Bandom fic: Over Sleeping Waves
For the Album Anticipation Challenge over at rydenrevival.
Characters: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6500
Warnings: Slave fic, nothing graphic
Summary: When he was fourteen, Ryan was sold to the Athena as a sailor, and for three years he's worked the dangerous topsails. In a year, he will be a free man, and he lives his life for that day-trying only to stay out of trouble and not be noticed.
Until he meets a boy in a port, that is, and everything changes.
A/N: This also fills my Other:Slaves square for au_bingo.
It was a port just like any other. From the vantage post of the main topmast, it looked even gloomier. Ryan sighed, hoping this visit at least would be short. They were only supposed to take on provisions and set off for the final port of the journey, where the cargo would be delivered, but all too often these quick stops were allowed to turn into three-day drinking binges. He couldn't really blame the crew-when you were at sea for months at a time the thirst for a drink could become quite compelling-but for him, it was just three days without anything to do. He was rarely allowed on shore, and even if he could always find jobs to occupy his time on ship, the days dragged on even worse than when they were at sea.
Down on the deck, the crew was already celebrating the approach to land, slapping each other on the back and shouting over one another about buying the first round. Ryan rolled his eyes.
It was even worse once they had thrown anchor and he could descend to the deck. At least from the topmast, you usually couldn't hear what was being said below.
“I'm going to get tail tonight-there's a woman in Reefer's Alley who's got thighs like a-”
“First drink's on me for all you sad pisshounds!”
Ryan edged away as surreptitiously as he could. The ship watch was about to be called, and since he already knew he would be on it, he felt no need to partake in the conversations. He didn't manage to get away, however. The third mate Charleston grabbed his collar just as he was about to sneak off to his usual place in the bow.
“It's your lucky day,” he said, grinning at Ryan-who fought not to recoil. Charleston was one of the more or less good ones on ship and he didn't mean for his grin to be an unpleasant one, but the sight of his blackened and chipped teeth was enough to put anyone off their food. “MacCurden wants you to run a few errands on shore.”
Ryan nodded, resigned. If the first mate was letting him on shore to do the chores, they must be tedious ones indeed.
“You're to go in the first boat,” Charleston told him, handing him a knapsack. “List and money's in the small pocket. Here's a pair of the skipper's shirts, too-you take care of those. And bring back exact change or you know MacCurden'll have you whipped.”
There was grumbling among the rest of the sailors when Ryan was hustled to the front of the line, but all of them knew better than to argue in front of MacCurden, who had arrived on deck to see them off. He would not be going ashore on this stop, being content with the second and third mate handling the restocking. One stop away from their final destination, he and the skipper needed to sit down and calculate the best route for them. The final leg of their journey could take everything between five weeks and two months, and it was up to them to optimise the journey.
“Keep out of trouble,” he told the crew, “and don't arrive back piss drunk. If you do I'll have you thrown off ship. We sail tomorrow at first light-anyone not here by then will be left behind.”
It was not an empty threat. The crew knew that MacCurden would rather make an extra stop along the journey to pick up more crew than wait an hour for any late sailors.
Ryan ignored the rest of the speech, already scanning the list he'd been given. He was to fill up their stock of two-inch shackles-that would have to be one of the first errands, stopping off at a forge to place the order. He could pick the finished product up later. The same went for the dress shirts skipper Johnson wanted mended. Then there was the specialist items for the cook-the ones not covered by the general provisions-those he could do whenever. He mentally ticked off pieces on the list, slotting them into place in an internal schedule. It wasn't nearly as difficult tasks as he'd been fearing, just general, boring, everyday chores no one else could be bothered with. On the whole, it could have been a lot worse.
The journey to shore was peaceful. Ryan had been placed at one of the oars and concentrated on rowing. It was hard keeping up with Marthins, who was a huge young man and who held the other oar, but Marthins was distracted enough by the prospect of beer and skirt and was off his stroke today. It made it easier for Ryan to get away with considerable less skill and muscle mass.
He left the rest of the sailors arguing about which pub to head to first and headed off into the streets. The noise from the dock muffled and disappeared the further away from sea he went, and he was at peace.
All the chores were small ones, but all the items he'd bought added together and by the time he was walking back to the dock he was buckling under the weight of the knapsack, with the mended shirts in a careful package under one arm and the shackles under the other. He was stopping to catch his breath when he became aware of a boy about his own age looking at him.
“Do you need help?” the boy said, coming towards him.
Ryan's first instinct was to shove his knapsack further behind his back-ports like this were notorious for their pickpockets-but the boy only held out his hands, making it Ryan's choice to give him anything. Ryan hesitated. The boy looked cleaner than most pickpockets, and shackles weren't very theft-worthy.
“It's shackles for the ship,” he said, handing over the package and inwardly sighing with relief over this small lightening of his load.
“Really?” the boy said, falling into step with him. Ryan shifted the knapsack's weight, making sure it was as far out of reach as possible. You couldn't be too careful. “You sail on a ship? Which one?”
“The Athena,” Ryan replied, pointing her out. “Cargo ship.”
“I've always wanted to try being a sailor,” the boy said, looking at the Athena with longing. “It must be great. Where are you heading next?”
“Newtown.”
The boy nodded, grinning. “That'll take you-what? A month? Two?”
“Something like that.”
It was a strange conversation. Ryan wasn't used to people saying more than orders to him, and his answers were short and monosyllabic. Still, he found himself remarkably at ease with the strange boy's steady chatter, and when they reached the boat that was to ferry him over to the Athena he almost regretted that the walk hadn't been longer.
“Here are the shackles,” the boy said, giving Ryan the package, and he turned to leave.
“What's your name?” Ryan asked, completely surprising himself. The boy smiled at him.
“Brendon,” he said.
“I'm Ryan,” Ryan said, feeling awkward. Brendon smiled at him again.
“Have a nice journey to Newtown, Ryan,” he said. “Maybe we'll meet again.”
It was strange, Ryan thought. Usually he was glad when the ship set sail again-the dreary existence of port days finally broken. This time, however, he felt unusually wistful as they left the port behind.
There had been the normal amount of wincing at dawn as all the sailors were rousted on deck to set sail-and even more so amongst the ones on forenoon watch, whose time for work ran from eight to twelve and who had to watch their drinking mates happily retire to their hammocks once the sails were up. Since the topsails weren't up yet, Ryan joined the crew on the jibs. They had some tricky navigation to do until they left land entirely behind, and they had to change tack several times. The inner jib kept getting stuck, and several times Ryan had to clamber out on the bowsprit and help the tack along. It was tricky business, letting go of the sail just before it swept him overboard, but at least it kept him busy.
At twelve his watch ended. Lunch was good today, as if to make up for the hangovers and the lack of sleep. He was supposed to be off after that, but MacCurden spotted him and set him on mousing shackles, securing the pin with wire to prevent it from coming loose. It was one of the small jobs on ship Ryan was set to do when there was nothing much else for him to occupy his time, and he set to it calmly. He started in the mizzen-topmast, sitting in the crosstree, mousing shackle after shackle and watching the last hints of land slip away with a sting he couldn't quite identify.
The afternoon watch passed as well as the first dog watch, and Ryan was sitting with his dinner when he was roused by a bellow for all hands on deck. The order had every sailor drop his food and leap up, scrambling to get on deck as quickly as possible.
The flying jib has come loose, Ryan thought, mind instantly leaping to the worst-case scenario. The flying jib was fastened to the main forestay, and if it came loose it could potentially bring the whole rig down.
But what he saw when he emerged on deck wasn't the jib beating back and forth, or any other nautical emergency for that matter. It was MacCurden, red in the face and holding the boy from the dock, Brendon, by the collar.
“Whose,” MacCurden roared to the assembled sailors, “is this?”
There was a general confused muttering.
“I don't care what you do on shore,” MacCurden said, shaking Brendon for emphasis, “or even who. But you do not bring your toys on ship. Whose is it?”
“If I could-” Brendon tried, but MacCurden glared at him until he shut up again.
“Sir,” said Charleston in the pregnant silence that followed, “I checked every boatload that came on ship. He didn't arrive by the ship's boat.”
“So,” MacCurden said, his voice lower now but more dangerous, “a stowaway? How did you get on board?”
“I swam,” Brendon said, grinning. “I heard that you were going to Newtown.”
Ryan groaned inwardly. During their talk, Brendon had mentioned that he was looking for a way home.
“Good swimmer, are you?” MacCurden asked.
“Very good,” Brendon said. He was still grinning.
“I'm glad to hear that,” MacCurden said, and in two long strides he was standing next to the gunwale, preparing to throw Brendon over the side.
“Sir, wait, please!” Charleston said, looking shocked at his own daring. MacCurden turned slowly.
“Yes?” he said.
Charleston looked wary, but plunged on nonetheless. “We could use a new monkey,” he said. “We lost Edward at the port before last, and even if the other sailors have been taking turns to work the mizzen-topsail, we could use someone for it.”
The unspoken meaning was, as Ryan well knew, why risk a real sailor's life when we can give the job to a stowaway. He felt hope rise in him.
MacCurden stared from Charleston to Brendon, and then around at the rest of the sailors. His scowling face grew even fiercer.
“What are all you still standing around for?” he shouted. “Piss off! It's lucky for you,” he added in the confusion that followed, letting go of Brendon's shirt, “that my third mate is such an unwarranted softie. You'll stay on ship, and you'll pay your way by working the topsails and whatever else we need. Ryan!”
Ryan jumped, then hurried forward.
“You'll be teaching new boy here everything he needs. He'll be on your watch and your responsibility. What's your name, boy?” This to Brendon, who replied with his name, trying to look suitably bashful. “Ryan, take Brendon here below deck and find him a spot. Explain the watches and anything else you think of.” He glared again at Brendon. “Try to be of use, and I'll try to curb my wish to throw your overboard.”
With that he stalked off, leaving the two of them looking at each other silently.
“So, we meet again,” Brendon said eventually, smiling, and Ryan realised that he was smiling back.
By noon the next day, Ryan had had time to instruct Brendon in basic tacking knowledge and the organisation of watches and ship's bells, in hierarchy on board and most basic knots. They'd had the forenoon watch off and Ryan had taken the time to catch a much-needed hour of sleep, but now he didn't know where Brendon was, and he was worried.
When MacCurden called him over, just as he was going to lunch, he thought for one terrible moment that MacCurden had changed his mind and tossed Brendon over the side of the ship after all.
What MacCurden wanted, though, was only to give him further instructions.
“Ryan, I want you to take the new monkey up to the mizzen-topmast,” he said, waving a piece of bread at Ryan. “I want him taught everything he needs to handle one of the topmasts by himself as soon as possible.”
Ryan suppressed a shocked gasp. He knew the first mate didn't have much time over for stowaways, but to throw him onto the topsails by himself before he'd even had time to get his sea legs seemed unusually cruel.
He swallowed the angry response, however, and turned his gaze away. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I'll take him up as soon as lunch is over.”
MacCurden nodded at him, then made a shooing motion with his hand. Ryan heard the other sailors laughing as he turned away.
He stood in line to get his food, and then got back on deck to his usual corner, settling down between two large coils of rope to eat his lunch in peace.
“Do you want to get him killed?”
Ryan almost spilled his stew. He stared up at Brendon, who had appeared out of nowhere and was now grinning at him.
“What?”
“That's what you wanted to ask MacCurden. I saw you,” Brendon said. “Why didn't you?”
Ryan shrugged, turning back to his stew. “You're joking, right? He'd throw me overboard.”
There was a pause, and then Brendon came and sat down beside him. “You're that frightened of him?”
Ryan snorted. “You obviously haven't been paying attention. MacCurden doesn't care for your life, or mine. Stay out of his way and try not to annoy him, and you might make it through this journey. Oh, and learn fast. You've cost them nothing, and they'll use you for the muckiest and most dangerous jobs.”
“And the skipper? He doesn't mind?”
Ryan laughed shortly. “He cares less about you than MacCurden does, believe me. Keep your head down, work and don't attract attention. That's the way I've stayed alive for three years.”
“Three years?” Brendon looked at him curiously. “Why don't you just get off in one of the ports?”
Ryan shrugged. “And do what? I was a poorhouse kid. I have no family to go back to. I was sold to the Athena at a poorhouse auction three years ago. But they can only keep me until I'm eighteen-and then I'm a sailor. I can take a berth on a good ship, then, but only if I stick it out another year. It's worth it.” He shrugged and looked down into his stew. “It could be a lot worse. They feed you well here, at least. At the poorhouse we weren't allowed meat.” He looked up and frowned. “Speaking of which, aren't you eating?”
Brendon smiled faintly. “I ate already,” he said. “I got in early in the line.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows. That sounded strange. Everything on a ship was strictly hierarchic, and this included the lunch line. Then again, Brendon had a quality that had made several of the crew take to him, and one of the mates might have allowed Brendon to slip in before him, Ryan thought.
“So what are we doing that has you worried?” Brendon asked.
Ryan shrugged. “Nothing that wasn't on the plan from the start,” he said. “You're supposed to work as a monkey, so that's what we're going to be looking at after lunch. I just thought it would be better for you to have a few more days on ship first. The motion of the ship is even stronger up in the topmast. And we'll be climbing up, too.”
He jerked his head towards the shrouds running from the gunwale to the crosstree, where the mast ended and the topmast took over. Ratlines, thin ropes tied horizontally across the thicker, tarred ropes of the shrouds, made for hand- and footholds in the make-shift ladder.
Brendon's eyes widened, and he grinned. “I wondered if we'd get to climb those,” he said. “Who's going first?”
Ryan blinked. “Doesn't it worry you?” he said.
“No, I think it looks great,” Brendon said. “Come on, eat up so we can get started.” He shoved amiably at Ryan's shoulder, looking extremely excited.
Ryan shook his head with disbelief and ducked his head, hiding his answering smile.
By the time the ship's bell tolled eight times to signal noon and a change of watch, they were already halfway up the shrouds, each with a rope coiled tightly around their waist. Ryan kept a calm pace, careful not to rush. Brendon's enthusiasm none withstanding, climbing the shrouds could be tricky when there was a bit of wind and he didn't want Brendon getting overconfident only to be swept into the ocean.
He reached the crosstree, the bars fastened horizontally across the mast for a precarious platform, and clambered up, gripping the topmast to pull himself upright. He breathed in deep, leaning back recklessly to look around him. The ocean stretched out on all sides, blindingly large and dazzling in the sunlight. Not for the first time, Ryan felt a sudden urge to throw himself off the mast into that perfect sea, diving into an underwater world. There was something terribly tempting about that beautiful, unending expanse of water.
“Hey, Ryan!”
Ryan jerked, his fingers slipping on the polished wood. For a moment he felt the pull of gravity catch at his body, but then his hands found purchase again and he clung, sucking in air greedily. He hadn't been thinking right. You couldn't lose focus up here.
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and looked down. Brendon was watching him, a slight frown on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course,” Ryan said shortly. His heart was beating hard and fast in his chest, as if after realising how close it had come to stopping altogether, it was now trying to make the most out of the time it had been granted. “I'm fine. What did you want?”
Brendon didn't answer at first, still looking closely at him, but then he grinned and took a hand off the ratline, pointing downwards. “Look.”
Ryan craned his neck, trying to see where Brendon was pointing. For a few seconds he couldn't see what had caught Brendon's attention, but then he became aware of the dark shapes swimming around the ship's bow, keeping pace easily.
“Are those-” he began, and then he gasped. One of the dolphins had broken the surface of the water, leaping alongside the ship in a long, graceful arc.
“Aren't they great?” Brendon shouted, and when Ryan turned his gaze from the dolphins back to the shrouds he saw that Brendon was clambering up quickly, seeming as sure on the ratlines with his naked feet as with his hands.
“Careful-” Ryan said, shocked, but Brendon only laughed.
“Don't worry, I know what I'm doing.” He reached the top and heaved himself onto the crosstree in one smooth motion. He laughed again at Ryan's expression. “This doesn't worry me. Oh, look now, look!” He put one hand on Ryan's shoulder and pointed at the dolphins again.
There were three of them leaving the water now, jumping in perfect unison. As they watched, a fourth one joined the game, jumping back and forth in front of the ship's bow. It looked as though at any moment the ship would run it over, but it kept playing, daring the ship to go faster.
Ryan laughed out loud. There was so much joy in the creatures, so much genuine playfulness, that it couldn't help but spread.
“I heard somewhere,” he heard himself say, “that when sailors die, they are reborn as dolphins.”
Brendon put his head to one side. “If they've been good sailors,” he said eventually, and then he grinned. “If they've been MacCurden, they're reborn as flatfish.”
Ryan snorted back a laugh. “Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “We need to start working or he'll tan our hide. OK, look, you obviously were an actual monkey or something in your previous life-”
“That's not it,” Brendon protested, laughing. “I'm not afraid to fall, that's all.”
“-but the rest of us,” Ryan continued pointedly, “like to have a safeguard when we're running the topsail. That rope you've got coiled around your waist, we'll be using that to tie you to the mast. Not tightly, because then you wouldn't be able to do your job, but just so you have something that might help if you lose your footing. You start by looping it around here...”
“And a bowline, right?” Brendon said, looping the rope and tying it deftly. Ryan opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Well, you took my advice about learning quickly to heart,” he said eventually. Brendon waggled his eyebrows.
“Maybe you can try to look as if you're still instructing me, though, and we can have a bit more time to watch the dolphins?” he said.
Brendon did indeed learn very fast. The fears Ryan had had about leaving him alone with a topsail turned out to be unfounded, as Brendon not only managed tacking and wearing ship easily, but also managed to single-handedly furl the sail on his third attempt. The long and lonely days on the topmast Ryan had previously seen as a dreaded chore soon became a pleasant experience, with Brendon shouting and joking from the next mast. His actual words didn't always make it over, but the gestures that accompanied them were always unmistakable.
When they didn't have the topsails up, Ryan was as usual assigned all the boring small jobs no one else wanted to do-but now with the notable exception that he had Brendon for a companion, since MacCurden had decided that the best way to keep Brendon out of the way of real sailors while still making use of him was to have him shadow Ryan in every task. So together they were hung over the side of the hull to do additional tarring, together they peeled potatoes and polished silverware and together they crawled all over the widow's net below the bowsprit, making repairs.
They slept in the same corner below deck, too. Since neither of them had a hammock they could scoot close together, and Brendon helped Ryan while away the hours when he couldn't sleep by telling quiet stories of the world below sea. He wove tales about mermaids and underwater streams and hidden fortunes, and Ryan fell asleep with the sound of water whispering in his ear.
Ryan and Brendon were in the widow's net again, strengthening and mending knots. It was an eternal job-if you mended a break one day, there was bound to be a new one the day after-and whenever they didn't have anything else to do, they were sent to the net.
Today, they came into contact with the dolphins again.
“Do you think they're the same ones we saw from the mast?” Ryan asked. He meant is as a joke, but Brendon nodded seriously.
“Dolphins are the messengers of the queen of the sea,” he said softly, waving at one. “She must be keeping an eye on us.”
Ryan looked at him. There was something curiously still about Brendon, something intense in the way he looked at the leaping figures below them. But then Brendon blinked and looked up, his sunny countenance back in place. “I like doing this,” he said, gesturing at the net. “Let's spin it out as long as we can, right?”
“No worry about that,” Ryan replied dryly. “This work is never finished.”
“I guess that's true,” Brendon said, smiling at the knot he was testing. He was silent for a while after that, and then he said, “I've been here a month tomorrow. Do you realise that?”
“A month?” Ryan calculated. “Oh, that's right.”
“We'll be reaching port soon,” Brendon said. “One week at the outside.”
“And you'll leave?” Ryan said. Something cold and hard seemed to settle into his stomach with the words. Keep your head down and do your four years, that had been his motto when he was first handed to the crew of Athena. For the first time, however, he looked beyond that distant horizon-onto the time when he became a free man, a sailor able to take any job he wished. He'd never permitted himself to think of it before, but he could see now the future he'd planned, stretching out like an endless empty experience. Better than his current life, unless Fate was crueller than he hoped, but empty of friends or home.
Brendon smiled softly. “Let's not think about that yet,” he said.
Ryan leaned on the gunwale, looking out over the ocean. Two days had passed since his and Brendon's conversation in the bowsprit net, and he'd been trying to avoid Brendon ever since. Not in his work, of course-that wouldn't be possible-but he hadn't sought him out during their free time like he usually did. Ryan thought of it as weaning himself off the idea of company. He'd managed fine before Brendon came along. He'd do it again, but he needed time to get used to the thought.
He looked to his right and sighed softly. Brendon was walking towards him.
“Can I join you?” he asked. Ryan shrugged, but took a small step to the left, inviting Brendon to stand next to him.
“I'm sorry for bringing that up, you know, the day before yesterday,” Brendon said. “In some ways I don't want to leave. But-”
“You're going home,” Ryan said. Brendon hesitated, then nodded.
“I'm going home,” he said. He looked as if he was about to say something more, but then he sighed noisily, running a hand through his hair. “I hope you'll be happy, though,” he said. “I mean, I would have liked it if you could come with me. But I-I think it might be best if you don't.”
Ryan nodded, trying not to show how the words stung. He knew that he could only be a burden to Brendon if they left the ship together, but some part of him had hoped that Brendon, with his unfailing optimism and naivety, would suggest this anyway. He stared into the sea instead, watching the eddies from the ship's passage through the water. The water was dark; muddied and murky.
“No dolphins today,” he remarked.
“No,” Brendon agreed.
“A storm is coming,” Ryan said. It was a stupid statement. When he had first come on board he'd tried, sometimes, to tell other crew members the signs he thought he saw in the water and wind about what was to come. It had earned him the label of “mad” or, worse, “witch”. He'd learned to keep his observations to himself, and he didn't really know why he broke this rule now. Maybe because he felt he hadn't much to lose.
But Brendon didn't laugh or roll his eyes. He just stared at Ryan, as if seeing him for the first time.
“I know,” he said.
Ryan had never been in a storm like this. The ship rose and fell with a sickening, slow motion, and water sprayed over the deck, drenching all the sailors. All hands had been rousted onto the deck, and the mood was half a breath from widespread panic. The jibs had finally been furled after a battle with the sheets that had almost swept two sailors into the sea, but it was still hard enough work to keep control over the gaff rig. It was a small miracle that they hadn't lost a single man yet.
“We need to reef sail,” someone panted next to Ryan. He didn't turn his head to see who. Can't be done, he thought, but didn't bother to say it out loud.
They all knew, anyway.
The spray had soaked him to the skin and the salt stung his nose and eyes. He and four other men were trying to tighten the starboard mainsheet-the mainsail was trembling under the force of the gale. The rope was biting into Ryan's hands, the right palm torn. His muscles were aching, too, a dull pain that wakened and burned every time he renewed his grip on the sheet. He wanted to look for Brendon, but he didn't dare shift his position enough to look over the deck.
“There!” Charleston shouted. “Secure. Let go, men, we won't get it better than this.”
There was a general murmur of “Well done, men”, but it was hollow and weak. They were one bad wave away from a shipwreck.
“It's the goddess of the seas,” one of the other men said. “She's angry. She wants a life, or she'll take what life she wants herself.”
“That's heretic talk, Murdoch,” Charleston snapped angrily. “You know there's only one God. Away to the mizzenmast with you, all of you-there's men there that need help.”
The men lurched and slithered towards the stern, still grumbling and cursing. Ryan followed them, deep in thought. Brendon's stories had been woven through with the image of the queen of the ocean. But that had been a benevolent being, one who cared for life-not the murderous lady of the sailor's imaginings, surely.
Or maybe, if she existed at all, she wasn't either of those two, he thought. Maybe she was just the ocean: kind and furious, all at once.
He reached the mizzenmast and realised that the argument headed off by Charleston was continuing in an even darker vein here.
“-life, but it doesn't say how precious it has to be. I say we drop something no one much cares about.”
There was a general muttering of assent, even if one or two men exchanged awkward glances. Murdoch had pull among the men.
Ryan joined in with the rest of the sailors heaving on the peak halyard and tried to concentrate on ignoring the screaming from his muscles. He thought the words were an allusion to one of the ship's cats which, although popular on the ship, might be construed as expendable, and he didn't listen closer until something Murdoch said made his blood run cold.
“-not like he cost us anything.”
Ryan let go of the halyard, unheeding of the angry shout this earned him, and staggered over to Murdoch.
“No,” he said, trying to counter the rolling of the deck and stand straight. “No, no, you can't. You can't.”
Murdoch snorted, craning his neck to run his gaze over the deck. “He won't be missed.”
He will was on Ryan's lips, but he stopped the words in time. “He's a human being,” he said. “You can't just-”
“Can and will,” Murdoch said, glaring at him, and Ryan realised that the gleam in his eyes was the madness of terror. Murdoch couldn't swim.
“I won't let you,” Ryan said desperately, trying to block Murdoch's way. “No, you coward, you bastard, you-” Ryan grabbed the arm that went to sweep him away and held on, as if his puny weight would be enough to hinder Murdoch at all. And then he bit down, hard.
Murdoch roared, stumbling backwards with Ryan still hanging on. He slipped on the wet deck and crashed into the gunwale just beside the men still trying to control the halyard. His free arm was brought down hard against a sharp edge and he roared again, grabbed Ryan's lapel and spun around, slamming Ryan against the gunwale.
“I think the goddess has a new sacrifice,” he bellowed, and then he pulled Ryan up and over the gunwale, shoving him backwards into the sea.
To Ryan, it seemed as if the fall took a year and a day. The world seemed muted, all other sounds muffled by the ringing in his ears, and he had time to take in everything. The men rushing forward to the gunwale, arms stretched out and mouths open in horror. Murdoch being pulled away. MacCurden, some way off, turning from his consultation with the helmsman. And Brendon, throwing himself off the shrouds in a perfectly curved dive.
Then Ryan hit the water, and the world turned dark and very cold.
Ryan sank quickly through the water. He struggled, trying to bring himself back to the surface, but his shirt billowed and swirled uselessly, making his movements heavy and laboured. His lungs felt like they were on fire.
Brendon caught up with him then, moving easily through the water. He caught Ryan's flailing hands, pulling him close. He gestured to his own mouth, and then to Ryan's-I'm going to give you air.
Ryan thought about protesting-Brendon needed his own air, surely-but Brendon's mouth pressed against his, breathing into him. Ryan felt his lungs expand. The pain disappeared. He opened his eyes, hardly aware that he had ever closed them, and saw that Brendon was against all expectations grinning.
“Feel better?” Brendon said. Ryan heard the words, as clearly and easily as if he and Brendon had been having a conversation on board the Athena. He frowned, shook his head; tried to convey his confusion without opening his mouth.
Brendon smiled at him, squeezing his hands. “It's fine,” he said. “Don't worry.” He brought their joined hands up between them to eye height, waggling his fingers. “Look.”
Ryan looked at their hands. At first he couldn't understand what Brendon was getting at, but then he saw: Brendon's fingers were connected by a thin film.
Ryan looked closer. His own hands, too, were webbed.
“Just try to relax,” Brendon said, seeing the way Ryan's eyes widened in shock. “Your body should have adjusted by now. It'll be fine. Just breathe normally, and it'll be fine.”
Although the pain in his lungs had gone, Ryan could feel an unpleasantly heavy sensation in his chest.
“Breathe,” Brendon repeated, and Ryan thought that he was tired of being safe. Nodding hesitantly, he shut his eyes, gathered courage for a moment, and then opened his mouth and breathed.
Immediately his body felt lighter. Instead of the rush of cold water into his lungs he'd been fearing, he felt as though he'd just taken a deep breath of clean spring air. He laughed, surprised and delighted.
“But how-” he said, then laughed again when he realised he could hear his own voice.
“You know I told you about mermaids?” Brendon said, looking almost embarrassed. “Well, I'm one. Or, you know, merman. Actually, we usually just say merperson. Anyway,” he hesitated, “you're one, too.”
Ryan blinked at him, completely confused. “No,” he said, “I've been on land all my life.” He grinned, then laughed-laughing was so easy. “I mean, I don't have a tail. Shouldn't I have a tail?”
Brendon shook his head, his hair billowing around his face. “You were thrown ashore by a bad wave when you were barely newborn. Children thrown out of the ocean lose their tails. You were raised human, as an orphan, and you were raised far from the sea, so the queen couldn't find you. She thought you were lost for ever.”
Brendon squeezed Ryan's hands. “But then you became a sailor. She could sense you then. It took time, but she found you-and she sent me to you. She wanted to see if you could still be brought back. I followed your ship for months until I found a way to get on board. I thought it wouldn't be possible to get you back, though. I thought you'd become completely human. Until two nights ago.”
He smiled at Ryan, who shook his head but smiled back.
“What about your tail, then?” he asked.
Brendon shrugged dismissively. “I had enchantment help from one of the octopus witches,” he said. “It'll wear off. You'll get your tail back with time, too.”
Ryan untangled one of his hands from Brendon's and held it up in front of his face, studying the film connecting each finger to the next. Then he looked up at the broken surface of the water above them.
“All my time on board Athena,” he said, “I had dreams about diving off board and going to live in the sea.” He paused. “Were they true? All your stories?”
“Yes. Every last one.” Brendon nodded. “And the ones I didn't tell you, as well. Like the story about how you have a family.”
Ryan frowned, suddenly wary. “Are we family? I mean, you and I?”
Brendon shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, and he squeezed Ryan's fingers again, “we're not.”
They smiled at each other in silence for a while, and then Brendon looked away, ducking his head awkwardly.
“There are people who are related to you, though, and they can't wait to meet you,” he said. “Come on, let's go.”
Ryan nodded. He took one last look at the surface and then, holding Brendon's hand in his, swam down and away from the storms above water, into the cool calm of the ocean.
Characters: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 6500
Warnings: Slave fic, nothing graphic
Summary: When he was fourteen, Ryan was sold to the Athena as a sailor, and for three years he's worked the dangerous topsails. In a year, he will be a free man, and he lives his life for that day-trying only to stay out of trouble and not be noticed.
Until he meets a boy in a port, that is, and everything changes.
A/N: This also fills my Other:Slaves square for au_bingo.
It was a port just like any other. From the vantage post of the main topmast, it looked even gloomier. Ryan sighed, hoping this visit at least would be short. They were only supposed to take on provisions and set off for the final port of the journey, where the cargo would be delivered, but all too often these quick stops were allowed to turn into three-day drinking binges. He couldn't really blame the crew-when you were at sea for months at a time the thirst for a drink could become quite compelling-but for him, it was just three days without anything to do. He was rarely allowed on shore, and even if he could always find jobs to occupy his time on ship, the days dragged on even worse than when they were at sea.
Down on the deck, the crew was already celebrating the approach to land, slapping each other on the back and shouting over one another about buying the first round. Ryan rolled his eyes.
It was even worse once they had thrown anchor and he could descend to the deck. At least from the topmast, you usually couldn't hear what was being said below.
“I'm going to get tail tonight-there's a woman in Reefer's Alley who's got thighs like a-”
“First drink's on me for all you sad pisshounds!”
Ryan edged away as surreptitiously as he could. The ship watch was about to be called, and since he already knew he would be on it, he felt no need to partake in the conversations. He didn't manage to get away, however. The third mate Charleston grabbed his collar just as he was about to sneak off to his usual place in the bow.
“It's your lucky day,” he said, grinning at Ryan-who fought not to recoil. Charleston was one of the more or less good ones on ship and he didn't mean for his grin to be an unpleasant one, but the sight of his blackened and chipped teeth was enough to put anyone off their food. “MacCurden wants you to run a few errands on shore.”
Ryan nodded, resigned. If the first mate was letting him on shore to do the chores, they must be tedious ones indeed.
“You're to go in the first boat,” Charleston told him, handing him a knapsack. “List and money's in the small pocket. Here's a pair of the skipper's shirts, too-you take care of those. And bring back exact change or you know MacCurden'll have you whipped.”
There was grumbling among the rest of the sailors when Ryan was hustled to the front of the line, but all of them knew better than to argue in front of MacCurden, who had arrived on deck to see them off. He would not be going ashore on this stop, being content with the second and third mate handling the restocking. One stop away from their final destination, he and the skipper needed to sit down and calculate the best route for them. The final leg of their journey could take everything between five weeks and two months, and it was up to them to optimise the journey.
“Keep out of trouble,” he told the crew, “and don't arrive back piss drunk. If you do I'll have you thrown off ship. We sail tomorrow at first light-anyone not here by then will be left behind.”
It was not an empty threat. The crew knew that MacCurden would rather make an extra stop along the journey to pick up more crew than wait an hour for any late sailors.
Ryan ignored the rest of the speech, already scanning the list he'd been given. He was to fill up their stock of two-inch shackles-that would have to be one of the first errands, stopping off at a forge to place the order. He could pick the finished product up later. The same went for the dress shirts skipper Johnson wanted mended. Then there was the specialist items for the cook-the ones not covered by the general provisions-those he could do whenever. He mentally ticked off pieces on the list, slotting them into place in an internal schedule. It wasn't nearly as difficult tasks as he'd been fearing, just general, boring, everyday chores no one else could be bothered with. On the whole, it could have been a lot worse.
The journey to shore was peaceful. Ryan had been placed at one of the oars and concentrated on rowing. It was hard keeping up with Marthins, who was a huge young man and who held the other oar, but Marthins was distracted enough by the prospect of beer and skirt and was off his stroke today. It made it easier for Ryan to get away with considerable less skill and muscle mass.
He left the rest of the sailors arguing about which pub to head to first and headed off into the streets. The noise from the dock muffled and disappeared the further away from sea he went, and he was at peace.
All the chores were small ones, but all the items he'd bought added together and by the time he was walking back to the dock he was buckling under the weight of the knapsack, with the mended shirts in a careful package under one arm and the shackles under the other. He was stopping to catch his breath when he became aware of a boy about his own age looking at him.
“Do you need help?” the boy said, coming towards him.
Ryan's first instinct was to shove his knapsack further behind his back-ports like this were notorious for their pickpockets-but the boy only held out his hands, making it Ryan's choice to give him anything. Ryan hesitated. The boy looked cleaner than most pickpockets, and shackles weren't very theft-worthy.
“It's shackles for the ship,” he said, handing over the package and inwardly sighing with relief over this small lightening of his load.
“Really?” the boy said, falling into step with him. Ryan shifted the knapsack's weight, making sure it was as far out of reach as possible. You couldn't be too careful. “You sail on a ship? Which one?”
“The Athena,” Ryan replied, pointing her out. “Cargo ship.”
“I've always wanted to try being a sailor,” the boy said, looking at the Athena with longing. “It must be great. Where are you heading next?”
“Newtown.”
The boy nodded, grinning. “That'll take you-what? A month? Two?”
“Something like that.”
It was a strange conversation. Ryan wasn't used to people saying more than orders to him, and his answers were short and monosyllabic. Still, he found himself remarkably at ease with the strange boy's steady chatter, and when they reached the boat that was to ferry him over to the Athena he almost regretted that the walk hadn't been longer.
“Here are the shackles,” the boy said, giving Ryan the package, and he turned to leave.
“What's your name?” Ryan asked, completely surprising himself. The boy smiled at him.
“Brendon,” he said.
“I'm Ryan,” Ryan said, feeling awkward. Brendon smiled at him again.
“Have a nice journey to Newtown, Ryan,” he said. “Maybe we'll meet again.”
It was strange, Ryan thought. Usually he was glad when the ship set sail again-the dreary existence of port days finally broken. This time, however, he felt unusually wistful as they left the port behind.
There had been the normal amount of wincing at dawn as all the sailors were rousted on deck to set sail-and even more so amongst the ones on forenoon watch, whose time for work ran from eight to twelve and who had to watch their drinking mates happily retire to their hammocks once the sails were up. Since the topsails weren't up yet, Ryan joined the crew on the jibs. They had some tricky navigation to do until they left land entirely behind, and they had to change tack several times. The inner jib kept getting stuck, and several times Ryan had to clamber out on the bowsprit and help the tack along. It was tricky business, letting go of the sail just before it swept him overboard, but at least it kept him busy.
At twelve his watch ended. Lunch was good today, as if to make up for the hangovers and the lack of sleep. He was supposed to be off after that, but MacCurden spotted him and set him on mousing shackles, securing the pin with wire to prevent it from coming loose. It was one of the small jobs on ship Ryan was set to do when there was nothing much else for him to occupy his time, and he set to it calmly. He started in the mizzen-topmast, sitting in the crosstree, mousing shackle after shackle and watching the last hints of land slip away with a sting he couldn't quite identify.
The afternoon watch passed as well as the first dog watch, and Ryan was sitting with his dinner when he was roused by a bellow for all hands on deck. The order had every sailor drop his food and leap up, scrambling to get on deck as quickly as possible.
The flying jib has come loose, Ryan thought, mind instantly leaping to the worst-case scenario. The flying jib was fastened to the main forestay, and if it came loose it could potentially bring the whole rig down.
But what he saw when he emerged on deck wasn't the jib beating back and forth, or any other nautical emergency for that matter. It was MacCurden, red in the face and holding the boy from the dock, Brendon, by the collar.
“Whose,” MacCurden roared to the assembled sailors, “is this?”
There was a general confused muttering.
“I don't care what you do on shore,” MacCurden said, shaking Brendon for emphasis, “or even who. But you do not bring your toys on ship. Whose is it?”
“If I could-” Brendon tried, but MacCurden glared at him until he shut up again.
“Sir,” said Charleston in the pregnant silence that followed, “I checked every boatload that came on ship. He didn't arrive by the ship's boat.”
“So,” MacCurden said, his voice lower now but more dangerous, “a stowaway? How did you get on board?”
“I swam,” Brendon said, grinning. “I heard that you were going to Newtown.”
Ryan groaned inwardly. During their talk, Brendon had mentioned that he was looking for a way home.
“Good swimmer, are you?” MacCurden asked.
“Very good,” Brendon said. He was still grinning.
“I'm glad to hear that,” MacCurden said, and in two long strides he was standing next to the gunwale, preparing to throw Brendon over the side.
“Sir, wait, please!” Charleston said, looking shocked at his own daring. MacCurden turned slowly.
“Yes?” he said.
Charleston looked wary, but plunged on nonetheless. “We could use a new monkey,” he said. “We lost Edward at the port before last, and even if the other sailors have been taking turns to work the mizzen-topsail, we could use someone for it.”
The unspoken meaning was, as Ryan well knew, why risk a real sailor's life when we can give the job to a stowaway. He felt hope rise in him.
MacCurden stared from Charleston to Brendon, and then around at the rest of the sailors. His scowling face grew even fiercer.
“What are all you still standing around for?” he shouted. “Piss off! It's lucky for you,” he added in the confusion that followed, letting go of Brendon's shirt, “that my third mate is such an unwarranted softie. You'll stay on ship, and you'll pay your way by working the topsails and whatever else we need. Ryan!”
Ryan jumped, then hurried forward.
“You'll be teaching new boy here everything he needs. He'll be on your watch and your responsibility. What's your name, boy?” This to Brendon, who replied with his name, trying to look suitably bashful. “Ryan, take Brendon here below deck and find him a spot. Explain the watches and anything else you think of.” He glared again at Brendon. “Try to be of use, and I'll try to curb my wish to throw your overboard.”
With that he stalked off, leaving the two of them looking at each other silently.
“So, we meet again,” Brendon said eventually, smiling, and Ryan realised that he was smiling back.
By noon the next day, Ryan had had time to instruct Brendon in basic tacking knowledge and the organisation of watches and ship's bells, in hierarchy on board and most basic knots. They'd had the forenoon watch off and Ryan had taken the time to catch a much-needed hour of sleep, but now he didn't know where Brendon was, and he was worried.
When MacCurden called him over, just as he was going to lunch, he thought for one terrible moment that MacCurden had changed his mind and tossed Brendon over the side of the ship after all.
What MacCurden wanted, though, was only to give him further instructions.
“Ryan, I want you to take the new monkey up to the mizzen-topmast,” he said, waving a piece of bread at Ryan. “I want him taught everything he needs to handle one of the topmasts by himself as soon as possible.”
Ryan suppressed a shocked gasp. He knew the first mate didn't have much time over for stowaways, but to throw him onto the topsails by himself before he'd even had time to get his sea legs seemed unusually cruel.
He swallowed the angry response, however, and turned his gaze away. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I'll take him up as soon as lunch is over.”
MacCurden nodded at him, then made a shooing motion with his hand. Ryan heard the other sailors laughing as he turned away.
He stood in line to get his food, and then got back on deck to his usual corner, settling down between two large coils of rope to eat his lunch in peace.
“Do you want to get him killed?”
Ryan almost spilled his stew. He stared up at Brendon, who had appeared out of nowhere and was now grinning at him.
“What?”
“That's what you wanted to ask MacCurden. I saw you,” Brendon said. “Why didn't you?”
Ryan shrugged, turning back to his stew. “You're joking, right? He'd throw me overboard.”
There was a pause, and then Brendon came and sat down beside him. “You're that frightened of him?”
Ryan snorted. “You obviously haven't been paying attention. MacCurden doesn't care for your life, or mine. Stay out of his way and try not to annoy him, and you might make it through this journey. Oh, and learn fast. You've cost them nothing, and they'll use you for the muckiest and most dangerous jobs.”
“And the skipper? He doesn't mind?”
Ryan laughed shortly. “He cares less about you than MacCurden does, believe me. Keep your head down, work and don't attract attention. That's the way I've stayed alive for three years.”
“Three years?” Brendon looked at him curiously. “Why don't you just get off in one of the ports?”
Ryan shrugged. “And do what? I was a poorhouse kid. I have no family to go back to. I was sold to the Athena at a poorhouse auction three years ago. But they can only keep me until I'm eighteen-and then I'm a sailor. I can take a berth on a good ship, then, but only if I stick it out another year. It's worth it.” He shrugged and looked down into his stew. “It could be a lot worse. They feed you well here, at least. At the poorhouse we weren't allowed meat.” He looked up and frowned. “Speaking of which, aren't you eating?”
Brendon smiled faintly. “I ate already,” he said. “I got in early in the line.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows. That sounded strange. Everything on a ship was strictly hierarchic, and this included the lunch line. Then again, Brendon had a quality that had made several of the crew take to him, and one of the mates might have allowed Brendon to slip in before him, Ryan thought.
“So what are we doing that has you worried?” Brendon asked.
Ryan shrugged. “Nothing that wasn't on the plan from the start,” he said. “You're supposed to work as a monkey, so that's what we're going to be looking at after lunch. I just thought it would be better for you to have a few more days on ship first. The motion of the ship is even stronger up in the topmast. And we'll be climbing up, too.”
He jerked his head towards the shrouds running from the gunwale to the crosstree, where the mast ended and the topmast took over. Ratlines, thin ropes tied horizontally across the thicker, tarred ropes of the shrouds, made for hand- and footholds in the make-shift ladder.
Brendon's eyes widened, and he grinned. “I wondered if we'd get to climb those,” he said. “Who's going first?”
Ryan blinked. “Doesn't it worry you?” he said.
“No, I think it looks great,” Brendon said. “Come on, eat up so we can get started.” He shoved amiably at Ryan's shoulder, looking extremely excited.
Ryan shook his head with disbelief and ducked his head, hiding his answering smile.
By the time the ship's bell tolled eight times to signal noon and a change of watch, they were already halfway up the shrouds, each with a rope coiled tightly around their waist. Ryan kept a calm pace, careful not to rush. Brendon's enthusiasm none withstanding, climbing the shrouds could be tricky when there was a bit of wind and he didn't want Brendon getting overconfident only to be swept into the ocean.
He reached the crosstree, the bars fastened horizontally across the mast for a precarious platform, and clambered up, gripping the topmast to pull himself upright. He breathed in deep, leaning back recklessly to look around him. The ocean stretched out on all sides, blindingly large and dazzling in the sunlight. Not for the first time, Ryan felt a sudden urge to throw himself off the mast into that perfect sea, diving into an underwater world. There was something terribly tempting about that beautiful, unending expanse of water.
“Hey, Ryan!”
Ryan jerked, his fingers slipping on the polished wood. For a moment he felt the pull of gravity catch at his body, but then his hands found purchase again and he clung, sucking in air greedily. He hadn't been thinking right. You couldn't lose focus up here.
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and looked down. Brendon was watching him, a slight frown on his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course,” Ryan said shortly. His heart was beating hard and fast in his chest, as if after realising how close it had come to stopping altogether, it was now trying to make the most out of the time it had been granted. “I'm fine. What did you want?”
Brendon didn't answer at first, still looking closely at him, but then he grinned and took a hand off the ratline, pointing downwards. “Look.”
Ryan craned his neck, trying to see where Brendon was pointing. For a few seconds he couldn't see what had caught Brendon's attention, but then he became aware of the dark shapes swimming around the ship's bow, keeping pace easily.
“Are those-” he began, and then he gasped. One of the dolphins had broken the surface of the water, leaping alongside the ship in a long, graceful arc.
“Aren't they great?” Brendon shouted, and when Ryan turned his gaze from the dolphins back to the shrouds he saw that Brendon was clambering up quickly, seeming as sure on the ratlines with his naked feet as with his hands.
“Careful-” Ryan said, shocked, but Brendon only laughed.
“Don't worry, I know what I'm doing.” He reached the top and heaved himself onto the crosstree in one smooth motion. He laughed again at Ryan's expression. “This doesn't worry me. Oh, look now, look!” He put one hand on Ryan's shoulder and pointed at the dolphins again.
There were three of them leaving the water now, jumping in perfect unison. As they watched, a fourth one joined the game, jumping back and forth in front of the ship's bow. It looked as though at any moment the ship would run it over, but it kept playing, daring the ship to go faster.
Ryan laughed out loud. There was so much joy in the creatures, so much genuine playfulness, that it couldn't help but spread.
“I heard somewhere,” he heard himself say, “that when sailors die, they are reborn as dolphins.”
Brendon put his head to one side. “If they've been good sailors,” he said eventually, and then he grinned. “If they've been MacCurden, they're reborn as flatfish.”
Ryan snorted back a laugh. “Thanks for reminding me,” he said. “We need to start working or he'll tan our hide. OK, look, you obviously were an actual monkey or something in your previous life-”
“That's not it,” Brendon protested, laughing. “I'm not afraid to fall, that's all.”
“-but the rest of us,” Ryan continued pointedly, “like to have a safeguard when we're running the topsail. That rope you've got coiled around your waist, we'll be using that to tie you to the mast. Not tightly, because then you wouldn't be able to do your job, but just so you have something that might help if you lose your footing. You start by looping it around here...”
“And a bowline, right?” Brendon said, looping the rope and tying it deftly. Ryan opened his mouth and shut it again.
“Well, you took my advice about learning quickly to heart,” he said eventually. Brendon waggled his eyebrows.
“Maybe you can try to look as if you're still instructing me, though, and we can have a bit more time to watch the dolphins?” he said.
Brendon did indeed learn very fast. The fears Ryan had had about leaving him alone with a topsail turned out to be unfounded, as Brendon not only managed tacking and wearing ship easily, but also managed to single-handedly furl the sail on his third attempt. The long and lonely days on the topmast Ryan had previously seen as a dreaded chore soon became a pleasant experience, with Brendon shouting and joking from the next mast. His actual words didn't always make it over, but the gestures that accompanied them were always unmistakable.
When they didn't have the topsails up, Ryan was as usual assigned all the boring small jobs no one else wanted to do-but now with the notable exception that he had Brendon for a companion, since MacCurden had decided that the best way to keep Brendon out of the way of real sailors while still making use of him was to have him shadow Ryan in every task. So together they were hung over the side of the hull to do additional tarring, together they peeled potatoes and polished silverware and together they crawled all over the widow's net below the bowsprit, making repairs.
They slept in the same corner below deck, too. Since neither of them had a hammock they could scoot close together, and Brendon helped Ryan while away the hours when he couldn't sleep by telling quiet stories of the world below sea. He wove tales about mermaids and underwater streams and hidden fortunes, and Ryan fell asleep with the sound of water whispering in his ear.
Ryan and Brendon were in the widow's net again, strengthening and mending knots. It was an eternal job-if you mended a break one day, there was bound to be a new one the day after-and whenever they didn't have anything else to do, they were sent to the net.
Today, they came into contact with the dolphins again.
“Do you think they're the same ones we saw from the mast?” Ryan asked. He meant is as a joke, but Brendon nodded seriously.
“Dolphins are the messengers of the queen of the sea,” he said softly, waving at one. “She must be keeping an eye on us.”
Ryan looked at him. There was something curiously still about Brendon, something intense in the way he looked at the leaping figures below them. But then Brendon blinked and looked up, his sunny countenance back in place. “I like doing this,” he said, gesturing at the net. “Let's spin it out as long as we can, right?”
“No worry about that,” Ryan replied dryly. “This work is never finished.”
“I guess that's true,” Brendon said, smiling at the knot he was testing. He was silent for a while after that, and then he said, “I've been here a month tomorrow. Do you realise that?”
“A month?” Ryan calculated. “Oh, that's right.”
“We'll be reaching port soon,” Brendon said. “One week at the outside.”
“And you'll leave?” Ryan said. Something cold and hard seemed to settle into his stomach with the words. Keep your head down and do your four years, that had been his motto when he was first handed to the crew of Athena. For the first time, however, he looked beyond that distant horizon-onto the time when he became a free man, a sailor able to take any job he wished. He'd never permitted himself to think of it before, but he could see now the future he'd planned, stretching out like an endless empty experience. Better than his current life, unless Fate was crueller than he hoped, but empty of friends or home.
Brendon smiled softly. “Let's not think about that yet,” he said.
Ryan leaned on the gunwale, looking out over the ocean. Two days had passed since his and Brendon's conversation in the bowsprit net, and he'd been trying to avoid Brendon ever since. Not in his work, of course-that wouldn't be possible-but he hadn't sought him out during their free time like he usually did. Ryan thought of it as weaning himself off the idea of company. He'd managed fine before Brendon came along. He'd do it again, but he needed time to get used to the thought.
He looked to his right and sighed softly. Brendon was walking towards him.
“Can I join you?” he asked. Ryan shrugged, but took a small step to the left, inviting Brendon to stand next to him.
“I'm sorry for bringing that up, you know, the day before yesterday,” Brendon said. “In some ways I don't want to leave. But-”
“You're going home,” Ryan said. Brendon hesitated, then nodded.
“I'm going home,” he said. He looked as if he was about to say something more, but then he sighed noisily, running a hand through his hair. “I hope you'll be happy, though,” he said. “I mean, I would have liked it if you could come with me. But I-I think it might be best if you don't.”
Ryan nodded, trying not to show how the words stung. He knew that he could only be a burden to Brendon if they left the ship together, but some part of him had hoped that Brendon, with his unfailing optimism and naivety, would suggest this anyway. He stared into the sea instead, watching the eddies from the ship's passage through the water. The water was dark; muddied and murky.
“No dolphins today,” he remarked.
“No,” Brendon agreed.
“A storm is coming,” Ryan said. It was a stupid statement. When he had first come on board he'd tried, sometimes, to tell other crew members the signs he thought he saw in the water and wind about what was to come. It had earned him the label of “mad” or, worse, “witch”. He'd learned to keep his observations to himself, and he didn't really know why he broke this rule now. Maybe because he felt he hadn't much to lose.
But Brendon didn't laugh or roll his eyes. He just stared at Ryan, as if seeing him for the first time.
“I know,” he said.
Ryan had never been in a storm like this. The ship rose and fell with a sickening, slow motion, and water sprayed over the deck, drenching all the sailors. All hands had been rousted onto the deck, and the mood was half a breath from widespread panic. The jibs had finally been furled after a battle with the sheets that had almost swept two sailors into the sea, but it was still hard enough work to keep control over the gaff rig. It was a small miracle that they hadn't lost a single man yet.
“We need to reef sail,” someone panted next to Ryan. He didn't turn his head to see who. Can't be done, he thought, but didn't bother to say it out loud.
They all knew, anyway.
The spray had soaked him to the skin and the salt stung his nose and eyes. He and four other men were trying to tighten the starboard mainsheet-the mainsail was trembling under the force of the gale. The rope was biting into Ryan's hands, the right palm torn. His muscles were aching, too, a dull pain that wakened and burned every time he renewed his grip on the sheet. He wanted to look for Brendon, but he didn't dare shift his position enough to look over the deck.
“There!” Charleston shouted. “Secure. Let go, men, we won't get it better than this.”
There was a general murmur of “Well done, men”, but it was hollow and weak. They were one bad wave away from a shipwreck.
“It's the goddess of the seas,” one of the other men said. “She's angry. She wants a life, or she'll take what life she wants herself.”
“That's heretic talk, Murdoch,” Charleston snapped angrily. “You know there's only one God. Away to the mizzenmast with you, all of you-there's men there that need help.”
The men lurched and slithered towards the stern, still grumbling and cursing. Ryan followed them, deep in thought. Brendon's stories had been woven through with the image of the queen of the ocean. But that had been a benevolent being, one who cared for life-not the murderous lady of the sailor's imaginings, surely.
Or maybe, if she existed at all, she wasn't either of those two, he thought. Maybe she was just the ocean: kind and furious, all at once.
He reached the mizzenmast and realised that the argument headed off by Charleston was continuing in an even darker vein here.
“-life, but it doesn't say how precious it has to be. I say we drop something no one much cares about.”
There was a general muttering of assent, even if one or two men exchanged awkward glances. Murdoch had pull among the men.
Ryan joined in with the rest of the sailors heaving on the peak halyard and tried to concentrate on ignoring the screaming from his muscles. He thought the words were an allusion to one of the ship's cats which, although popular on the ship, might be construed as expendable, and he didn't listen closer until something Murdoch said made his blood run cold.
“-not like he cost us anything.”
Ryan let go of the halyard, unheeding of the angry shout this earned him, and staggered over to Murdoch.
“No,” he said, trying to counter the rolling of the deck and stand straight. “No, no, you can't. You can't.”
Murdoch snorted, craning his neck to run his gaze over the deck. “He won't be missed.”
He will was on Ryan's lips, but he stopped the words in time. “He's a human being,” he said. “You can't just-”
“Can and will,” Murdoch said, glaring at him, and Ryan realised that the gleam in his eyes was the madness of terror. Murdoch couldn't swim.
“I won't let you,” Ryan said desperately, trying to block Murdoch's way. “No, you coward, you bastard, you-” Ryan grabbed the arm that went to sweep him away and held on, as if his puny weight would be enough to hinder Murdoch at all. And then he bit down, hard.
Murdoch roared, stumbling backwards with Ryan still hanging on. He slipped on the wet deck and crashed into the gunwale just beside the men still trying to control the halyard. His free arm was brought down hard against a sharp edge and he roared again, grabbed Ryan's lapel and spun around, slamming Ryan against the gunwale.
“I think the goddess has a new sacrifice,” he bellowed, and then he pulled Ryan up and over the gunwale, shoving him backwards into the sea.
To Ryan, it seemed as if the fall took a year and a day. The world seemed muted, all other sounds muffled by the ringing in his ears, and he had time to take in everything. The men rushing forward to the gunwale, arms stretched out and mouths open in horror. Murdoch being pulled away. MacCurden, some way off, turning from his consultation with the helmsman. And Brendon, throwing himself off the shrouds in a perfectly curved dive.
Then Ryan hit the water, and the world turned dark and very cold.
Ryan sank quickly through the water. He struggled, trying to bring himself back to the surface, but his shirt billowed and swirled uselessly, making his movements heavy and laboured. His lungs felt like they were on fire.
Brendon caught up with him then, moving easily through the water. He caught Ryan's flailing hands, pulling him close. He gestured to his own mouth, and then to Ryan's-I'm going to give you air.
Ryan thought about protesting-Brendon needed his own air, surely-but Brendon's mouth pressed against his, breathing into him. Ryan felt his lungs expand. The pain disappeared. He opened his eyes, hardly aware that he had ever closed them, and saw that Brendon was against all expectations grinning.
“Feel better?” Brendon said. Ryan heard the words, as clearly and easily as if he and Brendon had been having a conversation on board the Athena. He frowned, shook his head; tried to convey his confusion without opening his mouth.
Brendon smiled at him, squeezing his hands. “It's fine,” he said. “Don't worry.” He brought their joined hands up between them to eye height, waggling his fingers. “Look.”
Ryan looked at their hands. At first he couldn't understand what Brendon was getting at, but then he saw: Brendon's fingers were connected by a thin film.
Ryan looked closer. His own hands, too, were webbed.
“Just try to relax,” Brendon said, seeing the way Ryan's eyes widened in shock. “Your body should have adjusted by now. It'll be fine. Just breathe normally, and it'll be fine.”
Although the pain in his lungs had gone, Ryan could feel an unpleasantly heavy sensation in his chest.
“Breathe,” Brendon repeated, and Ryan thought that he was tired of being safe. Nodding hesitantly, he shut his eyes, gathered courage for a moment, and then opened his mouth and breathed.
Immediately his body felt lighter. Instead of the rush of cold water into his lungs he'd been fearing, he felt as though he'd just taken a deep breath of clean spring air. He laughed, surprised and delighted.
“But how-” he said, then laughed again when he realised he could hear his own voice.
“You know I told you about mermaids?” Brendon said, looking almost embarrassed. “Well, I'm one. Or, you know, merman. Actually, we usually just say merperson. Anyway,” he hesitated, “you're one, too.”
Ryan blinked at him, completely confused. “No,” he said, “I've been on land all my life.” He grinned, then laughed-laughing was so easy. “I mean, I don't have a tail. Shouldn't I have a tail?”
Brendon shook his head, his hair billowing around his face. “You were thrown ashore by a bad wave when you were barely newborn. Children thrown out of the ocean lose their tails. You were raised human, as an orphan, and you were raised far from the sea, so the queen couldn't find you. She thought you were lost for ever.”
Brendon squeezed Ryan's hands. “But then you became a sailor. She could sense you then. It took time, but she found you-and she sent me to you. She wanted to see if you could still be brought back. I followed your ship for months until I found a way to get on board. I thought it wouldn't be possible to get you back, though. I thought you'd become completely human. Until two nights ago.”
He smiled at Ryan, who shook his head but smiled back.
“What about your tail, then?” he asked.
Brendon shrugged dismissively. “I had enchantment help from one of the octopus witches,” he said. “It'll wear off. You'll get your tail back with time, too.”
Ryan untangled one of his hands from Brendon's and held it up in front of his face, studying the film connecting each finger to the next. Then he looked up at the broken surface of the water above them.
“All my time on board Athena,” he said, “I had dreams about diving off board and going to live in the sea.” He paused. “Were they true? All your stories?”
“Yes. Every last one.” Brendon nodded. “And the ones I didn't tell you, as well. Like the story about how you have a family.”
Ryan frowned, suddenly wary. “Are we family? I mean, you and I?”
Brendon shook his head quickly. “No,” he said, and he squeezed Ryan's fingers again, “we're not.”
They smiled at each other in silence for a while, and then Brendon looked away, ducking his head awkwardly.
“There are people who are related to you, though, and they can't wait to meet you,” he said. “Come on, let's go.”
Ryan nodded. He took one last look at the surface and then, holding Brendon's hand in his, swam down and away from the storms above water, into the cool calm of the ocean.