The hue of the sky, in the timeless space between night and day… the high, lilting laugh of a woman, bringing with it a sense of overwhelming comfort… the soft embrace of her mother, gently rocking her into sleep… a musical voice, humming the melody to a lullaby, its words long forgotten in the throes of time, lingering with her as her eyes fluttered shut and the brilliant tones of a child's dreams filled her mind… And then, suddenly, a shriek, piercing the beautiful scenery, shattering it like brittle glass. The sound of a man, his voice holding what seemed to be an impossible amount of cruel joy, a moment of silence that seemed to expand, straining against the limits of her sanity, and then the pastel sky was stained by a splash of red.
Touka Kirishima sucked in a sharp gasp, and her eyes flew open.
She blinked slowly, trying in vain to calm her ragged breathing, as her irises struggled to adjust to the dim light of the cabin. Slowly, the boards of the ceiling, the tar barely visible at the cracks, started to emerge out of the darkness. Touka sat up sluggishly, balancing gingerly on the edge of her hammock, her mind still full of the scenes from the dream, and slowly peeled off her sheets, that were sticking to her body, soaked with sweat. The dream she had had was a recurring one, and, as she knew, an irrational one as well. She had barely been a year old when her mother was killed, in a desperate ploy by the crowd of merchants in the city who could not accept that a virtual stranger, from a distant and alien land across the sea, had been able to find his fortune here, better than they ever could. It was ridiculous to think that she would have any recollection of her mother's death, much less the time they had spent together before the tragedy. Years later, her father would sit Touka down on her bed, cup her hands in his, and explain why the head of the servants in their household, a robust woman who was firm and sometimes aggressive when dealing with most people, but always had a kind word or gesture for the Kirishima siblings, had been the closest thing to a maternal figure she had ever had. Touka had been in tears, for the loss of a mother she never knew she had, and because of her father's bitter apologies. For not being able to save her. For never being able to fill the role of a mother in her brother and her lives.
As she placed her slender feet upon the wooden, splintery floor, she wondered if there had not been more to her anguish at that time. She had never felt the absence of her mother as harshly as she might have, because her father had always been there for them. Well, not always. There would always be times when she would wander the streets, leading her younger brother around by the hand, ducking around strangers, always cautious. Her father had told them never to reveal themselves as Kirishimas: Most people on that island saw their father's face at the mention of the family name, and with his face would come a bitter taste in their mouths, at his success, his differences from them. Her whole family had learned that the hard way, one night, when the day was jus dawning, and the sky was an enchanting array of pastel hues. But nevertheless, her father had been caring, protective, in between his long voyages at sea, meeting merchants across oceans. When they would wake up to broken windows and bricks tied to notes covered in profanities, her father would gather the two of them in his arms and turn away, murmuring promises of an excursion to the palm-strewn beach or a lazy morning sprawled on the sand.
Touka walked on light feet, wary of the questionable floor and the constant shifting of the planks, forcing her to weave hither and dither, struggling to maintain her balance, her bare toes barely avoiding what would have been a painful collision with the trunk placed at the foot of her hammock, containing both her and her brothers meager belongings. Finally, she managed to make her way relatively unscathed to the small table in the far (in a manner of speaking, since the cabin was a cube, barely three meters across) corner of the room, and shakily poured herself some water from the jug perched there. Then, relishing the soothed feeling of her parched throat, she surveyed the room.
It was really quite shabby, and the only pieces of furniture in the room were the sibling's hammocks in two separate corners, a desk that looked older than she was, a crooked chair and the tiny table with the jug competing for whatever space was left in the remaining corner that was not occupied by the door. From above deck, she could her the crew jostling about, doing the morning chores, and over all the noise, the captain's booming voice:
'Come on, Cal, I've seen my grandmother move faster than that! Every second you're wasting on climbing like a wuss is a second we might get surprised by pirates!'
'Let's go, crew! If you don't scrub, you don't get grub!' The captain chuckled.
'Scrub. Grub. I'm hilarious. Ah, if only my love for the sea had not been so great, then perhaps I could devote myself to amusing the common land crabs. Alas, the sea is my one true love, and will remain so until the day I die happily on its waters.' Touka couldn't actually see the man, but she was almost completely certain that he had been making theatrical gestures throughout the whole speech. As if echoing her thoughts, the crew groaned in unison.
Below them, Touka shook her head in bemused resignation. She, along with the rest of the crew, had long since become accustomed to the captain's dry, and somewhat eccentric, sense of humor. Although everyone onboard out of principle acted as though the captain's regular attempts at entertainment were about as fun as watching paint dry, she knew that they all, herself included, sometimes looked forward to his whimsical comments.
Their father was never up on the deck with the crew. Touka had thought that them coming with him on a voyage was a way for the family to get closer, and yet as soon as they had set sail, their father had disappeared into his cabin, appearing only at mealtime. She didn't mind it much, personally. On most days she would wander around deck, sometimes just breathing in the sea, not speaking to anyone in particular but blending in amongst the crew. They accepted her, and the times Ayato deigned to emerge from their cabin and join her, they would wordlessly accept him as well. They would help with the simpler chores that required doing: checking the cargo for damage, delivering messages, basically lending a hand whenever there was a need.
But those were the good days. The past year or so, Touka had with increasing concern watched as Ayato grew increasingly rebellious and defiant, often isolating himself for long periods of time. The pattern continued, on the ship. As Touka stood in the corner, sipping the water and letting her mind wander, her eyes roamed to the lump that lay in the hammock opposite of hers, swaddled in a pile of thin blankets. She could tell that this was one of Ayato's bad days, and so she would resign herself to wander the deck without his company. Sometimes, when she was above deck, the ship would jolt or tilt particularly alarmingly, and she would, as a natural reflex, glance over her shoulder for a glimpse of her brother's onyx hair. When she didn't see it, there was always a fleeting flash of panic, before she realized that her brother wasn't with her, but in the cabin, perhaps silently brooding, but at least safe. She had grown so used to them always being together, two parts of a whole, but no more.
They hated it when he left on his long journeys at sea, but when they voiced their annoyance, he would always just smile and say that he had no choice, that he would be back soon. Touka saw it as an unavoidable fact of their lives, and did her utmost to take care of her brother, Ayato, while their father was away. But as Ayato grew, so did his fury at their family, her father's constant absence and refusal to confront their tormentors, her sister's silent retribution whenever he voiced his displeasure.
This was the first time they had been allowed to come with their father on one of his voyages. And Touka couldn't help but find it strange, that even though the conditions on board were abysmal after over two months of sailing, and their living space was constantly intruded upon by crude members of the crew, Ayato looked as content as she had ever seen him. Perhaps, she thought, he saw a different side of their father now, as a strong man who could command a crew of men much more physically imposing than he.
It pained her that it seemed as though it took all of this, just to convince her brother that their father, who had sheltered and protected them single-handedly through all these years, was not a weakling.
Yawning, she stretched, then strode across the uneven floor to her trunk, from which she pulled a simple cotton dress, the only decoration being a criss-crossing lace on the back. It had taken a lot of persuasion to stop her father from forcing her to bring anything even more extravagant, it always was, since she never cared for the long-skirted puffy abominations that were expected of wealthier women. Pulling on the dress in a single swift movement, she carefully laced up the back, while drinking in the smell of tar, the always present hint of mildew, the sound of many feet scurrying over her head, and sea.
Suddenly, there was a shout, dwarfed by the sound of footsteps and men shouting and scuffling around. Yet there was something in it, a sense of urgency, that made all the other sounds go silent. As Touka stopped completely, straining her ears to hear any word said above deck. Her mind raced. The cargo route they were taking was not supposed to be travelled by any other merchant ships at this time. There was no land in sight, or word would have been given, And despite entertaining the thought at times, she highly doubted that there was a kraken in these waters. Her blood seemed to slow in her veins, as her brain reached the seemingly single possible conclusion. But no. They had been assured this route was safe, that the crew had travelled it countless times, and never encountered any problems. It couldn't be.
Cal's voice, raised so that all below him could hear, shouted one single word. It cut through the dim of whispers and mutterings like a sharpened knife.
'Pirates!'