[I must give a special shout-out to pof Inaya, for having their character pose this question at such a perfect time in the story. This little scene has rattled around in my head since it was asked, and while I got to play with Yasin's internal monologue 'live', I wanted to use this opportunity to explore it further. Thank you pof Inaya for causing this little journey for me!]
11-13-796, Early Morning, in the Forecastle of the Greenest Dolphin
It had only been a day or so since the monsters attacked, since Yeshev was badly injured, along with everyone else. Yasin was able to move around - finally - but was sore.
So. Damn. Sore. And why does my head hurt like it has been crushed by granite?
Blinking his way through pain and into some semblance of consciousness, he manages to sit himself up, staring daggers at the exterior door of the forecastle. She had gone out into the mist, of course, just to get something from the galley, and there was no way to the galley except outside and through the hatch. No way except ... into the fog. Why had he permitted her? Permitted her? Like I could stop her?
How long had it been, now? And how long until the monsters might return? Nothing to do for now, except burn a hole to that door - as though his very eyes, or at least his attention, could somehow thwart the mists themselves and keep their monsters at bay.
And ... what was that sound? Was it a scratch at the door, or a creak in the wood?
Damnit. I can't just stare like this, I'm going to go mad. I need to move around, distract myself. And besides ... what am I going to do, if I hear a scream or a shout? Run out there, injured? With my pickaxe?
It is at this moment, half-mad, incredibly sore, and blinking through pain, that a question is posed to him from the floor, breaking him out of his temporary distress, his madness, and distracting him from his pain.
"Why did you mine?" a question asked in a raspy, hoarsely-broken, half-whispered contralto, seemingly out of nowhere. Perhaps he'd mentioned something about mining earlier in the evening, maybe.
Because I had to, he thinks to himself. That's the truth, isn't it?
Letting out a breath, whether to ease some tension or to distract himself from the pain, he answers with one word. "Work." Not really answering the question, he knows, but it is at least an honest answer.
Then comes the follow-up, another rasp from the imposing, ebon-dark woman on the floor of the forecastle. "Mining is work for poor men. Smithing is for wealthy." Not really a question in shape, but in implication. Yasin briefly looks over to her. She's barely looking at him, in the asking - whether due to her own injuries, or some other reason.
A flash of memories, splintered, fragments of a multitude of decisions, choices made, choices left.
There was a woman, once. Razmani. What year was this? 793? He was either 17 or 18, depending on if it was before Lemnis. He can't remember. What city was this? Can he even remember that, if he didn't write it down? How many little towns had he stayed in, worked odd jobs in, at that point?
"Dad's going to be looking for a new apprentice," she says, a honeyed voice. There's an eagerness to the delivery of those words. This is good news, isn't it?
He's standing outside of ... some building, in a village somewhere between Alheri and Omrazir. He was renting a room here, doing side work, and part-time apprenticeship for her father, the village smith. Not a master, but a talented man nonetheless.
"What do you mean? What happened to Wasi?" he asks.
"Oh, you didn't hear!" there's a bit of joy in that realization. She gets to be the one to tell him. "She's going off to apprentice for the Guard, as a Junior Armorer. She's wanted to do that for over a year, and news of the offer just came last night!"
"Oh!" is his reply, followed by a sober, "That's ... good for her, Sayyida." It is a truly bland reply, completely void of her excitement, and not at all the one she was expecting. A strained pause follows that statement, her excitement all but extinguished, like a snuffed candle.
"Well that...that means you'll stay and work for dad, doesn't it? He's loved your work so far, Yasin. I know it hasn't been much, but it'll be lots more with Wasi leaving." That's the little spark left of the flame, grasping for air, a spark begging to be reignited. There is an invitation in that question, a promise even. Not just of work, but of an entire lifetime. Of a life.
The memory splinters further. The rest of it ... a conversation he'd rather not remember right now. The very next morning, he had joined another caravan, heading to a mining job a few days away. Copper, maybe razmanite, supposedly. Good work. Punishing work. Poor man's work.
Because I wanted to. Because it is what I deserved. are the thoughts that come to him, back in that quiet moment in the forecastle. After an extended pause, he settles on the reply of, "It was my only option ... at the time." Liar.
"The notes, sometimes, are given," comes a rasp in reply from her, from the imposing warrior laid out on the floor of the forecastle, "But they are still your own... Only you can sing them," this last part, barely a whisper.
Before he has a chance to process that statement, the exterior forecastle door opens, and she returns, unharmed.
How many years did I waste, back then?
Painful thoughts. Thoughts to deal with at another time.