Ch. 1: Before The Bleeding

Today, we head towards the North Sea—captain’s orders. No explanation. No questions.

The wind sharpens with each mile. Every gust claws at us, howling through the sails like a wounded beast. The boards groan from neglect, and the ship herself—she croaks. She’s in pain.

The ship, her face gleaming beneath a thin coat of ice, each dawn drawing fresh tears down her weathered cheeks.

Above, the clouds part open like a breath held too long. Heaven spills light on the sea—a rare kindness, a mercy in a world so cruel. Around us, bearing a revolver and rusted cutlasses, the men lift their morale with beer and bloodied rags.

But none of us moves without him. None of us do.

Elsewhere, a door groans open—a summons.

His steps ring like hope through a horde of mice. With elegance untaught, the captain emerges, leaving his cabin to gaze upon his children.

He stops at the helm, eyes surveying the frozen horizon. Silence falls, even the robins above await his words.

"To the North we sail. To the edge of frost and flame. If you doubt it, drown it. I have no room for fear on this ship." 

The man grasped his words, nodded, and accepted the route. The roots for this sense of trust existed before their birth.

Observing the frozen deck, he commands, "The deck, clean it like it were a chapel—welcome the ice gods to her beauty." 

Then, a glance, brief, but it reaches them. One second, yet enough to enforce the weight of responsibility. Although he looks away, I stare, begging for recognition.

Above, the clouds break apart—the heavens pull my gaze away, as if hoping to divert my attention.  My eyes drift, but reach him—the only evidence of my existence—Silas, he looks pale. Distant. Melancholy.

I'm afraid. Afraid of this cruel world, crumbling on top of me. I want to breathe. My only protection: ignorance.

The truth is—we’re fragile. And the captain? He’s our spine.

We don’t know where we’re going. Maybe that’s projection. Maybe it’s fear. But we are scared.

The cosmos, they save me, wrap all around me, protect me. That's why I embrace their beauty. It's a mercy from this cruel world.

Then comes a man—he shatters my safety. I’m cornered.
It’s the chef.

I’m tucked beneath the upper deck stairs, hidden behind barrels, shielded. My feet sink into piles of mournful white snow. Arms wrapped tight to my chest, I try to preserve the heat still clinging to me. Moonlight spills across my skin, turning it ghost-pale, and the frozen air raises every hair along my arms.

Keeps them human.
A moral compromise.

With each step, his smile becomes more... eerie. Artificial.
Can someone truly find a heart in this heartless world?

His foot reaches the stairs, and he maintains a pose: One foot on the stairs, one on the ground.
His hands, rough and sharp, his existence lay dormant by his side.
He bends down.

"Cold out here, isn’t it? You should be in the galley—where it’s warm. Where you belong."

He pauses, still smiling.
"This ship’s no place for secrets. Or strays."

My mouth opens, but is silenced by another sentence.

"Shh... You look so lost, I have food, so much food, food for you—it's in your best interest to follow me."
Demands suitable for a dog.

I stare, questioning this man's judgment—his intentions. 
Now he's waiting for my response, still smiling.

He stands before my stars, this large, talkative man. My cosmos, eclipsed."
Seconds pass.

His patience is tested...
"Boy... do you hear me? Food. Warmth. Life—it's inside."
He stands up, but still smiling.

My mouth opens, but no words leave. I gulp—I retry—I whisper,
"I-I-I'm fine, thank you."

Disappointment—silence overtakes our conversation. He stops smiling.

In the distance, Silas appears, he appears: sick, pale; a whitish pale, and bruised; yellowish, and purple.
This pain—it's not scurvy.

The chef, Chef Bastian—if I remember correctly—let's that smile reappear. It's more real, though—his smile—it's colder, isn't it?

His white, grease-stained clothing wrinkles with unease. The wind pushes back his hair, his beard too—moonlight casting a veil around him. 
Anxiously, he walks: passionately, happily too—it's as if he were starving.

It wasn't a far distance, but in those moments, I held my breath—was it confusion?
His hand wrapped around Silas, like a son, him: the father.
Maybe... was I jealous?

They leave.
The silence swells, pressing in on me like the night itself.

I leave my safety—I've played dead for too long. There must be something wrong—something wrong with me. I take long, desperate steps: when the stars are gone, when everything goes wrong. Where will I go? Will I continue to play dead? 
Above, the clouds cry—a sorrow for the dead man.
I weep—
but nobody will notice.
Hidden behind the rain.
I'm so pathetic.
Save me.

Above, I look for a star
that will look back.
To look at a man so disappointing.
But the only thing I see...
...are weeping angels,
hidden behind the clouds of heaven.
The wind picks up.
Save me.

Silas—

Who is this man?
Am I alone?
Where am I?
Am I real?

Why do I yearn?
Why do I whisper...
...save me?

The light from the captain's window... 
...glistened across my tears.

I've never had a father, never a mother—not old enough to retain memories. 
I wonder what it feels like? A childhood.

The ship had a childhood—it used to sail smoothly.
The waters bisected—a command—enforcing effortless beauty.
So beautiful; she attracted filthy rats—rats that bit her.
Nested in her lungs,
ripped out her heart,
gnawed at her bones.

She's hurting.

She's sick.

She's rotting.  

They, the rats, accused her of being faulty without taking any accountability—
They mock her,
yet haven't contributed a thing.

Parasites.
Mocking a body they infest.

I think... maybe she's jealous.
Of her sisters.
The ones who still get affection.
Still get loved.

Moments pass, and I open my watery eyes.

I confidently say:
"My name is Calder. How are you?"
She responds:
She cries:
She breathes:
The ship cradles left to right, her pain—it's real.
The wind picks up.
Her bones shake,
her face numb,
her skin shivers—we stare.
Our hollow husks—masquerading in the rain—understanding,
acknowledging each other.

The sun breaks the horizon, and the weeping is disrupted.
Clear clouds,
open waters,
a pity lifted from my heart.

The hallways: empty, bare, except for the thrashing waves that created noise.
It comforts me. My stomach questions my comfort:
It's the third day without food.
We're starving—
the chef's been more open, more social; likely due to spare time. This lack of food makes us question: Where are we going? 
We skipped stops.

Our hunger makes us question: Are we even human anymore?
Like a compromise, unjust.

I look under my white shirt—it's rags—observing the lines. My autonomy. It's my ribs—barely visible—that makes me question if death ever caught me: would I decompose... into anything less than I am now?
The ship creaks.

I notice two brushes and two buckets—Silas must not be awake. 
I salvage my share: the dim, and only light of my youth.
One brush, one bucket.
I fill the bucket with water.

My routine begins. 

My routine ends. 

It's mechanical—my movements. It's uncertainty, I coat my movements with mental rum, it's an artificial pleasure, a narrative I need to create—my muscles ache, I flitch, I weep under my skin. I don't know if I can take it. I need to.
But why?
I have no meaning?
I have no need?
It's simply: How long until I break?

Each step back sends pain through me—my shoulder creaks, grinding against bone. But deeper than that, I feel it—something’s wrong.
Something I forgot.
A weight on my heart.
A strange guilt, pushing at my soul.

Then, I pass it—bucket and brush—unused. The upper deck, her beauty unpreserved, her face defiled by rats nesting on her skull. Silas—where are you? It’s been hours... I rush now, panicked by his sickness—I was supposed to protect him. Each step carries a melancholy melody, and my shirt ripples through the air.
I’m running.
Uneasy.

The wind bites sharper now, carrying whispers I don’t want to hear. 

The surgeon passes by—Dr. Alwin Graye. The deep shadows under his eyes remind me of my uselessness. But I question, a man so buried in his work, yet he won’t spare a glance for Silas—my brother, the only other trace of my birth. My words stumble out—barely more than growls, lost in breathless hunger. He doesn’t hear. I can’t afford his time—not while my vision blurs and my only fight is to keep Silas safe.

My ribs grind with each breath. Sweat slides down skin gone dry and flaking. I’m unraveling—flesh and soul, both. Each thought turns grim, each step heavier than the last.

Silas—

Was that man protecting you?
Were you ever safe?
Where are you now?
Are you still real?

Do you still see me?
Why didn’t you whisper back?
Why didn’t you say save me?
I would’ve listened. I would’ve— But I was blind.
I chose to be blind.
And now—
The silence is louder than any scream.
And still, I run.