Welcome back. I love you, I've been procrastinating writing this chapter. I've had most of it written since this time last year. Let me know what you think, of me, of the chapter, of what will happen next.
I promise you, things will end up okay.
May you remember in moments of turmoil that there is no such thing as an eternal state. The seas move; mountains rise and fall. Our universe will end and begin again. Nothing is forever, not even pain.
Move forward and strike first. End the times you feel have no right to exist.
Peace, love. Safety. Restful sleep and the knowledge of renewal.
***
The morning brought with it rough waters stiffened by a breeze so brisk it was difficult to stand on deck without your body being pushed.
We were being pushed. It was all that mattered. I disentangled myself from a sleeping Captain (could I ever disentangle myself from this man? His soul, his very being lay so central to my very existence I was not sure that he was not the wind in our sails and I merely the direction, he the force and I, I the impetus, we together something so much more frightening and powerful than our two frightening or powerful bodies separate could ever be) and headed down to the galley.
Cookie frowned at me as I entered the kitchen. "Heavy handed," he chastised me, but it was what I needed to be and we were going where we needed to go and so I ignored him as I measured out ingredients for the morning porridge.
The men straggled in, looking exhausted from battling the storm all night. Some took little notice of who fed them their breakfast; it was simply another morning, and they had not yet blinked the sleep and crusted sea from their eyes. Others, perhaps more observant or simply more cautious were hesitant as they handed me their bowls, eyes hard on my fresh and vibrating form.
Natch came in late. His clothes were damp; he must not have changed from the night before, and so still wore the proof of the nights storm. When he saw me standing in the kitchen, just about to leave with my own food, he froze.
I ladeled a second bowl and made my way over to him. "Natch." I pressed the warm porridge into his hand, smelling the way it made the space between us sharpen with ginger.
He stared up at me, eyes bleary and searching. I saw him trying to make decisions, draw conclusions, but watched as he lost thread after thread in his exhaustion. I took his shoulder and lead him over to the table.
"I sweetened your porridge already." Natch liked his breakfast so sugared your teeth hurt. He nodded his understanding as he sat down, but the knowledge of
food
did not seem to make it past his brain to his body and so he sat, still and weary, staring down at the bowl on the table before him.
"Natch," Thron prodded. The boy looked up. "Eat your breakfast."
"Aye," he agreed, and picked up his spoon. I watched him eat in routine silence for a moment before turning to my own fare.
There was no chatter that morning at breakfast. The men who had been on shift during the night were too wearing for talk, and the ones who had not were too conscious of the exhaustion in the air to try to craft anything from the energy they held so dearly in their chests. It was a morning to remember how precious sleep was, how unpredictable the ocean could be. I, unpredictable and well rested, took my breakfast in silence and was happy for it.
But silence never lasts. "Ghost," Natch finally said. I turned to look at him. "What the fuck was that last night?"
I slowly put down my spoon. Natch's edges were blurring with the ways he forgot to concentrate on his form, curling tendrils of frustration and exhaustion and confusion reaching out and pulling back as if they did not quite know what to do with themselves. "You nearly killed Eventon."
I did not know Eventon. If I had, my answer would have been the same. "Then he should be a better sailor."
Sharper tendrils at that. Natch pulled back, eyes narrowing. "Ghost."
I shrugged and went back to my porridge. I had asked many men to sail through much rougher waters.
Across the table, the Russian was watching us with interest. "He is mad about the storm?"
I shrugged again as Natch stared me down.
The Russian's eyes narrowed. "But it was a small storm." Natch's body turned to him, perhaps surprised by the nonchalance of his words, perhaps by the comfort he felt in sharing them. "We have sailed through much worse,
da
?"
I did not often note the state of the sea past the way it sat in my chest and made me feel like I wanted to rip whole ships apart with my bare hands. The Russian knew this and turned to Natch. "You have sailed through worse than that if you are a sailor long."
The strange grammar did not seem to hurt Natch's comprehension. "Yeah," he agreed. "But we didn't have to."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Thron asked. He was watching both the Russian and I carefully in a way that did not conflate us for the first time in years. I wondered if he perhaps, with his view of the Russian, could see me more clearly than most other land boys. "It's not like he can control the tides."
Apparently not. I put my spoon down and turned to Natch, knowing what was coming.
"Aye," he said. "He fuckin' can, and he still makes us sail through that shit."
"What," I asked him, ignoring the way Thron's eyes went wide, how he glanced at his lover with a sharpness that looked too much like fear, "would you have me do? Call a perfect wind every day? A smooth ocean?"
"Yes," Natch said. His eyes were tired and his body nearly limp.
"Blue skies every day? Easy work?"
"I mean." Natch spared a glance across the table at Thron, who was still looking at the Russian, who was looking back at Natch with an expression of amusement that did little to reassure the small blonde. "Yeah?"
"If that is what you wish," I told him as I stood and gathered up my bowls, "then perhaps you should reconsider if you truly wish to be at sea."
The Russian's hearty laughter followed me as I walked away.
