A/N: ayyyyy guys! everyone still pretending it's only october and i'm NOT a total failure at life? yeah? okay cool good here's the next chapter. actually thought i only had the one chapter, but turned out i had this? lol thank goodness xDD anywayyyy review if you liked it and if you didn't feel free to tell me why. honest feedback's the only way i can improve for you guys.
The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, yet nonetheless uneasily, for the anxious cabin boy; Jim found he was unnerved and edgy and no matter how he tried, he couldn't participate in any of his usual easy, back-and-forth repartee he had recently achieved with Silver; and though the cook tried to engage him a few times, he received nothing more than absent, one-word answers; at last, the cyborg sent him from the galley prematurely, thinly-veiled concern in his tone as he encouraged the other to turn in early.
Jim left the room gratefully, and pulled back his sleeve only when he was certain the cook couldn't see a thing; the sight of his arm, utterly overrun with scarlet slits, had him sucking in a slow, shaky breath. So then. He wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight.
And it wasn't as though that part was a problem; no, he was far too used to lying awake, staring blindly up at the ceiling after another dream, always the same one, the same one where he ran on swift and bare feet over dirt and rock, slicing his skin open on the sharp stones, loose pale clothes billowing out around him as the wind caught the excess fabric and ballooned it out like a sail, except the only sail he knew at this point was resistance and if he was a ship, he was pretty sure he was sinking fast…no. No, he was used to that.
Somewhere along the way, exhaustion had become an art form for him. He would sit sleepless and alone tonight, probably in the galley – maybe he'd read to keep himself awake.
And things would be fine. He would wait up by himself, he'd read until midnight, and then it would hit and he'd…he'd…he swallowed around the sudden, hard knot budding in his throat. And then he'd…then it would…then it would happen, and he'd be alone, there wouldn't be anyone, nothing to ground him, no one to place their hands on his shoulders and tell him he was okay, even if it was a lie it'd still be nice to hear it, he'd know he wasn't okay, but if somebody would just say it to him, if he could hear it come from a mouth other than his own, if there was anyone to stay up with him, to calm him if he was afraid, to distract him until it came upon him, to prove to him it wasn't real once it had passed, if there was anyone there at all…
No.
No, he was fine, he was fifteen years old, he wasn't a goddamn child and he didn't need anyone to hold his hand or dry his tears, that was for little kids; he didn't need them, any of them, he was fine, he was on his own and that was alright because he was wrong about his sail it wasn't resistance, it was independence; he was old enough now to take care of himself – to heal his own hurts, to bandage his own cuts or scrapes, to patch himself back up, to pick himself up off the ground when somebody kicked him down, he was a ship with sails to catch the breeze and engines thrust him forward and a telescope to watch for threats and cannons to defend himself and he didn't need another craft swooping in to help, no, he was alright, he was fine, he was a fucking ship and his sail was independence.
And tonight was no different from any other; he didn't need anyone, and no one would be there. He was a sinking ship, but he would save himself.
Hours later, once everyone else aboard the creaking wooden vessel appeared well and truly asleep, Jim stole down to the galley, tread swift and silent, fearful heart crashing forcefully in his ears. So, this was it then – this was truly happening. There was nothing else for it: he was going to sit down at one of the tables, alone, and he was going to begin reading, alone, and he was going to sit up until midnight, alone, and when it hit he was going to face things alone…when the boy tried to swallow, he found his throat to be inexplicably dry, and he struggled to push the unsettling thought from his mind.
The galley was cool and completely dark when he reached it; the cabin boy fumbled uncertainly about in the black for a moment or two before he laid hands on the lantern and drew it to him to light it; when the wick sparked to life and threw out a warm, reddish glow, the room felt almost…pleasant. Jim seated himself at the nearest table, pulling out a battered paperback book and lifting the tattered front cover gingerly. Compact ebony print stared back at him, detached and neutral; after a few moments, they jumped and romped about upon the pages, dancing and swimming about before him; the cabin boy released a regretful sigh and rubbed tiredly at his aching eyes. He just wanted to read – to forget everything, he wanted to forget the hour, the day, the marks on his arm, to ease or calm the tension wound around his heart and seeping down into his bones, tightening him up inside until his grip on his book became white-knuckled. He did not want to be afraid or anxious of what awaited him when the clock struck midnight and he ran out of words. He wanted only to forget.
He drew the book resolutely closer, his lips moving soundlessly to form the words he knew by heart; yet however he tried, his thoughts twisted and turned, hissing and coiling like trapped, unhappy snakes – what was awaiting him? His uncertain gaze fell to the crimson lines burning bright upon his arm, fiercer and hotter than the fire in the lantern.
Everyone knew what happened if the Judgment came and found you wanting; but no one ever really appeared to know what they were to experience until they had. What was it going to be for him? What was he afraid of? What left him chilled to the bone or frozen where he stood? What terrors, real or imagined, kept him up at night? What unspoken horror made his heartbeat double? What could be frightening enough to give him pause, to be deemed his darkest fear?
Jim couldn't know for certain how long he remained this way – hands clasped under his chin, dog-eared book lying forgotten on the table as he gazed, thoughtfully yet unseeingly, at the far wall, question pounding insistently within his sore and aching head: what am I afraid of, what am I afraid of? Yet it seemed that not much more than a moment or two ought to have passed when the sudden sound of slow footsteps pulled him roughly back to reality; the noise sent the boy leaping anxiously up from the table, casting the staircase before himself a horrified, disbelieving glance. Someone was coming…someone was coming now? Who the hell would want to go for a stroll round the galley at this time of night? It must be nearing midnight by now, and—midnight. Midnight. Oh, god, what was he going to tell them? What could he tell them? He hadn't planned for a thing like this; it hadn't even occurred to him, he hadn't even thought of it…he hadn't thought this far ahead and he should have, God, he should have, what could he even tell them, how could he explain why the cabin boy found it necessary to wander the ship all hours of the night…
"Jimbo?" The voice that jerked him from his thoughts as the new arrival reached the end of the staircase was low and bewildered and above all, familiar; when Jim tore his gaze from his own shaking hands and met the mismatched eyes of the dumbfounded galley cook, he found his lips failed him. The only sound he felt he possessed the power to utter was, "Silver?"
"W-what are ye…what are ye doin' down here, lad?" The cyborg stepped a bit farther into the galley, dark eyes darting swiftly round the dimly lit room. "Shouldn't ye be…be s-sleepin'?"
"No, I…I couldn't…" Jim's head spun; his throat betrayed him, voice emerging hoarse and weak. "Sleep, I mean. Couldn't sleep. I c-couldn't sleep." He stammered a bit, looking to the floor for sudden, terrible fear that Silver might look at him and see the truth written clear in his eyes.
"Ye should," Silver appeared to be looking anywhere but at him. "It's gettin' on midnight, it is."
"Midnight?" The boy's stomach gave a great, unnerving jolt. Already? And with Silver so near…?
"Ten to, last I saw. And…and ye'll be wakin' early tomorrow, won't ye, so why don't ye just go 'long and get yerself a bit o' s-shut-eye…"
"Y-yeah. Sure. Of course. I'll do that then." Ten minutes. Something inside him trembled at the thought. Ten minutes. Ten minutes until the Judgment came, and his darkest terror played out before his very eyes. Ten minutes until dreams and reality became one for an immeasurable number of hours. The thought made him feel, somehow, both hot and cold at the same time. What was he going to see?
"Jimbo?" It was gentle, but it scared him.
"I'm going," he blurted, and then he shook himself, trembling hands squeezing into reflexive fists. Ten minutes, that was all; ten minutes to get out of the galley, ten minutes to get away from Silver, ten minutes to find somewhere, maybe the storage, maybe the bathroom, ten minutes to find a place to hide before he lost himself completely. Ten minutes to get himself together; ten minutes to slow his rapid, shaky breath; ten minutes, and maybe less, until reality itself left him.
Jim ducked his head, eyes falling to the galley floor as he slipped silently past the cook – ten minutes, ten minutes to get himself away from here, ten minutes to get himself together, ten minutes until he was alone…
"Lad?"
"H-huh?" Jim whirled round, sudden terror taking hold, heart pumping fit to burst within his chest – oh, god, he knew, Silver knew, and those dark eyes raked over him, those dark eyes judged him, the owner of those dark eyes was going to—
"Your book." The cyborg drew the ragged paperback in question gingerly up from the table – he held it so carefully, it was as though he worried his very touch might turn it to dust.
"Oh." The cabin boy colored, cursing himself; the rigid knot in his chest loosened slightly at these words – Silver hadn't noticed, of course he hadn't noticed, and if he himself wasn't being so damn jumpy, nobody would notice. "R-right. Thanks." He stepped forward slightly – just breathe, just breathe, just keep breathing, just stop panicking over every goddamn thing – and reached out a hand for the book. Just breathe. His fingers closed around the tattered spine. Don't panic. He tugged it slowly away from the iron fingers. Just fucking breathe. He held the book in his hands now. Don't panic. He should walk away now. Just breathe. He didn't know why he was still standing there. Just fucking—
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The book left his hands, falling with a crash to the galley floor. The bell. The ship's bell. The ship's bell was ringing. The ship's bell only rang every hour. The ship's bell only rang to note the time. The ship's bell…the ship's…Jim's stomach tightened in sudden understanding. Oh, god. He wrenched his eyes from the fallen title, glancing up at the cook, a million excuses ready on his lips – but when their gazes locked, dark darting green meeting pale, anxious blue, Jim understood, and his breath caught suddenly in his throat as comprehension crashed in on him, and he knew – just knew, with such certainty he could half-believe he had seen it with his own eyes – he knew if he drew back the coat's thick, dark sleeves, he would see thirteen straight scarlet marks upon the cook's flesh arm, blazing as brightly as his own.
Silver had them, too.
Silver had the marks, too – Silver, cheerful, honest Silver with his bright smiles and clever comebacks, Silver with all his wild, captivating stories, Silver with his jokes, Silver, bold and sunny and confident Silver was just as scared as he was.
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The clear, piercing tolls seemed to draw both the cook and his cabin boy from their dreams; the former was stationary less than a heartbeat before gesturing to the stairs. "Go! Go 'way, get out o' here—
"No, Silver, wait—
"You gotta go, you gotta leave now—
"You don't understand—
"GO!"
Ding. Ding. Ding.
The boy remained a moment, frozen in his own indecision; and in the end, he went. Heart seizing, and in the same instant, swelling with affection for the old cyborg, Jim turned and he went, boots pounding on the steps amid the bright, shrill rings from the bell, because he didn't need Silver and Silver didn't need him and it was so much easier that way.
And then the bells fell silent.
Jim felt his stomach drop. He turned his head instinctively to look to Silver and found he couldn't; he couldn't see anything anymore. The galley was starting to spin and blur, the world around him growing hazy and unreal. His legs gave a sudden, powerful tremble and he fell to the ground in a violent swoon, head cracking painfully on the steps as he went.
The edges of his vision darkened; he struggled to cry out but he couldn't even tell if his lips actually moved. The room tilted dangerously before his sight abandoned him completely; the blackness moved in and swallowed him whole.
