I countered easily. The
veteran sailor nodded at me. “Give him time for his feet to walk
upon the soil of Atlantis for a forth night.” The sailors nearby
nodded vigorously with a round of “Aye-aye!” to me. This
continued through out the voyage until the last day when he graced
me with his presence at my hip.
“They
truly cannot believe a person can change.” he told me.
“No
matter what a being walks through, they must always be true to
themselves.” I responded. “True honour can never be lost.”
“But
it can be tempered from a precise scalpel into a ripping bloodied
sword.” he remarked. I glanced at him seeing the dull ice cold eyes
glaring back at me.
“Sometimes
the bloodiest of sword is needed more readily than the sharpest and
most precise scalpel.” I retorted. His gaze remained locked with
mine for a moment where I saw that merry spark glitter for but a
second. “You will always be the most honourable Lord Kestrel to all
of Atlantis be you forced to be a razor scalpel or a ripping sword.”
I continued quietly but harshly. “Remember that fact Sir.” I
walked away not looking back to see if he still followed.
I
spotted him back in his perch at the prow of the ship as we entered
the protective reefs and jagged stones surrounding the isle of
Atlantis. All worries melted a few moments later as a misplaced wave
threatened to dash my ship against the rocks. Lord Kestrel raised one
cupped hand and our drifting vessel froze and lifted effortlessly
from the surf. He gently placed us back on course with nothing more
than lowering his raised hand. Rounds of cheers encircled him as
merriment shone once more on his smiling face. No Guard Captains
waited for him this lone time he landed at our harbour. He had not
even moved from the place he stood as the sailors lowered the
gangplank. Suddenly his body stiffened straight as his smile morphed
into a blood curdling snarl of pure rage. I did not see him departing
the ship from my vantage point because of sailors moving between us.
My sailors reported to me he had disappeared as he stepped forward
into nothingness. As we unloaded our cargo, we heard a pair of
distant screams that ended abruptly.
A
few hours later, the first of a flood of rumours reached us. It
claimed that Lord Kestrel had attacked Her Holy Highness' tower
prison. Twenty or more Council Guards had been tossed from the bridge
passage that lead to the Holy Royal Chambers. The great doors of that
tower were ripped from their hinges by Lord Kestrel's own hands
before he entered to liberate our Holy Highness Annianka from this
dishonourable imprisonment. In the end, the standing words from the
stories reaching us that held sway over the hearts of the Atlantian
citizens: Lord Kestrel had returned to end the Council's tyranny and
place the inept King's head upon a spike for Holy Highness' banner.
What is truth and what is fiction from theses tales is left to be
seen now that noble Lord Kestrel walked once more upon Atlantis. The
Island would rise as one to greet that man they were devoted to
because of his unwavering show of honour to them.
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