The Descent
I have decided I will hazard this expedition Feniver suggested, on one condition. I wish to select and vet each of the students on the roster personally, with Feniver's assistance. Her knowledge of her students would be invaluable over the course of the interviews, and I would need to determine each applicant's connection with Nachtembourgian governmental interests or sympathies to their causes. To this end, a short list of twenty candidates has been assembled, and ten will be wheedled out through rigorous testing.
Feniver has been performing her role wonderfully, so far. I daily suffer pangs of regret that I could not be a husband to her. Our excellent teamwork and ability to communicate are as obvious as they are a painful reminder. I sincerely hoped I was not holding out for something I had already lost. I doubly hoped that I was not leading Feniver to her death.
* * *
I was speeding down the line towards the fogbank, my head full of terrified and angry thoughts. Though I had made good on my escape, I was concerned it was going to lead to my death or injury. I worried at the fate of the students who had gone before. So much tragedy and pain had already befallen these bright youths, and I was the crux of it all. Even if there were a miracle at this point and all those poor souls had made it unharmed, I feared I was already damned.
My worst fears became manifest as I pierced the fog bank. Below, through the haze, I made out the jagged forms of violent rocky shards thrusting from choppy water.
The Rocks!
I could already make out the bright clothes of students below; most of them appeared to be motionless and prone, either upon some rock or floating in the rough waters. A couple of smaller watercraft were wedged between pairs of rocks. I tried to aim for one of them, hoping to manaeouvre a vertical drop onto the deck to minimize injury.
Then the line went slack.
I flew in an arc, pointed rather conveniently towards the deck of the closer vessel which was a sixteen-foot wooden dinghy wedged between two tall, sharp rocks. Inconveniently, I could get myself in no sort of position for a landing. I smacked side-first into the hull of the dinghy, spinning and landing on my face on the deck. I blacked out.
I woke up with my face in a small pool of cold blood. I lay still for several minutes, before attempting to rise to my feet. I was shaky, and my ribs were definitely cracked along the right side. In addition, my wrist seemed tender and stiff when moved. I looked around: through the fog I could make out a few people. Again, they were without animation, some bobbing morbidly in the surf. I tried shouting, hoping one of them would respond. Not one did. I was overcome, and broke down in tears upon the weathered grey wood of the dinghy's deck.
After my lachrymose episode had subsided enough for me to breathe, I took stock of the situation. I was on a tiny wooden island in the middle of an angry sea of icy spray and jagged rocks. From what I could tell, I was the only one to survive. My luck seemed more like a curse when I considered my struggles to survive only brought doom upon everyone. If I survived, if I managed to pull my bedraggled body onto some other shore, would I not bring ruin there as well?
My drive to survive began wildly trying to stave off the images flashing through my mind. My body, broken among the rocks. Me, wincing as Jack Daw's sword struck a killing blow on me. My body broken in the jaws of a Great Crow before I had the time or opportunity to lead any young men to their deaths.
Think of your love, back home! survival insisted. Think of the wonderment you brought these students, that made them follow you! survival pleaded. Think of the good you did in saving them, even if fate undid those good intentions! survival grasped at straws. I lay back upon the driftwood dinghy, feeling the spasmodic ache of broken ribs with each breath.
I would survive. I would try to get home. That was a fact about myself I could not deny. Though it seemed as though there were nothing left, no reason to fight, and hopeless odds stacked against me, I would carry on this struggle until I succeeded or died.
I slipped over the side of the boat and into the freezing water. I groped around the perimeter of one of the massive, sharp rocks, until I was able to reach another. I continued skirting rocks, gripping tightly against the wild waves. After a while, I came to a space too great to span with my arms. I swam carefully, but the bucking tides proved too strong; I was swept this way and that, and finally slammed into the surface of the rock I was aiming for. I was dizzy and my vision was flashing white. Salt water forced its way down my throat, and I vomited it back up.
I could see what appeared to be the hazy line of a shore through the thick fog, possibly about a mile off. One rock at a time, I wended my way through the bone-chilling water, thankful that the numbness of the icy cold prevented me from feeling my scraped-up hands and bruised body.