The hold felt heavier with each passing day, as if the weight of suffering pressed into the very walls. The lantern's glow wavered like a dying breath, its weak light swallowed by the stale air. Sweat, rot, and the sharp tang of iron hung thick, seeping into the skin and lungs of those trapped within. The groan of the ship's timbers blended with the quiet, uneven breathing of the captives, creating a rhythm that felt both alive and suffocating.
The boy leaned against the damp wall, his legs bent loosely in front of him, the chain between his wrists pooling in his lap. His gaze lingered on the iron cuffs, their rusted edges biting into his raw skin, a quiet pain that tethered him to the present. He ran his fingers along the chain's rough links, his movements slow and deliberate. The sharp sting that followed felt clean, grounding. Pain, at least, was something he could understand.
Across from him, the man sat slumped against the wall, his breath uneven but steady. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes remained sharp, quietly observing the boy. The clink of chains punctuated his slow movements as he shifted to find a more comfortable position.
"They're watching you," the man said, his gravelly voice cutting through the oppressive silence.
The boy's hands stilled. His fingers curled around the chain, his knuckles whitening slightly, but he didn't look up. His head tilted just enough to show he had heard, though his response came slowly.
"Let them," he muttered.
The man frowned. He leaned forward, his movements measured, like every motion cost him something. "That's not courage, boy," he said quietly. "That's foolishness."
The boy's grip on the chain tightened, but he didn't answer. His gaze remained fixed on his shackles, his silence thick and impenetrable.
The hold had grown quieter in recent days. Some captives sat motionless, staring into the dim light with hollow gazes, while others whispered prayers or sobbed into the shadows. But the boy's silence was different. It wasn't born of despair—it was something colder, heavier. It lingered over him, isolating him even as the old man tried to reach him.
The man spoke again, his voice low and steady. "You remind me of someone," he said. "My daughter."
The boy's eyes flicked up at that, narrowing slightly. He said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, his body stiffening almost imperceptibly.
The man leaned back, letting his head rest against the wall. "She used to sit with me on the boat," he said softly, his voice breaking like a wave pulling back to sea. "Her hands were too small for the nets, but she'd try anyway. Always so stubborn, that girl. She'd haul a catch as if she could wrestle the ocean itself into submission." He shook his head, a faint, fleeting smile crossing his face before it faded. "And then she'd laugh when the fish slipped away. Said she didn't want to win—just to try."
The boy tilted his head, his gaze flicking to the man's hands—calloused, scarred, the hands of someone who had worked hard for a life that was taken from him. "Did you fight back? When the raiders came," he asked suddenly, his voice low.
The man blinked at him, then chuckled softly. "Aye, I swung at them with an oar like a madman. Thought I could take them all. They beat me half to death for it." He sighed, shaking his head. "But I'd do it again. Even knowing what came after."
The boy didn't respond. But for a moment, his gaze lingered on the man's scars, as though committing them to memory.
The boy's chest tightened. His gaze dropped to his shackles again, his thoughts spinning. The man's words stirred a memory he had tried to bury: the sound of his sister's screams, the weight of her hand slipping from his. It cut through him like a blade.
"I was a fisherman," the old man continued, his voice quieter now. "Spent my life on the water, hauling nets, keeping storms at bay. I thought I understood cruelty… I thought I'd seen the worst of it." He trailed off, the memory sinking deeper into him, like an anchor dragging the words away. "I was wrong."
For a long moment, the boy said nothing. The man's words hung in the air between them, heavy and unspoken. Finally, the boy's voice broke the silence, low and steady.
"What happened to her?" he asked.
The fisherman's jaw tightened. His gaze dropped to the floor. "I don't know," he said. "And that's the worst part."
The boy's fingers tightened on the chain linking his wrists. He understood that kind of pain—the unanswered questions, the endless silence where there should have been closure.
After that, the boy spoke more often. It wasn't much—small questions, brief answers—but it was enough to break the wall of silence that had grown between him and the fisherman. Their shared pain became a bridge, unspoken but steady.
One night, as the hold sank into darkness, the fisherman spoke again. His voice was soft, almost wistful. "You're holding on to something," he said. "Something you don't want to lose."
The boy's gaze flicked toward him, sharp but wary. "What do you mean?"
"Her," the man said. "Your sister. Her face, her voice. You're trying to keep them with you."
The boy looked away, his jaw clenching. "I have to," he said quietly. "If I don't…"
The man nodded slowly, his expression heavy with understanding. "I know. But that kind of anger—it's a blade without a handle. You hold it too tightly, and it'll cut you deeper than anyone else ever could."
The boy didn't respond. He closed his eyes, his breathing steady, but his thoughts churned. He was losing her, piece by piece. Her laugh was already gone, her face blurred at the edges. Every time he tried to summon her memory, it slipped further away, like trying to hold water in his hands.
In the suffocating darkness of the hull, the boy knelt before the lantern, its flame casting a faint, trembling glow over the wooden walls. He steadied his breath, reaching out with his mind rather than his hands, and the fire stirred, sensing his intent. Slowly, he extended his will, coaxing it gently, and the flame responded, awaiting him like a trusting creature. He reached out with his hand and the fire flickered softly as it hovered above his open palm. Its warmth pulsed against his skin, not as a threat but as a companion. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts reach out to it—not with words, but with something deeper, a silent exchange of will and understanding. The fire seemed to hum in response, alive and curious, as if it, too, was learning him. For a moment, they were connected, two forces testing the edges of their bond. Then, with a quiet exhale, he guided it back, watching as it settled once more onto the lantern's wick, steady and calm. The boy opened his eyes, his chest rising and falling in measured breaths.
The next time the guards came, the boy didn't flinch. He didn't react when the whip cracked against a captive's back or when a man was dragged screaming into the shadows. He sat with his knees loosely drawn, his fingers lightly tapping the chain's links in a rhythm that mirrored the overseers' footsteps. His gaze flicked upward whenever their shadows crossed his path, absorbing the way they carried their weapons or the hitch in their steps as the ship rocked. He wasn't just watching—he was learning.
The boy's world had shrunk to the fire in his chest, the iron on his wrists, and the faint light slipping through the cracks in the hull. The hold felt smaller with each passing day, its weight pressing in on him like the chains that bit into his skin. And yet, the fire would not die. It burned on, relentless and consuming, because now he knew its name.