literature

Dinai'ya - Pt. 1

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    The match flickered and died out precipitately in the old man’s shaky grasp. He stared at the blackened tip for a moment before fishing in the tiny box for another, but before he could strike it against the rough side of the matchbox, Eamon snatched it out of his hand. The young man took the box and struck the match against it’s side, refusing to look the old man in the eyes. The smell of sulfur rose into the air as the flame hissed to life. Wordless, he lit the pipe that rested on the small table beside the chair and handed it to the old man.

    “Thank you, Eamon,” the hunched figure muttered as he brought the pipe’s lip to his mouth.

    Eamon nodded simply, staring at the burning match in his hand. He twisted it around in his fingers and watched the small flame travel down the stem from the tip.

    The old man, a wealthy entrepreneur named Oliver Carthridge, blew out a few smoke rings and leaned back in his padded armchair, coughing terribly. Eamon looked up at him with a blank expression, observing the hacking coughs with interest. He had known the old man was hanging onto a short, frayed, and extremely overused rope. He had been for a long time. It was amazing that Mr. Carthridge was still alive.

    After about a minute, his hacking finally trailed off into a faint wheezing. Eamon winced as the flame touched his fingertips, extinguishing the match.

    “Eamon,” Mr. Carthridge said.

    The young man straightened himself. “Sir?” His soft, lilting accent was still slightly prominent when he spoke.

    “You are dismissed for the day. Why don’t you get some sleep, my boy?”

    He nodded again. “Yes sir. Good night.” With a quick bow, he turned and crossed the room to the door, his head down and messy dark hair obscuring his grey eyes, and pointed ears poking out from the inky mass of waves.

    Once he got outside, he adjusted his thin coat against the cold. When he’d first come to the city, he had been unused to the harsh climate, and by the time he was able to afford a suitable coat against the elements, his skin had become cracked and dry. It had mostly recovered by now, but he still hated the nipping wind. He stuffed his hands in his coat pockets and plodded forward through the snowy streets, watching his breath come out in large clouds, like the smoke that rose out of the chimneys.

    The streets were completely dark at this time of night, lit only by a miniscule filtering of starlight through the clouds. Eamon didn’t particularly care; he’d grown used to the dark better than the cold.

    It took him nearly half an hour to reach the old building and trudge up the stairs to his rented room. He unlocked the door and took in the musty smell. He’d grown used to disgusting smells too, not that he’d ever been picky in that regard. His bed—an old pile of moth-eaten blankets bunched in the corner of the room farthest from the window as possible—looked extremely comforting to him at the moment. He crept over to the rags and curled up in them without taking off his coat and boots. The darkness embraced him like a protective shadow, and he fell asleep, shivering.


    In the morning, Eamon awakened to the sound of a docking bell ringing at the boat port below his window. He grumbled under his breath in irritation and stood up wearily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The glass of the window was foggy, and generally dirty and opaque, so he pulled it open from its creaking sill and stuck his head out into the cold to see the commotion below. He was surprised to find that he recognized the ship at the dock. It was his employer’s trade ship The Evellyn, which brought back foreign imports of spices and textiles from Dinai’ya, a far away island continent.

    And Eamon’s native country.

    Just seeing the ship again, Eamon was reminded of Dinai’ya’s cities, of the heat and sand, of the incensed air and the colorful streets, forever bustling with activity from the well-off and poor together. He remembered his home in the dusty shelter of any building that was nearby when night came. The discarded gutters.

    He both hated and missed his old home.

    It was Mr. Carthridge’s trade ship—the only one that could legally transport Dinai’yan goods to Arlaen—that had been Eamon’s transportation to this city little over a year ago. He’d smuggled himself in with the goods in the cargo hold underneath the deck for the duration of the month-long voyage, and that was where Mr. Carthridge had found him upon the ships arrival.

    Instead of turning him into the higher authorities for trespassing, the old man offered him a job.

    Now, Eamon worked as Mr. Carthridge’s personal assistant, helping him with any errands he needed done, or tasks throughout the house that weren’t suitable for the maids and other servants to do.

    Eamon shook off his home-sickness and closed the window once more. He went outside again, biting back against the cold. The faint dawn light touched his dark skin, the color of nutmeg, and he accepted the soft warmth gladly. He didn’t look at the port as he walked by.

    On his way to Mr. Carthridge’s manor, he stopped by a bakery and purchased a small loaf of crusty bread; this would last him the entire day. The bread was a lot harder and a very different shape than that of his country, but he’d found it to taste basically the same otherwise.

    He broke off a little piece and put the rest in the pouch by his side, nibbling on his breakfast on the way to the manor. At the door, he knocked and waited.

    For over five minutes, no one answered. Eamon shivered against the cold.

    He waited for twenty minutes, rubbing his hands up and down his arms to stay warm, and finally the door opened.

    Golden brown eyes peered at him from a dark face a few inches above his own.

    “Eamon Illyrádghe,” came the deep voice, pronouncing his full name properly. “Villara hu entras donnir van.”

    I’m glad I finally found you.


I haven't written prose in so long. . . . O.O

Originally, this was going to be a short story for Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenge at his blog: terribleminds.com/ramble/2015/…

My prompt of sorts was: "Moody elf warlock from the gutter who constantly watches their back"

Lol, some of the specifications, I didn't really get to explore in this bit, but it was fun to write anyway :D

However, as I was writing, it got way too complex to warrant only a short story, so. . . . I decided to turn it into an episodic novel-ish story XD

Artwork and story (c) Sabrina Jade Howard (me)

You can find the artwork here:

Eamon Illyradghe by cronasonlyfriend 
© 2015 - 2024 Cronaj
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Zhyyra's avatar
It would be nice to see where this story goes. I like it's setting and it made me curious.