Drums

(( Subtle theme is subtle. Not. ))

With his toes in the warm tropical waters of Ratchet’s bay, Faraji sat staring out over the expanse of water. Sunlight bathed his back in warmth, a stark contrast to the cold just beneath the skin, but soothing. Palms whispered in the slight seaside breeze, bringing with it freshness. It was too dry here for brine, too hot for the stale salty smell of sea. Here, the wind and water were constantly in motion, goaded by the warmth of the sun to rise with the tides and sink with the night. Hot and cold, perpetual movement: that is what he saw as he stared into the blue abyss of the cove.

He had left his drums at the cave, but here there was music aplenty. The goblins went about their business with gusto he had to admire, while the waves whispered and laughed, the wind fluting through fronds, sand hissing across vast expanses of dry rock. Vaguely he mused what he would hear if he returned to Durotar, if the pigs still swore loudly in protest to Darma’s care, if the desert winds howled in the evenings, if the stone still radiated with the day’s heat even as the sun sank, a gentle hum heard only by those who were stone cold themselves.

It had been days since he last slept. Fatigue clawed at his mind, though his body was resolute in its wakefulness. Not an ounce of weariness burdened him, but rather he thrummed with an energy that was growing difficult to contain. All this waiting, for all his patience, was beginning to take its toll. While he sat at the water’s edge, a thought occurred to him. What was the harm in taking a swim, after all? Sure, he’d sink like a rock, and, sure, he might miss dinner, but what was one opportunity lost, if it meant he could watch the world from the wet sands on the silt bed of the bay? Sunlight must play beautifully through the water.

It didn’t take much to convince him. He moved into the water with deliberate steps, and true to his notions, the sea did not relieve him of his weight. He tread heavily with each and every movement of his feet. Before long he was in well over his head, blue hair drifting languidly above him like some absurd halo, or perhaps a fin. Imagining himself as being somewhat predatory with the way he slunk along the bottom, he moved on. Yes, the light did play well through the water. It was darker than he expected, though.

He kept walking. It only grew darker, and colder. Soon the wrapping warmth of a warm sea had diminished to a lack of feeling entirely: it reached his temperature. Shortly thereafter, it grew colder. When he realized this fact, he turned to gauge his position but found his view of the shore was blocked by an ominous wall of blue gray water. Visibility was much worse, outside of the cove. For the moment, he decided it best if he paused and considered his options. He sank to his haunches and stared upward, trying to find the sun, but found only more shades of blue and teal. Were it not for the fact that his feet were firmly planted, he might have lost himself utterly to the crushing void that now quite thoroughly surrounded him.

Definitely going to miss dinner, he mused.

With this thought, be became aware of a gentle, though not precisely within his power to ignore, tug toward the blackness he faced. The ocean was moving in this direction, inexorably, slowly, taking sand and water with it. Having never been much deeper than his head, the troll had little idea what sort of forces he dealt with as he beheld the vast power of the undersea current. It dragged him, inch by inch, and every step backward he took only loosened his footing and ended up jarring him forward another two.

Not good, he wondered.

Every movement toward shore he made was met with two leading him farther out to sea. In that slow way of his, he realized the mistake he’d made. The only way out of this was, of course, forward. With this thought in mind, he released himself to the pull of the ocean’s natural highway, and drifted.

What little light there was soon replaced with crushing, deep-blue darkness. Were it not for his unliving strength and unnatural fortitude, he might have succumbed to the terrible forces at work, but the worst it did was dull his senses. There was nothing to hear except miles of water trying to force the life from him. Nothing to smell but sea water up his nose. Nothing to see but black and blue. He did not know how long he drifted, or to what end, or even where his mind went at this time, but at length he was aware of a growing sound of… drums? Drums. The beat was like the throb of a heart, steady as though with sleep. It quickened as he went on.

Thunder.

You seek your death in these waters, Amani.

A terrible voice. Half-roar, half throaty yell. He could do little to respond.

You give up so easily. You doubt your strength. These waters have bested weaker beings since the years of their birth, but you who could defeat the tides, you let them carry you. Why?

Again he had no answer. No way to give one even if he knew what to say.

Nalorakk knows the path you seek. It is not this way. It is not the way that you have allowed yourself to travel.

Silence. He drifted on. There was no light at all anymore, his only company the sound of drums. They were slow. Faltering. Was this death? Again?

Our way is the way of toil and pride, Faraji. If you ever want to see your Amani mate again, you must learn to fight for everything. Take nothing without first demanding it. Lend your will without request. Your strength is what will save you, not the wishful thinking of a young Zulfi. Not the patience of the grave.

The drums were fading. Only the slight tap every few moments. Don’t leave, he begged them. He could not be alone with this terrible voice.

Fight, Amani. Fight, as the Bear struggles for his life every moment that he breathes. Then, and only then, can you sleep.

Fear lost its hold on his mind as the thundering presence of the Mighty diminished. He was left alone with the now very faint beat of the drums. His simple mind refused to let them fade out. He had a vague feeling of what would happen to him if he did. At last, he resolved to lay his feet down. They dragged through the sand, kicking up clouds of vague shadows while he ground to a halt. The deepsea current pulled at him still, but he remained grounded. To his delight, the drumbeats picked up, rousing from near silence with a flourish. He knew, then, what he had to do, so that they would stay with him.

He kicked from the floor, and with all the strength he could muster, he began to swim for the surface. Each and every movement was met with resistance from his solid weight, a sideways pull from the current, water slipping along his form and leaving very little to grasp onto. His progress was slow. He pushed on.

Hours passed. Days. Years. Decades. Focus to the point of a pinprick permeated him, eyes fixated on the growing brightness above him. He need only reach the sunlight, and his way would be clear. He pressed on. Without his realizing it, the drumbeats had long ago reached a fever pitch, and played with him as he swam.

An eternity later, he broke the surface of the water and gasped for air with lungs that now desired it, needed it, and he was alive once more.

He jerked awake to find he had drifted off on the warm sand, the water of the bay still lapping at his toes.

“Fuckin’ dream.” He muttered as he picked himself up and trudged back toward home.