Chapter 2
Atlantis is a kingdom under the sea, Namor read. It is inhabited by aquatic humanoids. Little is known about the kingdom, and they do not have diplomatic relations with land nations, and have not communicated with the outside world in many years. Prince Namor of Atlantis fought alongside the Allies during WWII.
There was a photo of Namor. He looked, despite what Dr. Blake said, younger. It was subtle, but the face was smoother and more open, and, although it was hard to be sure in a black-and-white photo, the hair seemed to be a lighter shade.
The former capital city of Atlantis, also known as Atlantis, was in Antarctica, in the treacherous waters of the Weddell Sea. Recent expeditions reveal the city has been abandoned, and the whearabouts of the population are unknown.
The people has either left the city, or died. In all of the decades Namor had been absent, they had not made contact with the surface world.
Were there any left?
Was Namor alone?
He gripped the table to stave off a surge of anger and despair.
Then he stood, calmly and carefully, set the book down, and walked out of the library.
Once outside, he ran towards the shore near Randall's house. As soon as he was out of sight of other people, he flew.
He dove into the water, letting the coolness of the sea dull the heat of his rage. He swam ferociously, pouring all of his energy into it, until he was far from shore.
He stopped and lifted his head. He could not see anything but ocean in any direction. The rage had quieted.
He looked around, then dove down.
The water was deep. It was rich in fish, with some transparent jellies, and, as he dove deeper, larger, toothy sharks.
He did not see any people.
He let out a long, whistling call. "Hello?"
But there was no reply.
-
"Out for a swim?" Randall asked.
Namor nodded. His clothes were dripping wet. He was coming to dislike the inconvenience of wearing so many clothes. "I was angry."
"Did the water help?"
"It did," said Namor. He turned to Randall. "Why am I so angry?"
"I don't know. What were you angry about?"
"I read about Atlantis at the library. They said they were missing. It was unclear if any still lived."
"That's an understandable thing to be upset about," said Randall. "Even if you don't remember them, they're your people."
"I was not merely upset," said Namor. He sat down on the chair by the fire, chin in hand. "I was furious. Rage comes easily to me. It is frightening how quickly it comes. As strong as I am, it takes very little carelessness to wreak enormous destruction."
Randall nodded. "That's difficult. You seem to be under control when you need to be, though. And like you said, being in the water helps. I know back in the war, if you'd been out of the water too long, you'd get confused, impulsive, and bad-tempered. Well, more bad-tempered than usual." He smiled. "And just getting water on you didn't seem to be enough. It helped you bounce back physically, but to be really at your best and most even-tempered, you needed a good long swim. Maybe you should make a habit of that?"
"What was I like during the war?" Namor asked.
Randall looked thoughtful. "Proud," he said. "Hot-tempered. You could be playful, and you had a sense of humor, although not everyone got it. You cared about people more than you were willing to admit. I think you were worried about looking soft and sentimental in front of the surface-dwellers, but you would get attached to people. You saved my life. After water, you were...calmer. A little sad at times. I think that, like all of us, you'd seen too much. You seemed to be happy here. You were always good with Nae when she was a child."
Namor nodded. "I do not remember being that man."
"Give it time," said Randall.
"What if it never comes back?"
"Then you have a place here for as long as you want. I've known men who lost their memories in the war. Bad blow to the head, usually. Some got theirs back, some didn't and had to build new lives. If it comes to that, remember that we're family and we'll stand by you. But for now, give it time."
-
It started with an image of a face. A woman's face, with high, arched eyebrows, framed by soft curls.
Namor found himself sketching idly, trying to capture the face.
"Who is she?" Nae asked.
Namor looked down. "I think I knew her." He peered at the face. "Dorma? Randall, did I mention a Dorma?"
"I don't remember her." Randall paused. "Wait, yes, a distant cousin. You said she seemed attached to you. I never met her, though, so I kept confusing her with Namora."
"Namora!" Namor felt something click in his brain. "Nae should have been named Namora."
"I didn't name her after Namora," said Randall. "I named her after you."
"Why should he have named me Namora?" Nae asked. She was pacing and walking Roman, trying to settle him down.
"Namora means Avenging Daughter. Namor means Avenging Son."
Nae sighed. "On top of everything else, it's a man's name?"
"Could you try not to get me in trouble, Namor?" said Randall.
"You're the one who decided to give me a weird name that no one else has, which is also a man's name," Nae said.
"You're an adult," Randall replied. "Change it if you don't like it."
Nae shook her head. "Roman's not settling down. Namor, can you take him for a bit?"
Namor stood and took Roman. "I'll be back shortly."
-
Namor took little Roman outside, gripped him carefully, with gentle firmness, and began to fly.
Roman calmed down immediately. He seemed to find flight wondrefully soothing. Nae had been the same way at his age.
Namor paused. ...Nae had been the same way. He remembered her, first a tiny baby, and then a giggling toddler, clinging to him and going, "Higher! Higher!" as he flew.
He remembered. Something had started to come back.
He closed his eyes, and concentrated on the feeling of flight, trying to recall something else.
...a memory, a long time ago, holding someone in his arms. His mother? She had been injured, and he had carried her. He'd been just a boy, and he'd saved her.
Namor opened his eyes. He'd flown higher than intended. Much higher, and Roman could catch a chill.
He lowered himself to the ground.
Nae stood in the doorway. "How is his?"
"Sleeping soundly," said Namor. "Just like when I took you flying when you were small."
Nae looked up at Namor in surprise. "You remember," she whispered in a hushed voice.
Namor nodded. "I'm beginning to."
-
It was several nights later when the first nightmare started.
There was a boy, skeletal and bereft of hair. His stomach was distended, and his ribs showed through the skin.
Namor was trying to feed him canned milk. But every time the boy started drinking it, he doubled over and fell sick.
Namor cast around for more milk, good fresh fish, or anything that would make the boy healthy and strong. He found some of the surface-world chocolate, a food both rich and sweet enough to tempt the weakest of appetites.
He fed the boy a piece.
The boy took the chocolate in his mouth, holding it to let it melt.
Then he clutched his belly and howled in pain.
"Stop it," said a voice. "You're killing him!"
Who was the voice? Were they mad? The boy was starving! He needed hearty food to regain his strength!
He put another piece of chocolate in the boy's mouth.
The boy stared up at Namor with wide trusting eyes. He took the bite of chocolate.
Then he died.
-
Namor was awake when Randall rose in the morning.
"You're up early," said Randall.
Namor shook his head. "Bad dreams."
Awake, he had a good guess about the meaning of the dream. He'd absorbed enough history on the surface world to understand the events of the Second World War.
The Holocaust. The concentration camps.
Some had made it to the end of the war, only to die when Allied soldiers, attempting to be helpful, had given the survivors richer food than they could handle, and killed them with clumsily-aimed help.
"What was the dream about?" Randall asked, making coffee.
Namor tilted his head. "At the end of the war, the liberation of the camps..."
Randall nodded. "Yes, that was...bad. I've had my share of nightmares." He paused, staring off into the distance. "The smell. It never leaves you."
"Was there..." Namor drew a breath. "Was there a boy, who I tried to feed? A boy who sickened and died?"
"That happened to most of us," said Randall. "Don't blame yourself. We didn't have a good understanding of what starvation does to bodies. Steve...Captain America, he was hand-feeding people his own rations that first day, with no idea of what he was doing to them."
"But there was a boy," Namor said.
Randall nodded. "You tried your best. If you could save people by caring hard enough, or by wanting to help strongly enough, that boy would be alive today. But you didn't know. None of us knew."
They sat in silence for a while.
In the distance, Roman cried.
They both started to rise.
"Do you want to take him?" Randall asked. "I think he's about due for a bottle of milk."
Namor hesitated, then shook his head. "I think it would be better if you fed him tonight."