The sun shone high in the air, beating down on the shores of the Belegaer with a midsummer fury. The air over the water shimmers and waves in the heat and the warm southern breeze does nothing to help the people of Pelargir cope. The boats sail over the water, to and fro from the docks, whether large trading or war galleys or small fishing boats, all seem to move slowly save for one.
A small yacht, The Racing Serpent, maybe big enough for a couple of people whizzes across the waves, taking full advantage of the wind with very little regard for regulations around Pelargir. A fourteen-year-old Arenborn stands at the helm, spinning the wheel this way and that to steer the small boat, the boom swinging over his head as he tacks to get the wind. Shouts come from other boats, cursing him and yelling to get out the way as they steer to avoid him. Aren laughs, not bothering to slow down. “Hold on Daen!” He shouts to his friend, running about on the bow with the jib sail. Daenir clings to the railing on the side at the front, and Aren begins spinning the wheel quickly.
They make a quick turn sending a splash to the left and they continue at speed, playing chicken with what some nobles barge. The speed along, and Aren mails on the main sheet, tightening the main sail to pick speed. Warm water sprays them as they bounce over tall waves, laughing as sailors on the boats ahead of them start rushing to turn the cumbersome barge and yelling and waving at them to turn.
The gap narrows, the barge slowly turning in an attempt to avoid them the sailors rushing around tightening ropes and sails, and some grabbing oars to speed the turn. They are slow, and Aren shifts the wheel ever so slightly so that they sail past the barge laughing and pointing at the noble who was yelling furiously at them.
They continue their antics, speeding around the blue waters under the sun, enjoying the freedom of their day off from their chores. They continue to anger the other sailors, playing chicken or cutting them off, laughing happily.
A couple of hours into their time on the water, they speed towards a fishing yacht, who turns out the way, and Aren pulls a quick turn to spray them with water with a laugh, then hears a loud crash followed by a splash. He looks over the side, Daenir was floating face down in the water. Aren lets loose all the sails, and turns into the wind, bringing the boat to a halt. “Daen!” He shouts, no response. “Daen!” he tries again. Still nothing. Aren kicks off his boots and pulls off his shirt before diving over the side to his friend.
Speeding through the warm, salty water Aren grabs his friend and turns him onto his back. Daenir was completely limp, and Aren couldn’t tell if he was breathing. Wrapping one arm beneath his friend’s armpits, he begins swimming back to their boat that was still floundering in the water, facing the wind. He pushes through the waves, dragging his friend with him, with the speed and power only one who was accustomed to the sea and trained their body daily could muster. Powerful limbs kick and scythe through the water, pushing the two bodies forward towards the boat as they are thrown up and down by the waves. At the boat, Aren grabs a rope from the side, heaving himself up into it and dragging Daenir up with him.
Aren drags Daenir to a flat part of the deck, laying him on his back. Out of the water, he checks for his friends breathing, placing his ear over his mouth, and looking down at his chest, Aren he waits. The count of ten feels like forever, as if every moment dragged on and on for an age and each time no breath to be heard or seen. He stands up, waving both his arms over his head as he yells for help, trying to get someone’s attention. On seeing a couple of fishing boats changing course towards him, he kneels beside his friends once more.
Placing his hands over Daenir’s sternum, he locks his fingers together and with the heel of his hand he begins pushing down. His arms lock straight, and he pushes down on his friend’s chest over and over, hoping to get his body working again. After many thrusts down, he stops and opening Daenir’s mouth, he breathes in a couple of times, giving him air.
He keeps going, not stopping despite the aching, and when the fishing boats arrive, he asks for their help, one begins towing them back, whilst a man from the other comes aboard and takes over from Aren for a while. Most of the people who frequent the docks and the waters around Pelargir know the technique, people fall in the water often and it is helpful to know how to potentially save them. It is thought the technique has been passed down from the mariners of the Exiles of Numenor, the ancient sea faring peoples with a better understanding of the world.
They were not far from the docks when Daenir wakes, coughing and spluttering up water and gasping for breath. They force him to stay still, keep lying down and let them do everything despite his protests.
They got him home, and Aren stayed a while till he was sure Daenir was perfectly fine, minus a concussion that would go in a few days, and leaves him in the capable hands of his family and their servants. Heading home, he tells his mother what had happened. She pulls him into a tight embrace, telling him it wasn’t his fault and wiping away the tears of regret. Then, his father heard. After much shouting a beating Aren disappears to his room away from his parents.
He tries to sleep, but couldn’t help but feel the guilt welling inside him as he lay in bed that night. He couldn’t sleep in the end, so climbed out his bed and to his balcony, looking out over the city to the sea, leaning on the railing in the warm night air.
The stars shine high above him, the full moon bright in the distance, reflecting off the calm sea. The pale light of the moon and stars, lights the city, and Aren looks out. He can see the orange glow of street lamps and taverns, hear revelry and fighting, cats yowling and dogs barking. It was as though nothing had happened. The world went on without a second thought for what had happened out on the sea today. How little they knew.
Aren had hurt his friend. Maybe not directly, but he had turned the boat at speed, and thrown him overboard. Daen had survived, and just had a bit of a concussion, but how much worse could it have ended? He might have been permanently maimed, or turned simple, maybe even died. Would Aren be able to live with himself if that came to pass? He doubted it. Would he be allowed to become a knight as he had always dreamed? Would they let a man who had killed his friend in such a manner be knighted?
Aren’s knuckles turn white as the grip the railing, and he closes his eyes to the beautiful city before him. When he opens them again, the bright blue orbs are filled with a steely resolve.
