Hello again! I orginally had hoped that I would gradually fill in explanations and such as the story went on, but half of you are baying after my blood so I can see that isn't going to work. Here are a few explanaitions:

As I mentioned previously, this story takes place in a future in which mankind has technologically regressed. Meaning at one time, mankind had all of the technology we enjoy today, but it was lost in the future. Some implements remain, such as wrist watches, but generally most of our knowledge was lost. The human race has reverted back to a middle-age sort of period. Further explanaitions, details, and reasons will be given out as the story progresses.

Cygnus. So few of you know who/what I am referring to when I talk about that. Cygnus is a constellation, and like most constellations, is paired with its own unique story. The story of Cygnus will be relevant in the story, metaphorically and otherwise, and will come into play as early as this chapter.

Bella and the Cullens are the main characters in this story. There is no character I made up called Cygnus in the story. I am merely referencing the constellation and putting in forshadowing for later on in the story.

Some of you are just completely confused by my vague details. Everything will very soon become much clearer. I think it takes the fun of a story if everything is crystal clear from the beginning. If you have any more questions (that will not be answered later on in the story) feel free to ask me in a review.

Enjoy!

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Bella's POV:

I tried unsuccessfully to swallow, my saliva catching in my swollen throat. Even the inside of my mouth tasted of salt, choking me and making me faint with dehydration. I gasped, opening my mouth as if I could catch moisture from the air. Ominous storm clouds hung overhead, hinting at rain. Fervently I prayed for it to pour. If only so I could feel the fresh sensation of the droplets on my skin, if only so I could feel the water's icy coolness sliding down my inflamed throat…

I groaned, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. It seemed it had been an eternity since a drop of fresh water had passed through my lips. And it had been even longer since I had eaten.

My hair, my clothes, even my skin was permeated with the thick smell of seawater. Grains of salt clung to my unwashed body and hair like leaches, determined to suck every drop of moisture out of my system.

I forced myself to simply lay still. Don't move, don't make a sound. For more than one reason. Moving takes energy, precious strength I have so little of. And moving attracts attention, and here, the last thing you want to do is attract attention.

My cracked lips felt as if they would split if I dared try to form a sentence. If I dared tried to move at all. But that was okay. There was no one to talk to in any case.

I tried to regulate my breathing with the crash of the surf. In, then out. In, then out. I attempted unsuccessfully to ignore the harsh salty smell that seemed to hang in the very air I breathed. Once this was over, if it was over, it was most sincere wish never to smell the ocean again.

Closing my eyes, I concentrated only on the sounds around me. Distant shouts and profanities, and closer noises of shifting and snoring. Once I had hated the stench of blood above all else. Now I hated salt. And sweat. I wrinkled my nose, knowing no one could see it. I don't think I'd smelled the whiff of a clean body for weeks. Even among the crew members.

Breathe. In, and out. In, and out. As much as I loathed the odor of the sea, the gentle sound of the waves was like a calming caress. It assured me that time was passing. That there was still the promise of life outside the sweltering hellhole. That there was still hope.

Hope.

It seemed like such a fragile term anymore. The ship was full of "cargo" in various states of mentality. Some were old, young. Some were full of the fading hope that someday life might be different. Someday, they might be lucky; something might get better. And then, there were the fatalists. Some had been sold multiple times. They had no hope. No desire to live. No thought of anything past this day. No even dying embers of optimism remained. It was just cold, harsh reality.

There is no room for hope in this world. Not in our world at least. Save your hope for the nobles, the freemen. Let them look forward to their life, and let us just be. This is how it has been, and this is how it always will be. For you and for me at least. No, save your hope for those who can still feel it…

The muttered, guttural words the half crippled old man had told me still seemed to echo in my head. Save your hope for those who can still feel it.

Had I lost hope, over these past weeks? Had I stopped believing that someday things would be better? My uncertainty spoke for itself.

Abruptly, light flooded into the dim room. Trying to let my eyes adjust, I peeked out through the cover of my tangled hair. The inside of the cells were bathed in the soft illumination of moonlight, casting shadows over the occupants of the room. Even that dim light seemed to have the brilliance of day after my long seclusion in the blackness.

The burly shape of the first mate was silhouetted against the doorway. I winced, already stirring; anticipating what he would say next.

"Up, move! Come on, come on, quickly!" He spoke with an accent I was unable to identify, as did most of the crew. I had vaguely wondered, once or twice, where he had originated from. Not that it really mattered. And it didn't, so I had stopped caring.

The rest of the imprisoned were stirring, struggling weakly to get to their feet. The dark, roughly hewn room was full of pushing bodies, all eager to do what they were bid. Rebellious souls were stamped out from the beginning, with brutal practicality. No one dared to disobey, not anymore.

I followed the crush of bodies out the doorway, onto the deck of the ship. Inhaling deeply, I wished again for just one breath of fresh air. Stars shone with startling intensity overhead, seeming both so close I could touch them and so far away I never had a hope of reaching their shimmering brilliance.

It had been a long time since I had seen the stars.

The air around me was filled with the shuffling scrape of bare feet against worn wood and soft moans. Everyone stayed in a tightly crushed mass, as if we were afraid if we straggled we would be picked off. And who knows? Perhaps we would be.

Craning my neck over the sea of people, I searched for a less cramped space. I should have long ago gotten accustomed to the claustrophobic spaces I had been so far confined in. Struggling, I clawed my way through the crush of other bodies, earning curses and not a few vicious elbows. Finally, I emerged onto the edge of the crowd, not far from the rail of the ship.

Chancing a glance, I peeked overboard into the tumultuous waters. Waves smacked rhythmically against the rotted timber of the ship, comforting me. It was like a heartbeat, in a way. Something that reminded me I was still alive, and this was still the same world I had always lived in. As much as it had changed.

I gasped in surprise as I caught sight of a dark silhouette against the horizon. Faint lights dimly shone from it, barely reaching us through the oppressive darkness.

Land.

The word ran through the crowd like a collective shudder, people uncertain whether they should be rejoicing or dreading port. I squinted, attempting to see buildings, something else besides the ship, its occupants, and the vast rolling ocean. But it was useless, too far away.

The voice of the first mate made me jerk unexpectedly, ramming into a fellow passenger. He shot me a dirty look as the man continued.

"-will stand still, stay here. Anyone attempting to escape will be killed, no exceptions. We will be docking shortly, you will be transported. Anyone attempting to escape during that process will be killed, no exceptions." His voice was loud, reaching even the furthest prisoner, but curiously monotone. As if he had uttered the same threats so many times he was no longer remotely interested in their meaning. "Everyone will be searched for smuggled items before being unloaded. Any prisoner attempting to smuggle anything off of this ship, or any prisoner who will not be searched without a struggle,"

Will be killed, no exceptions, I finished sarcastically in my head, not quite daring to say the words aloud. It was infamous among fellow prisoners for one to turn another in for rebellious actions in exchange for a crust of bread. The term "cutthroat" took on a whole different meaning aboard a Trade ship.

I felt my attention slip away, allowed myself to wonder what awaited me once we disembarked. As much as I ached to stand on ground that did not rock with every shift of the waves, I felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding. I felt, somehow, something ominous awaited me onshore.

"-will be passed owners. No one will be permitted to stay with friends or family. You will go where you are sold. No exceptions."

So, it was the auctioneer's block? The thought should have made me uneasy, should have made me fear about whom I would be sold to. But, at the moment, I felt curiously numb. I just didn't care. Life had thrown a lot at me, and I had handled it so far. What else could the world possibly give me that would be worse than this? Death? No. In a way, death would be a blessing. A gentle release.

I had given that topic a lot of thought, during my solitary hours in the dark. Did I care if I died? My first answer would be no. Why should I, knowing what life had in store for me? But a deeper, buried instinct told me yes. I would mind. I cared too much to die.

And then I would recall my promise to my father. One of the last things he had uttered before passing away. He had told me always to care, not to let myself get to a point where I craved death. No matter what.

In some ways, that promise I had made was the only thing keeping me clinging tenuously to life. I wouldn't break my promise. Not now.

And then the first mate left us. Standing in the chilled, salty air, shivering beneath the moonlight. The worn boards of the ship creaked, wind fluttered through the sails. I stared up at the sky, watching the stars. My dad had told me once that men used to study the heavens. They looked into the sky and were able to see the stars, other planets, even other galaxies millions of miles away. The thought made my head spin. But what I had liked most, what I had remembered most, was his stories of the constellations. How different groups of stars were called different things by the ancient people. How they made stories to explain the shapes in the sky, how some even worshipped the sun and the moon.

I remembered one story in particular. The story of the constellation Cygnus. It was said that Cyncus, the son of Apollo, was the friend of Phaethon. When Phaethon was struck down by Zeus in the heavens and fell into the river Eridamus, Cyncus dove into the river the find him. He was tortured by such grief as he searched for his friend's body in the water, the gods transformed him into a swan, Cygnus. And he hung in the heavens as the swan, singing for the loss of his friend forever.

I had cried, when I first heard the story. Crying for such a reason seemed trivial, anymore. But something about the story always touched me. Perhaps it was the tragicness of it. Or perhaps it was the fact that the story, about loss, had survived thousands of years.

And where are you now, Gods who turned Cyncus into a Swan because of his grief? Had the Gods been so kind to everyone, there would be far more stars in the sky…

I turned my head away from the heavens, not allowing myself to dwell on fantasies. It didn't matter, the children's myth. It wouldn't help me live, help me keep going in the cold world. So I didn't need it. And so I wouldn't let myself dwell on it.

I glanced around, twisting my neck, stiff from gazing upwards. Some of the people had fallen asleep on their feet. Some stared dejectedly at the apporaching shadow that was land, imagining what fate had in store for them.

I allowed my eyes to slide shut, swaying slightly. I felt like an old rag someone had wrung out then hung in the scorching sun to dry. Leaning surreptuosly on the rail of the swaying ship, I allowed my self to be rocked into an uneasy sleep.

Tomorrow would come when it came, and there was nothing I could do about it.

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A little less confused perhapes? Or more confused than before? Again, if you have relevant questions that aren't plot spoilers, just ask me in a review and I will be happy to answer. And feel free to tell me what you think.

Until then,

Lon-Dubh