WARNING: This story contains Arson, Drowning, PTSD, Depression, Death, and lots of feels and tears from the author. None of this is intended to be glamorized. This story is not meant to glorify any of it. This story is about the most human side of painful things, from an inside perspective. This story will hurt to read, perhaps almost as much as it hurt to write so much of it. Some things will be written in extreme detail, and these things may be triggering, and for this I apologize in advance. No one deserves to go through the torture that I put this character through but some of you do experience it. I wish that it didn't happen at all but it does. And I hope that for those of you who see themselves reflected in this story, I hope that you might find light and love. You fight a war every day. You deserve better.
Please don't be afraid to comment on anything with this story. Tell me things you like, you dislike, things you find inaccurate, accurate, sickening, helpful, and please please please tell me why. It's the only way I can improve as an author.
All my love to each and every one of you.
Sincerely,
The Author
(PS. Beginning Warning of each chapter will be updated as additional warning tags pop up so you will have a heads up at the beginning of each chapter of what is to come)
He was half awake when the arguing started again, once more by the only other passenger who had survived on their ship, an Altmer woman, yapping and baring teeth at the survivors of the cargo ship that had hit them, causing a chorus of groans from their own sailors.
"For the love of Talos, shut up already," the Nord nearest to him barked at her. Niels was his name.
She immediately turned her attention to him to lay into him about his faith.
Yakov curled up a little smaller on his end of the boat, head crammed underneath the thin overhang of wood just to try to block out as much of the noise and light as he could.
His head hurt, the entire right side of his face swollen and bruised from hitting the wall when the collision had happened, and his teeth ached as fiercely as his shoulder. The cold made the pain worse.
But he didn't dare complain.
Some of the sailors had lost friends on the ship, some even family. One of them was actively mourning the news he would have to bring to the wife of his own brother, saying that he would never be able to meet the child they had been expecting, and he had lost little more than a means to an end.
Yakov had been baptized in fire and again blessed in water in the recent months, the fifth of so many occasions that should have killed him but didn't.
Some would say that something wanted him alive.
He just thought something liked making a sick game out of his survival.
Sheogorath probably.
He clutched the warped metal pendant and whispered prayers for protection to Auri-el.
And then clutched his head as the arguing reached a head once more, ended yet again when someone threatened to throw her overboard. They were every bit as miserable and they didn't need to hear her caterwauling away the hours.
It wasn't like any of them could do anything to make the situation better anyway.
The day was long but the night longer, and everyone was hungry and thirsty. No one should drink the water that surrounded them, the sailors advised, but the Altmer woman, Anire, did as she pleased, swallowing shallow sips of the sea from her cupped hands long before morning.
At least in the daylight, everyone could see what she was doing.
"You're not supposed to drink that," Yakov murmured as he absently watched, draped against the edge of the boat, although desperately wanting to do the same.
"Shut up, mongrel," Anire snarled at him.
He didn't even blink.
She could tell that easily.
Of course she could tell something was wrong with him.
People had made comments when they were young that they still had their baby features. Cheeks too round, foreheads too soft for their age. When they were older too, but they didn't dare say what they really though. Feeding them too much. Not slim and elegant enough.
It got worse when people found out the truth.
It wasn't his fault though.
"At least my issue is something I can't control, unlike that personality of yours."
Yakov could have physically slapped her and had half the reaction his words caused just by the look on her face and he nearly felt sick to his stomach with satisfaction while the rest of the boats cracked up with laughter.
And he tucked his head into his arm with a heavy sigh in exhaustion.
She had no more words for him, and if she dared reprimand him with force, she would have had to make her way through four sailors of varying races just to cuff him.
She wasn't keen on leaving her tidy end of the boat though.
And so he was safe.
Anire paid for her boldness though.
By the following morning, shrouded with damp mist and heat wafting through, she was drinking so often, her thirst unquenchable and her head aching, this she complained of actively. They could only look on as she destroyed herself.
Was the ocean actually poisonous, Yakov wondered in absence.
No, a sailor whispered to him tiredly, but there is too much salt in it. And salt, just like it does to meats to cure them, dehydrates.
She was dying of dehydration.
If she just stopped, she might last but at the rate she was going….
The silence was so deafening that he couldn't stand it.
Not a sound was uttered before he broke the quiet with all the songs he could think of, soft and warm, and with time, other voices joined in with their own melodies to fill the long and lonely hours until the sun made them all too drowsey to stay awake and rest as they could, sleeping through pinched bellies and aching throats.
By dark, the fog hung low and cold, and there were three sailors crammed together near his end of the boat, listening as he wove a tale for their enjoyment, one of his legs warm beneath the sleepy chest of a Breton, his knee aching but it was better than the cold as he bewitched them all, willingly.
And again when his bleary eyes opened in enough panic that he jostled the boat, he threw himself entirely into using his voice for them, distracting the others as much as he distracted himself.
He was weary though.
And only growing more tired.
It was with the dying light of the fifth, or was it the sixth, day that gave them a gift, as though a peace offering for all they had suffered, and the mist that had concealed them from the world dissipated and the moons were soothing and sweet to their sun-sickened selves, every star twinkling above them like Aetherius was waiting and welcoming them.
They would not last much longer.
Anire had passed during the night and they put her body in the water. He didn't know how long it took before she sank. He didn't look. He could barely bring himself to open his eyes anymore, the light made him so miserable, and without the mist that cooled them, the sun cooked them. The youth was the first to use what was left of his clothes to his advantage though, overshirt stripped and soaked in the water before draping it over himself to guard him from the beating sun as he sluggishly draped himself along the edge of the little boat so that the faint breeze off the ocean could cool his face.
Someone touched his shoulder.
He barely stirred.
"Yakov," someone said softly, "tell us another story."
The question was hopeful.
They were all tired.
All clinging to threads of hope.
Hope.
What hope could someone like him give them?
And he curled up a little more so he could shift his weight to the other side, his hip going numb.
He sighed deeply, twice, and then he told them all, "I once heard my best friend's father tell this story."
Had he ever spoken about himself before since they had become stranded? He didn't know.
With another weary sigh, he began, "there once was a poor boy who spent his days going door to door, selling the leather straps his father made to save for an apprenticeship. One day as he was walking from house to house, he started feeling low and weak. The boy was starving, so he decided to ask for food when he came to the next door. At every house he came to, he would ask for food, and at every house he was turned away, even when he had began to just ask for a glass of water, until he reached the door that was answered by a girl. He asked for a glass of water, but seeing his poor state, the girl came back instead with a glass of milk and the boy asked her how much he owed for the milk. But she refused payment."
"Years later, the girl had become a grown woman and she had become sick. She went from doctor to doctor around the countryside but none were able to cure her and finally, she went to the best doctor in the country. The doctor spent months treating her until finally she was cured. Despite her happiness, she was afraid she could not afford to pay the doctor for all he had done for her. But when she asked how much she owed, the doctor smiled to her and said, you have already paid in full. With a glass of milk."
He knew it was the shortest tale he had told to his audience of rampid listeners but he was too tired to indulge them any further.
They let him rest.
He shifted again, the stiff feeling in his neck had crept up to the top of his head over the few hours and had finally spanned across his forehead, making it almost impossible for him to keep his eyes open, the sun glare off of the waves making it worse every time he dared to.
It was quiet and the peace helped it from not feeling any worse, but all peace does not last as one of the three boats jostled with a shout.
"A ship!"
Someone, it sounded like Jiv, started to shout, while someone else cussed and told them to sit down, they were rocking the boat. By then though, others had joined and the stirring of the boat made Yakov knock his already bruised jaw against the wood, pain splintering up to his teeth but he blearily shifted to see what they were crying about.
And there it was, slowly crawling across the horizon in the distance was a ship, plain as day, its sails almost pink in the dusky light and his temple began to stab from the noise as they cheered and waved, trying to get the vessel's attention.
Muted anxiety seeped into his gut, the longer they made noise, the quieter they were, the more it was obvious that there was no sign of the ship even vaguely turning in their direction.
They couldn't hear them, could they? Not out in the open ocean.
Even all of them together.
It crept up from his stomach and silently dug a hole into his lungs, his throat, shivering and numbness taking over until like a sickness it begged to come out.
His old master once told him that a gifted singer could be heard above an entire orchestra of instruments, louder, more precise.
None of them were singers, they didn't know how to use lungs, throat, cheeks, and tongue to project their voices in a place where acoustics were dead.
He could though.
And Yakov gave it his all.
As loud and as long and as hard as he could, the sound more akin to a scream than song deafening and his head feeling fit to split like an egg, but he didn't stop, just took another breath and kept going, eyes clenched shut as he begged, oh he begged to Auri-el that the ship would hear them, see them.
Stunned for long moments at his sudden outburst, the others began to join him in their own noise making, as loud and as awful as they could.
Somehow in the middle of all that noise, there were cheers as well.
Someone wrapped an arm around him and pulled him against their chest, "you glorious, amazing boy!" they exclaimed, hugging him tight and his voice left him, shuddering hard and breathless, "they're coming! They're coming! We did it! You did it!"
He could only wheeze as his eyes burned, throat raw, head stabbing and teeth aching and Divines he hurt so much but there was so much infectious joy that he could even manage a smile as he pressed into the contact that didn't let up.
The shadow almost felt sudden, cool and refreshing after hours of cooking in the sunlight, and there was a rustle of wood and voices, someone urging him to open his eyes, climb the ladder, and it was all he could do to grab the rung after the foot of someone else, pulling himself up and out of their meager saving grace that had given them a few more days.
The gods had given them another chance, and they took it as soon as they could wrap their fingers around it eagerly.
And someone kept an arm around Yakov's shoulders, keeping him upright as he leaned on them, looking over the crew that had rescued them.
Another cargo ship, holding more goods than people, just like the ship that had ran into his own, and someone spoke up as his eyes crossed beneath his eyelids, explaining their situation no doubt, and he opened them again when the arm around him jostled.
They were introducing themselves.
Or rather, the person keeping him on his feet introduced himself, and then Yakov.
He tried to introduce himself but what came out of his throat barely sounded like words, slurred together before his head drooped back as though bonelessly disattached to his own neck and there was panic.
The sky looked beautiful though, beyond the masts and sails and ropes, the ringing in his ears was deafening until finally, he closed his eyes.
He remembered little else but being surrounded by darkness, the throbbing of his face sated with a sense of comforting damp pressure.
The creak of wood, and the smell of burning candle wick.
Soft murmurs.
Voices that he had grown familiar with over the past few days.
Talking about what they planned on doing when they got home, or to wherever they were going.
"What about him?" someone whispered, "what of his parents? Were they on board?"
"He was traveling with his master. I imagine he was either under an apprenticeship or gifted to the man by his parents, perhaps for a better life than what they could manage. They aim high, those high elves, but not all start high."
Ah, they were talking about him.
And he shifted, entire body aching but no longer was the case with his head.
"Easy," someone hushed, touching his chest, his shoulder, "don't go moving around. You gave us a scare, fainting like that."
"Give him some water."
He was helped to sit up just enough for that, cold and crisp against his lips, barely a swallow and he choked though. There was more success with the second effort.
And with time, he was allowed to sit, taking the cold wet cloth from his forehead and blinking tiredly, the room dimly lit perhaps for his own sake, with four other people draped across the room in chairs and beds, someone snoring.
"Is this real?" he croaked.
Someone nodded. "Yeah, lad. It's real."
A touch to his head, ruffling his hair, gentle, affectionate.
It had happened so frequently as of late that it no longer felt so foreign.
In the recent month, two even, he couldn't recall even once a hand had been raised to cuff him: even when the proud Altmeri woman looked at him with hatred, she didn't dare.
"You did good, lad. Your hollering caught their attention. Sounded like a banshee but you did it," one praised, "should have known a singer like you could have volume like that."
"It was the pitch that did it, I bet. If he was any older he probably couldn't have sounded that shrill."
His throat ached at the memory of screaming the way he had.
Someone gave him more water, letting him drink his fill as he organized his thoughts.
They were safe, on a ship, alive, there was water, and beds, and food too judging by the bowl that was still occupying the side table.
But…
"Where are we going?"
That was important.
Worries flitted across his mind, through his throat and nesting in his chest, he was dead if they were on a ship to the Isle, Valenwood nearly as damning, would he—
"High Rock. They're porting in Daggerfell. We'll be able to figure out how to end up where we need to end up once we get there," someone assured him, "write to people, let our families know we're okay."
Yakov nodded mutely.
He had no family to write back to.
None that he could write too.
He was supposed to be dead after all.
Someone urged him to eat, and to lay back down, rest, recover. It had been a long few days and while they were intruding, the Captain was a kindly sort and willing to share what could be.
They would be fine.
They assured him they would be.
Two more weeks and they'd be in port. Some of the sailors would have to find new work, they had been employed by the ship specifically. Passenger ships though were a lot of work, they were sailors, not hosts and maids, some of them openly considered finding another cargo ship like this one to fill their wages.
It took a day or two longer before the healer on board said he was fine, dehydrated for so long, starving, suddenly able to stand up for the first time in days, it was no wonder his blood pressure dropped so harshly. His headache was gone too. A healing tincher and some gauze had been put on his bruising and after a day of its use there was no sign of swelling and only a bit of off colored green was left behind. He felt better.
It was obvious he did.
Without his master to be concerned about, running to his every beck and call and hiding among the crew when he was drunk, Yakov spent as much time with his fellow survivors as possible, encouraged even more now that they were safe to tell stories and sing, sometimes even catching crew members of the ship listening in and enjoying themselves. One evening even the captain took time to listen, and told him he would do well in a bard's college, a compliment that made his ears go copper colored and the smile on his lips was so awkward and hopeful and endearing that the crew joined in with encouraging him, telling him that if he joined one of the colleges in Tamriel and worked real hard, one day he might become a famous bard.
It was…
Perhaps the most hopeful thought he had had in a while.
To go somewhere and do something he loved and let others know that love as well.
It would be nice.
But he remembered… he was supposed to be dead. He was supposed to live a quiet, safe life, so that the Thalmor would never find him.
He shouldn't strive to be anyone that the world might know.
And he went quiet and still, the brilliant sunlight of hope turning bleak.
They wondered if he was unwell again, suddenly drained of energy and not really wanting to sing, or talk, or even move.
The best that the healer could reason was that the trauma he had gone through with the ship might have just caught up to him.
Sometimes it's like that, he said.
Just like in the dimly lit hideout of the Shadows where he did not leave until instructions had turned into actions to assure his survival, he did not leave the little cabin filled with four bed, only rising to eat the food and drink the water that he was given and to relieve himself, and lost were the days to him, blindly blurring into one another without the sun and the moons to reach him.
One day though, he was roused by someone sitting down heavily on the side of his mattress, a hand resting to his shoulder.
"Lad. Could you spare me a moment to ask you a few questions?"
Rarely did this person come to his attention, but he recognized the voice: Ancola, the firstmate of this ship.
If she was taking the time to do this, it meant that it was important, but also that the captain was unavalible to do so as well.
A soft noise left his throat, acknowledgement, and he shifted his shoulders a little to rest them back on the mattress, to look at her and give her his full attention.
"A lot of your people have been wondering about you. For after. You were with your master but now your master is dead. Where were you going?" she asked, her tone cautious but calm. She was no motherly woman, but she did not dare wish to upset him with her words.
"Bravil."
He had not spoken in days and his voice was ill with use.
"What were you going to do when you got there?"
"Gerrick… my master was going to arrange an apprenticeship."
"Your parents arranged for him to do this?"
"My…" he breathed. And again. Steadying himself. He couldn't.
Aware that the question had struck something in him, her lips pursed, not daring to persue the question any further, "do you know where your apprenticeship was supposed to be with?"
He shook his head. He couldn't remember.
Her frown deepened.
Yakov gazed up with her, his expression entirely blank, it had not changed at all since he had dared to turn towards her, only his breathing had exposed his nerves.
And she sighed. And patted his shoulder.
"Something will be figured out, lad. We'll be hitting port in two days."
So he had lost an entire week after all…
She left him alone after that.
The next day, he dared to get up and walk.
Land was nowhere in sight but somehow even the air was different, and if he closed his eyes and listened well, he could nearly hear the birds that so often frequented the coasts and he marveled at how it must be the same on every land.
Or perhaps he was delusional.
It was a peaceful thought.
And he walked, savoring the sunlight for the moments that he could.
But all peace does not last, and his ended when he heard raised voices inside a room that most certainly belonged to the healer.
Arguing.
Three…
Five people, he thought.
He recognized all of them.
Leta, Jiv, Basir, First Mate Ancola, and Captain Dyus.
"You can't just expect him to thrive on his own, he's barely grown!"
"And what do you expect us to do with him? Have the ship adopt him as a cabin boy?"
"There are orphanages all over that would happily take him."
"You're delusional. He's every bit of twelve, if an orphanage took him, it would be so they can put a little more money in their purse. They'd turn him into labor for being so old and not give a second thought about showing him to be adopted."
"He should go back to where he's from, no doubt his parents will take him back."
"A boy as eager to be useful as he is, his parents sent him off for a reason."
"He's nearly a young man! Have you even thought to ask what he wanted to do?"
"He's a child!"
"That's enough, all of you," the captain barked, "there is no point in talking about this now. When we reach port, we will take him to the customs office and arrange for him to go to a holding house until the partners of the boy's master can be reached. They will decide what to do with him, be it send him back to the Summerset Isle or send Yakov to them."
He didn't stay any longer to hear anything else, thoughts already turned into the high frequency vibration of a tuning fork in his head as he walked back to the room and curled back up in his bed, jaw aching from its tight clench and sickness rising in his stomach only to linger in his throat.
Gerrick had taken him at the beckoning of the Shadows, and he was to be deposited in Bravil before the Ayleid researcher reached his true destination of the Imperial City, his partners wouldn't know a single thing about the arrangement and would know nothing about the boy, just as had been intended. Without the knowledge, if they received question of him, no doubt they would state they knew nothing and of course he would be sent back.
He was dead if he stayed.
No one tried to rouse him in his feign of sleep when the others returned to the room and only when morning came and the heavy plank drew between the ship and its dock was the room bursting with life, sailors readying themselves for their departure and Yakov among them, but somewhere between seeing him step out the door and the crew descending onto the pier, there was something odd.
"Is Yakov still on the ship?"
"He was right behind me."
But there was no sign of the boy, in the ship, on the dock, anywhere.
He was dead if he stayed, but damned if he left.
And Yakov had promised Linwe he would live.
Last night was the last night of his last life, Linwe had told him.
Live well in this new life.
Damned.
But alive.
Yakov ran until the invisiblity spell dissipated.
And did not stop running.
There was no until.
There would never be an until.
Not until the day he died.