The Foresaker

Sios leans against the weathered cabin wall, his thin frame barely casting a shadow in the harsh sunlight. The oxygen tank at his side hisses with each labored breath, its dented metal surface a testament to years of hard use. His gas mask, a complex array of filters and tubes, covers most of his face - leaving only his tired eyes visible through scratched plexiglass. The mask's straps dig into his pallid skin, creating deep grooves in his hollow cheeks.

"You're certain I don't need to pay?" Sios's voice comes out muffled through the respirator. "There must be something you want in return. No one just... helps people these days."

The girl stands at the helm, her white hair catching the light. Her oversized black shirt billows in the salt breeze as she keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon.

"Money has no value to me," she says, her voice flat and distant.

Sios's fingers trace the edge of his mask, adjusting a loose seal. "Then what do you gain?"

"I have my reasons." 

Sios nods, sensing that he's treading on delicate ground.

"Well then, I appreciate your generosity, Captain. It's a rare thing in this world."

Sios shifts his weight, metal creaking beneath his feet. His hands tremble as he adjusts the oxygen flow on his tank.

"There is... one more thing I need to ask. I've been searching for someone. The Prophet. She appeared during the darkest days of the Null War. My grandfather served in the Republic's army. He passed down stories of a woman who could heal with just a touch."

The girl traces the grooves in the ship's wheel, but she remains silent.

"They say she emerged from one of the Republic's secret facilities. A living miracle in the midst of all that bloodshed. The soldiers called her their guardian angel. She'd walk through battlefields, bringing the dying back from the brink."

The old man's breathing grows heavy, forcing him to take several deep pulls from his tank before continuing. "My great grandfather said her hands would glow with a soft light, and wounds would close like magic."

A wave crashes against the hull, spraying toxic mist that dissipates against the ship's protective barriers.

"Course, the brass tried to keep her existence quiet. Didn't want the Hval Federation finding out about their secret weapon. But word spread through whispers and prayers."

He turns his masked face toward the girl. "That's why I'm searching. My lungs... well, they won't last much longer. The Prophet might be my only chance."

The girl maintains her silence, her pale fingers flexing on the wheel.

"I hear rumors that she appears in port towns, helping those in need. That's why I keep moving. Why I need to reach the next harbor. She has to be out there somewhere."

The oxygen tank hisses as Sios takes a deeper breath. "Have you seen her? Heard anything about where she might be?"

The girl taps against the wheel, a sharp rhythm that cuts through the silence. "The Prophet doesn't exist."

The words hang in the air, cold and final. The ship's metal hull creaks beneath them as they cut through another wave.

"But my great grandfather-" Sios straightens against the wall, his oxygen tank scraping metal.

"Your grandfather saw what he wanted to see. War does things to people's minds." The girl turns her head just enough for one ice-blue eye to fix on him. "Give up. You're chasing a ghost across poisoned waters."

Sios slumps against the wall, his tank rattling against the metal surface. "Maybe you're right. All these years…” He trails off, the words dissolving into a fit of coughing.

When he recovers, Sios stares at the waves beyond the ship's barriers. "Tell me something, Captain. Did you know from the moment I stepped aboard?"

"Your tank has less than six hours of oxygen left. The journey takes twelve."

"So you knew when you let me board." Sios's laugh turns into a cough that shakes his frail frame. "Most captains would've turned me away. Bad for business, having passengers die mid-voyage."

"Death doesn't concern me."

Sios slumps further against the wall. "I used to tell my son stories about the Prophet. Filled his head with tales of her miracles."

"He believed you." The girl’s words aren't a question.

"At first. Helped me search every port, every rumor." 

"Until he stopped believing."

"No. Until he realized I cared more about finding her than I did about spending what time I had left with him." The words catch in Sios's throat. "One morning I woke up and found a note. Said he couldn't watch me waste away chasing something that doesn't exist."

"I had years with him. Years I could have..." Sios's voice breaks. "Instead, I made him watch his father become obsessed with a ghost."

"And now you're still chasing that ghost."

"Because it's easier than facing what I've done." Sios pulls off his mask, revealing cracked lips and sunken cheeks.

"Put your mask back on."

"What's the point?" Sios lets the mask dangle from his fingers.

The girl’s hand shoots out, snatching the mask and pressing it back against Sios's face. "Your death won't fix your mistakes."

"No." Sios secures the straps with trembling fingers. "But maybe finding the Prophet would give me a chance to make things right. To be the father I should have been."

"The Prophet won't give you back those years."

"I know." Sios's voice comes out muffled and thick. "But she might give me enough time to tell my son I'm sorry."

Sios reaches into his tattered coat, movements slow and deliberate. His fingers curl around something, and he withdraws a small leather-bound book. The cover is worn smooth, its edges frayed from countless hours of handling.

"Take it." He holds out the book toward the girl. "Please."

The girl’s eyes flick from the wheel to the offered book. Her lips press into a thin line, but she reaches out with one pale hand and takes it.

The leather feels soft against her fingers as she opens it. Pages flutter - filled with cramped handwriting, annotations crowding the margins. Diagrams and symbols pepper the text, locations circled and crossed out. Each page chronicles Sios's desperate search, his notes on the Prophet's supposed teachings scrawled in increasingly unsteady script.

Between two pages, a flash of red catches her eye. A spider lily, pressed flat and preserved, its delicate petals still vibrant against the yellowed paper. The flower seems out of place among the fevered writings, a moment of beauty trapped within obsession.

"I know it's selfish to ask more of you, Captain. But if you ever meet my son... Show him this flower. He'll remember."

"Your son could be anywhere." The girl’s fingers hover over the red petals.

"I know. But I need him to know I kept it. That I remembered."

The girl closes the book with a sharp snap. Without a word, she stuffs it into her oversized pocket, the leather disappearing into black fabric.

Sios smiles as slumps against the wall. "Even if you never find him... thank you for listening to an old fool's last request."

Sios's breathing grows more labored, each inhale a painful rasp through his mask. The oxygen gauge needle hovers just above empty, trembling with each pull from his failing lungs.

"One last thing, if you'll humor a dying man. Your name, Captain. What is it?"

For a moment, only the hiss of Sios's respirator breaks the silence.

"Shiro," she says, the word carried away by the salt breeze.

"Shiro," Sios repeats, the name barely a whisper through his mask. His eyes close, and his chest rises one final time before falling still. The oxygen tank gives a last weak hiss, then silence.