Wicked Waters | Oceana Book I

Chapter 2.3

Anaphe
The Season of Heat
Fanán the 30; 2421

Although the holiday wasn't for another two days, the tavern teemed with sailors – both navy and merchant – eager to get a head start on the celebrations. When it came to Ranael, sailors never failed to draw out the festivities. On that particular eve Windjammer's crew had extra incentive to celebrate: it was the anniversary of their First Officer's birth.

Jack spent the better part of the evening knocking back drinks he hadn't paid for and fielding the well-wishes of all and sundry. He set up camp with a few of his crew in the corner of the tavern, a pleasant buzz warming his limbs and blurring the edges of his thoughts. All in all, it wasn't the worst way to celebrate one's birth.

"Happy day!" The words came in a clipped Ithakan accent as Niko approached the table.

Jack raised his mug at the offered toast. "Thanks, mate."

Niko dropped into the seat next to him. "Is this really your day, then?"

"You ask me that every year."

"And you always reply as though it's hard to understand why I might think a man who goes by a false name might use a false day," Niko pointed out.

"I'm not one for self-celebration, but it would dishonor my mother to let the day go unmarked."

"But letting us call you 'Jack' doesn't?"

"No," he said, staring into his drink. "That'd be a mark against my father instead."

"A mark against your father." Niko repeated, making a face. "It's nigh on impossible to get anything out of you, you know. I'm sure we're only getting this much because you've been tucking away pints since mid-afternoon."

"The tale isn't worth telling. That part of my life is done with; does it matter what I was called as a boy?" he asked, swirling the liquid around in his mug.

"It's a matter of blood," Niko insisted. "Was your Da such a wretch that you can't even name him, not even to call him a bastard, if that's what he rightly deserves?"

"Blood," he mused, "yes: and you'd think differently of me if you knew what ran in my veins."

"Right." Niko rolled his eyes. "Half of us come from scoundrels; s'why we took to the sea in the first place. What, was your Da a criminal? A turncoat? Did he hit your Ma? Looking at you I know you've got no Dramorian in you. What else is there to be ashamed of?"

He pressed his lips together. Niko's offer was tempting. He grew tired of the alias, the assumed identity, the self-censorship that came with acting as though he had sprung fully-formed from the sea the day he joined Windjammer's crew. It would be a great relief to finally confide in his men; they were his chosen family, and the strain of a constructed past weighed upon him. Yet however much he longed to speak the truth, so many years of falsehood were hard to undo.

Knowing his true name would irrevocably change the way his men saw him. Perhaps those little changes wouldn't matter. Then again, perhaps they would, and the dynamic on board Windjammer would turn for the worst. He couldn't claim, after all, that he was proud of the circumstances that had led him to the isles those long years ago.

Niko continued to stare at him, expectant, hoping for the long-awaited story to fall from his lips. Someday, he knew, one of the lads would ask and it would all tumble out. He was saved the trouble of deflecting Niko's curiosity by the approach of an Anaphean sailor, who slid into a chair across from them.

He'd tell them one day. Not today.

The sailor was a new acquaintance of theirs, made in the lull that the change of season provided. "Rumor has it we've another reason to celebrate this evening. How many years have you, lad?"