The boy sat motionless, his back pressed against the damp, splintered planks of the slave ship's hull. The chains around his wrists were heavy, the rusted iron digging into his raw skin. His bare feet were smeared with grime and blood, the soles split from running and dragging over jagged ground. But none of it mattered.
He stared blankly at the dim light spilling through the narrow slits in the hold, his body swaying gently with the rhythm of the waves. The noise of the ship surrounded him—the creak of strained wood, the groan of ropes tightening, the distant bark of commands from above deck—but it all felt far away, like an echo in the distance. The boy might as well have been underwater, drowning in silence.
There were no tears left to cry. His chest felt hollow, emptied by the weight of everything he had lost. The memories came unbidden, sharp and vivid—his father's final stand against the raiders, his mother's screams as she was struck down, and his sister's small, pale face as they were torn apart. The last moment he had seen her, her voice crying out for him, was a blade that twisted endlessly in his mind. Now, the chains around his wrists and ankles felt less like shackles and more like extensions of himself, reminders that he no longer had the strength or will to fight against his captivity.
The hold was a living tomb, rank with the smell of sweat, sickness, and despair. Darkness pooled in every corner, thick and unyielding, pressing in on the huddled captives. Bodies shifted weakly, their movements slow and lethargic. Somewhere nearby, a man was coughing—a deep, wet sound that echoed off the wooden walls. It went on for what felt like minutes, followed by a choked gasp, then silence.
The boy glanced to the side. The man was slumped against the wall, his face pale and gaunt. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, his fingers trembling as they gripped the edge of his tattered tunic. The man had looked old when they were first shackled together, but now, under the dim lantern light, he looked ancient.
"You're staring again," the man rasped, his voice barely audible over the creaking of the ship.
The boy looked away, his eyes settling back on the dim light filtering through the slits. He didn't mean to stare—it was just easier than thinking. But thinking always came back to the same place: his mother's sacrifice, his father's fall, his sister's cries. And when he let himself remember, the ache in his chest became unbearable.
Time in the hold stretched endlessly. Hours, days, weeks—none of it mattered. The boy marked it only by the moments when the overseers came. Their boots thundered down the stairs, their voices harsh and guttural as they barked orders. Today was no different.
The door above creaked open, and a shaft of light pierced the gloom. The captives stirred, their chains clinking softly as they shifted, though none dared move too quickly. Two overseers descended, their boots striking the wooden steps with deliberate weight. One was broad-shouldered and scarred, his face twisted into a permanent scowl. The other was wiry and sharp-eyed, a sneer curling his thin lips.
"Feeding time," the wiry overseer announced, dragging a bucket of gruel behind him. "Who's hungry?"
The captives' movements grew frantic, their thin hands outstretched as the overseers moved through the hold. The broad-shouldered one carried a ladle, spilling watery gruel into their hands with exaggerated carelessness. He laughed as the captives scrambled to catch what little food they were given, some licking the spillage off their dirt-caked palms.
The boy stayed where he was, pressed against the wall. His stomach churned with hunger, the ache a constant companion, but he couldn't bring himself to move. The man nudged him weakly.
"Eat," the man murmured. "You'll need it."
The boy didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the planks of the floor, his hands limp in his lap. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up just as the wiry overseer crouched down in front of him.
"What's this?" the man sneered, tilting his head. "Too proud to beg like the others?"
The boy didn't answer. He met the man's gaze briefly, then lowered his eyes again.
The overseer's smile widened. He reached out, grabbing the boy's chin and forcing his face up. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, boy."
The boy's eyes flicked up, and for a moment, the overseer's smirk faltered. There was no fear in the boy's gaze, no defiance—only emptiness. The man's fingers tightened, his nails digging into the boy's jaw. He sneered and shoved him back, rising to his feet.
"Pathetic," he spat, moving on to the next captive.
Hours later, the boy sat in the corner, his knees drawn to his chest. His hands cradled a small, crusted piece of bread—his only meal for the day. He stared at it for a long time before finally tearing off a piece and shoving it into his mouth. The bread was dry, turning to paste on his tongue, but he forced himself to chew and swallow. Hunger gnawed at him constantly, but the act of eating felt like a hollow ritual. There was no comfort in it, only the knowledge that he had to keep going.
The man stirred beside him, coughing quietly into his hand. "You're quiet," the man said, his voice soft but steady.
The boy didn't answer. He tore off another piece of bread, his movements mechanical.
The man sighed, leaning back against the wall. "I've seen boys like you before. They carry everything on their shoulders, even when they shouldn't."
The boy glanced at him, his eyes dull. "I have nothing left."
The fisherman didn't answer immediately. He let out a long breath, his gaze distant. "You hold on to the little things. A memory. A promise. Whatever keeps you going."
The boy swallowed, the bread sticking in his throat. He looked away, his fingers tightening around the crust. He thought of his sister, of the way her laughter used to fill their home. The memory was sharp, vivid—but it was also fading, slipping further away with every passing day. He clenched his jaw, forcing the thought down.
When they were brought onto the deck the next morning, the boy stumbled into the sunlight, his legs weak and unsteady. The brightness was blinding, the salty wind sharp against his skin. The ocean stretched out before them, endless and unbroken, its surface glittering under the morning light.
The boy's gaze fixed on the horizon. For a moment, he felt something stir within him—a faint, fleeting sense of longing. The sea seemed vast and boundless, a stark contrast to the suffocating confines of the ship. But the feeling passed quickly, crushed under the weight of his chains.
The crew moved around them, shouting and cursing as they adjusted the sails. The overseers barked orders, their voices sharp and commanding. The boy stood apart from the others, his eyes lingering on the water. He thought of his father's stories about the sea, of its beauty and its danger. He thought of his mother's hands, calloused and strong, guiding him through the fields. He thought of his sister's smile, bright and warm.
And then he thought of the raiders, of their jeering faces and bloodied weapons. The ache in his chest flared, sharp and burning.
"Back below!" one of the overseers shouted, shoving the captives toward the stairs.
The boy stumbled as he was pushed, his shoulder striking the railing. He caught himself and moved quickly, descending into the darkness of the hold. The sunlight disappeared, replaced once more by the suffocating gloom.
As he settled back into his corner, the boy felt the weight of his chains more keenly than ever. The memories he clung to were slipping further away, their edges blurring, fading. His mother's face, his sister's laughter—they were becoming ghosts, too distant to hold onto.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the grief and the emptiness, something stirred. It was faint, barely more than a whisper, but it was there—a tiny spark, fragile yet unyielding, buried beneath the ashes. It was not hope. It was the quiet realization of inevitability, the faint pull of death's shadow brushing against his thoughts. The idea was cold, still forming, but it offered a strange kind of comforting clarity.