50. It doesn't mean much; it doesn't mean anything at all.
After a long time, it becomes meaningless. One day is much like another, and they blur and smear like watercolors on a paper plate, colors mingling into slurry brownish grey. And the music has all gone, except for the singing of the waves. Some things never change.
Tiny hands of wind tugged at his threadbare coat and it fluttered around him like wings, delicate air-fingers caressing his face and running tender fingertips over his skin; the sane blew over the tops of his battered black shoes.
He reached into one of the pockets and pulled out a tattered, much thumbed paperback, flipped to the end and raised his voice. "…and thereafter he wandered ever upon the shores, singing in pain and regret…"
He closed his eyes and watched the star that was Maitimo fall and be quenched in fire, light blazing from his hands and heart.
The water brought him back, slapping against the stone at his feet, and he remembered why he was here. He knelt and began to unlace his shoes. The laces fell apart in his fingers. How long had it been since his last pair of shoes? These were rotting away on his feet.
Hush, he said, hand laid on his brother's forehead like a benediction as the blood streamed out of him. Hush, little brother, and the moan died in his sibling's throat.
He shook himself free of the grasping teeth of memory and shrugged out of his coat. After a moment, he picked it up again and folded it over carefully, set the book down on top of it. His shirt followed, and he folded that too, and set the shoes on top of the whole little stack before looking down at the water again.
It sucked at the rocks with a smacking sound, and the spray struck his face. It was not a long drop, maybe a foot, a foot and a half. He watched the water move restless and unceasing with the same laws that had always guided it; and always, he knew. The grey clouds moved overhead.
It is your right, he said to his brother, his only brother. Take it. They are yours.
No, he said, shaking his head. No, you – you are the one with the artist's hands.
And he said, together, and Maitimo nodded slowly. Together.
The trousers slipped to the ground as well, and he tossed them aside, followed a moment later by the boxers. He curled his toes against the dark rock and stood there naked, shivering. One, he thought, two.
And dove before he could change his mind.
The cold hit like a double punch to his ribs and then his gut, and for a moment as the water sucked him down and swept him under in the current, up and down had no meaning, and he was simply suspended in nothing.
Then his head burst above the surface and he was gasping, sucking in air that burned in his throat before the next wave rolled in…
Underwater, their voices were louder. Come down with us, the waves sang to him with one voice. Come down to us. He closed his eyes and listened to them sing, knew every one and its song. They told their own stories, now, and wailed their own laments.
Quoth the raven - oh, my brothers…
He could almost feel their hands in the waves, in embrace or supplication. Could hear their voices on every sweep of the current. Gently tugging, drawing him away from the surface. He began to shiver violently, the cold sucking his energy away. You are ours. Come with us, brother. We need you…
The waves washed him gently against the rock, and he surfaced, gasping. He could still hear them singing, but far away and muffled, and it was not for him.
He dragged himself up out of the water and lay on his belly on the rock, rested his cheek against the stone, their voices ringing in his ears. Once every fifty years, this was his to have. A few moments with whatever remained of his brother's homeless spirits.
He listened to the waves, not moving just yet. Hush, he imagined they said. Hush.
He closed his eyes and listened to his own heart thud against the stone.