(№3.5)

Sounds, which halted her to think, to breathe, to be aware of anything else than the snug blue bow and azure veil flattering around in front of her nose, where you could easily miss it, until the aerodynamic figure of the ship she had examined for hours without ends in front of her was unmistakable a contour drawn against the Black Sea, stopping right in front of her.

The girl felt herself cry anew by tears provoked and anguish risen per demand of higher powers, music piercing the way through the nightfall, this pretentious air, clinging like snowflakes shallowing on a bell in a frosted winter day, climbing and concocting slowly to a liquid cream, then to water, their form of origin, all pressed together, all confined back as united family, condensed, running the parabola shape of the bell along, caressing the circumference before tricking down, soft cries escaping from the warded interior, the praising of angels. Hitting profoundly her heart and burying almost all resolutions, noble convictions.

She didn't believe her eyes at first, seeing the ship so friendly, the complete inverse of their constant and ever hostility and the music as breathtaking as ever but with a tender edge... so soft humming a lullaby.

Something she also never had, someone singing her to peaceful, needed slumber, cradled in the lap of her loving mother, the limbs and calloused fingertips stroking as known to her as her own.

The picture conjured of her deepest craving accompanied by a cascade of notes of quality heaven.

She hesitated, letting her mind rest for a bunch of minutes, to clear her head in regards to this most fabulous concert, conjured upon by angelic creatures in the skin of demons, that much she was sure of. Melancholically imagining the advice and counsel her mother would have to spare for her, the alighted path assumed by thousands, a challenge exhibited by her old cranky father, or the shunned and gutless way of running and running to simply a change of scenery but really just doing what she always did or... the mere option facing her.

It was crystal clear what they offered her – at least in her interpretation, perhaps she thought about this all along the wrong manner – and felt tempted, honoured, her ego pricked bewitched.

This way, she wasn't really running away... but where exactly would she be running in?

What was exactly on the ship?

No one knew or fathomed even the idea of exactly hitting the bull's eye of actualities.

And those who truly did were part of the Crew or a decayed corpse at the bottom of the ocean.

Her curiosity burned just as bright as anyone else's, but would she really pay the price for whatever was the mystery of the Skeleton Crew, or was she better off not knowing the entirety of her life? Difficult, difficult inquiries...

Then suddenly she realised the thing that was quite off about it, disturbed her intuition, what the prickling warning of her razor-sharp nerves told her; she was being watched.

Someone from the ship was observing her.

And if she really focused and looked hard, she imagined (or wished) to see a small figure, hidden in the shadows on board, the following introduction of bliss coursing her veins didn't make it an easier choice, unfortunately, softly brushed by the light suspended of the lantern, swallowed by darkness.

Yet could it be only her mind, her anxiety lately playing finally off and she was to become a lunatic, finally, at the epic finale of her story.

In thinking and calculating, sweating and quivering, fearfully of what she might be capable of in mere spite, the heated characteristics of that situation she was plopped and surfaced of simple anxiety, an old story her father told her once, a tale carried and polished in her mind as per sheer accident:

It was about the legacy he carried, the legacy she would carry now to. The legacy burning in her blood.

How long had this been?

Was she two or three summers' old?

It was of no matter, as her father in the middle of a stormy night, with thunder and lightning bolts ravishing and bawling the landscape, pine trees being struck down and houses rumbling caught in wind, had cradled her tightly in his arms, the fumes of the candles stinging, the dying light diminishing. With a low and sweet voice perhaps not only usurped of his desperate resolve to mimic caring for her, narrated her everything of the enchanted, wondrous empire erected high to collapse deep, the story of the land they were living on:

Dacai. The Empire of Dacai, eliminated half a millennium ago.

The region which in olden days belonged to proud Dacian men and women, taught and strategized to be warriors, to protect what was most beloved to them at any cost and let temptation and the premise of Paradise not impair their judgement and contort the ideals they longed to live to.

Her hands tangled in her crop-coloured hair, furiously pulling as if the broken and flooded pieces would miraculously stop retracting, if only she forced them out; she demanded her mind to let her see every bit of the story, every last detail in the raging eye, born of the tempest that continued now within her in slivers, spikes poking and never retreating, until she had obtained peace of mind.

Her father had told her tales about several plagues and misfortunes coming and thriving on the payment of these villagers. Yet as a unit, they fiercely fought every danger down, and as a team, they would always win and go down under atwain together.

The women counted immensely in their everyday life, as they were the ones to consult when confronted with problems and diseases, maladies and when a daughter in a family was born, they announced it to be the luckiest fortune under Zalmoxis's eyes – their rightful God, as the Dacians where one of the first tribes in history to ever believe in a monotheistic force, quite controversial to the Greeks in the south and the Romans procreated and curated in the west.

They were a majestic crowd of people, soothing and stark with a very just ruler, Decebal who protected the weak and ruled fairly over his Empire, able to put their enemies back in their places, the neighbouring empire, the byzantios survived until this hour, never capable of annexing the entity, for the land in its forces was too grand, to strong to withdraw.

And still was no Empire dated and proved too history until now prone and apt enough to last eternity.

What was decent, good, ended extinguished, the bad a constant it assessed to be worthless to defy.

When the Romans came, the fortune was bound to end finally, claiming brutishly this fertile soil for them, the Dacians could, at first, fight them fiercely, but in the end were defeated by the invincible legions. Decebal himself, the king who had seen his people be shredded and torn apart was said to have slit his own throat, before Traian, the emperor with siege over the Dacians, could get to him and throw him into animalistic prison.

And now look where the great people of Dacai were as of the present.

The girl faced the horizon and thought about how this didn't necessarily mean the end.

If her ancestors could endure centuries of pain and defeat, she might as well could do it too.

She was strong, because she believed in herself and wouldn't give up simply when it emerged complicated, running away from a bunch of narrow-minded oxen like a coward. Not facing the other end of danger but rather embracing its furious, ired attempts of encircling her in a fight she would do anything to prove victorious.

And she would, in the end.

She turned to face the ship, the blue lantern almost shining sadly, informed about her answer, sighing how the human that had looked them ferociously in the eye, would turn her back around prior to reaching the bottom of it. She wasn't a quitter, no, albeit she couldn't do both and had to decide.

A breeze brushed her ankles warmly and the moon rayed her confidence, burrowed sunlight illuminating the cliffs, her hair, as if she was speaking to an entire audience in the middle of day.

"I cannot", the girl whispered in old dialect, feeling the mutuality of understanding dawning on that slim figure on board.

"I can't just run from this. I need to stay and strike back, even if it is a lost cause, and I'm surely going to be defeated. I will fight, until the day I die, for it is decreed such by the issue of my ancestors. And I better start to make them proud right now."

And the girl turned, with a sweaty line creasing her hem and a pained look sprawling across her features when gazing at those familiar trees, not daring to face the ship, afraid she might not be as resolutely vigorous as she wished to be and would immediately jump off the cliffs, given in to the temptation, for the crew definitely would try to grasp her here forever.

Beneath the layer of apparent sorrow, lay though a dust of resolute contentedness assuming her limbs, numbing her ire and sadness of having actually done something, feeling at last the fruitful sleep she had earned.

The girl had no idea how soon she would have to give up fighting, for the path of the world was set to have her choose one thing she didn't, and it would correct itself until perfection, as she was promised to the Skeleton Crew from the point of her birth, and they take what belongs to them, no matter how resilient the cargo to ship fights its fate. There was no escape, no mercy. The mere casual, friendly impression of bestowing on her the ability of decision was nothing more than a silly game, a ploy to garner the trust. Now enough of the games, for her breaking and shattering was soon, the treads spun and the fatality of her village, the unravelling planned.

The next morning, the girl all by herself walked down to the village she once knew as her home, scolded by the villagers, and mouthed foully in evinced whispers, yet it had been a long time ago when she still feigned interest in the expressed opinions of the villagers who turned and turned around in a keep, like a daft dog chasing its tail around, looking out for danger, the consequence of their arrival of the plaguing sea curse last night, save none occurred immediately and calmed exasperations were heard absent ceasing.

A nice morning, with a magnificent blue sky and cuddly clouds at the horizon, tinged magenta from the sparing intensity of dawn.

Her father awaited her at home, batting his eyelashes at her with a grave expression and looking as if he asked himself how he outlived the night, soberness long gone and forgotten, taken aback for her to willingly return to be wed.

"Father, I think I see the errors of my past now. Please, if you shall not have a better thing at hand to do, I'd like to be wed today ", she simply replied in a harsh tone as answer for his searching, gaping eyes, and he nodded in slight disturbance.

Remember these cuddly, puffy clouds, right?

Well, half an hour later, they didn't appear so cosy to the village as they did in the morning, so the fathers of the "mireasă" and "mire" decided not to let this ruin their great day of unification, still on edge and the verge to collapse with the yet missing punishment of the devils, so prepared a jolly cockle of a boat, as was custom, wanting to rather advance the water than waddle through the thick forest, to get it over with as feasible as possible.

Everything happened in such a blurry; preparations of shipping the food on board, the white, spent gown she had to wear and some older girls already married stated to her it would be a rather wonderful experience, braiding her hair tightly and decently polished her rather porcelain face with some tarnished creams and rouge blush, pulling nasty grimaces behind her back in response to having to touch her, exhaustively watering their hands and dresses afterwards after the bride looked presentable at last.

Mid-preparations, the girl conveyed their disgust for fear and tried to make a polite conversation on how to fillet a fish the right way, to stir them back to ease, for the annoyance emitted, perturbed her.

The girls only exchanged horrified glances and hurried to release her.

Not two hours later to come, the groom, the bride, their extensive families and the priest were brought onto that wreck of a capsizing ship and sailed onwards the horizon, no one at the beach to wave them goodbye, for they sensed the affair was pointless, the mere impression of an idea spreading, they would not return anytime soon.

While the hurrying and working on the ship continued, hoisting the sail and ensuring everything went down smoothly, the girl stayed at the very end of the bow, intently examining the endless viscosity of current lapping through current, waves intricately braided you could barely tell them apart, even when not being in such an erupting, enthralling mood, tangled upon and twisted for a storm that was summoned upon quickly, tickling spray of water wetting her skin and dampening her intensely arranged hair, pearls of salt distilling slightly her eyes, keeping her focused and centralised, in regards to her having slept horribly the past night, being awake and walking the first half. Astonishingly, she didn't think about the wedding to be held contiguous, at least till her husband-to-be creeped behind her, calculating if he was to go to her and wrap a solitary arm around her waist or if he would lose such, for her life had been lived half wild and half civilised. None could predict which set a profounder standard. Naught was on her mind, except a ship, having nothing to do with this small, stained and miserable nutshell, wreckage of a boat and blemishing blot she now stood on and probably would die considering the storm hinted on by that awful greying clouds and flaring wind, whipping the unfixed hair behind her shoulders.

As you might have guessed, it glowed blue in the night and its captain and crew had a questionable view on how to proceed with punishment and a lusting taste for drawn blood and sore distress.

Eventually resolved and decisive, he sneaked on to her, the groom eager for conversation and a glimpsing indentation of his wife, he assumed to claim for no one else wanted her, convinced of God and his abilities to purge her, thoroughly presenting himself in every aspect of life tangible, assembling his entire story in short phrases, and a cunningly polite smile, while she watched him motionless, face pressed firmly into an impenetrable mask concealing whatever crossed her mind.

He seemed indeed deliberate in every angle, and very willing for marriage, while she thought to vomit by its mere mentioning still. His representation expanded unlikeable into length and width, so she nearly couldn't contain herself to hit him on his ever-talking mouth, annoyingly loudly and detailed, curling confidently.

Every cell in her body screamed at her to jump off of that boat to let the Black Sea do the rest. Or better push him off the edge, so he could tell the fish of his tragically pedestrian life.

Yet she didn't, for that would only stand for another sign of self-treason to a decision made and exacted when she vowed to not run away, even if she managed to make it look like a fooling accident, she knew the verity and it would devour her. When he'd done with his drearily bland tales of the same taste of slightly-burnt bread crust, little flavoured and pungently inedible, she'd remark how surprisingly well he poised the ability to open in front of strangers, unfamiliar to self-preserving secrecy.

He blushed at the compliment – if this really was one or only an observation of his pesky being, bearable only with effort and secluded attitude.

Still, the girl should watch out for those wishes of hers, as they only could be so easily granted. If she desired to be gulped lively by the sea, it could be granted.

In the afternoon, it seemed now those very big cuddly clouds had swollen to the size of entire metropoles, well interlaced as such, covering the entire sky and not letting one corner be visible, dark-grey cords strutted and flocked in between almost seeming like connecting routes.

The whole above painted in fifty shades of grey and more mimicked and mirrored by the abysm to their feet with the chance of lightning striking the horizon anytime now.

They immediately ran into the storm, fully into, head first, engulfed and shrouded between blankets of feasible electric tension, cuttable with a knife.

The villagers managed to be caught up in a storm in the middle of the Black Sea, by a percentage of nearly ten percent success of ever doing so, yet they didn't yell at those clouds of being horribly unpredictable, didn't curse or indulge in profanities.

They yelled to each other they might not survive and goodbyes should better be said. A thing that might be appreciated of this folk consisting of lout bandits.

The shy bride and groom sat at the furthest bench, down at the bow deep in discussion, attempting stubbornly to blend out the chaos roaring around them and claiming attendance, attention and if not that, then their lives. A huge wave as high as an erected palace wall collided with the left side of the boat and it dangerously began to tilt, the process commenced to tip over, more and more engulfed in water and threatened to sink by liquid cascading in, the loads of buckets, yells of dismay followed. The couple shrank back in shrieks as water streamed and flooded the boat, shoved roughly to the right towing the boat only farther under. The hiss from the rupturing main sail was like a chilling wake up call, awakening to reality, yet collectively pronouncing the end of their story, as the girl blinked, freed of her dim trance.

She had the grasp of an idea. Instinctively, she clasped her fingers crudely of her groom's wrist, dragging him to the left, where the ocean lingered like a growling animal sure of victory, both colliding with the wall of the boat violently, balancing it back to ground equal, gone the imminent menace of these waves overthrowing. But they had only won so little of the battle, when the sea was rather a patient, cruel opponent, certain to garner the war, even if a battle among numerous was lost. The nutshell was but a grain of salt in between the giants of torrenting currents and crescent of waves, greedy tentacles hungry always for more, whipping and slashing around, unceasingly and absolutely in howling vain, a growing nuisance of contained lightning above and thunder eagerly moaning her ears almost curved the other way around, painstakingly and terribly smarting.

Nature was far from being done with them.