Note: Lament of the Asphodels was written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016. The wonderful banner and artwork was created by the lovely LiamJcnes (Tumblr).
Warnings: Lament of the Asphodels contains graphic, adult content and possibly triggering content, including graphic descriptions of violence, threats of sexual violence, minor character death, social stigmatization/abuse, detailed descriptions of hopelessness/depression/inner turmoil, descriptions of shipwrecks and storms at sea, and descriptions of the effects of extreme phobias/social anxiety, including anthropophobia, thalassophobia/hydrophobia, and hylophobia/dendrophobia.
Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter 1: A Lyre for Apollo
The fog was so thick that it concealed the rays of the sun from dawn to midday, so the Keeper stood on the south side of the highest parapet, shivering in the cold, wet mists that blinded him as his ears honed in on every foreign sound, listening for any indication of an approaching ship.
There were no horns, trumpets, or cries of terrified mariners. The only sounds were the gentle laps of the rising tide against the stones, the same as it had been the Keeper first took over the care of this rock lighthouse.
The Keeper went inside when the fog cleared, drying his damp skin in an attempt to warm himself from the bitter coldness of the morning. He toweled his hair with one of the cleaner rags. Before he tossed it aside, he saw thick strands of black hair clinging to the coarse fabric, reminding him that he was past due for a trim. He discarded the idea as soon as it occurred to him. His personal hygiene wasn't a priority at the moment. The weather would turn sour by nightfall. He could feel it in his bones.
A great storm approached, and he didn't have much time.
The rowboat was stowed inside from the last storm he weathered nearly two weeks ago, so he carried the vessel, its oars, and several lengths of rope outside to the water's edge. He pushed off and made the familiar journey to Cellar Island, the largest piece of dry land between the lighthouse and the distant harbor of Northedge. It was the only true island near Stagrock Light. The rest were no more than rocks protruding from the water even at high tide.
The Dockmaster delivered supplies each week to Cellar Island. The Keeper never saw anyone coming or going, but he imagined the deliveries required at least two seaworthy people to handle the provisions. They stowed everything in a stormproof cellar, locking up after themselves. The door had but two keys, one in the care of the Dockmaster and the other, the Keeper.
To avoid having to use the dock, which was twice as far from the cellar as the main beach, he rowed in to the sand and tied down to a natural mooring. Then he hurried to the doors, unlocked them, and descended into the cool, dark depths of the underground storage.
If the storm lasted longer than the previous one, he would require comestibles beyond his weekly provisions of fruit, vegetables, meats, and bread. He gathered dried meats, bags of rice, canned milk, and firewood. It took a trio of trips to haul the cargo before he could lock the cellar and move on to stocking the boat, tying each package down to secure it.
The wind picked up as he casted off, so he rowed with haste back to Stagrock. The clouds overhead thickened, blotting out the sun as he arrived. The storm could fall at any moment.
The package-laden rowboat was too heavy to carry stocked, so he rushed a graceless unloading of his cargo. He collected as much as he could hold in his arms without thought to his aching back. He fumbled with the door to the lighthouse, and when he finally unlocked it, he flung it open and stepped inside, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. He carelessly dropped his load inside on the entry floor, racing on to the next pile of supplies.
He wasn't quick enough, for the rain began to fall before his last trip. For a moment he entertained the idea of simply tying the vessel down outside, sparing himself the task of carrying it inside, but he was neither tired nor foolish enough to hope the rowboat would survive even the quietest of storms. Thus, he made his final trip despite the torrent of rain soaking him to the bone.
He cursed himself for waiting until the fog cleared and again for not being quick enough to avoid the rainfall. Water was already pooling inside the vessel, but there was nothing to be done. Either he brought it inside now, or he abandoned it and lost his only means of transport.
The Keeper secured the oars with tight knots before lifting the boat upside-down over his head. He screamed, his voice echoing over the ocean in every direction, as the freezing water cascaded over him, drenching what little dry clothing he had. His arms shook from the effort of holding the vessel aloft, and his teeth chattered from the cold that was made doubly worse by the damnable winds.
It wasn't far to the lighthouse door, but the stone upon which Stagrock Light was built had become slippery with rain, and fatigue beguiled his senses. He felt so weak that he was queasy, and it seemed as if every second he continued to keep the boat above him would be the last his body could stand.
The only mercy was that his cargo deflected the rainfall, giving him the modicum of comfort required to force himself to take the next step. If he collapsed now, he would slip into the ocean and drown, assuming he didn't freeze to death first. So he forced himself to take each next step, slowly and carefully, till he reached the door, which fluttered in the buffeting wind.
He wedged his foot in at the base of the door and kicked out, letting the winds pin the door open as he slipped inside and dropped the rowboat in the far corner, cursing himself not leaving an area closer to the door open for the largest and heaviest item he had to bring inside. He was hardly a good man in a storm.
The sound of splintering wood met his ear. The winds had grown stronger, and the hinges of the door couldn't withstand it. Already a pool of water had collected inside, stretching toward his precious cargo at an ominous pace, but he didn't have time to fetch dry rags or to staunch the pool, lest the door become completely free of its hinges and leave his home at the mercy of the storm.
The Keeper stripped his long jacket and his shirt, which were soaked through, and tossed them over the pool in a brilliantly foolish effort to halt the flood that would taint his supplies. He hissed as the chilling winds hit is bare skin as he stepped outside, blindly reaching for the door's inner handle.
He seized it without trouble, but wetness weakened the hold of his right hand. He planted his feet and yanked hard, forcing the door back, but the winds remained unkind, fighting him every inch. He gritted his chattering teeth and growled nonsense words through his pursed lips, thrusting back each step to gain leverage against the elements, a losing game for any mortal man.
It seemed ages had passed by the time he finally dragged the door back to its frame. He wasted no time in latching and barring the door, allowing himself a moment's respite as he collapsed against it to catch his breath.
The groaning of the sea, the creaking of the lighthouse, and even the wailing of the storm comforted him as he gathered his next breath. And the next. And the next.
Then he caught sight of the puddle on the floor. It had crept passed his shirt and jacket to the beginnings of his provisions. He wasted no effort nor time cursing himself as he moved every dry item away from the encroaching water, nearly throwing several of them to spare them from spoiling. He then moved the tainted provisions to the center of the room on the desperate thought that he had yet time to save them.
Then the Keeper slammed the inner weather doors and barred them twice over from the storm.
He had a long night's work ahead of him.
He stripped his trousers, shoes, and socks, for wearing them anywhere inside risked spreading wetness to the rest of his home. He left his trousers on the edge of the puddle to slow its spread, knowing that it would buy him precious little time.
He wiped himself down with the palms of his hands, starting with his arms and legs. Water trickled down from his hair, dripping down his torso and to the floor, but there was nothing to be done about it until he had a towel. The coldness numbed his entire body, and every time another drop tumbled down from his head, it felt like fire burning against his skin until numbness replaced it.
Freely dripping despite his best efforts, teeth chattering, and nearly naked, the Keeper ascended the first flight of stairs, passing from the basement-like ground floor into the first true level of the lighthouse, which was marginally warmer than the basement.
The fire must be burning low by now.
He grabbed the first dry piece of cloth he saw from the clothesline along the staircase, rubbing it clumsily through his hair. It was only when he drew it away that he realized the rag had oil coating one side. He tossed it aside with a groan, wondering if his luck had turned sour for his sins or for the entertainment of the fates.
He removed his undergarments and rang them out before attaching them to the empty space on the clothesline. He inspected the next article, an undershirt, and it was fortunately both dry and free of oil. He carefully rubbed his body dry before his hair, knowing the oil complicated matters. Afterwards, he ultimately felt dry again, though the freezing cold hadn't abated.
He had to ascend the spiral staircase to find dry garments, thankful that he alone inhabited the lighthouse; otherwise, wandering the inner stairs nude might create an awkward situation for all involved. He selected a heavy pair of socks, heavy undershorts, sturdy trousers, a long-sleeved undershirt, and his heaviest coat.
The Keeper then stepped into the supply closet on the fifth floor and gathered sponges before descending to the basement, pushing himself to step speedily. Unfortunately, the prolonged cold slowed him, and he feared he would be too late to rescue the tainted provisions.
He tended to the puddle first, creating line of sponges that served as a dam to prevent the water from incurring any farther. Then he lined the base of the entrance, though the storm door did its job well, his untimely arrival had enabled the water to collect at the base. He'd have to inspect the threshold and treat it after the storm passed.
The Keeper turned his attention to the dampened cargo. He emptied the first sack and breathed a sigh of relief, for it contained only rice and only a small portion had been affected. He could salvage it all. He would cook his fill tonight and leave the rest spread out in the kitchen to dry. The second sack contained his weekly vegetables and fruits. Everything along the bottom had been saturated and waterlogged, then crushed under the weight of the stock packed above it. He might be able to save some of it, and though he detested the idea, the only way to recoup the crumbled bits at the bottom of the bag was to stew them and hope for the best. Not an entirely appetizing thought, but it would ensure he had nutrition enough for this week and possibly the next. He couldn't afford to waste anything.
He carried the woebegone vegetables and fruits up to the kitchen first, lining the counter with sponges before laying the sack down on top. He stowed everything that seemed even mildly edible, wiping them dry to prevent mold. Then he took the mush from the bottom of the sack and spread it out on plates.
He descended the stairs, over and over again, to haul everything up to the living room and kitchen. He piled the firewood and dropped a log on the dwindling fire, relieved that he need not rekindle it.
The storm clamored louder and louder, and he wondered if it might go on forever. He was being foolish, of course, for nothing lasted forever.
He did his best to soak up the water on the basement floor, depositing the laden sponges into a spare bucket. Dampness clung to the floor, but barring leaks, it would dry overnight.
The Keeper sat on the floor for a moment, aching and weak. He was so fatigued that he nearly fell asleep like that. Thankfully, the loud roaring of his stomach snapped him out of his stupor.
He ascended again, checking the fire and smiling when he saw the flames burning fiercely before continuing to the kitchen. He ate some cheese to quiet his hunger while he prepared the rice and stew, using a serving of dried elk to cover the sullied taste of his lost vegetables and fruits. The bread tempted him, reminding him of just how little he'd eaten for lunch, and he simply couldn't resist. The stew and rice could take hours to cook, but it would keep for as long as he could stomach it.
Thus, he left the stew and took a chunk of cheese, a few slices of bread, and a small bottle of wine to the living room. After setting down his dinner, he removed his heavy coat and draped it over the back of his armchair before taking his seat by the fire. He had at least an hour before the rice would be ready, and here he could warm himself without being tempted to gobble up all the week's bread in one sitting.
The Keeper took small, deliberate bites of his food, chewing at an agonizingly slow pace that his stomach protested. He distracted himself with the tasks he failed to complete due to the hazardous weather conditions.
There was, of course, more than enough work for three people. He knew his days would be far shorter had he been like other men and had a family to assist him. He wondered, fleetingly, if Stagrock Light had always been a single-man lighthouse, and the very idea of someone else being nearby filled him with dread nigh on panic.
He regretted his next bite of bread, as the fear of a hypothetical visitor - or worse, a hypothetical family - made his mouth go dry. He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm, and when that failed, he took a swig of wine to ease his nerves and help the bread down.
Setting his food aside, he took his face in his hand, smoothing over the rough beard and stubble. He reminded himself, over and over again, that there was no one else here. He had been the only person on Stagrock since as long as he could remember. No one ever visited, as per the Dockmaster's explicit instructions, and communications, like supplies, were exchanged through a message box at Cellar Island.
In fact, the Keeper hadn't seen another living soul since the Dockmaster granted him the title. And with that thought, his stomach wretched and his breathing became labored.
Not another living soul, he thought. But the dead have little mercy for those they haunt.
The panic overwhelmed him, making him dizzy with too much air. He reached for his nose, pushing down one nostril, and breathing in the opposite one. Then he switched, breathing out the other. He continued to do this until his mind cleared and his breathing returned to normal.
He checked on the stew and rice, for if the howling wind outside was any indication, this night would go on for a very, very long time.
The Keeper was thankful that the storm raged on through the night, as the thunder and wind overpowered the whispers of his ghosts, giving him a rare, blissful reprieve from his misery. In fact, despite the difficulties he faced the day previous, he fell into a deep, deep sleep.
He wore a Captain's uniform as he boarded, his head held high, for this ship was his. He came to the bridge and stood at the helm, overlooking his crew, who awaited his orders, each attired in perfect array with backs ramrod straight. His heart swelled with pride as he observed all at his command, for surely there was nothing he desired that was neglected.
And in the next moment, some unnatural power corrected his foolhardy thought, for a woman came on deck. From where? He cared not. She was dressed in traveling clothes not dissimilar to a soldier, thick leather with coarse accents, yet there was no disguising her beauty. Her long hair caught every ray of the sun, making its color impossible to name, and her face was coyly hidden behind a veil of shadow cast by her hat.
He bowed to the lady before approaching her, desperate whisk the darkness away from her face, that he might look into her eyes. She extended her hand to him, and he kissed it, as any gentlemen would. But then she took hold of him, her hands on his lapels, bringing him close for a passionate kiss.
The Keeper woke abruptly, but it was no surprise to him. For all the many nightmares he suffered, there was but one dream he ever had, and its variation occurred only in its beginning. He was a baker, a captain, a farmer, a king, the occupation never mattered much, for whatever he did, he always felt total satisfaction and absolute pride at his position, which seemed to be the perfection of life that all men seek. Until the moment his mysterious lady appeared, putting every other wonderful thing to shame with her majesty and splendor. He never had a proper look at her, yet he knew that she was the same woman, the lady of his heart, forever just out of sight, forever just out of reach.
Whenever he dreamt of her, he awoke the next morning refreshed, and today was no exception. He was remiss to leave the comfort and warmth of his blankets, but a full day's work lay ahead of him. So he rose from his bed and began his morning routine.
He couldn't recall devising such a thing, yet he had done the same thing every morning for as long as he could remember. Still slow with sleep, he stretched his back and torso before moving on to his legs. Then he stepped over to the window. He yanked the curtain out of the way and maneuvered the handle to the outer shutters, clearing the view, that he might see the ocean.
The storm had left behind streaks of red, and though the clouds in the sky were thin, they cast a gray pallor over the entire affair. The ocean seemed a black and thankless nothing beneath a white-gray expanse with only a sliver of red and pink to prove that the world still remained.
It was beautiful.
Of course, the Keeper always believe the view was stunning, whether it be grayed and overcast or alight with too many colors to name. There were days when the only good thing in his life was his first look at the world.
Landlubbers and mariners alike would never guess that the maintenance and upkeep of a lighthouse consisted of a surprisingly long list of tasks, from scrubbing glass panes clear to monitoring and repairing the docks to checking and refreshing the clockwork and other mechanisms that kept the beacon alight. Between the duties of his post and his own care and feeding, labor consumed all the hours of the day with sweat and callouses, but his mornings always possessed a singular kind of stillness that was calming and just ever so slightly sad, allowing him to indulge in a few precious moments of daydreaming.
Thus, every morning, the Keeper stared out the window, and his imagination painted him a moving picture. It was never terribly elaborate. He would view an entire fleet sailing on a clear day or the mountains flanking the rocky shores.
On rare occasion, he would imagine something unfolding, though his vantage point as always very distant. He'd see the Royal Navy in their dress uniforms as they battled an encroaching kraken or sea serpent, or he'd watch as the cavalry charged at the enormous enemy like a dragon or the Stormbringer, who was something of a folk villain in Northedge, a descendant of the Titans who became the Tyrant, calling himself the Northmost King. Having never set eyes on either dragon or Stormbringer, his mind was left to its own devices, conjuring beasts the size of castles, as large as they were legendary.
The Keeper had no reason for such fantasy, for they wrought nothing but peril and distress over fleeting images that existed nowhere but the vault of his mind, where they circled and rotted and rusted. Reason and common sense agreed that he should entirely forego such a wasteful and hindering practice. Each morning, he came to this same conclusion and decided that tomorrow he wouldn't indulge the impulse, yet he knew his resolve on the matter would fail him the next day.
And today was no different.
Not until something troubling occurred, jarring everything out of place. For a few moments, the Keeper stood, perplexed over his sudden discomfort, for the nature of the event had been so subtle as to escape his notice. He had reached over to his left arm, intending to scratch an itch in his left hand.
And there it was.
The Keeper hadn't had a left hand since long before he came to Stagrock. He wore a brace that could support a number of attachments, though the vast majority of those collected dust in his wardrobe, for he only ever wore the hook. The others were meant for formal occasions where it was better form to where a false, gloved hand than his preferred, functional appendage. For him, it was just another reason to avoid such situations entirely.
The incident was disturbing because, though there were times when his missing member caused discomfort and difficulty, he never experienced a phantom itch, not until today.
He considered the implications of something so innocuous, yet he felt that there was more to this new development than reinforcing the old adage of 'everything changes.' He glanced out the window again. The clouds receded, and a little more color returned to his world.
The day may yet be good to him.
He turned to continue his morning routine with dressing himself, but something caught his eye as he turned. He returned to the window and shoved open the delicate glass for a better look, going so far as to lean outside.
It was hard to tell from this height, but it seemed as if the storm brought jetsam and flotsam to the area around the lighthouse. Usually it was driftwood and other things of no consequence, but today he saw a distinct white-and-silver paint with hints of gold. Whatever it was, it kept reflecting the weak rays of the sun, which captured his attention.
He strained his eyes, knowing it was foolishness. He inspected the grounds every morning, which meant whatever it was would soon be within arm's reach, yet he had a strong and unusual urge to identify it without wasting another moment. The contents shifted. A large piece of wood that had golden lettering - LD SWAN - across its broken surface appeared, and next to it, there was a wide, pale object with a broken off handle.
It was the head of a broken oar.
The initial shock was so overwhelming that he backed away from the open window and fell back onto his bed, his heart rate rising exponentially as his breath escaped him. He struggled to steady his breathing, for this was no time for the Keeper of the lighthouse to shirk his duties.
He couldn't allow his anxiety to consume him, for there had been many occasion when it had, leaving him unconscious for several hours. He pledged to do right by his post, and to do that, the Keeper had to retain some semblance of control.
"Come on, Killian, you old fool," he muttered to himself. "No time to lose your head."
Because for the first time in living memory, there was a shipwreck at Stagrock Light.
End-of-chapter-notes: The infant Hermes crafted the first lyre using the shell of a tortoise and the innards of cattle that he had stolen from Apollo. Enraged by the theft, the he asserted his case to Zeus, who supported his claim that Hermes was in the wrong. But then Hermes played the lyre, which enchanted Apollo, the deity of music, so he agreed to trade his cattle for the instrument and, in so doing, became master of the lyre.
Author's notes: The first three chapters of Lament of the Asphodels have been posted for the first week, and two new chapters will be added every Tuesday. Please check back for more.