SAILING FOR THREE II

Despite the rushing of the waters along both sides of the vessel, Fugger could not make out a single wave. Not only had the moon declared its absence but even the stars emitted dimly, obfuscated by heavy mists overhead. He tossed an empty bottle off into the dark. Bellhound smoked continuing his stint as a temporary helmsman, a role he complained of aloud between breaths of ash, though his captain had by this point drank enough to dull any further attention paid, Fugger staring listlessly at the void around them. To his knowledge, Fugger and friends--if one stretches meaning--were a morning away from ‘SHORE’. Though the excitement in his heart had waned in light of the air aboard his ship, its captain nonetheless looked forward to his destination: an answer to the barely visible wordage above. He considered whether the directive was worth asking the brother over. Fugger’s cheek hurt. He limped down below deck.

Quiet hung round the hostage’s home, her broom closet secured against interlocking stools. Fugger either appreciated her recent calm or worried she’d escaped. A loose knight aboard his house on the water practically made her a home invader, the captain reflecting on his own strength. What interested Fugger, though he had not come to realize the revelation until now, was himself. From death to life, it seemed only his scars and ink washed out, all else enduring. The meaning of the artistry, both professional and amateur, meant much to Fugger’s memories. But this concept confused him especially. The blurred line between lived experience and borrowed personhood laid waste to Fugger’s inebriated state, one itself blurry. He laid himself against the thick planks separating he and the disarmed knight, nursing.

“...”

Fugger turned his head sideways and asked aloud for the woman to repeat herself, were she the muffled culprit.

“Hungry,” came the voice strained and elevated.

He glanced at the loaf and scattered grapes. It seemed to him there were less than he’d collected, mice considered. Nursing another sip, Fugger stretched himself out and swiped the yeast brick off the floorboards. He banged it twice against wood to be sure of its inadequacy, somewhat impressed by its unyielding firmness. He sipped the last of his liquor and hopped back up, screwed loose a porthole, popped the bottle and bread out into the black, slumped down onto his back and began a strange laughter.

“Am I alive?” he asked to the ceiling. It creaked naturally in response.

“Hungry,” the disembodied brother repeated weakly.

“Ok, ok.”

Fugger fumbled his way into the kitchen and went about rounding up anything halfway decent, much of its stores eaten, spoiled, soiled, stolen or stale. He managed a selection of sliced summer sausage and cabbage by the handfuls. It all fell atop a tray causing strange, bitter taste. Regardless, he gripped the meal and slowly shambled back to his hostage. Fog plagued Fugger’s path, the especially shrouded night fought off only by an occasional torch doing little in his favor. Though he managed the return journey, he inadvertently lost several of the vegetables, shame suppressed though nonetheless inflicted. As he stooped to stay the tray atop a table while he’d untangle Bellhound’s basket weaving, a sudden thought zapped to the forefront of his mind and froze his next steps. He couldn’t believe he felt afraid of another betrayal, that his masculine strength--that from the old world anew--could not handle the woman easily alone. But his ankle ached, cheek burned, and he admitted her distance crossing to be rather ridiculously untameable--not lest Bell lurked behind yet another corner. He considered calling out to his first mate but guessed that, regardless of his voice traveling or not, Bell likely cared little to assist. So Fugger knocked.

“You gonna... kick it down again? Couldn’t’ve been easy for Bell to fix that door.”

“...”

He deconstructed the barricade on a gut feeling and breached the door carefully, his flintlock having found its way into his other hand. Between boxes of flour and railings bereft of broom, the knight sat in a kneel, hands in her lap, eyes at the ground. She dragged them up to glance at his, the moment brief although Fugger thought otherwise. She said nothing, her expression blank. He stepped back and brought out the tray of meat and remaining cabbage, laying the meal just past the feet of the door. There came another attempt for her gaze but the instance did not arrive. He left, clicked the exit closed and reinforced the lock to the best of his ability with two seats before slumping over asleep.

“...”

“... Cap...”

“... Captain!” cried Bellhound in annoyance, both grips tight on Fugger’s collar shaking it and he violently.

Fugger rose from the floor not yet sober. His head spun. Most light had been snuffed. The closet door swayed on its hinges, stools scattered, crushed. He glanced at Bellhound who dragged his captain up to the nearest glass, its view offering black. He stared in confusion, but the navigator insisted he continue observing. Then, at once, a patch of air combusted into bright reds and yellows illuminating only briefly the ship responsible, several more explosions following in the wake of the first with accompanying sound barrier shattering wails. Though brief the two painted a vivid silhouette of the massive ship launching cannon fire furiously. Its payloads sailed unseen trajectories, their splashes too far to hear, and all suddenly drowned in quiet. Fugger and his first mate each exchanged glances only guessing at what next would occur when another volley of munitions blasted out into the abyss--this time from its target’s opposite direction.

Through the many explosions, it dawned on dulled Fugger he had seen the second ship before.