Chapter 1: Prologue : Once and Never More

November 26, 689

In the creaking hold of the Ocean’s Curse, a boy press ganged by pirates was blissfully unaware that death was close at hand.

The ship tilted violently, and thunder rumbled all around him. Wood creaked and strained, and distantly, a bell clanged. Loose cannonballs rolled by, thudding against the wood of various mismatched boxes and barrels, only to roll back the other way as the ship listed back. Empty hammocks swung over his head, one lit oil lantern creaking on its ring. In the black shadows, rats sniffed and gnawed on belongings, their teeth raking against wood.

Crammed between the large salt-stained barrels, a young man dozed, ragged as a washed up hound. His shirt was stained with sweat and grease, causing his curly white locks to form a crust against his skull and neck. He was fifteen or so (he had lost track of the months) white skin faintly tanned from months at sea. His palms and heels were raw with blisters, yet he clung to two things as he slept in an uneasy upright position. A mop propped up on the barrels, and a knife, gripped tightly by the cross guard so the blade hung down between two fingers.

Thunder cracked, and the rats scattered as the rain suddenly upped a pitch. A hatch to the deck was thrown open and a voice bellowed out.

“CABIN BOY!” a heavyset man in a leather overcoat shouted above the rain. “GET YER ASS UP OR SWEAR TO GODS I’LL TOSS YE OVERBOARD MESELF.”

The young man snorted awake. He gripped the knife tighter, waving it erratically in front of him. He flinched as the first mate stomped towards him. Water poured from the larger man’s tricorn over the boy’s head.

“WHEN WE SAYS ALL HANDS,” the man bellowed. “WE MEANS ALL HANDS!”

The young man squinted up at the first mate, holding the knife point up hesitantly. While his months on the ship had blessed him with burned skin and raw hands, it sadly had not taught him any of the brutish screaming language the crew used. He knew ‘cabin boy’ or ‘the sea’ and a number of colorful swear words.  The larger man casually knocked the knife away with a flick of his wrist and grabbed the boy by his collar. Still stupefied and half asleep, the cabin boy was hauled up the stairs and thrown out into the storm.

The young man slapped face first onto the deck and squinted against the torrent. The world roared, wind and rain howling between each burst of thunder. Rain struck his skin like pebbles. Waves washed over the deck from port, the two triangular sails taut as wind battered them sideways. A dozen men held the booms in place, while half a dozen more attempted to pull the sailcloth down. Each man was dressed just as raggedly as the boy was, even the first mate above him was wearing near tatters under his battered leather coat. Distantly on the horizon, a pair of lights surged and flickered, a twin set of lighthouses glowing like two distant suns in the storm.

Somehow making himself heard over the wind, the first mate shouted, “DO SOMETHING WITH THIS ONE MISTER TOTT.”

“AYE AYE. YER TO HELP REEF THE MAINSAIL, SNOWY,” echoed back a reply.

The young man was grabbed by more stranger’s hands, and tossed towards ropes. He didn’t know a lick of what he was doing, but he knew how to stand in a line with men just as ragged as himself and follow a chant of one-two-three heave. The sails were pulled down until they were only half mast, then men more skilled men than him scrambled about to tie the excess cloth to the boom.

Orders were barked over his head, and the boy was dragged to his next station. He was tossed about by the hands as much by the wind and slopping waves. His soaking wet shirt was almost a sailcloth itself, catching the wind and billowing around him. Had he eaten anything recently, it would have wound up washing off the deck with the next wave. He was slapped around the shoulders, whether he did well or not, wild and raucous laughter mixing with furious shouts. They fought the waves battering on port, and through the rain, a ghostly shadow of a white cliff loomed to starboard. With every listing movement, the cliff grew clearer, then grayer and distant, then closer again. All while the twin lighthouses blinked brighter and brighter.

The light grew so bright as to flood the deck with glorious daylight. Then they vanished, white cliff falling away with them.

“BOOM ABOUT!”

The cabin boy threw himself against the deck as the cry was repeated over and over, above another peal of thunder. That was another command one only fails to grasp once. The voices around him chuckled and slapped his shoulders.

“Now the snowball gets it!” one laughed.

The helmsman and captain together heaved at the ship wheel, the hull groaning as the caravel surged and heaved to starboard. There was an almighty creaking, rain ceasing then pouring as the boom whipped over the boy’s head. The more skilled sailors kept to their feet, ducking just enough to let it pass by.

The wind and rain twisted in confused circles as a wave threw them higher. The sails bulged, and the ship tilted at an angle that become more and more concerning by the second.

“STARBOARD! BODIES TO STARBOARD MEN!”

Feet thudded around the cabin boy as the crew scampered for the port railing, some going so far as to lean their bodies over the railing. The boy felt his body slipping on the wet boards. His tired fingers scrambled for the gaps in the wood. But someone gripped his shirt, holding him in place.

“Almost there, lad!” the man cried, though the cabin boy could barely hear him. “We’ll be safe in White Cliffs’ bay!”

The twin lighthouses suddenly filled the boat with light. The young man gawped at the shadows looming beneath them. A stern and imperious shadow of a man a hundred feet high, and the well cut figure of a woman equal her partner’s height. Atop their crowns, two lights as bright as suns spun and danced, sending out twin rays into the shadowy black curtains of rain.

The cabin boy’s whole body went slack. Ah, he thought, The Oldest Ones come for me. I’ve finally died.

But the ship passed through the two titans neatly, a comfortable five hundred feet between the hems of their dissolving limestone robes.

In an instant, the wind stopped. The rain went from a beating force to what could be described as a pleasant and warm shower. The chalky cliffs encircled the ship on all sides, white walls hazy in the distance. And in the gloom, the dazed cabin boy swore he saw a glittering multitude of stars fallen to earth.

“FURL SAILS. PREPARE TO WEIGH ANCHOR!”

He was dragged to his feet and pushed to another rope, but the mood was considerably lightened. The men had started chanting one of their rachous songs. The cabin boy hummed along in order to find the beat, and properly haul the rope along with the tune. But he kept stealing glances at that collection of stars on the sea.

His eyes widened. He dropped the rope, and approached the railing. Nobody minded. The sails were pulled down, and everyone was caught up in the ecstatic joy of surviving the storm.

The cabin boy watched as the glittering stars resolved into buildings, the ghostly shadows of people dashing between them against the rain. Docks criss-crossed back and forth across the secluded bay in a complicated web. Buildings rose between the docks, held up high on stilts. Tall buildings near four or five stories rose up along the shore. It was as if the buildings themselves tried to dwarf the few galleons docked there, clusters of smaller crafts filling every empty space.

The cabin boy nearly tipped over the railing as the anchor dropped. The caravel slowed considerably, but there was a crunch of wood, and shudder through the hull as the bow knocked against a dock. The men around him laughed that the captain had scuppered them when they at last reached the port. But the cabin boy could already hear the thumps of barrels being hauled up from the hold.

A hand dropped on his shoulder, and the cabin boy was shaken joyfully.

“Good work, little snowball!” Mister Tott cried. “Come! Drink! We celebrate our safe landing!”

But the cabin boy just stared down at the dock, a mere story drop down.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He scrambled for the gangplanks, his hands bloody and his blisters all popped. He tugged at the ropes regardless, trying to free the boards.

Mister Tott laughed. “Nay, lad, though I like ye spirit. It be late. Rest ye weary bones. We go ashore in the morn.”

When the cabin boy didn’t react to his words, Tott chuckled and pulled at his shoulder.

But the cabin boy slapped him away. He reached for his knife, then realized he had left it below. He tried again to work the ropes, and Tott laughed and pulled him away. A foaming mug was shoved in both of their hands as another song rose among the crew.

“No hard feelings, boy!” Mister Tott said with a shake. “You proved yerself a worthy seaman these past months. Worked when we told ya to work… Complained, ‘o course, but who doesn’t? So you’ll get yer cut from the haul, same as the rest of us. Right men?!”

Mister Tott raised his mug and cheered. The few crewmen looking their way cheered as well. Mister Tott went to drink his mug, but the young man just let the thing drop to the boards. He ducked out from under the men’s arm and peered over at the dock. Then he ran to starboard to peer instead.

The young man was ignored until he started climbing the railing.

“Hey! Hey now, Snowy! It still be slick!”

“That boy’s drunk already?!” one laughed.

The cabin boy sneered back at the sailors.

“You all Mother Fucks,” he cabin boy hissed in a thick accent.

Then he jumped overboard.

The crew shouted after him but it was too late. The young man plunged feet first into black water.

Warm and salty sea water washed over him, instantly stinging in his nose and blistered hands. A new soundscape surrounded him. Patter and clicking from the waves rolling the silt beneath his feet, the boards groaning from dozens of ships all across the bay, chains clinking from anchor chains, and the gentle hiss of rain hitting the water.

As the boy sunk, his feet hit soft silt sooner than he expected, squelching up to his ankles and devouring his battered sandals. His eyes were closed, but he dared to peek despite the stinging water. He could barely make out the shadow of the hull, and see the lantern lights flickering beyond it.

He pushed off the silt and tried to swim for the light. But his foot was stuck fast. He turned back, again daring to eye his stuck ankle.

A corpse peered up at him, eyes a dim red in sunken sockets. Bony fingers dug into his ankle, tugging him back into the muck.

The boy’s eyes flew wide, and all his breath left him as he gasped in a lungful of sea water. He kicked the apparition squarely between its eyes, and shuddered as he felt something crack under his foot. But the force sent him upwards. He drifted up into the barnacle encrusted hull of the ship, and clawed himself back up to the surface of the water.

The former cabin boy gasped and coughed, snorting salty water from his nose. The men above cheered and admonished him in equal measure, goading him to swim this way or that way. The young man caught his breath, pressed his hair from his face, and began swimming around the ship.

The first mate peered over the railing and grumbled. “We really lettin’ that one go?”

“Aw, he ain’t going nowhere,” the captain said. He was a man heavily scarred and battered under scraggly hair and beard alike, not much better dressed than the rest of the crew. He had dropped on the top step beside the wheel, a bottle of whiskey on his knee. The captain took a gulp from the bottle and said, “No way outta this bay ‘cept tween the Gods’ feet.” He nodded to the pair of large statues that overlooked the bay, carved directly out of the pale white cliff face.

The mate gave his captain a languid glare. “Boy’s gonna get smashed between hulls swimmin’ in that bay.”

The captain paused, then shrugged. “Well. We got his togs ‘n treasures ‘n such. One less split o the haul now.”

Then he raised his bottle and cheered as his crew pulled out the fiddle and drums and began to play while huddled under a tent made from a spare sailcloth.

The music fell away as the young man swam through dark waters, hiding under the crisscrossing boards of the docks. He gingerly clung to the barnacle-covered pillars that held both dock and building both aloft. Rain pattered on the piers and hissed on the water. Feet thumped over his head, the sounds of muted liveliness drifting from boats and buildings alike. He passed under several buildings filled with light and warm voices, but found no easy way up. He may have just spent months at sea, his puppy fat having worn away to lean muscle. But grabbing the edge of a splintering dock with his bleeding hands and hoisting himself up… Well, he thought it beyond his skill.

Finally he reached the shore. Silt and sand came up under his feet. He gasped and pressed his legs to his chest. But nothing grabbed him this time. He stumbled out from under the pier up through spume and drifting seaweed to a beach covered in rotting ropes and driftwood. As he tried to climb the mess, crabs skittered from hiding places. He scampered back from little red legs crawling past his toes, back into the uneven silt. While the wreckage resettled, he looked up the white cliff looming ahead of him, silvery in the rain. The top was lost to the clouds.

“Ho there now. Don’t you look like a drowned rat.”

The young man spun towards the voice, holding out a knife he didn’t have. The voice came from a shadowy porch in front of a murmuring tavern built over the water, its gutters stuffed and overflowing with fecal straw nests made by seabirds. There was a creaking sound, an old man listing gently back and forth in a rocking chair. He sat with a black cane in his lap, the ruddy color of his gold embroidered captain’s coat faded and worn. He had a broad hat on with a huge black roc feather spun twice about the brim.

The young man scowled and pushed his way up the beach, feet banging on boards as he finally found where the dock met shore.

“You’re a lucky one, you know,” the old man continued. He waved his cane at the dark water below. His creaking voice then went low and serious. “The unquiet dead sleep in these waters. They drag down anything that dives too deep.”

The seriousness just as suddenly faded, and the old man gave a low, creaking laugh. The young man gave the old man a sour look, and marched onward.

“No need to be untoward,” the old man called, humor still in his voice. “You shipwrecked? Need some help?”

The young man marched onward, shivering despite the mugginess of the air. The old man cocked his head as the young man passed under the oil street lamp, his face revealed. The old man cleared his throat and intoned.

“Ah… tok’yukiji deska?”

The young man froze. He spun in place, feet banging on boards as he ducked under the light waterfall draining from the porch roof and raced to the old man’s side.

“You speak my language?” The young man cried. “Oh thank the spirits, I haven't heard a word of Tok’engo in, in—“ He shivered and clutched his shirt. “Please, you have to help me. I was kidnapped by pirates. They took everything from me! I have to get back home…!”

The old man gently patted the young man’s hand.

“I am sorry,” he said, “I do not speak much. Find someone speak better. Yes?”

The young man gripped the old man’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you! Spirits bless you. Your name?”

“I am Asphodel,” he said. “You?”

“A-Aurelius,” the young man stammered uncertainly.

The young man paused. He had taken the patron in the rocking chair to be old. He hunched his back like an elder, his voice creaking with age, hands even weak and shaking like they no longer had strength.

But this Asphodel didn’t look old. His fingers were firm, and cold despite the muggy heat. His face was smooth, like even the wrinkles had been waxed away, his long hair silken and black without a hint of gray.

Asphodel leaned close, lips parting. Aurelius recoiled. The old man’s teeth were neat and straight, his incisors long and thick.

Aurelius backed up a few steps, and the man chuckled as he shrugged off his coat.

“Did I scare you?” Asphodel creaked.

Coat in his arms, Asphodel heaved himself off the rocking chair. He had a noticeable limp in his right leg, and walked heavily on the cane. His arm shaking with effort, Asphodel held out his coat to the young man.

“Take,” he said. “We find you clean clothes. Find someone speak better.”

Aurelius’ eyes flicked between the man’s face and his coat, but as a gust chilled his soaking wet clothes once more, he took it. Aurelius slung the heavy cloth around his shoulders. It smelled funny, and not like an old man. It was difficult to place, but Aurelius swore it smelled like a rat’s nest. Like fur and urine and rotten meat. He felt it rude to say anything, so he just gave a small bow and mumbled his thanks.

The old man grinned. He took the young man by the shoulder, and leaned heavily into him like he needed the support. Yet, Aurelius felt as though he was being pushed by the elder man into the unusually quiet and somber tavern.

Pushed out of sight, and out of memory.