Heavy Rain at the Farawell Port

This is a story about sorrow and rain, written as a diary entry by a beloved character called Artheneus, the travelling bard and historian. 

Once, I met a creature made out of something like sorrow.

She was one of the mothfolk, a rare vision to have nowadays, as they tend to live in their villages, secluded in the woodland mountains of Miranescqe. But, this one, Irlyneal was her name, Irly for friends, was standing among the wet crowd of the Farawell port amidst the pouring rain.

She wore heavy boots and a long, dark green raincoat. As the days went by and we became friends, I noticed a silent beauty in Irly's face. Her shiny, big, brown pupils against the black sclera of her eyes gave the brownish shades of her skin a more pale look, contrasting with the orange freckles on her cheeks and neck, that would glow when she smiled, although the thin, black, and small lips were often pouting. Her gray and brown hair was short, straight.

The first day I watched from afar, sitting by the window of my favourite bar in that port. For the time being, my days were spent people-watching, one of my late aunt's favourite activities, which I ended up being quite fond of.

And, of course, every single day, the green-cloaked figure with big boots appeared at the same time.

Each day, my curiosity grew more and more. Was that creature waiting for someone, for sure, but didn't they know how to read the time and date?

Nowadays, ships don't delay; we have the Lines of Zaeis. Nautical travel is safe, punctual... Unless the boat that creature was waiting for would not be coming through one of the Lines. Unless that creature was waiting not for a traveller, but for something anew.

The day I realized the nature of that waiting was the day I introduced myself to Irlyneal.

Long brown eyelashes framing those dark pools called eyes turned to me, a bit of blush on her cheeks from the cold rain, creating a backdrop of ruddiness for those orange-lighted freckles in her round face; she was a bit smaller than me, maybe younger, maybe older. It was hard to tell; the wise eyes offered me nothing but a sad life.

She opened her mouth in a silky smile, showing me very thin fangs.

"Can I help you, sir?" The first time I heard Irly's voice, it embraced me into a soft and smooth hug, as the cosy blankets my mother used to wrap me with when I would complain about the cold as a child.

It wasn't that her voice was magic, no, the mothfolk were never known for magical tones.

It was that Irly was something else entirely. A creature born not for this world, but for a world of wonder, of soft breezes under the buttery sun, oh, warm hugs under fluffy blankets, of gentle grasses on a stunning meadow.

It wasn't just that her beauty was astonishing; it was that Irly's soul was written by a god in love with all the delicacies of life, an old god that never felt fear, never felt anger, sadness, or despair. Irlyneal was carved out of the same materials the immortals used to create peace and tranquillity, nicety and ease.

"Forgive me, darling, don't you want to come out of the pouring rain?"

"Oh!" She giggled, "That's so nice of you. But I don't mind the rain, you see, where I come from, we don't get this excellent of weather often."

"Well, in this case, mind if I stay here with you?"

"Of course not," She turned her face to look again at the ocean. "It's not often that people speak to me."

"It's because of the eyes?" I asked. She nodded. "I think that those are the dumbos of the world, then."

With another soft giggle, she spoke her name out loud and asked mine. The answer to all my prayers, a godsend word that could grasp my body and turn me into mush.

"Why do you act like this?" Irly asked in those first moments of friendship, as I casually placed myself by her side. In my lack of answer, she read my confusion. "I know you've seen me before. Why do you wish to know me now? The curiosity about what I am got the best of you?"

"Sorry that I made you feel that way, Irly." In her simple words, I could tell the annoyance. It was a fact that the mothfolk weren't common, so in my imagination, it was easy to see people coming to marvel at her, not in a spirit of friendship, but in a way to gasp at the unknown. "It wasn't the curiosity of what you are, but what you wait for."

"I wait for nothing." Simply said.

Later, I realized she lied.

But, at that moment, she didn't need, or want, an answer to that statement. And in my heart, I felt that my silent company was an acceptable response.

I had time to just exist, and Irly had time to just not wait.

A month or so went by, the hours mixing into days, the days mixing into weeks, and the weeks mixing into bits of conversations, of tales of travels, of laughter and friendship.

The day I could take Irly out of the port and into the bar, she narrated to me her saga.

In a village of nice homes
Lived a family cut out of the same cloth
Daddy, mommy, and two little moths
In the rose garden, they even had a few gnomes.

Every night before bed, the hugs would be made out of four.
But one day, Daddy and Mommy wouldn't look at each other anymore
As sometimes the adult moths do.
So the nightly hugs became smaller, a little bit blue.

As time went on, the older sister left to study abroad,
In the home, it became just a little moth, her mommy, and a frog
The family hugs were no more.
Then, disease struck the land, and it left only one in the family of four.

Without anywhere else to go, the moth reminded herself of her father.
Where could he be? She asked around, and no one would tell.
That's when she realized, for daddy dearest, everything was very well.
What could she do? She thought for a while; she didn't want to be a bother.

Daddy had a new family, as far as she could see.
New mommy, new home, new son,
Which meant all sorrow in the land of one
Without a place for her to fit. Without a place for her to be.

She smiled to be included, tried, tried, and tried.
But, in the new family of three,
It could not fit, not a moth, not even one single bee.
Every night she frowned, cried, cried, and cried.

As the only person in this world who had to care for her heart
Could never again create art.
And as the new family of three embarked for the oceans.
The lonely moth could do nothing but solely care for her emotions.

For the lonely moth, there was nothing but a family of one.

As Irly finished her story, her eyes drowned with old tears. Tears, I could tell she swore to never cry again. She told me everything, making sure I knew that her memory was a lost story. Sometimes she would remember, sometimes she would forget.

The mistake in this story, was mine, to assume Irly was looking at the ocean, waiting for someone to return. In a way, she was. She would deny, she would laugh, and ask, "Who do you think I am waiting for?"

And I could not answer, but the hidden sorrow in her voice could tell me she was waiting for that one moth who could never again be.

After a few months in her company, learning about her travels, about how she arrived in that rainy ocean town, that maybe, someday, I will write about. I left, asking her to accompany me. Irly denied it, for after her long journey, the port was her home now. A figure in the mist lost forever in her own memories.

That's my story, in Farawell Port, my story about the mothfolk. My story about sorrow.

To this day, I've never come back, too afraid to see her there, too afraid not to see. Where could she be?