Sinbad didn't care for reading. He had the open seas and the oral stories of other cultures. He didn't need written adventures when every day was hurricanes and irate Chaos Goddesses, bar brawls and vengeful sirens.
Still, there was one book Sinbad kept, its spine cracked and broken, the papyrus pages worn to near transparency on only one page. It sat tucked among his treasures, one of the last few things he had of home. And the reason he had lost it.
He took the book in hand, settling on his bunk. The broken book fell open almost eagerly, displaying small, cramped handwriting and scandalously dull courtly laws. Sinbad didn't care about that. Instead he ran his finger over the larger, looping scrawl that was Proteus'.
I love you, and I don't know what to do about it.
Sinbad stared at it for a long time. Then, in the middle of the night, the ship changed course.