~The Hold, Esperança, early morning.

Droplets of blood trickled across the wooden floor, forming patterns in the depressions of the wood. The flames of the lantern sizzled and simmered, alighting the horror on the face of the breathless young man, still in shock from what had just occurred.

Mari stood in place, her feet firmly rooted into the planks as if cast in stone. Her arrowless bow hung furtively in the oppressive silence.

The boy, unharmed, wiped off the sweat and tears that had begun to form on his face. He rose with a renewed vigor, stepping to the side of the pristine cadaver and onwards to the girl who still wore a mask of fright. He gently freed the weapon from her trembling hands and pulled her into a hug.

"Thank you, Mari." She trembled in the embrace, and he could hear her heart thump like the hooves of a thousand horses. He tightened his grasp and stroked her back in silence.

After a few minutes, she began to calm down. Rakkah eased his embrace and looked at her carefully. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head, her eyes still far and forlorn. Rakkah couldn't help but feel pity and regret. This innocent girl; first cast into slavery, now thrust into a bottomless pit of violence and murder for survival. He clenched his jaws. No. I need to be strong. I have to be strong. She deserves a life of peace. After everything she's been through, she does not deserve this endless cycle of death. He balled his fists. I failed once. I shall not fail again.

With a sudden impetus of strength, he turned on his heel and, kneeling, slid his hands beneath the corpse. The body felt heavier than he had anticipated, and so he lifted it up with all the force he could muster. The viscous warmth of the carcass clung to Rakkah's skin, the piercing odor of blood forming a revolting taste at the back of his tongue.

He gestured Mari to open the barrel of wine that had been opened moments prior, and so she did with lifeless obeisance. With leaden steps, Rakkah edged his way to the barrel and carefully lowered the man inside. The blood swirled and formed a thick red melange with the clear wine as the soulless husk sank into it. He took the lid from Mari's hands and slid it over the barrel, then grabbed an adjacent barrel and placed it atop the previous.

For a moment, he merely stood staring at his work.

His eyes then drifted towards Mari's and a sense of urgency overtook him. He held Mari by her shoulders and looked her straight in the eyes. "Listen, Mari. We cannot remain here for much longer. They will come for him, it is just a matter of time. Trust me this—I shall not let any harm befall you."

Mari nodded silently.

"I need you to stay here, just for a few minutes. I will find us some uniforms." Upon noticing her concerned gaze, he continued, "We have no other choice. Either we blend in, or we count the seconds till our deaths . . . Trust me, okay?"

The mute girl looked away.

"Mari . . ."

Still staring into the distance, she gave a curt nod. Rakkah smiled. As he began to walk towards the hatch, her empty eyes gazed at the streak of dried blood still scattered across the floor.

***

~Araqiel's Tent, The Encampment, early morning.

The soiled cloth oozed dark red as Araqiel squeezed it into a tiny bowl. Stray droplets fell free as he retrieved it, purified of the congealed blood. He brought it to the head of the black idol and carefully cleaned every crevice.

"Oi hotshot," a man's voice called out from behind him. "Quit playin' with your dolls. We leave in five minutes."

Araqiel tilted his head slightly towards what interrupted his austere atmosphere. An imposing figure stood, head cocked to the side, the entrance of the tent drawn ajar as streams of sunlight washed over the decadent den. Realizing who it was that spoke to him, he responded, "This is not a doll."

But the man had already left. He clicked his tongue.

Dabbing the rest of the blood off of the idol haphazardly, he plopped it into his pocket. Scanning across the table, his eyes rested on a book, its cover tattered and edges rough from wear. He swiped it off the table and carefully placed it into his belt satchel. He stood and wrapped the belt around his waist. He stretched to the left and plucked his sword from where he had left it, fastening it to his waist.

With haste, he made for the tent's entrance. He drew away the flap, and a rush of cold breeze swirled about him. His gaze was instantaneously captured by what now stood towering in the distance. It creaked fore and aft with the tides, oak-wood masts like fingers reaching for the skies, cast with a sullen hue beneath the break of dawn. As the pair drew closer, the lumbering Behemoth grew, enchanting its unsuspecting onlookers with its pearl-white sails, mere hours ago awash in the grime and scum of its previous perilous voyage, now unfurled and full like plump breasts, locked in place by the wrought iron that chained it to the bar of this impenitent Sheol.

A boardwalk had been laid out for the transference of barrels and foodstuffs for the three-day excursion out into the seas. The dull-colored planks croaked under their weight as they stepped off of the windswept sands and onto the vessel. Moist winds blew across their face, carrying with them a wintry freshness. The rigged sails howled above their heads, the hulking Colossus imploring to be set asunder.

The vice-general stole a glance towards his companion and then towards the man who stood at the forecastle deck, arms to his back, noble in his guise. The creases cast upon his forehead made him appear wise, lost in thought of some Sabbatic reverie, resting in perdition, yet proud of his laborious oeuvre.

——

~Upper Deck, Esperança, early morning.

The rolling waves appeared choppy and drab. The weather was as unpredictable as a cuckoo's song thought he who stared saliently at the vast seascape that was to be his home for the next three days. In fact, it had been his home for as long as he could remember. But now, it appeared bleak, forlorn. The man whom he had sworn his sword to those countless summers ago seemed now a stranger. What good is loyalty if that loyalty is starved of trust? He exhaled a long breath.

A thought bubbled up in his mind. It had been a while since he had seen his chief mate. Strange, he thought, he had not seen him once since returning from the City that morning. The hardened man cracked his joints, outstretching his arms to the skies.

Unlike most of those he had acquainted with, nay, even his closest friends—though, he supposed he never quite was a close friend of Gabriel's, a useful servant a better term—unlike those men, Elijah was a soul he had not a single doubt as to his friendhood and sincere devotion to the Lord Almighty. A man who always gave it to him straight if his mind was ever muddled.

A smile of remembrance grew on his parched lips. The perilous waves they had conquered together, taming the Oceans that refused to be, depending on naught but one another; if there were one man in the entirety of this world he might dare christen a loyal friend, it would be Elijah. The lad often joked that once he had settled in this colony, he would bring his wife and three sons out to the meager outpost, having always fancied living surrounded by the Sea on all four corners. How effective he would be at convincing them, however, was another matter entirely.

He chortled to himself as he stood overlooking the bowsprit. He felt at ease with these nostalgic thoughts, and the waves seemed to clear out likewise as if by the will of God. Crow's feet spread across his features. Without stealing a single glance behind, he inhaled a deep breath and bellowed with a voice of a thousand storms the singular command—that which would unchain the adamantine yoke that held the yearning Titan from its natural proclivity.

——

~'Tween Deck, Esperança, early morning.

With his back hugging the damp wooden walls, Rakkah inched his way across the deck. The air was languid; ripples of sound crawled from the upper decks and into his ears. It felt oddly deserted, he thought. This was his first time ever boarding a ship of this size. In fact, it was the first time he had ever left the island. Truth be told, the thought of returning back home was all that kept him going, but now he was no longer sure. If they found out he was responsible, at least partly, for the murder of the sailor, what would they do? He shuddered at the thought. Mari would be free once they got to Saragossa, but he would have to return back here, he would have to return to his home.

Time was the greatest amnesiac, he concluded to himself. With time, every man would forget.

A strong nidorous smell stopped him in his tracks. A few feet away: an open door. Bubbling and boiling was the steam that emanated from within. He crouched and made his way towards it. Stopping at its frame, he peered inside. A lanky man was busy boiling a motley of meat in a cauldron suspended over a sand-filled box of flames. The odor was repugnant to Rakkah, who had only eaten the meat of fish his entire life. Livestock was precious: nourishing and sacrosanct, not meant to be slaughtered except as sacrifice to the gods. His gaze shifted around the room, and to his luck, he dawned upon a pile of uniforms laid out in heaps to the side next to a wooden chest.

The cheery steward whistled as he ambled around the room. He sprung water over the sands, the flames dying out with a hiss. His bare hands lifted the meat and placed them atop the table affixed to the center of the room. Picking up a bowl of salt, he sprinkled it over the meat, the smell at once turning bearable to the boy who hid.

Rakkah pulled away from the door and swiftly rolled to hide behind a barrel as soon as he saw the man approach. Whistling a familiar sea shanty and drying his hands, he sauntered out the entrance and in the direction opposite Rakkah.

His beating heart eased, and he gave a sigh of relief. Still crouched, he made his way into the room, keeping an eye out for any unexpected enemies. With haste, he picked up two uniforms from the top of the pile. Then—a bellowing screech. He steadied himself. The room began to rumble. The pots clanked against one another and some of the meat left out to dry fell onto the floor with a splat.

Footsteps.

He glanced around, his heart pounding ever faster. Noticing a barrel in the corner, he opened it and was relieved to find that it was empty. He buried his thin frame within it and closed the lid above him. From a thin crack in the side, he could see the steward anxiously running back inside, spewing curses left and right as he picked up the soiled food. The ground under him continued to reverberate, and he felt as if the barrel he was in was about to topple and reveal him. His chest thumped harder at the thought of having to murder another of the Empire's men in cold blood. It would mean no return. It would mean failure. He swallowed.

——

"But Duty is merely Slavery with added pretense, is it not?"

Daniel raised his brows, a smile bending on his lips. "You speak the queerest things, hotshot."

"I speak as the gods will of me."

"Gods, eh? You speak of 'em as if they've got a pole shoved up your arse. What exactly are these 'gods'?"

The two men plodded jauntily down the steps leading to the lower deck.

Araqiel rolled his eyes. "It might not be pleasing to hear. After all, you are a believer in the Thaumaturge; a cross-bearer."

Daniel shrugged. "It's all the same to me. Men with power forcing those without to follow their beliefs. I have rescinded my Faith a long time ago."

——

The man plopped all the meat into a barrel and carried it to the one Rakkah hid in. However, he stopped short of it. Instead, he plonked the barrel with preserved beef on top of his.

Sweat beads formed and dripped down the boy's forehead and back. The man dusted off his hands and started walking back to the exit. He paused momentarily at the heap of uniforms, but shrugged nonchalantly and shimmied away.

Rakkah's mouth felt parched and his head felt light-headed. Once the steward crossed the bend of the door, he carefully placed his hands beneath the lid. He took a deep breath and pushed. His jaws clenched and his veins made themselves visible. No luck. The sweltering air forced him into short breaths. He wiped off his sweat, ready to try again.

Another heave, another failure.

He looked to the bottom of the barrel, hope dwindling from his heart. The rounded walls felt as if they would swallow him whole. The singular ray of light passing through the crack taunted him with a respite that he knew might never come.

He thought of Mari, of his sister. Was he truly strong enough to save them? Was he merely lying to himself that he could have saved his sister if only he had the chance? Was he lying to himself and to Gabriel that he could protect Mari? His temples seared in pain and his eyes grew weary.

Yes. He was. But does that really matter? Does it really matter if you lie to yourself and to others if all you wish for is to protect those you care about? Is it wrong to wish to prove to yourself that you are strong when you know for a fact that you are not? Is it wrong to be hopeful in a world overwrought with despair? He slapped his cheeks, bringing him back to reality. Focus, Rakkah.

With a concerted effort, he placed his hands at the furthest rims of the lid above him. He clawed his toes into the bottom of the barrel and pushed with his upper body.

CLACK.

Hope. He drove his fingers within the gaps that had revealed themselves. Swallowing whatever spittle had collected in his throat, he heaved with all his might; arms trembling under the weight, his head peeked out from the barrel like a bird out of an egg. He was free. Then—

—

Daniel's eyes flitted into a sharp gaze to his right. He thought he heard a sound. He glanced momentarily towards his companion to confirm his doubts, but Araqiel merely shrugged.

The narrow galley looked empty, strewn with leftovers and stray pieces of meat on the floor. Several barrels stood one over the other at the back of the room and chests lay at the sides. Nothing at all seemed out of the ordinary.

He turned back to his companion and walked onwards.

—

Hand clasped taut over his lips, eyes quivering in fear—there he stood, the boy of five feet nearly crushed behind the narrow space betwixt the barrels and the wall. His gut knotted and he retched all over himself.

——

"Well." Daniel ceased his step as he approached a door. "See ya around then. Here's hoping you survive baby's first trip asea."

The lock clicked open, but as he opened it an inch, Araqiel commented in his same impassive tone, "Interesting choice of clothing."

Daniel huffed with amusement. He entered his room and picked up the empyrean cloak splayed upon his bed like the skin of a slain beast. "It is quite wonderful, is it not?"

"If only to hide the profound odiousness of a waning heart."

His back still turned away, Daniel replied in a lowered yet firm voice. "What do you know of beauty?"

"Do not misunderstand, Daniel." He placed his hand on his chest. "I am an ardent believer that the natural state of all things is hideousness. Beneath the platitudes of those hundreds upon hundreds of gods that exist outside of my measly island too lies that same hideous nature." He smiles. "Only, it is not our prerogative to beautify our souls knowing full well the truth of our nature. What you Thaumaturgists suffer from the most, you see, is the inability to reconcile that ugliness within your hearts with the beauty that your God beseeches of you."

Araqiel turned his back to the ebony-clad youth still affixed in place. "It would do you well to dwell upon it." He exited the room and pulled the door shut with his feet.

——

~The Hold, Esperança, early morning.

The more she scrubbed, the more the blood seemed to spread. From a streak, it now grew into a puddle. But the girl did not mind. She continued to scrub the planks; the dim lamplight showing only one side of her sunken face. It was the right thing to do, right, papa? He would have hurt Rakkah if I didn't. What would you have done in that situation, papa? You would kill him too, wouldn't you? Her hand scrubbed almost without thought. Tears rolled down her face and mixed with the boundless blood below. I've come to accept harm upon myself as a fact. I've grown numb to it. But I do not want to grow numb to the pain of others. If I do so, will I continue to be that same innocent daughter you showered with love and happiness, papa? Would you ever forgive me?

An insect scampered across the pool of blood, and she fell backward in surprise. Its minuscule legs spread tiny dots of red as it walked haphazardly. Enamored by the sight, she let go of her cloth and crawled along the helter-skelter path it followed. Somehow, she thought, it seemed to walk with purpose, and so she continued—until the scarab came upon a plank and burrowed its way beneath what seemed to be a hole within the wood grain.

She felt the plank, and to her surprise, it was loose. She sat up straight and jostled it out of its position. The adjoining planks followed. She then realized that the entire piece had been an ancient hatch that had been bolted shut. She plucked the rest of the planks and peered into the darkness.

Nothing.

She hurried back to the lantern in the center of the deck and rushed back to the opening in the floor.

To her astonishment, calm waters flowed beneath, sable and turbid. They rose and fell, swirling as if a momentary glimpse of the vastness of the Oceans frozen in time. It mesmerized her, her sullen eyes being set alight. She kneeled and brought the lantern nearer to the sibylline waves. She stared into the stillness of the water, but it was not her that stared back.