The Drowned King

	Ken Between places, between times, the 9th of April in some lands: Ken opens his eyes to see the sky. Nope. Still sky… it didn’t work this time. But it was so close this time. He could feel the world falling away. And so he tries one more time before moving on to another of the day’s tasks. He closes his eyes and breathes in…. and the wind lifts you up or maybe you’re sinking and it smells like the cold sea as spray hits your face and you reach out for something anything and She laughs a breathless laugh as you twirl her around, trodding out a polka in the summer grass. There are no musicians on your quiet little cliff, but there is music all the same: waves beat a rhythm on the stony shore, the kittiwakes are your pipers and crickets your fiddlers. She stumbles against you and clings, saying her mother would kill you both to see her dancing with a man. The scent of broken hay and pollen and saltwater fills the air, sunshine warms your back. She begs you to take her somewhere better than this lonely island. But you know that you can’t - she is too young, you are too tied by too many promises. And it claws at your heart, because you know deep down that she will never leave this place. A prison with no walls is a prison all the same. You return her embrace and turn your back on the sea, and But that’s not right. It is so close, it is the other way up and you remember the prison does have walls, and the ocean is above not below, and you twist as you fall and the sea swallows your heart and you Breathe out. Ken opens his eyes, taking in the oppressive beauty of stone and shell. He grins. “Good morning, Brendan.”
	ST The notes of piano keys trickle like flooding water beneath Brendan’s fingers, almost sounding desperate to escape. For a bare moment, they’re smooth, but then they stumble and strangle and blare and die, all in one go, all in mid-stride. Silence rings through the hall for a moment, save for the faint echoing of the memories of a mournful harmonica song, emanating from the very halls of the castle. Then, a huff of an exhale, the light tap of the cover closing over the keys, and the shifting of cloth. He’s just in the other room, by the sounds of it. “Morning, Ken.” He speaks from low in his throat, like someone having just awakened from a deep sleep.
	Ken Ken makes his way through the house to the room containing Brendan and musical echoes. He looks around, then at Brendan, a gentle wash of concern in his bearing. “Well now, I was not expecting it to end quite like that. What a creative composition.”
	ST Brendan slides around on his bench to face Ken, and offers a smile. It’s twisted and dark, warped by the ugly thing in the deep. “Yeah. After a certain point you gotta let your own inspiration guide your interpretations of other people’s pieces. That way you get to pretend you made it yourself.” He rises and motions to his piano as he speaks further. “I call that, ‘What the FUCK was THAT!?’ A true masterpiece.” He faces Ken again, tugging the bottom of his tunic pointedly to straighten out the wrinkles. “I’m a fuckin’ genius.”
	Ken Ken chuckles at the title. Perching himself on the mantle of the fireplace, he leans back to rest against a column. “So then. What the fuck was that?” He’s half-teasing, half quietly curious… leaving it open for Brendan as to whether or not he’d like to talk about whatever’s bothering him.
	ST “Well. It was supposed to be Yedida’s 3rd Sonata.” Brendan walks over to Ken, his booted feet tapping against the hard, colorful glasslike floor tiles. The sound echoes, carrying through the halls, sending discordance through the lingering song. “I’d offer you some food but I think pretty much all the stuff from brunch is gone. I could go get you some seaweed, though. Or barnacles.”
	Ken “You know,” Ken hops down and paces a slow circle of the room on silent feet, tracing fingers along the swirling patterns in the stone, “there is quite a bit you can do with seaweed. A very adaptable plant, it is. When I was a boy we did not have much wheat - too expensive, you see, because it had to be imported from Denmark. So on special occasions my mother would grind up seaweed with the flour to make porridge.” He lets himself ramble a bit as he meanders the room, so Brendan will have a moment to collect himself in whatever ways he wants to be collected.
	ST Soon enough, as Ken rambles, the angry, violent tides fade. Now Brendan’s demeanor is cool, amused, and distant. Very faint lines etch in his face, nearly indiscernible but very much familiar—they are Manannan’s lines, almost exactly, albeit lacking the same depth. “Yes, well, just wait until you see what I come up with given a few years. After all, I can’t just play music all the time, right? I ought to have some kind of hobby.”
	Ken He pauses where a window ought to be and is not, a reminder of where exactly they are. Ken turns a bit to look at Brendan over his shoulder. “You are marrying a woman like Aida, and all you two are doing together is playing music?” Ken raises a teasing eyebrow.
	ST Brendan tilts his chin down and raises an eyebrow. He attempts a rakish smile, but it ends up twisted again. “No. Sometimes we play the piano instead.”
	Ken That bitter twist does not escape Ken. He’s quiet a moment, deciding where to go, and then drops the pretense that everything is fine. “What bothers you, Brendan?”
	ST The smile fades at the directly posed question. Brendan is silent, jutting his jaw. Then he twitches his head a little and turns somewhat, walking past Ken into Caer Ùir’s halls. His body language isn’t quite closed, but isn’t exactly open either, indicating that he won’t stop Ken from following him in his restless pacing. “Sometimes I consider going up top to just go straight to the Cailleach, hold Fragarach against her throat, and demand that she take this damn curse off me.” His laugh rings sharping through the hall. “But then I remember that I’m the asshole who stole her staff in the first place. Clearly I just don’t like the taste of just desserts.”
	Ken He follows Brendan, but keeping enough of a distance so as not to crowd the younger man. Ken listens quietly to Brendan’s answer… but at that last sentence a flicker of rage runs through him. “And taking a man’s freedom from him for eternity? That is just?” Disgust practically drips from his voice.
	ST Brendan draws back some, choosing not to answer. After a moment of silence he smiles again. “Yeah, to be honest, I’d rather she just killed me.”
	ST “But hey, that option’s still open, right? All I have to do is leave.”
	Ken Ken is very quiet, taking the time to choose his words very carefully. Finally he says “If I were in your place I would feel the same way. But you have not left. That makes you a braver man than I am.” And he means it, knowing exactly what it is that he means.
	ST His smile fades again, and his jaw shifts. After a moment, he says, quietly, “Oh, is that what they call that?”
	Ken He shrugs. “I do not know about ‘them.’ But that is what I call doing the things that you believe to be right, even when they are not easy.” Ken catches up to Brendan with a few lengthened strides, although he stays far enough away to leave room to breathe. “But fine, you do not like the word. What do you call it?” It’s a genuine question, not at all rhetorical.
	ST Brendan stops, standing straight but not facing Ken. “You really wanna know what I call it?” This question is, in fact, rhetorical. The anger is there, building again. From outside, the tides hammer their silent thunder against the walls of Caer Ùir. He turns, tight, his brows drawn tight and his sneer tugging at his upper lip. “Selfish. Stupid. Manipulative. Possessive. Wrong. Weak—” Then suddenly he stops, his expression becoming horrified. He draws back, straightens, and turns his gaze to the ground. The air around him settles. “I—shit. I’m sorry, Ken.” He tilts his chin to his chest, shoulders rising with each tense breath. “Fuck.”
	Ken Ken doesn’t flinch away from the tirade. He just watches the ebb and flow of Brendan’s anger, waiting for that spot where the tide is lowest and uncovers the most. His head tilts to one side a bit when Bren starts apologizing and he frowns softly. “What for?” he asks, not negating the apology but not accepting it without explaination either. “You have done no wrong to me.”
	ST Brendan stands there, utterly still, building the will to speak. “I just attacked your values.” Every word is clearly not given up without a fight. He isn’t looking at Ken at all, still staring at the floor. “I all but told you that… that I thought you should’ve committed suicide. I… I didn’t mean to.” He clenches his fists. “I have been nothing but dishonest with you this whole time. First the… the jokes. Then the nonsense about the Cailleach. It’s… not untrue, but… I sent you… chasing after that rather than the real problem.” He sinks to the floor, planting his elbows on his knees and covering his face with a hand. “I’m sorry.”
	Ken Ken crouches down, resting his forearms on his knees. He lets out a quiet, heavy breath. “Ah, Brendan… you think I do not know you talk about yourself and not about me? I doubt a soul has ever been born that you hate so much as your own. But you are not me, and your road is not the one I walk. You cannot hurt me by telling me these things.” Ken leans back against the wall, and a small smile quirks one side of his mouth. “Ah, well then, should I keep chasing that wild goose? Or is there something else you would rather say?”
	ST His mouth twitches and presses, the only part of his face visible at present. Eventually he shakes his head, a small motion. And then tears crawl below the edge of his hand, catching in his beard.
	Ken Ken moves across the hall, settling next to Brendan. He puts a comforting hand on Bren’s shoulder, and offers a hug if Brendan wants one.
	ST Brendan remains stiff at first, but not for long. He leans into Ken’s hug and clings to him, tight, like a man drowning. The sobs follow, wracking, noisy, as aching as the hall-song that waits beneath it.

Campaign of the Month: February 2017

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In which Ken visits Brendan in his prison

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