Tempered by Rain #5
“I see something!” Collin’s shout barely carried through the gale. A dark shape rolled in the surf—a shape too large to be a man. He broke into a run, fighting the wind like it was a living wall. His coat flapped violently, the lamp barely staying in his grip.
As he splashed into the frigid water, dread gathered in his lungs and washed through his veins. Even before he reached it, he knew. It was the skiff.
Logan was shouting behind him, but the sea swallowed every word.
A towering wave surged in. Collin grabbed hold of the wreckage just as the surf crashed against him, lifting him from the sand. His feet left the earth. The lamp flew from his hand. Gone. In the blackness, all that remained was the weight of the water and the certainty of being mortal.
For a heartbeat, nothing else existed.
He clung to the shattered hull, waves clawing at his legs, the tide trying to drag him into its endless hunger. His heart pounded—not just with terror, but defiance. He was still here. Still breathing. He would not let go of the only thing—solid.
His feet struck bottom. He collapsed into the sand with a gasp. Saltwater and grit filled his mouth. His eyes stung as he spat out the sea and tried to orient himself. Another wave battered him sideways, scraping him against the wreckage. Still he held on.
Together, he and Logan dragged the broken boat onto higher ground. A painted number along the jagged hull confirmed the worst.
They had found the skiff—but not the cousins.
As the storm raged and the winds screamed and the sky refused to give up a single star, Collin sank to his knees beside the wreckage. His soaked clothes clung to him. His hands were raw. The guilt, the cold, the grief—there was no separating them now.
He bowed his head. And he wept.
By the time the storm finally broke, the horizon was a pale smear beyond the churning sea, and the tide had turned sluggish and dark.
Collin dispatched search parties at once, his voice hoarse but resolute.
They fanned out along the coast and took boats past the fishing grounds, combing every inlet and spit of sand for the missing men.
Jonah’s body was discovered first, several miles down the coast. Word came by runner. He’d been tossed by the sea and abandoned by it, spine curved unnaturally, his boots still on. Collin received the news in silence. He only nodded, clenched his jaw, and moved on to the next task.
Hours later, hope all but gone, a second runner arrived—this time shouting.
Hayden had been found clinging to the fractured remains of the skiff.
Barely conscious, ribs bruised, lips blue, but alive.
Collin dropped where he stood, his knees giving way with a jolt.
Relief hit like a sickness. And he wept again.
And then the inquest was set for the following week.
Nereid’s small meeting hall was cold and quiet when Collin stepped inside.
The village stewards, five in number, sat behind the long oak table at the front of the hall.
Beside them stood a clerk with a trembling quill.
The fishermen and townsfolk filled the benches behind him.
It was not a trial in the official sense—but it felt like one. Every eye was on him.
Collin stood alone, soaked in guilt, and offered no excuse.
“I made the call,” he said plainly. “I should have kept them back. One more net wasn't worth a man’s life. It won’t be, ever again.”
Leif stood to speak on his behalf. His voice carried the weight of decades at sea.
“We all know the risk,” he said. “Every man who takes to the water knows the sea doesn’t bargain.
It takes. Sometimes you’re lucky. Sometimes you’re not.
But Collin did what he believed was right.
And he didn’t abandon the wreck or the search. He didn’t wash his hands of the cost.”
Even Hayden, still bandaged and pale, had insisted on attending. He stepped forward—limping, but with conviction—and fixed his eyes on the stewards.
“Collin didn’t put Jonah and me in that boat,” Hayden said. “We put ourselves there. I made the choice. It’s what we do. I’d go out again if the net were mine to claim. I’d follow Collin again. We all would.”
The room stilled, silence fell.
After a short recess and deliberation, the verdict came: no charges. No penalty. Jonah’s death was recorded as a tragic accident—one of the risks of the sea.
Collin was offered an out. He could leave his post, with pay, if he chose.
He didn’t.
He could not scrub the grief from his heart, but he could carry it with honor. He had made a commitment—to the crew, to the work, to the place that had claimed something from him and gave something deeper in return. He would not run. He would not unravel.
He stayed.
Through storms and still mornings, Collin continued the season.
Leif gave him more responsibilities, not fewer.
He learned to speak less and watch more.
To trust his gut, but check it twice. To weigh each choice not in pride, but in consequence.
He learned the ache of mistakes, and the discipline of not letting them define him.
By the time spring arrived, and the snow began melting back into the mountain rivers in earnest, Collin no longer felt like a visitor in his own life. The sea had reshaped him. Not broken—tempered.
He returned to Chroma carrying more than his gear: the memory of loss, the strength of his heart, the chill of responsibility and the warmth of having borne it, and courage learned the hard way.
He was, at last, truly a man of Crimisa, and deep within, a spark waited for its hour.