Wind Waker
The sky hung low, this night seemed to crowd around me a draining aura of everything but the will to live, it was only until the morning that I felt the cool sea breeze's soft embrace rousing me from what seemed to be an eternity spent at rest.
Salt had collected in bristles of my fur and the tunic that clothed me was rough and worn from the night spent on the deck of 'The apostle's guide'. I had let the current take wherever it may go preferably to the green fields of Athenry and the banks of Eire, my home. The sea was a cruel mistress to the lone sailor and had taken many lives from the fisherman of my village. A lone memory of departure was the only scene that crossed my battered mind. Upon leaving home what was left of the small fleet had warned me to stay alert and occupied to avoid the 'winds of death' as they called it and to stay in full control of my mind, so I took heed of their words and wrote a small diary of my encounters and how I felt and of course to keep myself focused on anything but the sweet nothings that the sea had produced the night seemed to turn on me at a smallest notice.
I felt alone in the mass of sea, the endless expanse of blue made me feel small and meaningless; I am no more than a grain of sand or a drop of water in the sea of change.
I had slept for what felt like only a few hours, the fur on my cheek was matted so I could only assume that it had been a few hours I scanned the deck and notice a small leather bound satchel that lay in a heap against the yaw of the small boat, I was starving and I searched for even the smallest morsel of food but to my disgust nothing, I had no map only the guiding light of the night sky and the hope for the sight of land, I looked up desperately hoping for an angel to smile upon me and grant the gift of rain, the image of Orion staring back at me, a symbol of strength an imbuing of a new willpower, and to my surprise a new sense of direction. I gripped the lines, my claws digging in to the broad end of my hand I pulled with an unholy amount of strength to fight a prevailing wind and steer the boat without any knowledge of where I was a simply followed his image and hit full speed bearing down on the tip of Orion's spear, the direction was foreign but the course was somehow known to me.
Let Orion judge the path of the wind waker let his light guide him home, let three days pass the wind waker, let he who follows the path of Orion be brought to a safe haven among family, among the stars themselves, the words hung on the end of my mind; I knew where I was going.
I awoke in a sweat, the sun was at its highest point I stood among the tattered nets and the broken rigging I found my boat was still stuck to the same course. As my eyes adjusted to the light of a new day I saw what seemed a blessing, for right there stood a magnificent field of green and the stones perfectly aligned and carved to represent ten men standing watch over an open sea as if they were guardians of our land, 'The Stone Apostles' as all Eireans knew them were at least thirty metres tall and were carved long before now by ancestors of all people. They loomed over me as my small craft left a wake that bounded against the pedestals the rested on, they were a holy symbol to most of our faith, the stark reality of life dawned upon me as lanterns and letters to the dead crowded their feet I payed my respects with a prayer as I passed through to the beach, I was in Eire but was a long way from home.
Let the Waker feel sanctum in the fields of green but let his challenge never fade, let the apostles be stagnant but let them not come to the wakers aid, let him find his own guide and companion.
The boat stopped in the soft grip of fresh white sand and the smell of lush greenery flooded my nose I felt my ears twitch adjusting to the new sounds engulfing my mind, I slung the satchel over my shoulder and started into the fields the bronze of wheat and various other wild plants brushed against my legs leaving their trace of seeds tangled in my fur, I heard the river before I saw it, an azure blue river dotted with bright white stones.
Let the waker drink from a fountain of youth but let him age, Let him look but see nothing, Let him heal but cut new wounds; Let him die before truly living.
The fresh, cool water stung the back of my salt tinged throat and began to coddle the cuts made by sharp sea winds, it felt good, it was a relief to know that I was renewed and rejuvenated with such a meaningless puddle to another man. I stared into the green eyes of the fox in the river I rubbed his wind battered face and told him he would see home again, that it was only a matter of time, I bathed with him and we shared a moment of tranquillity. I dressed, filled my canteen and brushed him away casting him back to the river from whence he came and continued darkly into the night.
Let him be clean but never truly free from his past, let his mirror be with him and let that mirror be free and leave the sinning waker to his fate in the nightmare he created for himself.