Silent sea, whispering sea

[roleplay on discord 13.05.2024]
16.5 Silent sea, whispering sea
 
Getting a letter from Ma lifts my - and I know this to be true, Rusalka’s- spirits considerably. Although I’m often gone for far longer periods of time than the week or so that we've now been travelling, it feels like an eternity. I’m already itching to curl up to one of the nooks in Miss Lalisa's shoppe like we’ve done before and write a reply together, when Rusalka pulls me away from the rest of them, lowering their voice.
 
"Hey. I just wanted to tell you. About Valerian. His journal." It comes out stinted and like Rusalka is struggling to voice the words out loud. Valerian’s name on their lips makes me perk my ears, and it's almost embarrassing how easy it is to read me.
 
"Marius, the guy he keeps mentioning? He's dead. You should read the journal."
 
Rusalka might as well have punched me in the gut. And here I was, making good progress trying to not think about Valerian and his beloved husband back at the Capital, and here comes Rusalka waltzing in, undoing all my hard work and mental gymnastics to avoid the topic.
Then comes the second punch, a realisation. A red hot spark of anger.
 
"You read his journal? Why would you do - nevermind, of course you did," I hiss at them, and pull my hand away. I’m being unfair and I know it, but I’m hurting and lashing out at whoever is nearest is easier than keeping my big mouth shut.
 
You're a hypocrite, my mind supplies helpfully. It's not like you didn't read the book too, you're the one who stole it. Well, technically I only ever read the first page. Technically I- technically I was going to read it all, if only I hadn't gotten my feelings hurt by Valerian being a taken man and never telling him that.
 
"Don't follow me," I tell Rusalka, not really caring if the rest of them hear. I grab my rucksack from the floor where I’ve dropped it for the time being, and head out. I need to breathe, I need air and I certainly don't need Rusalka knowing more than I do about Valerian.
There are a thousand stairs in Stone Harbour. Probably more. Countless staircases that all lead down to the harbours from atop the cliffs that surround it, the city streets narrow and spiralling. I walk for a moment until my blood no longer boils, and then sit down on the sun-warmed stone. A seagull lands next to me soon after, awaiting a meal. I have none to offer it. Instead I pull up the worn leather journal that belongs to Valerian, and stare at it. The cover page weighs a thousand pounds, it's made of immovable stone. I stare at it, as if my gaze alone could burn holes into its material. And then I make up my mind, and dig into my rucksack once more, rummaging around until I find it. The surface of it is cool but textured, rough on the palm until his fingers curl around the innards of it, smooth like porcelain. I hold out the conch Valerian gave me. His warning echoes in my mind - do not use it yet- but I need to. It feels like the only right thing to do.
 
"Who's Marius?" I ask. Beside me, the seagull takes flight.
 
The conch remains silent. I can feel the spell leave it, but like a dove sent to seek out land, it returns to the sender to signal there is nowhere to land.
 
The conch remains silent. In the late afternoon of Stone Harbour on the sun-warmed stones of the staircase, nothing happens.
 
The city itself is much larger than Kit’s Shoal, and in a boy-from-a-village type of way I doubt I’ll ever quite get used to the business, even if I’ve stayed in cities larger than Stone Harbour many a time on my travels. I turn the conch around in my hands, fiddling with it. I felt the magic leave with my words, the spell activate and tinkle out like an errant spray of water from a wave. It’s probably something similar to what Belinda gave me, with the pearls. Hopefully this one isn’t one and done, though.
 
Nothing happens, and nothing keeps happening. I wait for a little while more, transfixed on the shape of the seashell. It’s slimmer than the one I consider mine, and doesn’t have the same comb spikes. Someone has painted a delicate scenery on the porcelain insides of it, as if it wasn’t a beautiful enough artifact without it. I scoff, and - don’t really know what to do next. Rusalka’s words echo in my ears. Marius is dead. I’m sure they’re right, but I’ve overstepped so many boundaries already, and that makes me feel like absolute garbage and. But so has Rusalka. I would never have even thought of reading the magical grimoire in secret behind her back, not without her consent.
 
But it’s not your journal, is it? It’s Valerian’s.
And I stole it. With the intent to return it, yeah, and I took it without really thinking about it, not knowing if he had already left the island or not. I was supposed to just return it later, because it was left behind. Then why didn’t you give it to the people packing up the rest of his stuff? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why.
 
My stomach interrupts me - it’s been a while since I last ate anything. And so I pack up the conch and the journal, grateful for the excuse to not think about it for a while. Find a street vendor, as good as any. There are some tables set out on the high balcony of a cobbled street, watching over the harbour view. It’s still warm outside, the breeze gentle in my hair. The first bite into the chewy fish is heavenly, even better now that I know I’m allowed to eat it. Greasy street food calms my nerves for the moment, and I suppose Rusalka is right. I might as well read the journal now that I have it, instead of wallowing in my own misery. If I’m not getting an answer from Valerian the way I hoped, I should get it the only other way I know how. Besides, this whole thing is far larger than just me and my silly crush. Valerian is one of the new priests, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the Order seems far more dangerous than what we’ve seen so far. I want to trust Valerian, I really do - be it the hero complex, but maybe I can make Valerian see sense. But those he associates with? The journal must contain more information on them, too.
 
And so, I wipe my fingers carefully on the napkin I’ve been provided with, and dig up the leatherbound journal once more. The cover is worn and soft, clearly been handled with care.
 
I start to read.