Chapter 5:

Ch. 4: Crestfallen Icarus

Husk

The unnatural pinewood scent of a candle draws my eyes open.
Each lid parts through a blur—
each limb aches with yesterday’s weight.
My soul: burned, overworked.
And my sins remain—only as memory.

My arm brushes gently against my surroundings.
I’m sitting.
A soft fabric cradles me.
It’s a chair—but not the splintered bones I once hibernated in.
Something kinder.
This is soft tissue.
This is the fur of the beast.
It doesn’t bristle with hatred or anger.
It hums a quiet hymn of preservation.
Quiet. Warm. Understanding.

But it isn’t until the blur bursts—
a bubble snapped in silence—
that I truly see the room:
crimson-red, indulgent, alive.
A chamber carved from the skull of something divine.
Adorned with lavish paintings and treasure—
a furnished testimony for God.
Or perhaps the heart of a grave.

This place doesn’t ache like the world outside.
Gold threads wind through every corner,
gilding it like veins.
They shimmer—
not to impress,
but to welcome.
To understand me.
To keep me… in reserve.

It’s calm.
Too calm.
It doesn’t make sense.

I linger in golden thoughts
until the real questions rise:
Where am I?
Is this still the same cruel world?
Where is Silas?

My mouth tightens.
Saliva lies buried in a tasteless desert,
swished like sand through familiar currents.
And then—worse:
a flicker of realization.
I cannot taste.
No savor. No refuge.
Only quiet.
Only dark.

Maybe it’s buried in my sorrow,
in the mourning I carry.
But the truth is simpler:
I devoured the liberated sun.
Those crimson organs—his, its—
I consumed them.
Claimed them.
Took what he had.
I conquered.
I executed.
I protected—
for Silas.

But the triumph curdled,
rolling from my tongue like nightmare—
a memory scorched in grief.
Each taste bud blistered.
And suddenly—
I was left with nothing.

A reflex, maybe.
My mind cut it loose,
as if the memory alone
might set me ablaze.

Not Hell.
Not a grave.
Not torment.

This is Heaven, dressed in crimson fabric.
And I?
I wear it like nobility—
not like a pirate.

A pitiful grace.
A golden mercy.
My sanity flickers only in reassurance.

Because in the end,
I’ve only inherited dread.
So why does it feel so… generational?

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

A god rises—
from behind the great, gold-rimmed desk at the chamber’s heart.
The room—she—kneels.
Her wooden carcass dims the light around him,
sunlight fluttering across the windows.
My perception shifts.
I am no longer held by her.
I am consumed by him.
Captain Vexmoor.

Then—
a laugh.
Low. Warm.
So unmistakably fatherly,
it splits me wide open.
Heavenly.

It lingers, deliberate—
and then he speaks:
"You’ve finally woken up, Calder..."

My name.
It hangs in the air.
Foreign and familiar.
That strange sensation of acceptance.

Maybe...
Maybe I have a purpose.

His eyes meet mine.
He’s seated at the desk,
a fresh apple lying strangely untouched atop it.
He places both hands on the table.
His voice returns, soft as silk:
"The blood—
I’ve washed it off you.
Changed your clothes,
if you can call them that."

I look down.
Press my fingers to the unreal texture.
Dreamstuff.
Too clean.
Too soft.

His sympathy—
I don’t know if it’s for the weak
or the reborn.
It feels curated.
Like I’m being tamed.
Domesticated.

But it’s true—
so true—
that I need it.
Confirmation.
Communion.
Compassion.

I ask for it:
"A-Am I a monster, Captain…?"

A British raven shrieks—
sharp, holy—
then silence,
followed by a chuckle, quiet as prayer.

He rises from the desk.
Approaches slowly,
as if not to startle the beast.
My eyes—scavenger, vulture—
track his every movement.

He lifts one arm.
A smile forms—gentle,
but not like the Chef’s.

Now he’s in front of me.
Does he detest me?
Pity me?
But he only reaches.

His words fall like prophecy:
"You’re not a monster.
Though you’re not human."

My hand rises—instinct.
To know.
To believe.
To accept.

Our hands meet,
intending to lift me.
But his rites come first:

"You are the waves,
the blind feathers of a bird.
We follow, chained—
burdened by a sorrowful world."

As he lifts me,
papers rustle in the breeze.
An cream envelope flutters—
the window is open.

The air is warmer.
The fog, the rain—gone.

I meet his gaze.
He’s barely taller than me.

Then—he moves.
Two steps past.
Reaches for the door.
Pauses.

"Don’t regret what you’ve done.
You survived.
Your hunger—
your ambition—
it’s been fed.
It’s nurtured.

That’s what I like about you, Calder.
You did it all for your goal:
to find your brother."

He turns to study me—
his beard caught in the wind,
crimson robes buckled with golden crests,
finished by a great black coat.

"I've seen it, you reach for the cosmos every night,
for that midnight goddess.
But what you’re really searching for—
is it meaning?
Food?
Salvation?

You. Me.
We’re the same.
We chase that quixotic path.
Grow wings
that just might brush heaven."

He opens the door.
It creaks like heresy—
a wound torn in something divine.

I hesitate.
To leave this place is to risk regret.
Part of me wants to stay.

But the vision he paints…
it feels possible.
Distant, but mine.

My legs move without permission:
Step.
Step.

I follow.
Welcomed into the rat’s nest.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

I walk in his passionate shadow,
glancing once at the crimson chamber.
Then forward—
into judgment.
Into their ridicule.

But the sun finds me first.
Clouds part.
Its brilliance spills through,
and I see the depth of his shadow.

So deep,
it reveals nothing.

But the wood—nurtured by thawed ice—
the breeze, the clouds—
this painted heaven wrapped in a floating coffin—
it folds around me,
a promise unspoken.

It whispers of something brighter.

Another raven caws.
Then a second.
There are many.

Captain Vexmoor leans over the railing,
then glances back:

"Your brother—
he’s with Dr. Alwin Graye.
Rest easy. He’s safe."

Warmth stirs in my chest.
His safety…

But was it these hands?
This voice?
This violence that protected him?

Is violence, in nature…
a conversation?
A sacred opera of power?

It’s the only song that ever welcomed me.
The only hymn I could sing.

Then a breeze—soft, cooling—
breaks the trance.

I walk away from Vexmoor.
He smiles,
still leaning over the railing.

Down the stairs I descend.
The rats fester—
they surround me,
but do not touch.

For one of their gods lies dormant
at the ship’s heart.
A ruin.
A stain.
A blood puddle they cannot scrub away.

They part before me.
This authority—
I never imagined it.

But now they see it.
See me.
New bones. New system. New command.

I am a man.
They are rats.

They flee in pain,
as I once did—
before I survived.

They are starving.
Too weak.
Unfit to serve.

I am risen.
I have wings.
Beauty in proclamation.
The freedom of control.

I have become.

— ⊹⊹⊹ —

It all feels as it should.
The hallways echo with the snickers of rats,
but the sound dies when they see me.
They avoid me.
They’re afraid.
Or maybe—
I’m the only human.
The only one who’s fed.

Golden gunports gleam with morning light—
warm, yellow holes in her metal gut.
But it’s no longer grotesque.
It’s simple.
Familiar.

Maybe it’s getting to my head.
But I feel.
I breathe.
I know.
Each step in these halls I once crawled
feels new,
feels earned.

I’m walking fast now—
a rhythm of health.
Each joint flexes.
Each ligament contorts.
Each bone turns in harmony.
And suddenly,
I imagine wings at my back.
I imagine a world where I’m free.

Only minutes later, I reach the door.
I imagine Silas on a bed.
Dr. Alwin Graye tending to him.

My fingers extend.
I believe.
I imagine it: The Creation of Adam.
I reach out my whole arm.

And then—
a cold bronze handle.
I grip it.
Pull.

And there they are.
Silas. Dr. Alwin Graye.
Silas is sitting,
the doctor standing beside him.

Silas turns—
head tilting,
eyes meeting mine—
and he smiles.

A portrait smile.
A lantern in the dark.

Seconds pass.
Dr. Graye notices me.
He stops sorting his tools.

And then—
I move.

Subconsciously,
instinctively,
I charge toward Silas.

A thud disguised as a hug—
but it doesn’t matter.

Our arms close around each other,
or at least…
mine do.

Suddenly, he whispers—
but I only hold him tighter.
I grip the rags on his back.
And I can’t help it—
I cry.
As if my tears might give him something.
A portion of my soul.
A platter of life.

I hold him tighter still.
But all I feel is a corpse.
So skeletal—
his ribs, his spine, every edge of him.
It’s morbid.
But beneath all the bone that masks my love,
I refuse to be disgusted.
Because he’s my brother.
I won’t let that be what I remember.
Not his legacy.
So I try to erase it.

His voice escapes my prison—
raspy, dehydrated, starved.

"Calder… I knew you were gonna save me."

The lantern above flickers across his smile.

"I never stopped believing…
not even for a second."

He presses harder into the hug.
His voice steadies.

"You’re not a warrior.
You’re not even a swordsman.
But you’re my warrior.
You’re my brother."

Suddenly, Dr. Alwin Graye steps into the reunion.
His figure echoes Silas’s—skeletal, slouched—
though dressed in more professional rags.
His posture slackens with fatigue,
movements slow, like a man drifting through syrup.

He speaks with a lazy, drawled accent:

“I gave him a dose of rum with lime juice,
threw in some garlic for good measure.
If it’s scurvy or fever alongside those bruises—
should hold him over.”

He gestures toward Silas’s wrapped limbs,
bandages hiding purple skin,
as if pointing out a brushstroke in a painting.

“I found some comfrey, pressed it in with a rag.
Mixed it with animal fat.
That’ll ease the swelling—mostly.”

I nod, mouth the start of thanks—
but he cuts me off with a half-smirk.

“Don’t thank me yet.
If anything’d do real magic, it’d be a proper meal.”
A pause. “But don’t we all…”

He laughs—a weak, breathless thing.
Behind the noise, I see it:
his ribs trying to hide beneath cloth and confidence.
A professional mask stretched over hunger.
He’s ashamed.
Not of his work—
but of his condition.

Silas lays down again,
gently drifting toward sleep—
preserving what little energy remains.
Even the sun has begun its descent.
Outside, yellow and orange swirl together,
melting into the darkening sky.

I stay beside him.
I don’t speak.
I just stay.

Minutes pass.
The doctor steps forward and rests a hand on my shoulder—firm, but not unkind.
Then he speaks.

"You know… when I was a young lad, I had a brother."
A pause.
"He was taken by some folk—can’t say I remember who. Maybe a divorce, maybe pirates. I don’t know. One day, he was just… gone."

A tear slips down his cheek.
"Don’t lose what you have."

Another pause. His voice lowers.

"I couldn’t protect him. Couldn’t even be by his side.
So listen—what you really need to do… is get off this damned boat."

He reaches into his satchel and pulls something out.
An apple.
He tosses it to me, gentle as breath.

"The Chef—well… I had this saved for a while.
Would you give it to Silas when he wakes?"

A small shrug.
"I was saving it."

He turns.
Takes a few slow steps toward the door.

I call out—instinctive, automatic:

"Thanks, mister—"

But he cuts me off with a dry, bitter laugh.

"Forget about it! We all die in the rain someday, aye?"
Another chuckle—resigned, frayed at the edges.
"No point in being martyrs."

And with that,
Dr. Alwin Graye leaves the room.