Blood of yesterday

In present's veins it flows deep

Sea roars, sky thunders  

Murasakibara Atsushi peers down at him with slight scorn on his face. The behemoth is not pleased that Seijuro did not allow him to accompany him to the woods of execution. As the captain of his anointed highguards, Murasakibara is meant to be with the Crown Prince at all times.

Seijuro had to make sure, though. With Midorima, he can somehow show a hint of his vulnerability, but with his guard, he cannot find it in himself to fully trust him. The giant man is not as bloodthirsty as the king. He is, however, quite eerie in how he easily snatches life.

Through the years, Seijuro has seen the smallest indications of fear and guilt in someone before and after they slaughter a human being. No matter how minuscule it is, it's always there without fail. Even his Tetsuya has shown regret. With Murasakibara, though, it seems such feelings do not exist. In fact, he looks rather drowsy.

All of these reasons are petty, and he would agree if someone told him so. Regardless, he would rather accept them than admit to himself the true reason for his reluctance to fully trust Murasakibara. His father, Murasakibara Akira, was one of the guards who had hunted his mother and held her down as a sword sliced off her neck.

His guard had been a boy of fifteen at the time. None of it is Murasakibara's fault, Seijuro knows, but it does not help that he is the spitting image of Akira. Both are monstrous in stature, with broad shoulders and long, protruding noses.

"If something were to happen to His Highness, I would be blamed." Murasakibara has a queer way of talking. He drawls out each word, as though he couldn't care less if he were heard or understood. His eyes are always sleepy, and even if he slept a whole day, it would not be enough.

Why would he care, given his physique? Only poison could take him out, and even that is not a sure way to keep him from breathing. Every highguard, much like the heirs or the spares, is trained to sip poison each day during the first week of each new month. In doing so, their bodies become familiar with every type of poison.

One day, Murasakibara gulped one bottle and lost consciousness, only to wake up an hour later as if nothing had happened. If he had not witnessed it himself, Seijuro would not have believed it.

"I had other guards with me. Midorima had also come with his protectors, so there was no need for you to be there. " Seijuro waves his hand, showing how tired he is. Of course, that is a lie. He will not be taking a nap today. The images of the slain slaves of yesternight will never be erased.

Murasakibara grumbles. "Still, I should have been there. What if a slave managed to free himself and inflicted harm on you? And may I ask, why did it take you so long to return here? "

His distrust of the behemoth has almost slipped out of his mind. This always happens whenever Murasakibara opens that mouth of his. He does sound like a whiny child, which would be endearing if not for his height.

"I did not think someone with no eyes and no tongue could do that much harm against hundreds of guards." But the girl who had stared at him... her eye sockets were empty. All that was left was a dark hollow. And yet she blinked as if she knew he was there. As if she could taste his fear.

"As long as a person is standing up and has their hands, they are dangerous. Remember that, Your Highness," Murasakibara says, his usual sleepy demeanour replaced by a steely gaze that reminds Seijuro of soldiers returning from war.

"I am well aware." He sternly nods. "Do I have any appointments?"

"I'm not your steward, am your highguard." When Seijuro does not deny nor confirm it, Murasakibara heaves a sigh. "The king's whisperer awaits your presence in the throne room."

He fights the urge to blink. "The throne room? What of it? "

"Would that I knew. He did not say a word. He simply announced to everyone who had passed him that he had requested you. So much so for a "whisperer". If you would allow me to come with you..."

"Of course, now that I am back in the Palace, your place is to be in a corner where no one can see you. I do not want the whisperer to think that I am intimidating him. "

"That would be no problem."

It is quite amusing how Murasakibara hides. As long as there are pillars, edifices, or anything taller than him, he can be as quiet as a mouse. Unlike Tetsuya, he cannot blend into the shadows, though.

It is almost amusing how he compares Tetsuya to everyone.

👑

Smoke coming from the burning incense cloaks the throne room. Its heavy scent permeates the air, clogging his nose and lungs. As the whisperer once mentioned, it is one of his methods for repelling the evil spirits that wander the Palace. Seijuro cannot help but believe it is a silent message from Harasawa that he has yet to accept him as the true heir.

It is no secret how loyal Harasawa was to the firstborn, Ichiro. His cries had echoed throughout the Palace the moment the physicians had confirmed the first prince's demise. When the young Seijuro showed himself to pay respect to his late brother, anger and sadness etched the whisperer's face.

The banners of the Red Lion Kingdom rustle as he approaches the throne. It is as if the shining stones could feel his presence, or is it just the wind again, somehow always following him wherever he goes? These days, however, it is fading, as if something or someone has taken a big part of it.

Behind the throne is a humongous sculpture of their first king, Akashi Masashi. His family name, whilst pronounced similarly to the current Akashi, is written quite differently. His has fewer strokes and is easier to write and remember. Akashi, back then, meant "clear-cut stone."

Which is why his sculpture is translucent. His eyes are blank, and yet they look wise. There are deep lines on either side of his mouth. He wields the legendary sword that slew the now-extinct lions that once terrorised the north. It is said that the last red lion his great ancestor killed was a king, the one who had fallen in love with a white crow.

That supposed red lion king is lying dead at his feet.

The first king is staring at Seijuro with intensity, his gaze burning holes in the current prince's neck.

"A great day to you...Crown Prince," Harasawa greets him from behind. On his head is a crown of golden bells that extends down to the ground. The bells jingle as he moves through the room.

Seijuro is sure that the late attempt at addressing him as the Crown Prince was done on purpose. Surprisingly and fortunately, this kind of treatment is slowly losing its effect on him. One of the reasons could be that his Eye will soon give him military power.

He takes his time as he swivels on his heels, facing the whisperer. It is truly a challenge to estimate Harasawa's age. He neither looks young nor old. Nobody is sure how long he has been here. What Seijuro knows, however, is that he has to be careful around him. After all, the king's whisperer commands a portion of the military.

"A splendid day to you as well," he says, noting how Harasawa's skin is covered once more, save for his head. His hair, which falls in curls over his forehead and drapes low over his back, is a lighter hue than when Seijuro was younger but still a brilliant shade of ebony. They match his eyes, which are black, deep, and unblinking. His robe is muted marigold, trimmed with dark red fur. The gloves have intricate shapes and symbols from the lost language of the Lost Mothers. Seijuro won't be surprised if the whisperer uses the speculation that he is older than the kingdom to his advantage.

To ease the building tension inside him, he subtly, once more, digs his fingers into his palm. It is quick. Just one pump. He hopes Harasawa does not notice a thing.

"You must be wondering why I have summoned you here." Harasawa's thin lips curve into a thin smile.

"And if it had been me who did so, what would you have called it?" he asks, letting the question hang in the air. It must have taken the whisperer aback as he tries to open his mouth. Before he can fire an answer, Seijuro lets out a soft, velvety laugh. "Forgive my jest, Harasawa. You must understand. I am still trying to find my sense of humour. Do ignore my attempt, you may."

"Pray give me a few moments to digest what you have uttered, Your Highness." Harasawa gives a chuckle that tells him nothing. The laugh is empty, as though it comes from a deep well that has been abandoned for many years.

Seijuro nods. "Perhaps we had best take a seat. I would love to sit there," he says, eyeing the throne, before laughing again. "But I know my place." I hope you do too, he adds, silently, for the need to say it outwardly is not needed.

When they are seated across from one another, with a long table between them, the confidence he has been fabricating since he stepped in here slowly erodes. There is no wonder why many who lead choose to stand, but as they say, a king must always be seated and let everyone else fight for him.

"I might have behested a delightful meal for the two of us if your king father had allowed it," Harasawa says.

Instead of turning the subject to the whisperer, he asks, "Has he returned from the woods?"

The man's glabella wrinkles, and then it is smooth again. "I could scarcely believe it when I heard that many slaves had managed to run away. It is no wonder why the king had to run after them himself."

Seijuro forces his expression to stay neutral. Harasawa is, evidently, doing the same. The only question is, who will prevail?

"Had you thought to question the guards who were guarding them?" If he keeps this tactic, neither of them will win, so he is now changing it.

"Your Highness, I am the whisperer, an advisor to your king father. I do not know everything, 'less I am told."

"I suppose you'd best begin knowing more. After all, you hold four thousand of our men, do you not?" He pauses. "Another jest. Forgive me if you must. Now then, let's put a stop to this dilly-dally, shall we? What do you have to tell me?"

Harasawa's eyes grow wider for a second. They are quite blank again as he answers. "You honour me with your enthusiasm, Crown Prince." This time, a huge smile plasters his face. "It is my pleasure to tell you that a new report about the reason for your late brother's demise has arisen."

Seijuro's pulse quickens as his throat tightens. If he were not guarding his expression, he might have vomited right there. The glint in the eyes of the whisperer reminds him of the wildcats he once saw in the mountains.

"You will tell me everything, I trust?" Inwardly, he praises himself for maintaining the calmness in his voice.

"Oh, definitely. I envy you, quite frankly. I once had a brother too. He was taken away from me before I could even enter the Palace. Never once have I ever found out if he had been taken ill or had been murdered." It is silent, but it is there. The "murder" is quite harsh; it sears.

"My sympathy." That's all he can say. If he says more, his voice might crumble.

Harasawa grows silent. This won't work, for Seijuro has mastered the art of silence. "I must warn you, Your Highness. The report is quite morbid, even for me, who has witnessed many corpses." Has he lost his wit? Did he truly say that in front of the person who witnessed the death of his mother? Even for the whisperer, this is too far.

"I intend no offence, but I think I have enough experience."

"I understand. This person said the antler that impaled your brother was laced with poison from an unknown plant. It closed his throat and shattered his heart. He choked on his own blood...In other words, he could have been saved, but it's the poison that ultimately took him from us."

Harasawa will keep his silence again, so before that can happen, Seijuro, without missing a beat, says, "Who is this person that told you so? It would not do if this certain person were not named, would it? Otherwise, how and why should I believe you?"

The whisperer's index finger jerks. Quick. It was so quick that anyone would have missed it. But Seijuro is not "anyone".

"Two of them. If you wanted to meet them, you had only to say the word, and I would bring them to you."

"How about you bring them forth to the court and let the king hear them?" Do you take me for a fool? If I must be a fool, then I shall be, he thinks.

The whisperer takes a deep breath, something Seijuro has never heard before. His age may not be shown on his skin, but the way he breathes resonates with the old masters'. He ought never to have lived. Seijuro should have asked Tetsuya to put him to sleep forever. Alas, the risk was too much for him to bear.

"I would rather the king not hear about this for the moment." Harasawa's back slouches.

"I fear that is not possible."

"Tis truly the best option, believe me, my Crown Prince."

"You would not, perchance, be conducting an expulsion?"

For the first time, Harasawa looks lost. "In the name of the Red Lion King, Akashi Masaomi, I swear to the Six Gods that I will not do what you have said, Your Highness. I simply wanted to make sure that the report was not... false."

"Pray tell me then why you have shown such delight when you spoke about my brother's death! How dare you remind me of that day? For the love you bore for this kingdom, you must let your tongue tell the truth now." His jaw falls, unable to believe it himself, he has let his emotions control him. And yet, somehow, his tone has been calm.

Ichiro was indeed a monster that best be left dead. Nonetheless, he was still his brother. His love for him may not be as great as what he has for their mother, but it is love. And with love comes pain.

The seconds stretch into a minute. Harasawa stares at him with wide eyes, beads of sweat dripping from his eyebrows. "I take it that I am now speaking to the other you, am I not?"

Confusion floods Seijuro's mind, and yet, somehow, what the whisperer has said is slowly making sense. His left eye is burning, or at least, that is what it feels like. No reason at all. Other than...

"By what right do you dare say that? What a jape do you take me for?"

Harasawa's head droops between his shoulders, his lips quivering. "Your Highness...I knew something was not right with you. How could you have already forgotten your confession to me?"

Seijuro tilts his head, ignoring the pounding in his left eye. "What confession?"

"I had no great liking for you, that is the truth. But my loyalty is to the descendants of the first king of the Akashi. Your cousins do not count, so I must protect you even if it pains me."

"Harasawa, it would do you good to say what you have for me."

The whisperer's veins throb and his gaze is stern, but it pales in comparison to Seijuro's. Finally, his face softens, as though he is grieving for someone who has recently left the living world. "I have no life of my own but my tie to the Akashi clan," Harasawa says. "You are going to be a great king. I can see it now. So if the other you can assure that, I will help you, as I must."

As if a bucket of cold water has splashed him, the burning in his left eye stops. Seijuro does not comprehend what has happened, but he finds himself curling and uncurling his fingers. He wishes to say something, to ask if Harasawa has seen a queer sight, and yet he is suddenly too afraid to get an answer.

🐉

You are not the prince, Taiga is. He is the promised king of our land. He is the descendant of the god of fire. The blood of the sun flows in his veins.

Daiki doesn't understand why he is remembering his uncle's words when he and his men are battling the sea's large waves.

He rejects the answer that has been chiming in his head: he refuses to die without taking down the two most despicable people he knows.

So, with anger in his heart, he grips the wheel tightly, as though he is not controlling the ship but the wind itself. Damn that wind that's come from nowhere! Alas, nature is unpredictable, and no matter how skilled one can be, one flick and all of it will be gone.

The Golden Blue lurches violently, the wind howling through the rigging. Water crashes over the decks, threatening to drag the crew into the sea. Daiki's hands grip the wheel tighter, trying to steer them through the waves. "Damn this cursed sea!" he roars. "You'll not take us today!"

She shudders as another wave slams into her side. "Reef the sails!" Daiki yells, his voice barely audible over the gale. The order is crucial. By reducing the amount of sail exposed to the wind, the ship can avoid capsizing. Pirates, aware of the perils of being overrun by the wind, often retract the larger sails in a storm, leaving only enough to maintain control.

Up in the rigging, Abo and the other riggers scramble to haul in the heavy canvas. "Reef it good, lads!" one of them shouts. "Tie her down tight, or we'll be fishbait!" They work quickly, their fingers struggling to grasp the wet, slippery ropes as they secure the sails to the yardarms. Every gust threatens to tear the sails free, and the lines strain under the force of the wind.

Below, the hawser dangles uselessly. Abo, clinging to the railing, looks up just in time to catch Daiki glaring daggers at him. "Get that hawser secured!" Daiki barks, pointing to the loose coil whipping dangerously across the deck. If the hawser gets tangled or swept overboard, it could drag the ship down with it.

With a nod, Abo moves slowly, step by step, to gather the heavy rope, the slippery deck making every movement treacherous. He motions to the other crew, and they rush to help secure the hawser, tying it tightly to the belaying pins.

Meanwhile, the deck groans under the weight of the pounding waves. The crew struggles to keep their footing, gripping the rails and lines for dear life. "Batten down the hatches!" Daiki shouts, his voice hoarse from the salt spray. The crew scrambles to close the hatches and cover them with tarps, securing them with heavy ropes to prevent them from being ripped open.

Another wave crashes into the side of the ship, sending the Golden Blue tilting sharply to port. "Damn you all to hell!" Daiki curses, spinning the wheel, his hands slick with blood from the ragged wood. He fights to keep the ship upright, his entire body straining against the elements.

A deep, primal fear grips the crew, but pirates are no strangers to death. "Hold fast, you dogs!" Daiki snarls as the ship bucks beneath them. "You die when I say so, not before!"

From the corner of his eye, he notices Lawa gripping a line whilst he muffles the scream that is clearly trying to escape.

Something below has nudged Golden Blue upward. She heels over, and Daiki has almost slid off the wet perch. His men are roaring behind him. Although they know what to do, terror is gradually taking control of them.

The noise is overwhelming, a jumble of voices and clashing metal that he can't hear over the sounds of engines starting up or men barking directions.

Maro wraps his fingers around a section of ratline. One step at a time, he climbs higher to the lookout post. Even for a second, Daiki sees his mentor's desperation. He releases a heavy breath as Maro finally secures himself.

Daiki is completely soaked now, and his vision is becoming increasingly blurry. Not letting go of the wheel, he quickly wipes his face on the edge of his shoulder.

Daiki steals a glance at the deck, and to his relief, no one has been washed away.

Yet.

Their lives are in his hands, and no matter how conscious he is that not all of them are devoted to him, this is not the day he will willingly hand them over to the sea. Anyone can be a kaptan. Not everyone can be as good as him.

When he blinks, the image of the dancer suddenly crosses his mind. Tetsu is not a sailor. How is he faring?

🌑

Seawater slowly fills the galley. One minute, Pon was warning them, and then a big wave slapped them. The pots, utensils, and chicken they were supposed to stew are now floating around them.

"If the sea don't gut us, these knives will! Best we get to the hold 'fore we're skewered like today's catch." Ama paddles with precision, his other hand grasping Tetsuya's elbow. Somehow, he is a little boy again, being held by his father.

"You seem rather calm about this," he says, more to distract himself from the panic that is rising within him along with the water.

The old man snickers. "Ay, you get used to it. But I would like it if this never happened again. Quick now, before another huge wave comes here. I'm really worried about those knives."

"I agree! Let's hurry," Pon exclaims.

🐉

An icy blast of wind bursts through him, fully drenching his clothes and flesh. Daiki takes a deep breath and braces himself. He doesn't understand where it came from when the day was clear only minutes before. If he were Maro, he would have thought a god took no liking to him and was punishing him.

Daiki fights the wheel, his arms trembling with the strain. "Strike the topmast!" he bellows. "She's too tall in this storm!"

He tightens his grasp on the steering wheel, the skin of his hand chafing. The masts seem to be pressing close around him, creaking and groaning like tortured spirits. The sea roars, surging in the wind, and the sky is black, as if the sun fled in terror, leaving behind an impenetrable darkness.

Abo, already in the rigging, nods grimly and motions to the other riggers. "You heard the kap'n! Get that topmast down!" he shouts. The crew scrambles to lower the mast, working swiftly despite the wind threatening to blow them off their feet. They know how to improvise, using axes and knives if necessary to cut ropes and bring the mast down quickly.

Another wave crashes over the side, and Daiki curses as seawater stings his eyes. His boots slide on the slick deck, but he keeps his footing through sheer determination. "Tie!" he yells, and the crew immediately tie themselves.

"To hell with you. I'm not going to die today," he growls. He plants his feet on the planks. They're slicked with water, but he manages to stay uprooted. A man who knows he will only die once might as well extend his life as much as he can.

"Kaptan!" Maro exclaims from the crow's nest, staring through a spyglass with his one good eye. "We've got a break in the storm! Starboard!"

Daiki grits his teeth and spins the wheel, steering the ship toward the calmer waters. "Come on, lady. Don't fail us now," he mutters, willing the Golden Blue to hold together for just a little longer.

Just as he veers her wheel towards their sanctuary, the sky erupts. Forks of lightning, bright as molten silver, tear across the inky firmament. They slash the heavens like the talons of some gargantuan beast, each strike illuminating the world in stark, horrifying clarity.

And behind him is Maro, shouting as he dangles from the ledge.

🌑

"Is everyone here?" Ama scans them, his breath coming in quick paces. Tetsuya cannot help but worry when he, along with everyone else, needs help as well.

If the storm does not kill them, the extreme cold will. The air grows thinner every minute; the waves crash louder; it demands to be let in. This is nothing like the cold in the north. This one is cruel and unforgiving.

"Aside from the Kaptan and the riggers, and everyone else, Maro isn't here with us," Small Hands says. "Best we pray he ain't been swept overboard." He shoves another barrel into place with Lawa's help, their movements strained and slow.

Tetsuya's gaze lingers on the ropes. Should they survive this ordeal, he vows to keep one. Its sturdy fibres might support his weight when the time comes.

Above them, they can hear the pumps groaning. The bilge pumpers are working overtime. Tetsuya can almost visualise them pushing the handles up and down to drain seawater that has already breached the ship. If the pumps fail, they'll all be swimming before long.

With a nameless pirate at his side, Tetsuya throws his weight against a crate, his muscles straining as they try to keep it from falling. He lets out a grunt as he pushes harder, but the ship bucks beneath them, its wooden bones groaning in protest.

Through sheer determination, he wedges the crate into a secure position. Around him, the rest of the crew wrestles with similar burdens, their faces etched with grim concentration.

"What was Maro thinking? He might have been one of the best sailors in his youth, but his bones are brittle now!" Pon shrieks as another wave strikes the hull.

"And what? Leave the Kaptan?" The hold is getting too dark for Tetsuya to detect who said that. He will need a minute to adjust to the darkness. That is, if his heart will stop hammering hard against his chest.

Wait. Considering he is a 'Kaptan' and that Maro's life may be in danger, he has to go up there. Not because he wants to save that frail old man. He has to make Aomine see that he, indeed, has a good heart. Anyway, is that not what the cursed prince desperately wants to believe him to be? He is putting himself in harm's way, but he cannot stay here. He should not wait until someone points out that he should be there.

"I will help them," he declares, elbowing his way towards the door.

"Stay, lad! It's much safer here!" Ama pulls him back, but he deflects his hand. Ama's concerned voice sends another affliction to him, so he plunges it down to his knees until it is beneath his feet.

Seeing that Ama has no more effect on him, he plasters a kind smile on his face, even though the eldest member cannot see it. "I am a Kaptan, remember? I don't even know why you have dragged me here. I might be a captive, but I have no plan on dying."

"Right then, off you go. I'll not wrestle with the storm," one of them says.

"The Devil only wants to help," Lawa counters.

"Then he's as good as dead!" another voice cries. "Go now, and may the gods have mercy! I was promised gold, not a watery grave!"

A sudden flare of anger boosts Tetsuya. "Cravens," he says so quietly, yet it shatters them. "Your Kaptan and your crewmates are fighting for everyone's life there on the deck, and you lot do nothing but wait for it all to end. The least you all can do is pray for them to succeed or be grateful for their efforts."

"But the Kaptan himself has instructed us to save ourselves," Pon says, sounding like a helpless child.

He opens his mouth to retaliate when Small Hands beats him to it. "Fuck off, Pon! The enemy is right. Only cravens hide and let their Kaptan do all the work!"

🐉

The ship's abrupt shift has almost knocked Daiki off the wheel. He is clutching the only thing that is saving them from going down into the sea, but he can't take his gaze away from Maro, who is still grasping for his life.

He must devote his complete attention to his task. However, that man up there is the only one who has stayed with him even after he became an exile. Maro is his father's sworn brother, and his devotion to his friend runs so deep that he abandoned the palace just for a person like him.

"Focus! Damn this hell!" he spits. "God, dammit! Someone help Maro!"

"We're trying, Kaptan, but this gale's too fierce! We're at the sea's cruel mercy!"

Daiki wants to smack that rigger... until what he has said rings true. He tries the wheel again, and this time, Golden Blue stops tossing from side to side. It then bounces back, unwilling to sink, even if she is wounded.

So be it. How could he lose his temper when she is fighting still?

Someone is running across the deck. Someone who is not meant to be here.

Tetsu is climbing towards Maro. The dancer is climbing the ratlines lashed to the shrouds.

Why, he doesn't understand. Has the dancer simply found it in his heart to help the person who has never shown him warmth?

Even as Daiki steadies the ship, he is in awe of how Tetsu moves with the wind. It is as if he were gliding with it. Whatever he is doing is not easy, as he has to pause for a few seconds before taking another climb again, but Tetsu presses on, undaunted. This is madness.

Seeing someone as small as Tetsu, a landlubber, who has no chance of winning against the monstrous waves, the fire burns hot inside Daiki. If that pampered dancer can do it, so can he. "Brace yourselves!"

The riggers obey, gripping ropes and the pin rails. They truly are at the sea's mercy. No use in fighting it now, as Tetsu has shown him. The only thing left for him to do is to let the ship sail through.

"Gods, have mercy," he prays quietly. And it is not just him. All of them, even those whom he had expected to huddle in the hold, are silent as they work to do everything they can to help Golden Blue. He did not expect that they would be out here. Deep inside, he is thankful. If they are going to die today, at least he can tell himself that he did not drown alone.

Rain lashes their faces, but determination burns in their eyes. No true pirate surrenders to the wind, their most fickle ally and deadliest foe. They could forgive a rival's blade, but the wind's betrayal cuts deeper than any steel.

Daiki holds his breath as another swell rises beneath them, mercifully smaller than its predecessor. He clenches his jaw, bracing for impact.

The Golden Blue soars, suspended in time, before crashing back into the roiling sea. A triumphant yell pierces the air, echoed by cheers from below. Daiki's grip tightens on the railing as he glances at the churning water racing past. The ship shudders to a halt.

Daiki ignores the pain as he looks up and sees that neither Maro nor Tetsu are in the crow's nest. His whole body goes cold, and it is not the water seeping through his skin and lungs.

Dismissing his violent coughs, his eyes quickly scan for those two. He should have confined him, threatened him, anything to keep him safe.

The thing is, Daiki cannot admit to himself which "him" he is thinking about.

"Hold tight, Maro!" His yarn of thoughts is cut off by Pon's shouting. Daiki sees that Tetsu is securing Maro's waist as he supports both of their weights by holding onto the railing.

They cannot go back to the hold now. If they let go...

As he turns his head back to the sea, the rain has quieted down and the wind is no longer howling but whispering, as it should be.

Not far from them, a part of the sky opens, sending a stream of light.

It's more than just a light. It is hope.