If there were ever a need to worry for the wounded captain, that need vanished when he appeared at our cabin door the day after Dorian's appearance, asking Mrs. Marks—who is a woman, and was offended—to clean his favorite coat. While she accepted, begrudgingly, the task, she did give the rest of us—who, honest, would never ask her to do our washing just because she is a woman—a firm warning that if we were ever to make such demands, she would send us over the waterfall.

Meanwhile, the captain vaulted himself all around the ship throughout the day, engaging in chatter with his crew. Loud, and laughing, as though nothing was wrong, holding his stub leg out like a trophy. He brought sound to the overwhelming silence of the cave that, before his appearance, was filled only with rushing water. Dorian's anxious appearance at our cabin the night before seemed almost imagined as the day progressed. He returned to repairing damages around the ship.

The clever little carpenter had fashioned Captain Avery a smooth wooden crutch with a spring in its foot. When the captain puts his weight on it, its length reduces, then it springs up, which takes some pressure off the man when he moves.

My medical companions spent the day ranting to one another about Captain Avery's inability to take instructions and rest, and his refusal to hear them out when each approached him over the afternoon, claiming the same to each of us, "I don't need to be looked after, as I have recovered very well."

How could we argue? Eventually, the dinner bell tolls. It is disorienting how the light in cave is so constant, though since last night, it seems to have dulled a shade. Still, the only perception of time we can have is through Professor Woods' and the doctor's watches, our sleepiness nearing nine o'clock, our hunger around mealtimes, and the heavy tolls of the bell.

***

"My leg was in his iron grip one second, and the next, it was swallowed by the red, red water, and was thrown into the clutches of much fiercer beasts," the captain carries on, recounting the night of his injuries with fervor. He tells the story with his hands as well as his voice, making it hard to look away. "In seconds—mere fleeting moments—razor teeth, jagged and sharper than the sharpest of blades, shredded through my boot, through my flesh, through my bone—but they couldn't get the rest of me..."

Half-listening, I turn my attention away to look across the table. Simon had moved away from us and his usual place to sit beside Elian at the beginning of our dinner time. They whisper to each other, Simon pressing his glasses to his nose in an anxious manner that is most unlike him and smiling. All they are doing is discussing one of his thick, boring books, laid open in front of them, underneath his ever-so-slightly trembling hand, but the queer enthusiasm and shyness of the always-pedantic professor almost makes me sorry to be missing out.

Mrs. Marks and the doctor, by my side, quietly murmur about their different methods of dealing with uncooperative patients.

I shovel the last of my stew into my mouth and stack my bowl with theirs, then lean over the table with folded arms and return my attention to the captain. His bandaged stump is propped on the table like a trophy, and his teeth glint in the blue and orange lighting.

"Using the boy as my crutch, I barreled from my cabin—unstoppable—to have my revenge..."

Eventually, his wild-eyed story comes to its end, and he clasps his hands together, taking a breath, and suddenly becomes very still. As though all the energy in the room is trapped between his palms, every breath, every sound, every thought seems to pause. Even Simon lifts his head and takes his finger away from his spectacles.

"I realize that I am late to acknowledge my lost crewmen," the captain says solemnly, "and I am sure that many of you will have already counted how many are missing. We were fortunate, in this case, to only lose seven of our good sailors. Due to the quick thinking of our officers, with the help of our guests, we remain in solid numbers of thirty-four hardy men. We had four traitors, all, as told, sent to the Trough."

"And we are going to be entering a fight with only thirty-four men?" Mrs. Marks asks, though she is not a man. "No, I'm sorry, twenty-eight fighting men, three persons who have sworn oaths for their profession to do no harm, two foreign women who hardly speak our language, and a boy."

I frown, drawing back with offense. "I—"

The captain's head raises, eyes sad and deep and almost, for a second, desperate. "Yes." A spark of madness flickers across his face and he nods, repeating, firmer, "Yes. Everyone will fight."

"But, not just yet, Mrs. Marks," Officer Langley assures, massaging his fingers. "We mourn now."

"We lost good men," says the captain, "and I will do everything in my power to make certain that we avoid losing many more. Some of you may not make it, I can't lie, but you'll be remembered for the fight when we win it."

A hairy man grunts. "Ain't like we can turn back. The current only runs in one direction. We fight or we die."

"And Captain Avery remains with us," Langley adds. He rests one hand on his comrade's shoulder. "He is the only sailor skilled enough among us to reach the Isles safely, so that we can fight. Instead of dying amongst these shipwrecks and rocks, we will die fighting, with honor."

The captain nods and smiles. "I sense the tensions are high, but trust in your captain. I have a plan. We have advantages in this fight that the Witch, our enemy, does not know."

"Such as?" Simon asks.

Captain Avery grins. "Trust in me, Woods." He leans over the table, fingers splaying over the wood. "Trust in me as the Fate Teller does, because I am your captain, and your fates are in my hands."

***

Fear comes in many forms, and none are kind. As I blunder out of the dining hall, I feel the hollow chill in my limbs that comes with fear in the dreadful, spine-tingling form of nerves. Not "what if that stew gave me worms" nerves or "what if the cave will be darker again tomorrow" nerves, but much, much worse. I stagger as bodies push past me, moving too fast, and find myself stricken at the back of the crowd. I press my back against the door and wait for the dizzying cluster of pirates to pass me by.

All that I can think about is, what if I only have two more days left to live? My heart pulses in my ears. The sirens and werewolves were enough for me, really. I want revenge, I want to rescue Riven, I want to fight. But, I also want to kiss a pretty girl, and haven't, because of the same feelings. I may want such things, but the action of achieving them is daunting to say the least.

During the evening, the captain revealed the great plan to us. The plan stated that on the afternoon of the third day from today, we would haul anchor and resume sail down the treacherous rapids and would go ahead in the same way that we were supposed to before his injury and our reduced numbers. We would carry on to certain doom, because one great and terrible change in the plan included the harrowing fact that according to the captain, the Witch knows that we are coming.

The element of surprise was all we had.

He says she has a fortress. He says she has over two-hundred men, and three ships twice the size of ours, and many strange weapons like those of Harvey Cobbe's.

Now, what do we have? A hobbling captain without his own sword, a trembling troupe of superstitious sailors still swearing that the whole of this place is cursed, a disease expert with impeccable aim but without the mind to kill, and me. Me, a man still learning to use a sword, whose stomach inverts at the sight of blood. My mother was my first, but she had no blood. Just black, just flakes.

Where these pirates play, things are gruesome and vile, unlike anything I ever experienced before they came to my door that night. It seems so late to realize it only now, but I do not wish to grow accustomed to the sight of death. I do not wish to see more guts flop like fish over the deck, or see exposed, flesh-bare bone shine like marble. I do not wish to see the doctor meet the end of a bayonet, or Mrs. Marks step into range of a grenade. I do not wish Professor Woods to face a bullet as well-aimed as his own or for the captain to be disarmed of his crutch and disabled and disgraced before his end. I do not wish anyone to die.

I never thought enough about it before. I think the captain always seemed close to immortal to me—someone that was too witty, too strong, too experienced to become victim to anything. It gave me some sense of misguided security, as if being under his authority made me safe. But now, that illusion has been broken. Just the loss of his limb didn't change anything, because it didn't stop the man. He was as wily as ever with or without it. To everyone else, because they did not see him crack. They were fortunate enough to avoid seeing him crack, but I know that he isn't invincible. I saw that he isn't. Everyone else can blissfully carry on the illusion, but I am not so lucky. It was this notion, and the muttered misgivings and commentary of Professor Woods during the captain's briefing and pep talk that has left me feeling so uncertain, I think.

A firm hand claps to my shoulder and I gasp, startled. I grab at the wrist and gape up at its owner. Relief washes over me, expelling much of my nervous tension in a breath.

"Sir," I breathe.

"Sir," he responds. I'm weak for it, and after I feel the first rose on my cheeks, I blush harder. I release his wrist and look away. No one calls me 'sir'.

"I... I'll see if the professor and Elian would like some help with the dishes," I say, looking for an escape.

"No, I think they would prefer you to let them be alone," the captain smiles. He hobbles forward a step, pushing me with him, so that he can close the doors. Increas and Dorian slip out before he does and, with nods to him, carry on to the deck. The captain gestures down the hall when the others have gone. "Come, walk with me."

I frown, but follow. It's hard to match his sporadic pace.

"You seem nervous, Walter," he remarks, setting the foot of his crutch on the first stair. "Not having doubts, are we?"

"No, sir." Yes, sir.

"Good. Because I have a little more to ask of you."

I blink, waiting at the bottom of the staircase with my brow tensely furrowed. "Of me?"

He stops and looks back. "Yes, you." He jerks his head. "Come along."

I slowly start after him. He does his best on the stairs but watching makes my heart sink and my eyes feel heavy. I hope it is sympathy, because the only other feeling it could be is pity, and I can't have that for him. I simply can't. My immortal illusion for him further chips away. One hand clutches the railing, and the other grips the crutch, knuckles white as the moon. The spring-loaded base makes it harder. Though it functions well on the flat deck, it is impractical here.

"Captain, can I help?" I ask.

I see his jaw clench, then relax. "I'll have a peg leg tomorrow," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. He switches his crutch to the other hand and waits for me to duck under his shoulder. He puts on a good face, a good act, but there is sweat in his hairline and staining his shirt. "I'll be sparring with Officer Langley in the shrouds."

"With all due respect, sir, the ship can't take any more accidents." I swallow at the quiver to my squeaky damned voice. "I couldn't balance in the shrouds with two feet, let alone one and a peg leg. You shouldn't be so reckless."

"Concern noted. But, I am not disabled." He sets his jaw and puts his eyes forward. His voice is low and growling. "I cannot be seen as disabled, Walter, or there will be doubt among the men. Do not make the mistake of doubting me, do not even think of it. I am a man with a goal and the ambition to achieve my goal by any means necessary. No flesh wound changes that. Are you with me, Walter?"

I bite my lip, feeling his fingers claw into my back. I almost stagger backwards with his weight, with his ferocity. "As always, sir," I reply, feeling my heart constrict, aghast with myself and my nerves and my doubt.

"Good." His hold on me relaxes. "Good."

We emerge into the glowing blue din and he takes his arm away. Keeping his heavy breathing quiet, he continues forward on the crutch, leading me to a place on the railing. He leans his crutch on a cannon and rests his arms on the rail. Breathing, breathing.

My feet shuffle uncomfortably as I wait for him to speak.

He stares into the water, eyes slowly coming to focus. Then, he bows his head and rolls his shoulders. "Closer, Walter," he murmurs.

I toe closer. Without looking up his hand flies back at me, making me jump and very nearly shout. I choke and stagger forward as he yanks me by my bandanna. I press my hands against the railing as he pulls my head just enough over the edge to be level with his, my ear near his lips. The rushing water below shimmers in the worm-light, creating a most entrancing illusion of darting pale-blue fish skipping downstream.

The rush of the water is loud. I've become so used to the noise, but now, with nothing else to listen to, it is suddenly as deafening as the first night. The ship's lurching rolls turn my legs to jelly, as though watching the water somehow reminds them of our motions.

"I am doing my best, and I will continue to do my best, to recover fully, Walter," the captain mutters. I strain to hear him. "But, there is one thing that I do not believe I can do on my own, now. I am not... I am not weak, but for this, I admit I am not strong enough."

"Sir?"

"You have my Gift. When we haul anchor, I will need you to be ready to use it."

I feel the color drain from my cheeks. My fingers feel cold and stiff. "Sir, I don't—"

"You must not use it before we leave here," he continues. Blue reflections of illusory fish dart in his eyes. "You cannot practice it. If the Scent is in the air, Darling, the Witch, will be able to detect us and we will be robbed of what little advantage we have. When the time comes, I will explain what to do. Your lifeline will be tied to me on this last leg of our trip, and, on the deck, you will have to be alert and responsive at all times."

"But, sir, I—"

"Do you understand, Walter? This is your duty. I will not force you to fight the war, but you must get us to the battle, else this ship and this crew will lie in Riven's bay, defeated before ever having a chance. Everyone will die. I can't save everyone on my own, not like this."

I stare, and water wells in my eyes. If I rub it away will it make it more obvious? My nose must be glowing red. It burns. He releases my bandanna and I stumble backwards.

He turns his head and watches me steadily, green eyes grave.

I swallow and start to pick at the knot of my bandana. "What if I can't? What if I can't?"

"You can," he growls firmly. "I will help."

I flick the knot down and rub the back of my neck instead.

"Everyone will die," he repeats firmly. "This is our responsibility, now, Walter."

I close my eyes and forcibly press the balls of my hands into my brow. A heavy sigh escapes me, shuddering my whole lanky frame. Everyone will die? It feels like a lifetime ago that my axe chopped wood in the forest without me. Whatever Gift it is that we share, I have no understanding of it. I don't know how I made use of it, and I don't know how I can use it again. Everyone will die?

He must be overexaggerating. I'm only sixteen. Why should lives be in my hands? Life has barely been in my own hands! I'm only a boy! I'm only a boy!

I'm only a boy.

"Get some rest, Walter Avery," the captain says gently. I open my eyes to his hand, flat palm extended to me. "You will need it in only a matter of days."