This takes place concurrently with my story "Mousetrap", during the "A few weeks later..." time skip.
Sickbay was little more than a corner of the crew's sleeping quarters, a bunk designated to store the dying and the dead in the wait for the former to become the latter. There wasn't much to be had in terms of treatment on board the pirate ship the Bloody Queen, they had no able surgeon. What you could expect was a saw, some bandages and a large hit of booze. If something started to smell you cut it off, and hoped for a better result next time. But at least they usually had one of the crew present to observe their suffering, depending on what could be spared at the time. At this time, as most times, that fell on the person with the lowest rank and the least experience. And right now that was him. It was a small comfort, but dying alone had to be worse.
Superstition was almost contagious among the sailors. Most men on board would rather work his hands raw pulling rope than watch over the sick or injured, as if their bad luck would rub off on them. Life at sea could be as fickle as the railing marking the border between the deck above and the depths below, all it took was a strong wind, a high wave or one misjudged step. Everyone was on edge as soon as there was some kind of accident, and searching for something to blame was easier than facing the unknown. That's what Jona told himself anyway, trying not to think too much about it as he dribbled lukewarm water from a rag onto the cracked lips of the unconscious sailor before him.
He put his fingers to the young man's throat, gently rubbing it in the hopes that it would make him swallow rather than choke on Jona's feeble attempt to relieve his thirst. For the first few days after the accident they had mixed a little honey into the liquid, but when he showed no signs of waking the captain decided against wasting the resource on him. A week had passed since then, and he was still clinging on to life somehow, the young but damaged body refusing to take that final step. Too damaged and near death to work properly yet too alive to throw into the sea.
It was hard to determine the age of humans, but he was young, maybe even younger than Jona was. Even so he looked stronger, already more accustomed to a life at sea. He had a smooth face, short cropped dirt brown hair and a large mole on his left cheek, near the nose. His skin was dark from working in the sun, feet calloused from rough boards. He didn't know what colour eyes he had because he hadn't opened them once since Jona had been there, and before the accident he'd never been close enough to notice. Not that he'd ever tried to find out, either. It hadn't seemed important at the time.
He didn't even know his real name, only that the other sailors had called him "Pup". For the same reasons they called him "Mouse", most likely. How he ended up on the ship, where he had been heading and what his hopes and dreams for the future had been, the answers to those questions would die with him now. Was there someone out there somewhere waiting for him, or worrying about him? A family who would never find out the truth? Maybe they could have gotten along, if he'd tried. Jona knew it could just as well be him on that bed, he knew that better than anyone. It was a small miracle he hadn't just tripped on his own tail and gone over the railing already.
One inattentive moment was all it had taken for Pup to get tangled up in the pulley ropes, accidentally releasing the safety which had been keeping the heavy crate they were hoisting from the cargo hold steady. Jona had been there, heard the snap of the taut rope whipping against wood as the knot unraveled. The crate was flung sideways with full force and the impact had sent the lanky sailor flying across the deck, head cracking against the boards. There hadn't even been enough time to register what had happened until he was already down, his skull open and oozing, limbs twitching until he stopped moving at all. That was except for the faint but even rise and fall of his chest with each stubborn, life inducing breath.
Jona sighed softly through his nose, wiping his wet hands on the front of his shirt thoroughly before he sank back down on the stool next to the berth. He didn't wish death on anyone, but seeing him lying there, face hollow and his skin clammy, complexion waxy and almost yellow, he couldn't help but think that it'd be a kindness if he would simply let go. The wound on his head had started to smell sickly sweet and putrid, and if you got close enough he reeked so badly of ammonia it would make bile rise in Jona's throat. He didn't want to feel as repulsed by him as he did, it seemed unfair, but he couldn't help it. He smelled like death, like his body was already decomposing in spite of the heart still beating. It didn't matter how many times he changed the damp wound dressing, the stink just wouldn't go away. Jona wished he could do more for him, but as always he was powerless to help. It wasn't like keeping him alive was doing the young man any favours at this point, but at least he wasn't in any pain, probably.
He pulled his gaze away from the unconscious man and flipped the book open in his lap, gently turning the pages until he found the place where he had stopped previously. He had gotten through at least a quarter of it already, even if he couldn't read it at his usual pace. It was in Common, which he could read just fine, but the book he had lent him was full of unfamiliar terminology and phrasings, words he'd never encountered before. And the oil lamp swaying from the ceiling was barely enough to read by, which didn't help either. Holding the open book closer to his face to be able to see the finer details he traced one of the drawings with his finger, the tip of his claw scraping gently against the smooth paper. It was beautiful and intricate, some stylized attempt at explaining the way different elements interacted with each other. He was just about to start on the chapter when a sharp jostle to the stool he was sitting on brought him back to reality with a jerk.
"Oi! Mouse!" a voice barked behind him, and Jona immediately snapped the book closed, straightening his back. He almost gasped out loud as the sudden movement sent a stabbing pain through his neck, his body stiff after hours of sitting hunched, watching, reading and waiting. He'd been so engrossed in the book he hadn't even noticed the shadow looming over him. The man snorted, giving the stool another spiteful kick. "Wake the hell up; what do you think you're doing? Pay attention! The boatswain's looking for your sorry ass, and you're hiding in here?"
"I'm not hi—"
"Shut up."
"S-sorry sir," Jona stuttered, hurrying to his feet. The man looked him up and down with a scowl, eyes eventually landing in the book in his hands.
"What do you have there?" he asked, and Jona's breath caught in his throat, fingers clenching the cover tighter. He shook his head, quickly stuffing the book down the back of his trousers and pulling his oversized shirt down over it.
"It's n-nothing."
"Well, whatever. What are you waiting for, you little shit? Move!"
"Yes, sir! Sorry s-sir!" Jona replied quickly, almost tripping on his own feet in his haste to leave. He shied away when he passed the man who turned to follow; half expected a blow to the back of his head, or worse, the pirate's heavy footfalls but a step behind him. In the doorway the sailor gave his back a hard shove, sending him stumbling out into the dimming light outside. It was late afternoon and the sun was just about grazing the horizon, the clear skies to the west already colored a light shade of pink. Sharp winds sent the rigging flapping and rattling, the canvas of the sails snapping each time a changeable gust passed the ship.
Sailors off the first dogwatch who had already had their evening meal were lounging about, enjoying their free time before the bell rang out again. The first mate was standing by the main mast, fists on his hips as he looked up along the tall structure.
"Sir," the sailor greeted his superior as soon as they got within earshot, giving Jona another push in his direction, "caught me a Mouse."
"Hm?" the boatswain grunted and turned towards them, his gaze drifting down to settle on Jona with a frown. "Nicely done Keaton, you're dismissed."
Jona didn't look up at either man as the sailor trudged off, keeping his eyes on the deck and his long ears submissively lowered. The ship's boatswain would be an average looking man if not for his beard, which was full enough to compensate for the lack of hair on his head and as fiery red as the temper he was infamous for. He was taller than he was broad, but his back and shoulders still had the sinewy muscle of a man who had spent his life doing hard, physical work. He was popular among the men for his fairness, and because he'd worked his own way up, earning their respect along the way.
"You w-wanted to see me, s-sir?" he asked carefully, trying not to fidget, but his shoulders were high and tense under the man's contemptuous glare. Even if he couldn't see it he still felt it, boring into him.
"No, I don't want to see you, but I have little damn choice when my capable men are all preoccupied with real work," he grated. "The nest's empty, and we're heading into contested waters. Since Pup's down for the count you're taking over as lookout, for now."
"Wh— Up... there... sir?" Jona said, his voice almost failing him and coming out as little more than a whisper. He swallowed hard, slowly raising his gaze, the blood leaving his face as he looked up, craning his neck until he was able to see the crow's nest up at the very top of the main mast.
"The hell do you think? Quick on your feet, while the light is still with us," he said, picking a waxed canvas duffel bag from where it had been leaning against the mast.
"H-how do I even..."
"Don't you know anything? You climb the ratlines until you get to the futtock shrouds," the boatswain said, annoyance in his tone. But he still pointed out what he meant on the standing rigging as he explained. "Then follow them and up over the side of the nest."
"What if I fall?" Jona blurted, not even thinking before he opened his stupid mouth.
"I'd advise against it," he scoffed humorlessly, throwing the duffel bag at Jona's feet. "Take that with you, and don't you dare show your face again until I bloody well tell you to come back down."
Climbing the main shroud was harder than it looked. The ropes never gave him enough purchase to step up, constantly moving in every possible direction, and he had to use his arms to drag himself along as much as push off with his legs to reach each horizontal ratline. That he was shorter than the average human certainly didn't help, and neither did the wind snatching at the bag slung over his back and trying to drag him along. As if it wasn't heavy enough to carry already. He dug his claws into the twisted hemp, all his focus going into not looking down as he inched forward. The thinner lines slipped in between the paw pads of his feet, rough twine burning and cutting into the skin painfully. Jona's whole body was trembling with the effort, his arms threatening to stop working and constantly forcing him to pause in an attempt to shake the blood back into them.
It was slow going, a far cry from the way the seasoned sailors would dance across the beams and rigging, balancing and climbing as if it was nothing. But he was making progress, and by the time he made it to the futtock shroud he noticed the hole in the bottom of the platform above. Jona choked on a short laugh in relief when he realized he wouldn't have to climb the ropes upside down to get into the nest after all. Reaching up with a shaky arm he grabbed the edge of the hole and held on with white knuckled desperation, cold sweat tickling the fur on his back. He pressed himself against the mast, claws scraping against it as he struggled up through the narrow hole while trying to not think about the punishment he might receive if he accidentally scratched the wood. As soon as he managed to crawl all the way through into the crow's nest he collapsed and rolled over onto his back, chest heaving and nausea flooding his mouth with sour spit.
It's not like he'd never climbed things before. Like the weathered sandstone cliffs along the shores of Vol'dun, or those crumbling ruins you found throughout the deserts there. When his family would pass an oasis on their travels they would sometimes scale the trees growing there searching for hives containing honey. But he'd not climbed ropes before and never anywhere near this high. Besides, then he had always had someone there to watch his back, and offer a hand when he needed one. Jona blinked the moisture from the corners of his eyes, slowly catching his breath. The book was still stuffed down the back of his trousers, digging harshly into his flank. With a grunt he lifted his backside just enough to pull it free and then held it up for a closer look. He thumbed the leather cover and the pattern engraved along the edges, admiring it. His hands felt chafed from the rough ropes, but at least the skin wasn't broken, so he might get away with only a blister or two. This would have been a perfect opportunity to read more if it hadn't been for the fading light, and the fact that his head still felt like he was rolling down a sand dune.
Shifting he fumbled blindly for the bag, making sure it was there as he pulled himself up into a sitting position. The crow's nest was shaped like a large barrel, the bottom just wide enough to let him lie down if he bent his knees. Up here you could really feel the swaying of the ship, every turn or roll of a wave amplified until it made the whole world spin. Jona had been spared the worst seasickness down on deck, in spite of being new to seafaring, but this was something entirely different. Closing his eyes it felt like he was going to tumble right off the edge, his whole body reflexively bracing against the movement, sick burning in his throat. With a groan he convulsed, retching, but besides a long, sticky tendril of spit nothing came up. His stomach was just too empty.
Fighting the urge to vomit again he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and pulled the waxed canvas duffel bag into his lap. The light was fading quickly, and he saw no lamp up here. There wouldn't be any moonlight to rely on for quite some time, either, and even then the moon wasn't even full. He wondered why they'd send him up at dusk if he couldn't even see anything until sunrise, but then maybe the stars would be enough. If so he would be equipped for it at least, because as he put the book into the bag for safe keeping he found a collapsible monocular inside, as well as two hardtack biscuits and a flask. At the very bottom there was a rumpled pack of cigarettes that seemed more like a forgotten leftover than a deliberate gift for him. Not that he smoked, but maybe he could give it to someone else, get on their good side for a while.
He took the flask out and drank cautiously from it, forcing the water down as his body simultaneously worked to send it back up. It wasn't until now he actually took a moment to look around, not that there was a lot of space to explore, but tucked away against the mast he spotted what looked like a blanket. It was stiff and stank of mould, no doubt exposed to the elements for months, alternating between being soaked, frozen and scorched by the sun. But the thick wool still felt warm, and it was better than nothing at all. With a soft sigh he pulled it around his shoulders as he slowly stood, holding on tighter than necessary against the swaying, his sight swimming. The sides of the nests were high, there was no way he would fall out of it, but vertigo still hit him when he saw how high up he was, and at the realization that he would have to get back down the same way he'd come.
As far as his eyes could see there was nothing but water. The first stars had started to appear, their pale light vaguely illuminating the foaming tips of the waves and creating a vast and seemingly infinitely repeating pattern all around him. The Bloody Queen suddenly felt tiny in spite of her imposing size and her crew of roughly sixty men on board. Compared to the seas she was like nothing, they could sink right here and now and no one would ever be able to tell. He had to believe the people he loved were out there somewhere, all four of them alive, and hopefully better off than he was. All five of them, Kirin too, even if Jona knew such useless thoughts only made it harder to find closure in the end.
Hopes and dreams were dangerous things; they could pull a man down into the depths just as sure as keep him afloat. On one side it's what kept him going, but on the other it ate away at him like a disease. Uncertainty and despair would seep into any exposed cracks as soon as he allowed himself to feel too much. It wasn't as if that stopped him though, no matter how hard he tried, especially now. But how were you supposed to find something as small as a person somewhere as enormous as the whole world? He had no idea where they were at this point, the last time he had seen them were weeks ago now, months even, and then even Vol'dun had been too vast. They could be anywhere by now, he had to narrow it down somehow. If only he knew how.
Jona turned his gaze down towards the deck far below. The lanterns had been lit, creating little circles bathed in warm light. Near the edge of one of them, by the helm, he could see a shape he immediately recognized. Unlike the sailors which seemed to be in constant motion, always busy with some task or another, he had an air of following his own pace about him that Jona could sense even from where he was standing. And the tiny, orange glow was a dead give-away, little more than a bright dot in the darkness each time he took a drag from his cigarette. Squinting Jona could tell he was holding his sextant, checking their position to make sure they were holding course just like he did every evening, the light reflecting off the brass instrument.
Even though he couldn't make out Hashin's features he still couldn't help but look at him. There was something in the way he carried himself, his easy confidence, both laid back and intimidating all at once. Yet compared to the captain or first mate's broad legged stance and jutting chests he didn't come off as cocky, either, as if he didn't really have anything to prove to anyone. Navigator Hashin Clearwell was unlike the rest of the crew in many ways. It was as if he wasn't one of them, he was treated differently, and his role on the ship was less clearly defined. He had the ear of the captain, and as long as he performed his duties he was given more leeway and privileges than most. Or that was Jona's impression of it anyway, from the observations he had made over these past couple of weeks.
But Jona had sensed that Hashin was different from their very first meeting, because unlike the others on board the navigator had offhandedly spoken to him like he was an actual person, without scorn or aversion in his voice. When he lent him those books he hadn't even hesitated to hand them over, seemed almost eager about it, curious. Jona figured there might be strings attached, but he was just too grateful for the opportunity to read again to care. And that Hashin might be interested in him in that way hadn't even crossed his mind.
It could just be tit-for-tat of course, since he had more or less nothing to his name this was one of the few things Jona had to offer in exchange for borrowing the books. But that wasn't what it felt like. Hashin could have forced him if he wanted to, demanded anything for nothing, but he didn't. Sure, Jona's ribs were still a little bruised and tender from where his chest had hit the table that time, but it had still been Hashin who used his mouth to pleasure him, and not the other way around. Wasn't that closer to giving a favour rather than asking for one in return? Either way it was way beyond anything he had ever done with anyone else before. It wasn't until he came down again afterwards with his feet planted firmly on the deck that the implications of what had happened really hit him. And since then the things Hashin did, they did together, had become considerably more complicated.
Jona supposed he wasn't really a virgin anymore, even if the experience had turned out to be rather different from what he had vaguely expected it to be like. That it had been with another man, for one thing. And he hadn't disliked it. What did that say about him? That he liked men? Or maybe he just liked this one specific man. If he liked him, that is. He was definitely attracted to him. Very attracted, but was that the same thing as liking someone? He didn't really know him at all.
He had usually avoided other boys growing up, because except for Kirin most of them had just been mean to him, picking fights because he was weaker or just said hurtful things for fun. Not that some girls hadn't done that too from time to time, but it rarely got as bad. That he would somehow catch the eye of another man, even get romantically involved with one was like some kind of twisted joke. Yet here they were. If you could get away with calling what they had a romance in the first place. It wasn't as if he'd been given any real choice in the matter.
Regardless Hashin hadn't wasted any time getting intimately acquainted, at least physically. He was so casual about it, and seemed to know exactly what he was doing, which only made Jona even more acutely aware of his own inexperience, and how awfully awkward and self-conscious he actually was. At least Hashin didn't laugh at him. He didn't really make a big deal out of it at all, or act any different towards him afterwards, so Jona tried to do the same. It was either that or wanting to sink right through the floor in embarrassment. He was eternally grateful no one was here right now to see how hotly his face burned just thinking about it.
The books had given him a faint and flickering glimmer of hope, and his time with Hashin had put his head right up there with the clouds, but barely two weeks had passed. He didn't know what to believe yet. Whatever this turned out to be what he really wanted more than anything still hadn't changed, and that was to get off this horrible ship. To find his way back home.
The bell tolled, marking the end of the second dog watch. The sound of bare feet against the deck reached even him as the crew at large moved around below, one group coming out of the galley while others moved inside to await their next shift. His thoughts went to Pup, if he was still going to be alive by morning, and if anyone would be by his side tonight if he passed. Jona expelled a slow breath, his stomach still rebelling, but he reached down to fish a biscuit from the bag anyway. He wasn't used to the hard consistency of them yet, you had to use his molars to bite and gnaw through the dry ration, but he had grown up eating worse. And going hungry was something he was pretty used to. Working his tongue between his teeth to get the sticky goop out from between them as he chewed he kept observing the deck far below. Water would have been nice, but he had no idea when they would order him back down, so he was better off conserving it for now.
Hashin was just done with his measurements, busy writing it all down in the ship's log resting on his arm when someone approached him from behind. It looked like it was the captain, who was easy enough to identify by the leather tricorn on his head and the hint of gold jewelry glinting in the torchlight. He slapped his navigator on the shoulder as he passed him, but then stopped and turned as if to say something. Hashin waved a hand loosely in response, and Jona wished he could hear what they were saying. He could have sworn he heard someone laugh, but the wind made it impossible to tell for sure. The captain went down the steps and crossed the deck, and Hashin closed the heavy logbook and propped it in under his arm as he followed after. His pace was slower, leisurely, but his long legs still allowed him to catch up without even trying. Outside the captain's cabin Hashin flicked what remained of the tiny, glowing embers over the side of the ship before he headed inside, the light spilling out bright and warm until the door closed behind him.
Jona supposed that was his cue, and with a soft sight he lifted his gaze and trained his eyes on the horizon instead, which reached endlessly in every direction, nothing in sight besides the calm waters. He could only hope that it would stay that way. At least it wasn't raining. Shivering slightly from the cold he pulled the wool blanket tighter around his shoulders, thoughts drifting to the crumpled pack of cigarettes in the bag. The men on board liked to spend their free time gambling for smokes. He imagined it was less of a risk than losing your wages, but valuable enough to add some stakes. Smoking would get them through the long and cold night watches, helping them stay awake and keeping the hunger at bay. Right now he could kind of see the appeal of it. Keeping his fluffy tail pressed snugly against the back of his thighs to shield against the wind Jona took another bite from the hard biscuit, chewing slowly and reluctantly. It was going to be a long night.