Swords clank together, metal on metal grating through the air, as the crew trains.
Something I started engaging in more than ever.
As a collective, we always have a set time to train, but usually it's only those who feel like it who take part; unless we're getting ready to partake in a particular mission that requires us to all scratch up on our skills.
Every day for the past three months, I’ve engaged in practice.
Working my body to the brink of exhaustion. It’s the only way I can make myself sleep– exhaust myself to the point that I have no choice, but to pass out.
And on nights that doesn’t work, I’ve taken up Amara’s old drinking habit.
Not quite to the extent she would drink, but enough to have me black out drunk and additionally grumpy the next morning.
The sun is particularly punishing today, as I spar against two others. My skin drips with sweat, the salt burning my eyes as I blink. I know I’m pushing myself– and my crew– too far,but it’s the only thing that’s keeping my restless mind in check.
Keeps memories of Tally from filtering through every aspect of my day.
My loyalty and heart belongs on this ship, just like it always has, but it feels like I left my head on Dead Chest Island.
When I do sleep, my dreams– or rather nightmares– are invaded with memories of Tally. Of what we got up to around her island. Things that could have happened, if things didn’t end the way they had.
My sword ricochets against another with a rather vicious hit, my patience wearing thin. Janny’s eyes pop open wide, sweat dripping down her face, her wide-eyed gaze is trained on the cross-section of our swords. Far too close to her face for what's meant to be a mild training session.
Our third eyes us both wary, before stepping back with hands raised and muttering excuses about being elsewhere.
It’s only then, I realise how over the top I was being during training, that I basically just attacked my crew mate. I let my thoughts get so tangled up in Tally, that I got carried away.
Mentally cringing, I pull back. “My apologies, Janny.”
She puts on a wary smile, but drops her sword. “No worries, we all get lost in our heads sometimes.”
I lift my chin in a half nod, only for my eyes to fall over the top of Janny and land on Amara. Her gaze latches onto mine, her eyes questioning what's going on. Then, she’s stomping her way over to me, her strides sure and determined to reach me before I can run and bail once again.
“Thanks for sparring with me, Janny.” Before the words have finished falling from my mouth, I’m turning and walking away from Amara’s war path.
As usual, my emotions are hidden away behind my walls.Even if they are now slightly fractured, they are so well practised no one notices the slight differences.
Trying to move as swiftly as I can away from Amara only gets me so far. The woman is like a cobra, swift and graceful but her ability to strike proves to her testimony of being the most fierce pirate captain.
A hand grabs at the back of my shirt and pulls me back into a hard chest. A smalloofleaves me from the unexpected motion, before Amara turns me around to face her. Her touch feels wrong, too harsh and everything too large and calloused, instead of soft and dainty.
Her gaze searches my face intently, I can feel the way she’s seeing through the little gaps that Tally left behind. Cataloguing every crack and break in my facade, with every flick of her pupils.
“What’s going on with you, Cyrus? You’re not right. You haven’t been right since we left Dead Chest.” Amara looks concerned and with a quick glance around, I can see we’ve garnered the interest of a few others, also showing their concern as plain as day.
Except for August, who looks excited by the prospect of violence.Of course.
My throat is gruff as I respond, “Not here, Amara.”
Her concern morphs into irritation. “Then where? Because you’ve been avoiding being near me–”
The rest of her sentence is cut off by a screech. Both startled, we push back and look up, and there, above us is a raptor coming straight towards us.
Amara instantly puts her arm out for it to land, taking on the weight of the heavy bird, without so much as a wince. Her deft fingers instantly start untangling the rolled parchment on the bird's ankle.
Once unattached, the bird flies off and rests on the mast, squeaking lightly.
She looks up before unrolling the paper, gaze threatening. “This conversation is not over, Cyrus.”
