"Whatever you need," the Razmani smith was saying. And he meant it -- in his mind, anyway, this was the right thing to do, to say. He was standing in the storage room of the forecastle, attempting to speak to the young shipwitch. Attempting to get through to him. To help him.
"Anything at all. You tell me, and I will do whatever I can to help." The words weren't having the effect he anticipated, though. He was trying to offer support, to show the twitchy, topaz-eyed young man in front of him that he could be there for him. To protect him. He repeated the word, then, as if to somehow further reinforce the message. "Anything." A beat. "Okay?"
The Irzali nobleman stalking into the storage room behind him was saying something, but he was trying hard to ignore it. He wanted to ignore it -- in the Razmani's head, that man had nothing useful to contribute, and was only poisoning the conversation, causing the shipwitch further pain. I've half a mind to sink my fist into that one's skull. Focus on me, Owais. Ignore his blather.
But then the smith got precisely what he asked for -- a response. A single word, delivered passively, as if Yasin had just asked him to go fetch a cord of rope from the hold. "...aye."
But that passive word was accompanied with a *look*. That look from the young shipwitch, a flicker of desperate misery and subtle pleading that but briefly shimmered in the depths of his one good eye. He'd almost missed it, but Yasin saw it flash before him, even though it only lasted an instant.
*That look*. Is it possible to sap the very energy out of person, just with a single gaze?
Like being struck down from a mountain, did that single, pleading look hit the burly Razmani, as if he'd stabbed the man in front of him in the heart and only now just realized he was the one wielding the blade. All of his heat, his anger, his 'fight' just sucked out from him like fire from a furnace sputtering to nothingness due to lack of air.
The realizations then hit him, like further arrows delivered into his chest.
Oh Annur. Is the ... is the nobleman -right-?
What was the nobleman saying, in his lilting Sirdabi? Suddenly, it was difficult to hear properly. Everything was out of focus.
"...I have been trying to talk to Owais for what feels like the best part of an hour," came that honeyed voice, laced with ice. "But by all means, do feel free to interrupt. I suppose I should expect no less."
Of course. He was interrupting. He was intruding. He was *imposing*. He was contributing to this man's pain. What should he do? Stand there, hold the knife, and drive it in deeper?
There is nothing I can say, in this moment, to help Owais.
His shoulders slump, a dejected breath coming out of him, along with all of his fight. "...I will interrupt no further." Is all the smith can voice, the words quiet and weak. He shoots the shipwitch a gaze, as if to communicate his support by eyes even if he cannot with his words, but how could it possibly land. How could it *possibly* land?
I need to think about this. I need to think about my role ... in his pain.
He doesn't even fully process the nobleman's smile of victory, his little 'defeat' over the larger man. But it wasn't the nobleman's honeyed voice that broke him. It was that look of misery from the young man who so desperately needed support.
.....................
Yasin needed to think about that moment in the forecastle. He needed to process it. He needed to confront the emotions bubbling within. But ... he could do that later. There was time, yet. Meanwhile, there was work to be done, chores to do.
So instead of staying above-deck and allowing his thoughts to dwell within him, he went to the bilge instead, carrying a heavy bucket of tar and some other equipment alongside. Some of the crew was there already in the midst of activity, faces he hadn't yet learned, but it didn't matter. They needed strong hands, and he had them. He got to work.
There'd be time to dwell later.
.....................
Several hours had passed, and he was getting a little tired. A few of the crew had even switched out by now, and it was getting harder and harder to find cracks in the ribbing of the ship to pack with oakum.
Could take a short break.
So ... he did so, though he didn't leave the filthy, bilge-stunk water. He rested an arm against the ribbing instead, and gently laid his forehead against a plank of wood. And then the young man has a moment of recall, from a few days past.
What did the Captain say about the construction of a seafaring vessel?
"It is ... beautiful." She'd said, those few days ago. She had set her palm on one of the planks as she'd said this, and there was a truth, a goodness, a Song to the way she'd declared those words, voiceless as she always was.
Not my trade. Not my Song. But I can appreciate it, all the same.
It takes vulnerability, to admit you find the beauty in a craft, in a trade. It requires admitting that you care. And there's precious few in existence that are willing to admit that.
But there's a few, on this vessel. And I do love them for it. Even some of the crew ... Owais, even-
Oh. That little flash of thought, breaking through, intruding on his little trance of rest with a journey from the craft of the vessel to the Captain to Owais to ...
That look -- stuck in his mind, again. That misery, etched into his brain.
Fuck it. Back to work. I can rest later. I'll figure it out later. And I'll make things right with Owais. I'll talk to Zahra. I'll sort this, somehow.
And at least in his own head, the smith seemed to mean on it, forming those thoughts with intent.
But then a few moments later the *storm* hit, and intent no longer mattered, replaced purely with survival.
.....................
Yasin never got to see how those above-deck handled things when the storm hit, when the ship was blown with that terrible, angry force of wind. He only knew how things went in the bilge.
In the bilge, where water came in from the remaining unpatched cracks. Where new damage had begun to form. Where the water level started to rise. Where those that were down there with him were thrown from one side of the cramped, filthy space to the other, like rag dolls. There was a shout from one crew member to retreat to the ladder, before he was suddenly underwater. Before Yasin could even dive to try and pull the man up to the surface, the Razmani was thrown to another side, wood meeting muscle with a painful thud. That'll bruise something fierce. Rats desperately swam away through the filth, no longer interested in biting working sailors or passengers. Another crew member behind him was screaming about something. What was he saying? It was so hard to hear ...
The smith needed to focus. He needed to resurface. He needed to help. That screaming crew member had his foot caught on something, and he'd just gone under water. Another one, a wiry fellow Yasin didn't know, was on his way to help him, but he was too far. Too far, and too weak. Yasin made his decision and swam towards him before a jolt of the storm shoved him *again* to the side, tossing the heavyset man around like nothing. He was nothing, down here, with the wind having its way with the ship. He accidentally inhaled a gulp of bilge-stunk water, and had to hold himself up by the ribbing to cough it up and catch his breath. He had to try again...
Time in the bilge went on like this for the duration of the storm. And somewhere in the back of Yasin's head, in-between attempting to help others, and attempting to keep himself alive ... there was a little voice, shouting at him. Declaring to Yasin that he knew what it meant if they were in a storm. That he knew what it meant, if the wind had come.
.....................
Yasin emerged from the bilge, exhausted, beaten, and drenched. Shaky steps carried him to the galley, where he smelled ... bread?
Yes. Bread. Fadila was there, looking at him as he approached. "There's bread," she said. And was that a clear night sky he saw through the porthole in the hold? And the bread smelled so good.
But ...
I have to find out what happened. I have to ask.
He barely gets the question out of his lips in the galley, before the poxy convict supplied him with the answer he was seeking, a message without expression or tone. "The Puppy killed himself. And a storm blew us out of the mist." And the convict then stalked off into the hold, without even a glance back.
.....................
The young Razmani's face was already tear-stained when he glanced into the 'home' of his cramped, doorless port-side cabin, to find exactly who he knew would be there. One asleep, one awake. He glanced at the awake Irzali, noticing him, but not locking eyes. Not yet.
Dismantling his armor and undressing himself for rest in the doorway of the port-side cabin had become automatic by this point. Routine. Muscle-memory. Yet as he went about the business of unbuckling and removing that cuirass from his chest, or sliding that smith's apron up and over his head, as he set those things down in the corner of the cabin, in his usual little spot that he'd claimed as his personal storage ... his arms and legs began to shake, and those tears continued to fall.
It wasn't until Yasin bent over to take off his khuffs that he finally locked eyes with the young Irzali in the cabin. And that single fixed look caused him to still -- as if in somehow so doing, in seeing that knowing look, it made the terrible thoughts in his head all the more real, and all the more raw.
So the smith just ... slumped down there, just inside the doorway, one khuff still in hand, the other still on his foot. His thoughts were *shouting* at him, pounding at his very skull from within. A desperate monologue that could provide no comfort, only deep regret. Even as he talked it over with his friend. Even as he discussed it later on, with her. Even as he consumed that fresh bread, the next day. Even as he slept. Even as he tried to rationalize.
His thoughts were stuck there.
Trapped in grief.