[A bottle of mead - almost empty - lies in the sand. Light from the fire reflects off it in slow, lingering patterns. Somewhere in the darkness the waves advance and retreat upon the beach, a cyclical dance that began long before his birth and will continue long after all this is forgotten.
There were other nights like this, he remembers. Nights when eyes watered from looking at the bright stars too long, when the dying embers of a fire kept watch until the sky grew bright again in the east over deep waves. Nights of long conversations where the place of gods amongst the bright stars was questioned; nights of long silences where the sound of water comforted; and other nights where stars and ocean both were forgotten in place of other distractions.
Sitting here, the warmth of the mead and the fire relaxing him, he can almost believe that the long years since then have all been a dream, a hard dream of battle and loss and pain.
He reaches for the mead-] What are you thinking about, brother?
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There were other nights like this, he remembers. Nights when eyes watered from looking at the bright stars too long, when the dying embers of a fire kept watch until the sky grew bright again in the east over deep waves. Nights of long conversations where the place of gods amongst the bright stars was questioned; nights of long silences where the sound of water comforted; and other nights where stars and ocean both were forgotten in place of other distractions.
Sitting here, the warmth of the mead and the fire relaxing him, he can almost believe that the long years since then have all been a dream, a hard dream of battle and loss and pain.
He reaches for the mead-] What are you thinking about, brother?