• Memory • Ghost Ship

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

OOC: Hehe, no problem. Look, I even made a speedy reply! To awesomeness!

Hart knew about biqaj who didn't travel; Ne'haer, for instance, was full of them. Still, the image Hart had of the seaborn people was of ones like his mother. Born at sea, not in a city somewhere. His mother had never spent more than a season in one place. She lived on the open water. Out where there was nothing but U'frek, and the waves, and family, and a person's duty to themselves and the rest of their crew.

Still.

He could see how some biqaj may want or need to be near to land. For those with businesses, like Pash's father. For those who had been reformed, like Pash's uncle. Hart made no comment upon the fact that the other boy was related to someone who had once been a pirate. Though his eyes tightened, just a little, and he was glad he had never met the man.

Since Jovy--

Since Jovy he didn't have much sympathy for the people who had chosen that life.

It would be difficult, but if he should ever meet him--

He would like to ask Pash's uncle what had brought him back.

“You’ll have to learn to breathe under there, then,” Pash said, and Hart turned his thoughts to other things.

He smiled. This time, though, it was the grin of someone considering some old joke. "I've a friend who will help me. Boy's like a fish. Younger than me by an arc or so, but can hold his breath underwater, I'd swear, for hours. Not the best swimmer, he sinks like a rock. Perhaps that's why he's so practiced at such things." There was that smile again; louder, this time, enough to flavor Hart's voice. "But I'm sure one day he'll learn to swim."

"Perhaps--" He took a breath. "Perhaps sometime, should you like it, you could travel on my family's ship. Just ask for the Andresmarie. I'm sure my mother would take you."

"As for fights." He actually laughed, an easy sound though it faded quick. "I have no doubt your father would not have been displeased with the outcome. I'm the worst. Never raised a fist in my life, well, save for when I was just a lad." Though he was admitting something that should have been a fault, Hart sounded as if he didn't mind at all. He sounded happy about it, in fact.

His light tone sobered quickly, though.

"Drunk..."

"I don't think I'm all that drunk, right now. Not drunk enough not to know what I'm doing, at least." A pause as he seemed to think about it. "Then again, I did consider stealing the ship." He ran a hand slowly along the ship's railing, still appreciative of its design, and like Pash glanced up at the stars.

"Mad." He spoke the word simply, as if it was no different than pointing out the constellations, and looked around for the bottle which had disappeared in the dark. He found it and, considering it, dumped its contents over the ship's side. He watched the last of the liquor drain away into the night. "Maybe." Another pause, and then he amended, "Probably."

"They didn't, I mean they didn't just kill her," he explained. There was a certain openness to what he said; it sounded blunt upon such words. "I had to take care of her, after what they'd done. I don't know if you've ever had to take care of someone like that. She was my sister and she was dying and she wanted to die, she wanted it." He was quiet.

"And I know I shouldn't feel like this, I know it's not my fault. But I let her. I feel like I let her die."

He and his sister had been together all their lives. They had always relied upon one another. They hadn't been the sort of siblings that were always side by side, but they'd been close enough. Biqaj commonly gave birth to twins. Hart had been born just after Jovy. When she'd been dying he'd done everything and it had not been enough. He still wondered, even after so much time, if she had been waiting for him to do something. He didn't know what more he could have done. Just, something.

And he hadn't been able to understand what had caused it.

"I don't know if they should be killed for what they did. My mother thinks so. She would kill every one of them herself, to a last, even if it meant her own life. I don't want that to happen. I don't want to kill them. Well. At least I don't think so." He wasn't sure. "I'm under no illusions I would be able to do something like that. Like I said, I don't fight." This time he didn't sound nearly so glad as he admitted it.

"I just need-- I need to understand them." The Blades wouldn't give him that. "Understand what happened to her, really. What they did. I know what they did, she told me, but I don't understand it." He sounded frustrated.

"Maybe--" He shook his head.

Maybe if he knew, really knew, he would also know there was nothing else that could have been done to save her.

Hart shrugged.

Then, as if hearing something or someone call out, he turned abruptly and squinted into the night.

"There," Hart said quietly, as if on a sigh. He pointed; he didn't know if Pash would be able to see. Hart had exceptionally good eyes, especially in the dark.

Out there, there was some sort of interruption in the waves. Far away still, but they were nearing with each trill that Pash steered them closer, and if one looked very
hard--

It was an island. It was nothing but a shadow against the lines of shore and sky, black like the sky was save for the glimmer of stars, and gave no minute sound besides the toss of the waves on the beach. Hart could feel it was there though; the water was different against the hull of the boat. It was choppier.

There were no signs of life except--

There was the flicker of something around the other side of the isle, Hart thought. A fire, maybe, hidden mostly by rocks or trees. Perhaps on the bright sea air there was a whiff of something heavier, of wood smoke.

Hart faced the island and spoke in a voice more grim than fearful, though there was a certain fear there. Or perhaps it wasn't fear, not really. Perhaps it was nervousness. Perhaps it was anticipation.

"Here we are."

[Pash Raj'oriq]

“I sink like a stone, too.” Pash smirked, his lanky, maturing form already lithe muscle and unfocused strength from arcs working in the shipyard and wrestling his cousins on the beach, “But if I could hold my breath like that, I’d probably never leave the sea.”

The tall Biqaj smiled at Hart’s offer, committing the name of his mother’s ship to memory, “I’d like that.” he admitted with a sudden shyness, not ashamed of his family’s sedentary choice so much as suddenly aware of the brevity of his aspirations. He was truly desperate to see more of the world, to feel it, to taste it if he could, for while he loved Ne’haer and his family, he knew there was more. He wanted to know what that more was like, and he wanted to explore it through music. It felt foolish when he thought on it too long, but the offer of having a way to travel felt good. He certainly didn’t have the nel for his own sloop and he wasn’t sure if his father would really want to build one together. Maybe he should ask.

Pash rolled his shoulders in a shrug as the other boy spoke of fighting, turning their course just a bit more to bring them more into the wind. His father and uncle were both capable of holding their own in a fight, Yarik more so with his somewhat unmentionable history and his current life in the Blades. He’d trained with him, the old, tattooed ex-pirate keeping alive the traditional forms of hand to hand combat of the Biqaj people. He’d been in a bar fight once. His cousins and siblings dragged him into all sorts of trouble when they drank or went off into town on their own. But he’d never taken a life. He didn’t want to. He’d fight to protect one, that much he knew, but the aspiring musician wasn’t sure if he had it in him to end someone else’s.

“I’ve made plenty of rash decisions sober. If you asked my parents, they’d probably tell you my whole life is one long poor decision.” Pash chuckled, though Hart turned serious. He frowned with the other boy’s story again, letting his words of hurt and regret wash over him, crawling under his tanned skin. It was always the story that caught his attention, and he watched the way Hart’s expression hardened, felt the way his words lost temperature as they left his lips.

“I’m sorry.” The taller Biqaj offered quietly, “I’ve lost family, sure, but not like that. No one I’m close to has ever been … kidnapped. Taken.”

Did they deserve to be killed, these pirates?

Pash chewed the inside of his cheek at Hart’s words, thinking of his uncle,

“My uncle Yarik ran away from home as a kid. Became a pirate, and it broke my father’s heart. His family. Long before I was born. When their ship was captured about ten or twelve arcs into his pirate life, he somehow saved the life of a Blades officer from cruel and painful death. He made a choice, and he says it was as if something inside of him had changed. The officer chose to take him into his home, to protect him. But Yarik knew he had to come home. So he did. And eventually, thanks to that officer, he became a member of the Blades himself. Underneath the scars and tattoos, my uncle’s a good man. He forgot for a while, but now he goes out of his way to show it. Some people don’t want to change, but does that deserve death? I don’t know. I wouldn’t die in their place,” The shipwright’s son admitted fiercely. He’d fight back. He’d kill before being killed, that much was clear in his maturing baritone. But still, he had no interest in wasting what could be reformed, what could be changed, “I’d fight back. But only if I had no other choice.”

He preferred to hope.

They grew silent for a while, Pash nodding about Hart’s need to understand, his own curiosity a ravenous beast sometimes, always hungry. There were some things he just needed to know for himself, and it was clear that his unexpected companion longed for something similar.

Then he pointed, and Pash followed his hand, squinting in the darkness. The faint indications of an island in the starlight, the moon not quite yet rising. Immortals if they weren’t in a sloop with a white hull—how obvious they must be against the black waves of the night! It took a few bits for him to focus, but the breeze that whipped the sails and teased his sun-bleached hair carried the smell of a fire even above the brined scent of the sea.

“Aye, but we’re just looking. We’ll have the advantage if they’re on land—the advantage to escape.” The shipwright’s son warned, voice stern. They weren’t getting too much closer. They were already going to run the risk of being seen as he turned the wheel and nodded for Hart to luff the sails and adjust the boom to slow them in the wind, “I’ll bring us around a bit, but if there’s any of them on a boat nearby, we’re in for a bit of trouble.”

Pash wasn’t sure he could outrun more experienced sailors in a chase, especially not pirates. He scanned the dark horizon for signs of another ship, even as he felt his heart claw at the hull of his chest, the anchor of fear settling in his stomach.

He should have had more of whatever Hart was drinking. His bravado was only so strong.

The island was small and they were still far enough out to perhaps have a bit of an advantage, but unless the winds shifted, sailing back would be into the wind. The smaller sloop, theirs, would lose its advantage against a larger vessel with more sails and they surely ran the risk of being overtaken in a pursuit.

Somehow, Pash trusted Hart, longed to give into his need to understand. And so he steered them to one side, the sloop heeling a bit and him leaning into the tilt, swinging them boldly around the island to give the other boy a view.

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

"The thing is," Hart said quietly, "She wasn't taken."

"You said your uncle ran away as a boy?" Why had Hart imagined that Pash's uncle had been an adult when he'd made his decision? Did anyone ever become a pirate when they were old? "Jovy ran away too."

"We needed money," he said absently, which was not all that uncommon for traveling biqaj; there were advantages to staying in one place. "And Jovy always liked adventure. And so she and another member of our crew left."

"I think she thought it would be romantic."

"I'm... I'm glad your uncle could get out of it," he said a few moments later, voice soft again but sincere. "That there was someone there who was able to bring him back." What went unspoken was that there hadn't been such a thing for Jovy. She had gone and in a way she had never returned.

They were quiet.

We're just looking, Pash warned him not all that later, as they brought the ship parallel to the island, slowing so as not to near. Hart didn't answer. He tended the lines as Pash had directed, though he didn't focus much on what he was doing. He let his hands think through the work. His mind was elsewhere.

The ship slowed til it was nearly still, the sails set and the wind steady, dancing against yards of fluttering cloth, and Hart's hands found nothing more to do. They fell limp to his sides and he stepped forward, away from Pash and away from the mast, though he remained watchful of the boom. The sloop floated just slightly around the curve of the island, gracefully, carefully with Pash's impeccable steering, and they glimsped far out the first hint of real flame. There was indeed a small fire on the beach, burning low. Maybe someone standing or sitting nearby it; at this distance and angle it was hard to tell. And there, on the shore, a dark shape amongst the weeds. Maybe a grounded longboat?

There was no other ship around that Hart could see. Nothing on the waves. He was careful when he looked, making sure to be thorough, but saw no larger vessel.

And yet, "See that?" Hart asked in a calm voice, pointing again though there was nothing to point at, and waited for the other boy to turn his gaze.

We're on a one-person sloop, Hart thought as he pointed. He hadn't yet moved. Most any sloop of this size could be sailed by a single person. Pash would be okay.

When the other boy looked back Hart would have disappeared from the deck.

Unless--

Unless Pash sensed something was amiss, and turned too quickly, and saw.

What he would have seen as he turned was Hart standing on the ship's rail, on the side of the ship that was closest to the island, arms held out slightly for balance. The boy's skin was pale in the moonlight, as if an apparition. Ghost ship. Hart took a small step forward and vanished over the side of the ship and into the sea.

There was hardly a splash, and for a long, long time he didn't come up. There was no sign of him in the water. It was like he'd never been.

Mad.

The waves had seemed to part for him like they'd been waiting. Had Hart known, he would have been upset that Pash had put any small amount of trust in him. Had he known, he might not have even jumped.

Maybe, Hart had said in response to the question. Mad, though? Are you? Crazy, that is.

Probably.

Pash had said, I’ve made plenty of rash decisions sober.

Still underwater, not coming up for as long as he could bear, Hart swam towards the island through dark and murky seas.

[Pash Raj'oriq]

Pash scanned the shore in the starlight while he listened to Hart, a frown tugging at his otherwise unusually cheerful features, the rising moons weren’t going to be full but would provide more light, more light to see and be seen. There was what looked like a small boat near the shore, nestled in the longer grass and a fire with a small number of people moving. Where there was a longboat, there was probably a larger vessel, but it was currently nowhere to be seen. The aspring musician didn’t find this comforting. Not one bit.

“Well, I’m not sure it was because of choice at the time so much as a sense of self-preservation. He’s still quite the sly old bastard, but he looks out for his family and mine.” Pash chuckled, having learned all of his combat skills from his father’s brother but also a bunch of swear words and at least one drinking game. The older man always had crazy stories the boy loved to listen to and Yarik was a fierce defender of Ne’haer and the city’s policy of freedom now that he’d changed his ways.

A rising sensation of panic filled the hull of his chest and he was quickly turning the wheel to cause the pale sloop they’d borrowed from his father’s shipyard to be perpendicular instead of parallel to the beach, hoping to give them less of a profile. He was lowering the sails in order to make them even less obvious, though it was impossible to make a pale ship invisible against the dark water and dark sky on a clear night. They would be seen eventually, and then that would be trouble—

Hart pointed to something and in his state of heightened awareness, he assumed it was the larger vessel he was afraid to see. It wasn’t. Instead, he saw nothing and when he opened his mouth to ask the other boy what he saw, he was gone, too.

“Ah, wait. No. Shit.”

Pash scowled, turning to kick the crank that lowered the anchor with as much care as a shipwright on a deadline, the boy quick to leap to the rail and look over, narrowing his eyes in the dark to see. Dammit. Was he tricked to come out here? Was he going to end up kidnapped? Enslaved? Was it just a ploy to steal the ship?

Pash couldn’t see Hart at all, but surely the boy had to breathe. He felt the sloop lurch a little. The anchor had found the bottom, and the aspiring musician had only brought his lute. And a knife. Stormy gaze swept the dark horizon one more time before he cursed a few more choice words and slipped over the edge of the rail, making sure to leave a rope dangling so he could climb back on board later.

Because he was climbing back on board later, for sure.

With or without Hart.

The sea was chilly this far from shore, even in Ymiden, but Pash wasn’t about to let the other boy do something stupid alone, if that’s what he was doing. So, he followed him, swimming as quietly as he could, but kept quiet, afraid to speak up lest he be overheard. He kept his eyes on the shore mostly, counting the men around the fire and looking for more. If he caught up, however, he’d make sure to make a grab for Hart, snatching at an arm or an ankle or whatever his chilled hands could snatch at, bobbing in the water and hoping he was still hidden from view,

“What in Ralaith’s book are you doing? We should get out of here. Fast.” His maturing baritone was as quiet as he could muster, angry undertone audible above the fear.

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

He was nearly to the beach, waiting and watching huddled in the water with his head barely above the surface, when he felt something grab him by the upper arm.

Hart's first reaction wasn't to shove at whatever or whoever it was, though he did nearly jump out of his skin. He turned and who else would it be, though for a moment he couldn't believe it.

Pash, glowing ever so slightly silver in the soft moonlight, even in the water. Glowing like Hart never had because he was only half-blood, and a half-blood who had none of the distinguishing features of his race at that. Pash was here and that was bad because unlike Hart, Pash was more likely to be seen.

"What in Ralaith's book--" Hart repeated as if trying to make sense of the words, and then pulled Pash to the side twenty feet or so, so that the foliage on the island blocked them better from whoever might be likely to see. He whispered with an exceedingly calm voice, compared to Pash's fear and anger, "What are you doing? Get back on the ship and go. I've-- I've got this."

The last few words sounded false even to his own ears, but he wasn't prepared to lie and he had never been a practiced liar besides. He hadn't been a thief either until tonight, but Hart had meant to steal a ship to do this. He was supposed to be alone. Pash had been there, and that had been okay because Hart wasn't certain he could have actually gone through with it if he was by himself on the ship he'd stolen. Pash actually made things easier in that regard; he could take the ship back and it would be like Hart had never even been there. No one would be hurt. No one would lose anything.

What the other boy wasn't supposed to do was follow. They'd just met. Pash was frightened. He was supposed to leave.

A hint of emotion touched Hart's voice then. Not anger, though he was angry. He sounded a little breathless. He hadn't been afraid before, not really, but he was scared now. The longer Pash was in the water the more likely the ship would be spotted. If the ship was spotted Hart wasn't sure Pash could get away. "Go," he said, and maybe it was desperation. "Get out of here."

He tried to break the other's hold on his arm.

Pash was right, though. Hart couldn't, wouldn't take him in a fight.

"Please," he said, even quieter than before. "Please." There was a moment's silence where Hart seemed to struggle for words. Then, "How am I supposed to, to--" he broke off, shaking his head. He took a deep breath, looking away, and when he spoke again it was in that calm, even tone from before. "I told you I wanted to speak to them. I told you. But I can't if you--" The tone broke and he stopped speaking again. Took another breath.

"Please. I am begging you. Just go." His eyes darted towards the vague outline of fire, still well off. "Quickly." As of yet they hadn't been seen. He'd been planning to give Pash time to sail the ship away before announcing his presence to whoever-- whoever might be on the little island. He could still do that.

"Please," he said again. "I'll-- I'll find my own way home."

[Pash Raj'oriq]

"Watching out for you. That's what I'm doing."

The aspiring musician hissed in return, eyes narrowing at Hart in the watery darkness, his faint glow from the silver in his veins hidden by the cold, black seawater for now, "You have this? Alone? Yeah, right."

The boy smirked, watching the other youth wrestle with Pash's bravado and loyalty. Whatever Hart had planned to do, it was obvious that the other Biqaj wasn't about to let him share his sister's fate. Pash had no interest in allowing the dark-haired boy to get hurt or captured or worse while alone. His smirk faded into a scowl and even in the pre-dawn darkness, it was obvious the shipwright's son's irises shifted in color, darkening in his growing frustration,

"So you can what? Die here? No. Please." The blond boy felt a heat lick against the hull of his chest, a protective kind of bravery that often manifested itself around his younger siblings. He was prone to stupid, reckless things, even if he couldn't see it as a youth, but he was also intentional and caring. He didn't understand Hart's sadness, and he couldn't see what the other boy was hoping to accomplish,

"I'm not going anywhere. We'll get back on the boat and go back together. This is foolishness, Hart—" His hands reached for the other boy to tug on his arm, to pull him back into the sea before anyone noticed their ghostly stolen ship, before anyone heard their fervently whispered conversation. Pash's expression was pained and afraid, worried. He ducked lower in the water, toes curling into the sandy bottom he could now touch, body tensing as if he was preparing to push off and swim away. Stronger than his lanky youthful form looked after arcs of working in the shipyard, Pash's whole self coiled and his grip on the other boy tightened.

He was immovable—both in his determination to remain as well as the heavy weight of his lean muscle,

"I'm not leaving you here. So whatever you're doing, we'll do together. Or I'll drag you back on that boat myself. Come on. Let them go. They're not worth dying for. Your sister, your mother, your family wouldn't want you to die for them, either—"

Pash summoned the eloquence he didn't know he fully possessed, his maturing baritone firm,

"—Your life defies them, Hart. More than useless death ever could. Come on. Come back with me."

Off Topic

OH HAI. Welcome back, me. Blowin' the dust off of everyone's favorite bard. Missed your face.

[Hart]

"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"

Pash spoke, and Hart held still and silent and listened. He didn't know what to say.

He didn't have any of the eloquence Pash had shown. "I wouldn't die," he objected. But it was in a small voice, unconvincing. And he knew that wasn't right, didn't he? The both of them did.

Pash had said, Your life defies them, and Hart shook his head as if to deny it. But there was something too poignant in how Pash had spoken to truly be denied. Pash's grip on his arm tightened, and Hart did nothing about it. He looked away from Pash instead, as if that might undo the effect the other's words had had on him; turned his face, and fixed his eyes upon the flames on the shore.

What was he supposed to do?

For almost an arc Hart had felt... adrift. He had pretended he was okay, and he wasn't. He had charted his course here, thinking it might help him; had followed that course so long it felt like it was the only way. How could he turn back? For long moments he kept his eyes upon the fire on the beach and he felt he couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't want to stop this; he felt he could not.

When he finally prized his eyes from the light, there was no sense of triumph. Only devastation where there had once been purpose, as if he had given up some essential part of him, some sense of ill-defined hope.

"Let's go," Hart said, and felt as if he had just lost everything, rather than gained it.

He turned and started swimming back towards the sloop.

At the ship's side, Hart climbed the rope first from water to deck, not thinking Pash would let him be the one to stay down in the dark of the sea by himself. Once aboard, he stayed close to the railing to help Pash climb up after him, giving him a hand up should he want or need it. Without being asked, Hart moved to help Pash with the sails or steering, going through the motions of the ship's work despite the terrible, clawing loss in his throat and chest.

He took slow, deep breaths.

The wind was against them as they pulled away from the island, but that wasn't entirely unexpected. Hart trimmed the sails and waited for Pash to adjust the boom. To make the best time, they'd have to beat to windward, and would have to hope the wind shifted to aid them later on. The ghostly little sloop would prove now if it was weatherly or not-- if it would be able to cut fast and close to the wind and manuever well without a lot of slowing drift.

When they made their first tack and he felt himself adjust to the ship's heel, legs holding him steady despite the tilt of the deck, Hart knew the ship would sail plenty sharp and fast enough.

Throughout their hurried journey, Hart kept his hands busy and head down. He didn't say much; instead he kept his senses open, eyes and ears peeled for any hint of a larger vessel that might approach. He didn't think they were being followed, but it was still best to focus, at least for now, on distance and speed.

He held out like that for a couple of breaks.

Another break or so, maybe a little longer, and they'd be safely back to harbor. It seemed as if they were in the clear.

The little island had long been out of sight and though the sky was still black, the horizon had begun to lighten, almost imperceptibly. Hart was standing idle-- the wind had finally shifted in their favor and now held steady, making for an easier sail.

Maybe it was the standing still that did it; he was okay, and then he was not. He stumbled to the side of the sloop and leaned over the rail as if to be sick, but this sickness was not of the body. Instead he stood, hands tight on the railing, and stared out at the slowly-changing darkness all around.

He stayed like that for a while, reminding himself to take deep breaths, that he was fine, and scrubbed away the tears that threatened to overtake him.

You're alright, he thought. You're alright if you pretend you are.

"I'm sorry, Pash," Hart said when he felt okay. When he felt whole enough again. Any apology was an inadequate one and he knew it, but like before he didn't know what else to say. "I really am sorry. I promise I'm... I'm alright now. I'll be okay. But you," he shook his head and turned towards the other biqaj, not looking well at all. "Pash, what were you thinking?"

The words could have been angry, but any anger there might have been was negated largely by how he spoke, with that same, small voice. "You wouldn't have stayed there, would you? Tell me you would have left had I not." For a moment he felt what he had felt when he had looked at those flames; how close it had been. How unable he'd been to turn away. "What were you thinking? You, you--" He didn't have words for it. The best he could manage was, "You said you have siblings." Though once again, the sentiment felt inadequate.

But that was the reason Hart was here.

Had something bad happened to Pash, it would have been Hart's fault. All of it, whatever might have happened to the other boy, and how it would have hurt his family. On him. On him.

It was that, more than anything, that was making him feel so sick.

OOC: Haha, welcome back.

Also poor Pash. He doesn't deserve to have to deal with Hart. Sorry. v_v