Kink Me! #28closed to new promptsWelcome to Kink Me! Merlin #28!
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Arthur stands astern and watches as the town slips slowly into the whiteness. The ship creaks gently, swaying a little as she gets under way. Up above, two of the men are having a quiet conversation in the rigging, their voices both muffled and amplified by the fog. Arthur lets himself sway with the ship, feeling the itching of his skin that he always gets on land begin to subside.
He orders the helmsman to plot a course due north. It's the most direct route into open water, and the least dangerous. Once the ship begins to sway with more force, Arthur begins to tour the deck, loath to go below when the air up here is so fresh and there's still the excitement of a beginning that he knows from long experience will not last for long before the tedium sets in.
On his third perambulation, he's passing the prow when he thinks he sees a shadow in the fog. He pauses, approaching the rail and squinting into the blank light. There's nothing marked on the charts, no islets or skerries, and he narrows his eyes further before he realises that there are voices, there are voices in the fog and they're coming not from above him but from ahead, from just a little way beyond the prow. All the spit dries up in his mouth, and he grips the rail, yelling “Hard a-port! Hard a-port!”
Arthur's helmsman is the best money can buy, and the ship's coming round before the repeated command has left Arthur's lips. Even so, it's not quite soon enough, and Arthur's knuckles go white on the rail as the starboard bow scrapes along a jetty with a crunch that he feels in the marrow of his bones. Then the force of their momentum pulls them free, and they slide along the docks, warehouses looming out of the fog barely a ship-length away.
The moment of impact transforms the deck from a ghost town to a hive of activity, men swarming up from below, others running down, everyone wanting to know one thing: what happened.
It's Arthur's question, too, and once he's sure they're not going to hit anything else, he strides astern to the helm, fury in every step he takes.
“I followed the compass, my lord,” the helmsman says before he's even opened his mouth. “Due north, just as you said.”
Arthur glares at him, then glances down at the little battered compass that's lashed atop the cracked one in front of the tiller. The needle points unerringly towards the dock and the town.
Arthur growls and looses the cords holding the compass in place.
“I'll give him Magellan,” he says.
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