By Duplicordan

Hm... instead of finishing right on the deadline, by some twist of fate I've seemed to have actually beaten it for once. *gives self a cookie*

I actually toyed with two ideas for this (both of which were scrapped) - this story seemed to flow the most naturally. Happy reading!!



Greenboys
By Duplicordan

Old Margaret was as constant as the seasons. She would only be found swaddled in a ball of bright cotton, squatting on the apex of a cliff so corrupted by weather it had jagged cracks through its entire length, her pale rheumy eyes fixated on the crooning ocean. Cloudy struggled against the ferocious pull of the winds as they blew around the cliff face, fighting his way to the top where old Margaret crouched. He fingered his daggers warily. Despite her age, she possessed a force, like storm, or flood.

He cleared his throat, loudly.

Watery blue eyes – colourless to the point of silver – latched like a scorpion on him.

“Will-” he started, hands unconsciously starting to twist the coarse fabric of his shirt. “Will I have good fortune in my quest, Ma’m Margaret?” He waited, wanting to pace, but unable to. The cliff dropped away to a steep vertical incline barely centimetres from both sides of him. It ended in a cluster of cruel black rocks torn by frothing waves.

Margaret never moved her ghostly eyes from his. She squatted there, staring at the boy while he fidgeted and the winds tugged both of them insistently to the beckons of the deeps.

“They never returned,” she finally said, and turned her eyes back to the tormented sea. “It was a glorious day – all the ships decked out so fine. The maidens had their hankies and their dresses were lace and buttons and fabric that blew as easily in a whisper of breeze as a hurricane. And all the men and greenboys lined the harbour to watch them, how glorious they all looked! But not one returned, not one returned, none at all…”

Cloudy wore a blank face. “The girls?” he asked, confused. He wondered why Zath had told him to come up here to speak with Old Margaret if all she would speak of were old memories of Summer.

Winter was calling with his long trumpets that blew out hardy icicles mixed in with the snow.

Old Margaret appeared to have taken offense to his comment. “No, fool!” she spat. “The ships, the bloody ships. Five of them, galleys hung so heavy with ropes you’d think they’d sink before they even sail half a mile from harbour.”

Cloudy felt a knot of annoyance grow. “What about my quest?” he said, rather petulant.

“Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you all this time? Go – leave me in peace. The ships have never returned, nor will they – it’s been much too long a time for that.”

Cloudy began to voice protest, but when he reached out a hand to tentatively touch Margaret’s shoulder, the woman whirled, teeth bared in an animalistic snarl. Quickly, he backed away, running the short distance to mainland as fast as he dared with the waves crunching eagerly below him.

Zath waited at the crossroads, as he always did. He was impeccably prepared, handing him a towel as soon as Cloudy was in range.

“What did she say?” he asked eagerly.

Cloudy wiped the ocean spray from his legs, then ran the towel quickly across his face – he was loathe to admit it, but some of the water was not entirely due to the salt monster. “Old woman nonsense,” Cloudy answered, shivering. The wind was blowing stronger. “Come on, let’s get inside.”

Zath looked disappointed. “Alright,” he consented, but Cloudy saw him shoot one last glance at him, a question.

Ever a scholar. Cloudy pinched his friend lightly on the shoulder. “Hey, no news is good news.”

Zath gave him a baleful look. “We don’t want news,” he corrected. “We want wisdom. And when you pinch-” Cloudy yelped. “-do it properly.”

Cloudy scowled. “Come on, we’re leaving at dawn. The wolves won’t wait for us to finish pinching ourselves before eating us.”

Zath patted the sword sheathed at his belt. “They’ll only be eating steel, and not enjoying their meal one bit,” he said, a bit too smug for someone who was beaten twice at duelling not three days ago. The skills of its wielder left much to be desired, but Muramasune was not a sword to be taken lightly. Its edge was tapered thinly, the blade etched with smooth ripples where the metal had been layered and hammered thousand times for strength. Black obsidian adorned the hilt. The entire blade was a slight shade darker than normal steel, and seemed almost black when compared to Cloudy’s own weapons, a set of twin daggers made of metal tempered to the colour of snow.

Cloudy smiled, and draped an arm over Zath’s shoulders, using him as a crutch. “I’m conserving my strength,” he insisted, and they both took a tottering step forward. Zath lurched, and Cloudy almost went down with him into a pit of mud, if his friend hadn’t stabilized himself at the last possible moment.

“You’re heavy, Cloud.” Zath moved to push Cloudy off, but the boy clung tight.

“I’ll let you go at home.” Cloudy suppressed a yawn, and choked on it. “Come on, play nice.”

His friend paused.

“Just this once. But you now owe a debt to the mighty Zathrian. I hope you remember to repay it sometime soon – plus interest. If not, Muramasune wants a word.”

Cloudy wasn’t awake enough to give him an answer.

Zath sighed, and muttered about inconsiderate friends falling asleep on shoulders as he limped unsteadily to Cloudy’s home. The lights shone bright in the port city, as the next day hailed something special. Two of their own were coming of age, able to venture into the great unknown on the other side of the oceans, traverse peaks that speared the sky, run the length of the great green sea, legends blossoming in their footsteps. They would never return – torn apart by the very wolves they were japing of, but their true story would start somewhere a little farther from here…




hint hint