OLD ROSE | MORNING
And there, passed out on the sand, was Elias Mercucianno.
He had been an absolute mess these past two seasons, returning to the drugs and the drink with a tenacity there probably hadn’t been before. All his remaining coin had been spent on the excesses that really shouldn’t have been provided, and there wasn’t a soul to stop him. The Dove knew him as ‘That Bastian With The Box’, and happy took his coin, even when he was spending money for a room on bottles of rum instead.
Rum, Hurte that was some foul stuff. Eli’s stomach couldn’t manage the first time he’d got stumble over drunk on it, and the brunette had emptied its contents right onto the floor where he was sitting. It was unpleasant and entirely out of character for the man. Sure, he had been drunk and high before, but he’d also been using it all as a mask. A social faux pax to hide his emotional turmoil. He’d managed to be charming, annoying, pompous and disarming all at once. Now, he was just a filthy alcoholic on his last bottle of drink. One of the pirates the evening prior had exchanged a few lines of powdered white opiate for a quick hand-job behind the tavern, but as desperate and broke as he was, Elias had just enough self dignity to stop before he started. Unimpressed with the turn of events, the pirate had beat the golly near senseless and stolen his shoes. He would have taken the harpsichord too except that the young man had just enough mind to swing the box into his stupid face. As the pirate fled, Eli hugged the instrument in one arm and his drink in the other, sinking against the cold stone wall to doze in a state of stupor.
What would his parent’s think of him now? What would Leandrah say? He wasn’t fit to carry the Mercucianno name.
Waking sometime in the hours before sunrise, the Bastian collected himself from the dirty stone ground in a wobbling stumbling mess, making his way from the dark alleyway and down the street. Sipping at the slightly amber liquid left in his bottle whilst wandering down towards the water, the gold and green eyed creature held his harpsichord tightly, taking a shuddering breath once his barefeet hit the cool of the sandy beach.
“You must be so proud.” He muttered, wavering one way and the other, before walking out on the grains to gesture at the ocean and the sky angrily.
“You must be so fucking proud of me. Look at your son! Your brother! The last of the Mercucianno’s, living his best life with a bottle of rum and a gods-be-damned harpsichord!” Eli yelled it loudly, screamed at the black sky and glittering ocean, tripping over his own feet to sink to his knees. Images of their faces haunted him, flashed with sad fearful eyes in the depths of his mind, burned into the backs of his eyelids.
“I don’t even have fucking shoes.” The brunette laughed, dropping the bottle into the sand and rubbing his hands over his face with a sob.
“Why can’t I just end it? Here, right now. I can end it all. I just have to—” Trying to get to his feet so he could stagger towards the water, Elias tilted forwards, turning aside to fall with a heavy ‘oof’ on the side of his face. The harpsichord sat stoic and silent, blocking his view of the ocean like some strange wooden guardian. Groping at the box, the Bastian flicked the latches clumsily and pushed open the lid, still laying on his side. He poked a key, and another, and another. The old instrument sounded strange against the backdrop of the night ocean, and with a shiver Elias closed it again and locked it carefully, before wrapping himself around it and closing his eyes.
Sleep overwhelmed the broke galdori then, dragging him into the depths of dreams he didn’t wish to have. Dreams of his family, and the bright orange ball of flames falling from the sky, dripping bits of airship into the black ocean beneath it. Dreams of the moon, it’s rays of light beaming down on his face, only they became the soft caress of black lacquered fingernails on pale fingertips. There was a face, full of violet eyes and carefree smirks, and hair so white it was colorless. Shivering from the cold, but heated by the drink, Eli reached around in his sleep till he found the bottle and hugged it close against himself and the harpsichord.
And that was how he stayed, the morning finding him snoring belly down on the sand, face turned so his cheek was plastered with white grains, harpsichord tucked under his arm and bottle barely hanging between his fingers. He was barefoot, and filthy, with a little more than stubble and dark curls totally beyond taming. The waves of the ocean lapped gently at his toes, fortune perhaps shining on him just a little by ensuring he hadn’t fallen asleep close enough to be caught in the high tide.