The morale is low. The crew is quiet. There is little more sound than the gentle creaking of the ship against the currents. If I look for long enough, I might catch the flash of a fish in the water before it shoots along the salty rapids. It's calmer here, but the anchors still strain, and the sand far below shifts and stirs.

The light of the cave seems dimmer than before.

The constant rush of the water sweeps a cool draft over us, engulfing us in a chill that in the rush of the evening we hadn't noticed. I hold my arms near to myself and focus on everything to distract me from thinking of the one thing. Dr. Oswald smokes his pipe at the stern deck, conversing with Mrs. Marks. Elian Arrow loops and knots a rope, making some sort of time-biding craft and whistling idly all the while, and Harvey Cobbe polishes a gun—his shoulders sagging and his expression slack as he half-heartedly chews his plug.

Leslie is in charge, as quartermaster, in the captain's absence, and he strolls about the deck and below, ceaselessly engaging in chatter in the attempt to raise spirits and convince the superstitious, the religious, and the plain and simply confused that the beastly sirens wouldn't be returning for their souls, or at all.

If you are wondering, I didn't clean the mess from the deck. I woke to it gone, like a bad dream. I imagine it has shot off down the waterfall, somewhere around the bend, by now. As has the body. And my stomach, for that matter. I missed brunch.

A sudden familiar reek spills over the deck, and I'm throwing myself over the rail again with the force of reflex. I press my fist to my lips and look to the heathens. They have seldom appeared on deck during the length of our trip. Rootwig peers dumbly around, her giant lenses seeming to gape at everything; the light-speckled ceiling, the ill sailors, the rushing water. Then she looks across the deck, to where Mike had spilled out, and where the werewolves had fallen, and she stares for a while.

She grabs Thenshie by her gangly wrist and totters towards the captain's cabin. I frown as they disappear inside.

Hours later, Dr. Oswald pats me softly on the back, pulling me from a daydream. I blink and rub my eyes, looking up.

"All right, Walter?"

I nod, covering a yawn with my hand. "My watch?"

"Yes, but I can take it if you would like." He smiles sympathetically, brows knitting together. "I know that the captain was up walking last night—and it did him no good, I can tell you—and I saw for myself what he did. Ghastly." His lips purse. "Just... speak to me if you need to, Walter. Most young men don't have to witness so much carnage in a night."

Warmth flutters in my heart, and I redden, averting my gaze. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll take the watch. I'm fine."

How can he be so kind so easily? He, too, is broken and frightened and upset, that is plain to see. I don't know what he experienced with those creatures, the guilt of swooning for them is painted clear as day in his wrinkles. Readable, as always.

"If you're sure." He offers a hand to me and helps me up. "The Aquians healed the wound earlier, but he was asleep when they did it and he doesn't know. Simon dressed the stub as if it were still infection-prone."

I frown. "It's healed?"

"Yes. Remarkable."

"And the captain doesn't know it?"

"No." The doctor shakes his head. "He lost a great deal of blood, Walt. That man is frightfully impulsive, I think, and I don't want him gallivanting about just yet. I don't know anything about the Aquian methods, but I do know about amputation and trauma and the needs of a man to recover. What he needs is as much water in him as he can manage and no stress on that leg."

"Yes, sir."

"Good lad." He pats my back and sends me on my way.

I start, then stop and turn back. Swallowing, I lift my gaze to meet his. "Are you... Are you okay, Doctor?"

The lines over his brow lift in mild surprise, then fall with a gentle smile. His hand hovers over his chest, where a pendant of Laod's crest hangs. It is usually hidden, tucked away under his collar. I've rarely seen it. "I am working on it. Do not worry, Walter."

I offer a small smile in return and he nods to me.

We part. I push into the captain's quarters and enter a one-sided conversation within, and close the door behind myself.

The captain greets me from his bed, holding his pipe to one side. He takes a draw and then continues rambling to Professor Woods.

"We're outside of the laws, you know, Pansy. Imagine joining in holy matrimony without being hung for it, right?" He laughs at himself, but the professor acknowledges him with little more than a curl of his lip.

Simon, wearing his tweed coat against the chill, slides a string over his page and closes his book. He sniffs and stands and walks out without so much as a word. To which, the captain laughs only harder, falling back onto his pillows. He sits up again to draw on his pipe and eyes me in a way that makes me feel vulnerable. As if he's looking through me, not at me.

I sit in Simon's chair, far removed from the captain.

"How is my crutch?" he asks.

"Very well," I say stiffly. "I hope you don't plan to get up again."

He grimaces. "Once was enough. Fainted, split the sutures and the stitches, ruined my favorite coat. Sapped the livelihood right out of me, too."

"You seem lively enough."

"I've had a long sleep," he replies. "And I'll have another soon enough."

I nod and fold my arms, stretching my legs out. "Well, good."

He sighs and looks at the chair that I'd left near his bed on my last watch. Someone, presumably Simon, had left him a bottle and glass by its feet. He chews the end of his pipe and exhales a long blow of smoke. He puffs quietly to himself for a while, then picks up the bottle and swallows. The displeasure of the drink shows in his pinched brow, and I get the feeling immediately that it isn't his usual.

He sets it down again, unsatisfied, and clasps his hands on his lap. After a few moments, his fingers restlessly twiddle. His eyes roll to the window, to the ceiling, to his leg, to the ceiling.

"Come on, Walt," he mutters after a while. "Give me something to do. Woods was dull enough company. I can't stand all this stillness."

I shrug.

"Hmph, I see." He frowns, taking another long pull on the pipe. He rubs his temples and tries to catch my eye. "Whether you like it or not, there will be more blood spilled, you know. It's not bloodlust, it's just business."

"Yeah." Blood. I feel the nausea in my throat, itching beyond my reach.

"I've got to know you're still with me, Walter."

"Yeah." I swallow. "I am."

He raises his eyebrows expectantly. But, what am I to do? He scratches his whiskers and beckons me over. "Come. Bring me the safe under my desk. I want to show you something."

I slide from the chair, unfolding reluctantly to trudge to his desk. As I crouch beneath, my knees wrinkle the old rug. Awkwardly reaching my arms out in the cramped space, I get a grip on the great steel safe and heave it from its cramped hiding space. It resists, catching on the carpet, so I sit back and pull the whole rug out and lift the safe when it's out where I can stand. His eyes are on me, amused.

I set it on the chair next to his bed and he reaches for the dial. "Now go into the cupboard over there," he nods towards the other end of the room, "and bring me a bottle."

"What's wrong with this one?" I point to the one that stands beside the glass on the floor.

He makes a face and shoos me off. "Go on."

Of course, I do as I am told, all the while frowning because I'm not sure if it's the right thing to be doing. The scruffy drunk might try to fetch the liquor himself if I don't bring it for him, I suppose. Inside the cupboard there is a rack, from which I slide a bottle. As I hand it to him, he takes one long draw on his pipe, then hands that to me and waves me off again.

"There's an ashtray on my desk." He bites down on the cork of the bottle and jerks it off with his teeth, then spits it to the floor.

It hits my ankle on my return from the ashtray and I kick it away. He shakes out the map to Riven, holds it out in front of himself with glittering eyes, and smooths it out over his blanketed lap. Color stirs in his cheeks, alongside a smile. A genuine smile, not his standard beam of mockery.

"Come, sit," he says. He eases off his covers and swings his legs around—taking a painful amount of care with the injured one—to the edge of the bed, and plants his single stockinged foot on the floor.

"Should you be doing—?"

"Stop your worrying, Walter," he jeers, rolling his eyes.

I scowl and take a seat in the chair across him, moving the safe to the floor. He pauses to look at me, thinking, then tips back a mouthful of drink. He dries his lips and smooths out the map again. The wrinkles in it are permanent, folded in the same way for, I'd guess, all my sixteen years.

He thinks for a while longer, his brows pinched ever so slightly and his nose just a little bit wrinkled, lifting his skewed whiskers. The pillow-struggle he endured over the night shows in the unevenness of his beard, flattened on one side and fluffed on the other.

"Here, you see," he presses his finger to a point on the map, in the body of water surrounding the three isles of Riven, and I lean in, "is where my beloved ship, Eclipse, rests not in peace, but in pieces." The color in his cheeks is gone again, and closer now to him, I note the pallor of his features and the darkness under his defiant green gaze. He looks ill. Tired. But alive, undefeated. Admirably undefeated.

"When I take Riven back," he continues boldly, "I will dive down every day for as long as it takes to gather the wood of her bows; enough of it in good enough shape to build myself a home. It's been almost twenty years down there, but mark me, I won't have any other wood—it must be hers or it won't be home." He looks past me wistfully into nothing, unfocused, and smiling just a sliver. "And over the door will be her name, off her stern, just as it was when we sailed together."

His finger slides over the page to the edge of the smallest islet, and he beholds it like a gem—as if this one spot on the map is priceless. "The spray of the falls basks the back of this islet in fine, cool mist all year round. The vegetation is... unmatched. You'll never see anything like it anywhere else. The fruit is..." he laughs; just a breath escaping. "It's like nothing else. Sweet, but not too much so. Juicy, but just the right amount. Oh, and the flowers! They fill the air with the most enticing aromas, drafting over the islet like sea breeze." He sighs and smiles to the ceiling. "On the face of the same islet, the sun beams through the mist like the rays of the gods and warms the soft golden sand until it's the perfect temperature and one could lay there for hours without feeling a moment wasted. And I'll have my home, my Eclipse, right there in between the two halves of the islet, on its point, so that I'll always have a cool mist and the warm sun and the shade of this spectacular palm tree that sits just there, hanging over the beach." He sinks his chin into his cupped palm. "And right across the lagoon, I'll watch the foxes be incredible, as they are, building marvels. Modern day marvels, every day. It will be exactly right. The perfect ending. My paradise."

"You're going to live there?"

"Yes." He inhales deeply and drinks. "As much as this is a mission for revenge, I have to remind myself that... it's also for a life. When I see my sword..." He frowns. "When I see a sword, in my hand, driven into the Witch's heart, that will be the day—so soon!—that Riven Isles is a free nation as it was years ago, and that will be the day that I belong there, under my palm tree, in the boards of my ship, with nothing but sand and the tides."

My sympathies swoon for him and his hope and his certainty of his dreams. One day I hope to see him under that palm tree, playing that sweet, familiar lullaby on his banjo, enjoying triumph. Maybe we could enjoy it together...

The man leans back, stretching out his good leg and touching his shoulders against the wall. He slouches there, relaxed, barely aware of me, lost in some blissful imagining. I can see the sweat on his pale brow glinting in the cave light, and wonder of fever, of delirium. But he seems so well as he speaks. He grows more distant with every step further into his fantasy, but I have a feeling it's less madness and more... longing. As if every word gives him more to live for, livening his eyes, and takes him further into this future—where I feel I am not a part of. I feel each word take focus away from me and turn it to ambition.

"And on that day," the captain continues, closing his eyes, "we'll go the plateau at the top of the hill, where the moonlight is the brightest, and celebrate into the night. Dorian will find his family, and finally belong. The people of Riven will be freed. Your mother will be avenged, my crew and my ship avenged. We'll have music and moonshine and rum and dancing. So much lively dancing! Why, I'll dance with every..." He stops, but his smile lingers a while. His brows pull together and his lips tighten. He opens his eyes to his stub leg, and my heart has stopped beating, because how can he dance? He was so good at it. He brought life to everything around him.

It's like watching glass fragment under pressure. Spiderwebbing gradually, precariously, to the breaking point. The smile fades into nothing, the glint of his eyes flickers out.

"I'll tell you what, Walter," he says eventually, very quietly, without a hint of expression. He folds the map. "I'm starving. Why don't you go off and ask Barker for something for his captain, eh?"

Hesitantly, I nod, quite unsure of what to do. I had felt, when he'd first called me closer, that his talking to me was another one of his ploys for loyalty, but it went south, didn't it. Here's a picture of a broken man, holding his pieces together by a thread in the wait for my leave. I don't want to see him break. He's supposed to be the unbreakable one aboard this ship. He's supposed to be the example of bravery, of courage, of ambition. I can't bear to see him otherwise. I rise and hug my arms to my chest, and I ask, "Fancy anything in particular?"

"Barker knows what I like," the captain murmurs. He calls to me again, quiet still, when I am near the door. "And please tell your medical friends that I don't need to be coddled and I'd prefer to be left quite alone. Dorian shares this room and he can relay anything to them if he feels I'm not well."

I purse my lips. "Aye, Captain."

"Dismissed."

***

I sink into my hammock and pull my foot up over my knee. Simon, with his back to me, lifts his shirt to check on the bruising of his chest. He's done it nightly since the incident with the loosed sail. The doctor folds his coat and sits on his cot. He holds his wig in his hands. His hair has grown out enough now that the bare spot at the back is more noticeable.

"Cornelius, the captain doesn't want to be watched over," Lydia says, pulling a comb through her knotted hair with difficulty. "It would only agitate him to check up on him. He's a stubborn sort of man. And, with the wound healed as it is, it isn't like we'll have to worry about infection. That was the main concern."

"Yes, of course," Dr. Oswald answers. "I know."

Simon rolls down his shirt and folds his arms. "You're still worried."

"When I tended to his wound last night, after he'd gone and..." The doctor grimaces and flicks his hand suggestively. "Tended the last werewolf... He was sweating pails. Faint, and paler than anything. Passed out when I was cleaning the area and re-doing my stitches. I stayed the watch to be safe, and he was tossing and turning so violently in his sleep, I'd thought he'd split the darned catgut again." The doctor frowns, looking up at the rest of us. "I don't know what he did, but he overdid it. He had the beginnings of a fever. Fevers are tricky; they can escalate."

"Yes, he was warm on my watch as well," Lydia says. "I made up some tea with yarrow and poured it down his throat."

"And I layered more blankets on him, so he'd sweat it out," Simon adds. He takes off his spectacles and slides them out of the way under his cot. "He woke up towards the end of my watch, however, and threw them all off. But on the upside, I did get him to drink some proper water."

I lower my boots to the floor and curl into my hammock, pulling up my socks. I lean over the edge. I could report that I'd witnessed the man break, but I don't think it would help with the doctor's nerves. The captain just wants to be alone, and I can't help but want him to be, too. Having hands all around him must not make him feel better. "He can take care of himself," I say. "Mrs. Marks, I'm sure you've managed quite a few amputee sailors in your travels?"

Lydia nods and puts her hairbrush away. "That is why I know that he will be fine. At least, he will be with the wound healed. Impulsive men like that tend to get infections due to their needs to get up and tire the body before its recovered, as he did last night. But, without the risk of infection, it's really just strength of will to come to terms with missing a part of the body. That man has an iron will. I think we can all agree."

The door shudders with a hollow knocking. All eyes raise to it.

"Pardon," calls a small and scratchy voice from the other side.

The blue light from the window is plenty enough to see by. As the rest of us sit up in our cots and hammocks, Simon answers the door. Dorian squints up at him, his paws clasped at his front.

The doctor rises immediately.

"Pardon, sirs. Ma'am." Dorian clears his throat. His claws click restlessly against each other. "I need... What can I... What can I do for a fever?"

Simon starts to respond, but Dr. Oswald beats him with, "I'll come and—"

"No!" Dorian shouts, too abrupt. He looks down at the floor and rubs his scruff.

The doctor frowns, soft creases forming over his brow.

"No," the fox repeats, quieter. "What can I do?"

"Has it gotten bad?"

"I... I don't know. I can't tell."

"Are you sure you don't want me—"

Dorian waves his paws and shakes his head. "No, Doctor! You can't."

"Well, you can make sure that he's kept very warm," the doctor offers. His brows remain pinched. "No matter how uncomfortable it is, sweating a fever out is one of nature's remedies."

"Thank you," says Dorian.

Simon rubs his eyes, turning towards his cot. "Make sure that he is drinking plenty of water to replace what he's losing."

The fox drags a paw between his ears, his muzzle wrinkling. "Fluids won't be a problem. Anything else?"

Lydia drags her medical bag out from under her cot. "I have some yarrow. If you grind it up and make a tea with it, it's very good for soothing fevers. Have him drink it, and even soak a cloth or two with it to lay over his hands and feet... foot."

"Tea." Dorian nods and collects the yarrow with a thank you, which sounds more like a sneeze than a word.

The doctor crouches to his height and lays a hand on his shoulder. "If he doesn't seem any better in the morning, you'll let me tend him, yes?"

Dorian hugs the mason jar of herb to his chest and nods. His tail swishes nervously behind him and he retreats from the doctor's hold. "Yes, sir. Thank you. Ah..." He bows slightly, standing in the doorway. "I'm sorry to disturb you all. Have a good night."

The doctor, with every wrinkle in his face crying compassion, watches the fox patter off. He pushes himself up and closes the door. "The poor boy. I've not seen him so vulnerable."