In Roaring He Shall Rise: Part II
[Master Post]
[Previous]
January 24th, Year of Our Lord, 1798
My dearest Amelia,
Once again I find that months have passed since I have been able to collect myself and put my thoughts down in ink in the hopes of keeping you apprised of my situation. I hope you will not hold it against me ―you know that I am normally a faithful correspondent, but I have been kept from being diligent in my writings by circumstances entirely out of my control, as you no doubt know.
So much has happened since I last wrote, I scarce know where to begin. I suppose I should first reassure you that I am no longer aboard the Hellhound. It all seems like a terrible dream now, but it was real enough. I didn't want to alarm you, Amelia, but I was quite certain when I last wrote you, that if I was to spend much longer aboard that accursed ship, that I was doomed to an early grave, sewn up in my hammock, weighted down with shot and tossed unceremoniously to the bottom of Davy Jones' locker. Captain Crowley seemed determined to break the spirits of those of us press-ganged aboard his ship, perhaps to ensure that we would not try to escape, given the opportunity. We were given the most demeaning and most gruelling of ship-board tasks, the bare minimum of rations to survive. Poor young Lucas died of a fever some few days after I last wrote to you. I need not exaggerate when I say that our situation was desperate.
My salvation came in a very unlikely form. Even now, it all seems so improbable that I can't quite bring myself to believe it. I shall try to recount the events as accurately as I can, but you will soon see why some of my memories may not be as clear as they might otherwise be. It was some days after the New Year, and we hadn't so much as sighted a bird on the horizon in nearly a week, when there was a commotion from the crow's nest. The lookout had spotted a sail bearing down on our position at a fair clip, easily outstripping our speed. Within a few hours the unknown ship had almost overtaken us, though her course appeared to deviate from ours. She was a pretty ship, a sleek little corvette named the Impala. Her black sails were what had alarmed our lookouts, but she flew our flag, and by the time she was upon us it was evident she had no ill-intentions toward us. We traded a few friendly jibes across our bows ―a far cry from the last serious ship-to-ship encounter I had experienced!― and it soon became obvious that the captains of our respective vessels were acquainted with each other.
“Crowley, you sly old dog!” the other captain shouted at us. “Still terrorizing American vessels, I hear!”
“It's a damned sight more profitable than chasing monsters, Winchester!” Captain Crowley rejoined, but I could tell that his composure was ruffled.
“Oi!” another of the sailors yelled at us, voice unaided by the captain's loudspeaker, but it carried nonetheless clearly across the waves. “Any of you lot tired of working under that tyrant?” A few of us paused in our work at those words, though they were clearly meant in jest. “Come with us! We're heading back to the Americas, for wine, women and song!”
There was a burst of jeering laughter from our ship, but the damage was done. All I could think in that moment was that my salvation lay within a stone's throw. How could I resist the temptation? Up until then I had always discounted the sailors' stories about the sirens' irresistible lure, but I swear to you, Amelia, at that very moment that man's voice was like the sweetest music to my ears, and I could conceive of nothing but following it, wherever it might lead. Before I even knew what I was doing it I had leapt up from where I had been swabbing the deck, pushed off the railing, and plunged headlong into the sea.
The water was bitterly cold, and the breath was knocked from my lungs. I struggled to the surface, coughing and struggling, and struck out toward the other ship with all the strength that remained in my limbs. Dimly I could hear shouts coming from both ships, and then Captain Crowley's rang out, clear as a bell.
“Get that bugger back! I don't care if it's his carcass you bring on board, bring him back!”
There was another splash from behind me, and I made the mistake of turning in the water to see who my pursuer was. I didn't recognize him over the swell of the waves, but he was upon me in moments, being larger and in better physical condition than I. We struggled briefly, and there my memories grow hazy, as though an unexpected fog rolled in. He drew a knife on me, confident that he would be able to overpower me, and I felt a burning pain in my side, saw a small cloud of pink in the water as he spilled my blood, which just as quickly dissipated. I have not spent these many years surviving all the scraps and skirmishes the high seas could throw at me without learning a trick or two of my own. I drove the heel of my hand against the bridge of his nose in a vicious blow, and as he thrashed about, trying to keep his head above water, I grabbed at his wrist with both hands, attempting to disarm him. He fought back, but desperation lent strength to my arms.
I am sorry to say that I slew him, my dearest. I have killed more than my fair share of men in the years I have been sailing, and all of them have been in the heat of battle. This time it was in a struggle for my very life, and while I do not regret my actions, I cannot help but regret that the man's blood was spilled simply for the attempt to bring back one wayward sailor.
The knife sank to the bottom of the ocean, and I struck out again toward the Impala. All of her crew, or so it seemed to me at the time, were crowding at the rails, leaning over and shouting encouragements at me. I was already flagging badly by then, already weak from my time aboard the Hellhound, and further weakened by the knife wound to my side, which was still bleeding freely into the water. It felt as though I was losing ground with every stroke ―the ship seemed to recede from my view, even as I strove toward with all my might. I would have despaired had I not caught sight of a young man directly in front of me, his hair coming loose from its bindings, bright-eyed and smiling, with his hand outstretched. He was far beyond my reach, but I swear, in that moment it felt as though he might simply have stretched a mere few inches in order to pull me aboard.
I almost made it. I was exhausted and chilled to the bone, my waterlogged clothes weighing me down. The pain in my side was all but blinding, and I felt myself begin to falter, in spite of everything. I swallowed a mouthful of seawater, then another, and I began to sink. The cries of the men were drowned out by the roar of the ocean, which itself was drowned out by the roaring in my ears. The waters closed above my head, and though I breached the surface once, even twice, the current dragged me inexorably downward. The last thing I remember is watching the sun, glowing dimly above the greenish surface of the waves. Then everything went black.
For a very long time, very little seemed to make sense. Dimly I was aware of no longer being wet or cold, but that was all. Sometimes I heard voices around me, whispering, sometimes raised in argument. Often I was prey to restless dreams in which I found myself being pulled toward the bottom of the ocean, or in which I wandered in confused circles, searching for some unidentifiable, lost thing. I dreamed of you and Claire, too, my darling, and those were the best moments of all. I was home, and we were together, and our daughter's laughter rang like silver bells in the spring air. Most of the time, though, I was conscious only of being uncomfortably hot, of a pair of hands soothing me, holding me in place when I struggled against the unrelenting pain in my side.
When I came to, it was to a gentle rocking sensation. I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a cot, stripped of all my clothes, with no more than a blanket to preserve my modesty. In all fairness, I doubt there was very much left to preserve, in my current condition. I found myself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes, not unlike the colour of the Mediterranean sea on a clear day. The face that came into focus was a handsome one, with features so delicate they might almost have seemed feminine in another man. As it was, the man's features pulled into a scowl.
“Back with us, are you?” he said gruffly. I opened my mouth, but found my throat too parched to speak. He shook his head, then held a cup to my lips. “Come along, then, drink this. It'll do you a world of good.”
I drank greedily, but he would not let me take but a few sips at a time. To my surprise, I found that he was giving me fresh water, liberally dosed with lemon juice. I simply stared over the rim of the cup, too weak to do much but submit to his ministrations. Once I had drunk my fill, the man propped me up on a makeshift cushion of rough sacking and removed the dressing from my side, examining what I now could see was a long, deep laceration along my left side below my ribcage, which had been neatly sutured. The flesh surrounding the sutures was an ugly red colour, but the man nodded as though satisfied.
“You're faring better than I had hoped,” he said. “To be honest, I wasn't sure you would survive at all. Your wound festered, and doubtless your advancing case of scurvy hasn't helped your recovery. You're not out of the woods yet, and even if you do pull through, the captain will be wanting a word or three with you.”
“Where am I?” I managed to croak. I was rather proud of myself for managing even that much. I was rewarded with an amused smirk.
“Aboard the Impala. It was touch-and-go with you for a while. You put even my skills to the test. An American, are you? Tell me, do you make a habit of flinging yourself off of ships? Even if it's customary where you come from, it's not something our captain approves of, I feel duty-bound to tell you. Reckless, at the best of times, downright foolhardy otherwise.”
I was spared having to answer by a coughing fit, and he gave me more water to drink. By the time I was able to talk, I instead posed the question that burned brightest in my mind. “What will you do with me?”
“I? With you?” he laughed. “Nothing. I am but a simple doctor, serving as ship's surgeon. My task is to keep you on the mend, and that is all. As for the captain? Let us say he and the admiral are having a difference of opinion about what is to be done with you. I daresay one or the other will be along to speak with you, now that you're no longer raving with fever.”
“How long have I been aboard?” I asked, though my head was beginning to throb abominably.
“A little over a fortnight. Perhaps now would be a good time to tell me your name? It's grown wearisome to refer to you only as 'the patient,' or 'the drowned rat,' depending on the context.”
“James Novak,” I accepted his proffered hand, and we shook solemnly, though I felt rather silly doing so, half-naked and entirely at his mercy. “Though most call me Jimmy. And you, sir? I would like to know the name of the man who saved my life.”
He snorted. “In truth, that dubious honour goes to the captain. The idiot would jump in after you when it seemed you were destined to drown. My name is Dean Winchester, for what it's worth. Ship's surgeon, at your service.” He pulled out a pocket watch with his free hand, and shifted his grip to clasp my wrist and check my pulse. “Still too fast,” he said disapprovingly, then he quirked his lips in an odd smile. “Get some rest. Whatever the admiral has to say to you can wait, though I doubt I'll be able to keep him away for very long. Go on, back to sleep.”
I was only too happy to comply.
When I awoke again, it was to the sound of voices, whispering in what was obviously a heated argument not three feet away from my sickbed. I immediately recognized one of the voices as belonging to the surgeon.
“Damn it all, Sam, I will not have you interfering with my patient! He is too weak to be questioned thus. I won't stand for it. You and Castiel will just have to wait.”
“It's Lord Castiel,” came the mild reproof, the voice as yet unknown to me. “Or Admiral Castiel, if you prefer to use his proper rank. Do show some respect, Dean.”
There was a mild snort. “The man's cracked.”
“Dean,” the reproach was still mild, but nonetheless insistent. I caught movement from the corner of my eye, and a shape loomed over my bed. “The resemblance is uncanny. They might be twins, if not for this one's obvious physical deterioration ―oh, you're awake,” the man's face approached, and now that it was no longer a blur, I saw a blush forming on finely-formed cheeks, and blue eyes flecked with hazel that sparkled with good humour. He was a handsome lad, and looked to be barely over twenty years of age. “My apologies. I didn't mean to offend.”
I nodded, utterly confused as to what he was talking about. Before I had a chance to so much as open my mouth, the surgeon spoke up. “Leave him be, Sam. At least let him have something to drink before you begin your interrogation.” As he approached my bed, I got a good look at him for the first time, and saw what I had missed the first time ―that he walked with a severe limp, leaning heavily upon a stout walking stick with an ornately carved silver grip. He sat down heavily beside me, then pressed another cup of lemon water into my hand. “Go on, drink.”
“You'd best do as he says,” the tall man said, with a fond expression that bordered upon the exasperated. “Dean is very particular about his patients following his prescribed treatments.”
“And have you had a single man die from scurvy?” the surgeon pointed out irritably.
“Not a one,” the other man assented happily. “All thanks to your excellent skills as a doctor. There, have I flattered your pride enough?”
There was a dissatisfied grumble, but the surgeon seemed mollified, nonetheless. “You, my good man,” he said to me, nudging my hand, “are lucky we had just purchased more lemons when you came aboard.”
“Dean is convinced of the many healing properties of citrus.”
The surgeon snorted. “You'll just have to take my word for it that it cleanses the humours. I know what I'm doing, Sam.”
“Of course you do. And how do you fare, sir? Dean tells me your name is Novak?”
I nodded. “Jimmy. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me.”
He shook my hand, rather more enthusiastically than I was expecting, and awarded me a blinding smile, complete with dimples. He seemed, in that moment, not much more than an overgrown boy. “Samuel Winchester.”
“You're the captain?” I gawked, and immediately regretted my inadvertent faux pas, but he threw his head back in a burst of good-natured laughter.
“Never fear, I often get that reaction. It's true, I am a little young to be a post captain.”
“Youngest in the fleet,” the surgeon added. “Sam's always been revoltingly adept at that sort of thing.” That's when my befuddled mind put two and two together.
“Are you blood relatives, then?”
“Brothers,” the captain confirmed. “Dean is the eldest, and never tires of reminding me of the fact.” The family resemblance was obvious, now that I knew it was there. Something about the eyes, mostly, and the way they held themselves. It was in their mannerisms more than anything else.
“It's because you'd get above yourself otherwise. Now, have you finished taxing my patient? He's too weak for anything more. Run along and manage your ship,”he waved dismissively with one hand.
I must say, Amelia, that I was more than a little shocked by the familiarity with which the surgeon spoke to the captain. I have never known a captain to brook such insubordination before, but perhaps due to their fraternal relationship, the captain let it pass without further comment. Indeed, if anything he seemed more amused by his elder brother's tone rather than anything. He huffed, rolled his eyes, and turned to duck through the low door. “I'll see you at dinner, Dean. Try not to be late this time.”
“I'll be sure to instruct the crew not to fall ill so that your dinner plans won't be disrupted,” came the sardonic reply. The doctor scowled at me, then, apparently realizing that I had been privy to the whole exchange. He limped to my bedside, then pulled out his watch fob once more, grasping my wrist in his fingers. “Hold still until I tell you otherwise. Does your head hurt?”
I managed a nod. In truth, my head was throbbing abominably, and the rest of me wasn't faring much better. I rather felt as though several burly men had taken turns giving me a severe beating, and my side ached and burned where I had been stabbed. The doctor startled me a moment later by placing a hand on my brow, and I realized with some surprise that I had been in danger of falling asleep.
“Not just yet,” he said gently, and favoured me with a smile that was just as kind as his brother’s, if more subdued. It softened his otherwise stern countenance, and I saw the beginnings of crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. “Give me a few more moments to finish examining you, and then you may sleep to your heart's content.”
He was true to his word. A few minutes later he ceased his ministrations, satisfied that, even though I was still weak and feverish, I was well on my way back to health. He dosed me with some bitter-tasting medicine, and after mere seconds I was fast asleep.
That was two days before the time of this writing, and since then, my darling, it seems to me I have done very little other than sleep. The few times I have been alert, it has been only for a few minutes at a time, long enough for the doctor to coax broth and medicine into me, but no longer. This evening, though, he has pronounced me sufficiently well to acquiesce to my request for paper and ink to write you and tell you of my change in fortunes. Tomorrow, I am told, Captain Winchester and the heretofore-unseen Admiral Castiel wish to speak with me. I do not know what they will think to do with me, but I am hopeful that, having struggled to keep me alive thus far, they will be reluctant to undo all their hard work.
I will write to you as soon and as often as I am able. Please tell Claire that I love her and think of both of you at every waking moment, and dream only of being reunited with you, in the end.
Love,
Jimmy
[Next]
[Previous]
January 24th, Year of Our Lord, 1798
My dearest Amelia,
Once again I find that months have passed since I have been able to collect myself and put my thoughts down in ink in the hopes of keeping you apprised of my situation. I hope you will not hold it against me ―you know that I am normally a faithful correspondent, but I have been kept from being diligent in my writings by circumstances entirely out of my control, as you no doubt know.
So much has happened since I last wrote, I scarce know where to begin. I suppose I should first reassure you that I am no longer aboard the Hellhound. It all seems like a terrible dream now, but it was real enough. I didn't want to alarm you, Amelia, but I was quite certain when I last wrote you, that if I was to spend much longer aboard that accursed ship, that I was doomed to an early grave, sewn up in my hammock, weighted down with shot and tossed unceremoniously to the bottom of Davy Jones' locker. Captain Crowley seemed determined to break the spirits of those of us press-ganged aboard his ship, perhaps to ensure that we would not try to escape, given the opportunity. We were given the most demeaning and most gruelling of ship-board tasks, the bare minimum of rations to survive. Poor young Lucas died of a fever some few days after I last wrote to you. I need not exaggerate when I say that our situation was desperate.
My salvation came in a very unlikely form. Even now, it all seems so improbable that I can't quite bring myself to believe it. I shall try to recount the events as accurately as I can, but you will soon see why some of my memories may not be as clear as they might otherwise be. It was some days after the New Year, and we hadn't so much as sighted a bird on the horizon in nearly a week, when there was a commotion from the crow's nest. The lookout had spotted a sail bearing down on our position at a fair clip, easily outstripping our speed. Within a few hours the unknown ship had almost overtaken us, though her course appeared to deviate from ours. She was a pretty ship, a sleek little corvette named the Impala. Her black sails were what had alarmed our lookouts, but she flew our flag, and by the time she was upon us it was evident she had no ill-intentions toward us. We traded a few friendly jibes across our bows ―a far cry from the last serious ship-to-ship encounter I had experienced!― and it soon became obvious that the captains of our respective vessels were acquainted with each other.
“Crowley, you sly old dog!” the other captain shouted at us. “Still terrorizing American vessels, I hear!”
“It's a damned sight more profitable than chasing monsters, Winchester!” Captain Crowley rejoined, but I could tell that his composure was ruffled.
“Oi!” another of the sailors yelled at us, voice unaided by the captain's loudspeaker, but it carried nonetheless clearly across the waves. “Any of you lot tired of working under that tyrant?” A few of us paused in our work at those words, though they were clearly meant in jest. “Come with us! We're heading back to the Americas, for wine, women and song!”
There was a burst of jeering laughter from our ship, but the damage was done. All I could think in that moment was that my salvation lay within a stone's throw. How could I resist the temptation? Up until then I had always discounted the sailors' stories about the sirens' irresistible lure, but I swear to you, Amelia, at that very moment that man's voice was like the sweetest music to my ears, and I could conceive of nothing but following it, wherever it might lead. Before I even knew what I was doing it I had leapt up from where I had been swabbing the deck, pushed off the railing, and plunged headlong into the sea.
The water was bitterly cold, and the breath was knocked from my lungs. I struggled to the surface, coughing and struggling, and struck out toward the other ship with all the strength that remained in my limbs. Dimly I could hear shouts coming from both ships, and then Captain Crowley's rang out, clear as a bell.
“Get that bugger back! I don't care if it's his carcass you bring on board, bring him back!”
There was another splash from behind me, and I made the mistake of turning in the water to see who my pursuer was. I didn't recognize him over the swell of the waves, but he was upon me in moments, being larger and in better physical condition than I. We struggled briefly, and there my memories grow hazy, as though an unexpected fog rolled in. He drew a knife on me, confident that he would be able to overpower me, and I felt a burning pain in my side, saw a small cloud of pink in the water as he spilled my blood, which just as quickly dissipated. I have not spent these many years surviving all the scraps and skirmishes the high seas could throw at me without learning a trick or two of my own. I drove the heel of my hand against the bridge of his nose in a vicious blow, and as he thrashed about, trying to keep his head above water, I grabbed at his wrist with both hands, attempting to disarm him. He fought back, but desperation lent strength to my arms.
I am sorry to say that I slew him, my dearest. I have killed more than my fair share of men in the years I have been sailing, and all of them have been in the heat of battle. This time it was in a struggle for my very life, and while I do not regret my actions, I cannot help but regret that the man's blood was spilled simply for the attempt to bring back one wayward sailor.
The knife sank to the bottom of the ocean, and I struck out again toward the Impala. All of her crew, or so it seemed to me at the time, were crowding at the rails, leaning over and shouting encouragements at me. I was already flagging badly by then, already weak from my time aboard the Hellhound, and further weakened by the knife wound to my side, which was still bleeding freely into the water. It felt as though I was losing ground with every stroke ―the ship seemed to recede from my view, even as I strove toward with all my might. I would have despaired had I not caught sight of a young man directly in front of me, his hair coming loose from its bindings, bright-eyed and smiling, with his hand outstretched. He was far beyond my reach, but I swear, in that moment it felt as though he might simply have stretched a mere few inches in order to pull me aboard.
I almost made it. I was exhausted and chilled to the bone, my waterlogged clothes weighing me down. The pain in my side was all but blinding, and I felt myself begin to falter, in spite of everything. I swallowed a mouthful of seawater, then another, and I began to sink. The cries of the men were drowned out by the roar of the ocean, which itself was drowned out by the roaring in my ears. The waters closed above my head, and though I breached the surface once, even twice, the current dragged me inexorably downward. The last thing I remember is watching the sun, glowing dimly above the greenish surface of the waves. Then everything went black.
For a very long time, very little seemed to make sense. Dimly I was aware of no longer being wet or cold, but that was all. Sometimes I heard voices around me, whispering, sometimes raised in argument. Often I was prey to restless dreams in which I found myself being pulled toward the bottom of the ocean, or in which I wandered in confused circles, searching for some unidentifiable, lost thing. I dreamed of you and Claire, too, my darling, and those were the best moments of all. I was home, and we were together, and our daughter's laughter rang like silver bells in the spring air. Most of the time, though, I was conscious only of being uncomfortably hot, of a pair of hands soothing me, holding me in place when I struggled against the unrelenting pain in my side.
When I came to, it was to a gentle rocking sensation. I opened my eyes to find myself lying on a cot, stripped of all my clothes, with no more than a blanket to preserve my modesty. In all fairness, I doubt there was very much left to preserve, in my current condition. I found myself staring into a pair of startlingly green eyes, not unlike the colour of the Mediterranean sea on a clear day. The face that came into focus was a handsome one, with features so delicate they might almost have seemed feminine in another man. As it was, the man's features pulled into a scowl.
“Back with us, are you?” he said gruffly. I opened my mouth, but found my throat too parched to speak. He shook his head, then held a cup to my lips. “Come along, then, drink this. It'll do you a world of good.”
I drank greedily, but he would not let me take but a few sips at a time. To my surprise, I found that he was giving me fresh water, liberally dosed with lemon juice. I simply stared over the rim of the cup, too weak to do much but submit to his ministrations. Once I had drunk my fill, the man propped me up on a makeshift cushion of rough sacking and removed the dressing from my side, examining what I now could see was a long, deep laceration along my left side below my ribcage, which had been neatly sutured. The flesh surrounding the sutures was an ugly red colour, but the man nodded as though satisfied.
“You're faring better than I had hoped,” he said. “To be honest, I wasn't sure you would survive at all. Your wound festered, and doubtless your advancing case of scurvy hasn't helped your recovery. You're not out of the woods yet, and even if you do pull through, the captain will be wanting a word or three with you.”
“Where am I?” I managed to croak. I was rather proud of myself for managing even that much. I was rewarded with an amused smirk.
“Aboard the Impala. It was touch-and-go with you for a while. You put even my skills to the test. An American, are you? Tell me, do you make a habit of flinging yourself off of ships? Even if it's customary where you come from, it's not something our captain approves of, I feel duty-bound to tell you. Reckless, at the best of times, downright foolhardy otherwise.”
I was spared having to answer by a coughing fit, and he gave me more water to drink. By the time I was able to talk, I instead posed the question that burned brightest in my mind. “What will you do with me?”
“I? With you?” he laughed. “Nothing. I am but a simple doctor, serving as ship's surgeon. My task is to keep you on the mend, and that is all. As for the captain? Let us say he and the admiral are having a difference of opinion about what is to be done with you. I daresay one or the other will be along to speak with you, now that you're no longer raving with fever.”
“How long have I been aboard?” I asked, though my head was beginning to throb abominably.
“A little over a fortnight. Perhaps now would be a good time to tell me your name? It's grown wearisome to refer to you only as 'the patient,' or 'the drowned rat,' depending on the context.”
“James Novak,” I accepted his proffered hand, and we shook solemnly, though I felt rather silly doing so, half-naked and entirely at his mercy. “Though most call me Jimmy. And you, sir? I would like to know the name of the man who saved my life.”
He snorted. “In truth, that dubious honour goes to the captain. The idiot would jump in after you when it seemed you were destined to drown. My name is Dean Winchester, for what it's worth. Ship's surgeon, at your service.” He pulled out a pocket watch with his free hand, and shifted his grip to clasp my wrist and check my pulse. “Still too fast,” he said disapprovingly, then he quirked his lips in an odd smile. “Get some rest. Whatever the admiral has to say to you can wait, though I doubt I'll be able to keep him away for very long. Go on, back to sleep.”
I was only too happy to comply.
When I awoke again, it was to the sound of voices, whispering in what was obviously a heated argument not three feet away from my sickbed. I immediately recognized one of the voices as belonging to the surgeon.
“Damn it all, Sam, I will not have you interfering with my patient! He is too weak to be questioned thus. I won't stand for it. You and Castiel will just have to wait.”
“It's Lord Castiel,” came the mild reproof, the voice as yet unknown to me. “Or Admiral Castiel, if you prefer to use his proper rank. Do show some respect, Dean.”
There was a mild snort. “The man's cracked.”
“Dean,” the reproach was still mild, but nonetheless insistent. I caught movement from the corner of my eye, and a shape loomed over my bed. “The resemblance is uncanny. They might be twins, if not for this one's obvious physical deterioration ―oh, you're awake,” the man's face approached, and now that it was no longer a blur, I saw a blush forming on finely-formed cheeks, and blue eyes flecked with hazel that sparkled with good humour. He was a handsome lad, and looked to be barely over twenty years of age. “My apologies. I didn't mean to offend.”
I nodded, utterly confused as to what he was talking about. Before I had a chance to so much as open my mouth, the surgeon spoke up. “Leave him be, Sam. At least let him have something to drink before you begin your interrogation.” As he approached my bed, I got a good look at him for the first time, and saw what I had missed the first time ―that he walked with a severe limp, leaning heavily upon a stout walking stick with an ornately carved silver grip. He sat down heavily beside me, then pressed another cup of lemon water into my hand. “Go on, drink.”
“You'd best do as he says,” the tall man said, with a fond expression that bordered upon the exasperated. “Dean is very particular about his patients following his prescribed treatments.”
“And have you had a single man die from scurvy?” the surgeon pointed out irritably.
“Not a one,” the other man assented happily. “All thanks to your excellent skills as a doctor. There, have I flattered your pride enough?”
There was a dissatisfied grumble, but the surgeon seemed mollified, nonetheless. “You, my good man,” he said to me, nudging my hand, “are lucky we had just purchased more lemons when you came aboard.”
“Dean is convinced of the many healing properties of citrus.”
The surgeon snorted. “You'll just have to take my word for it that it cleanses the humours. I know what I'm doing, Sam.”
“Of course you do. And how do you fare, sir? Dean tells me your name is Novak?”
I nodded. “Jimmy. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me.”
He shook my hand, rather more enthusiastically than I was expecting, and awarded me a blinding smile, complete with dimples. He seemed, in that moment, not much more than an overgrown boy. “Samuel Winchester.”
“You're the captain?” I gawked, and immediately regretted my inadvertent faux pas, but he threw his head back in a burst of good-natured laughter.
“Never fear, I often get that reaction. It's true, I am a little young to be a post captain.”
“Youngest in the fleet,” the surgeon added. “Sam's always been revoltingly adept at that sort of thing.” That's when my befuddled mind put two and two together.
“Are you blood relatives, then?”
“Brothers,” the captain confirmed. “Dean is the eldest, and never tires of reminding me of the fact.” The family resemblance was obvious, now that I knew it was there. Something about the eyes, mostly, and the way they held themselves. It was in their mannerisms more than anything else.
“It's because you'd get above yourself otherwise. Now, have you finished taxing my patient? He's too weak for anything more. Run along and manage your ship,”he waved dismissively with one hand.
I must say, Amelia, that I was more than a little shocked by the familiarity with which the surgeon spoke to the captain. I have never known a captain to brook such insubordination before, but perhaps due to their fraternal relationship, the captain let it pass without further comment. Indeed, if anything he seemed more amused by his elder brother's tone rather than anything. He huffed, rolled his eyes, and turned to duck through the low door. “I'll see you at dinner, Dean. Try not to be late this time.”
“I'll be sure to instruct the crew not to fall ill so that your dinner plans won't be disrupted,” came the sardonic reply. The doctor scowled at me, then, apparently realizing that I had been privy to the whole exchange. He limped to my bedside, then pulled out his watch fob once more, grasping my wrist in his fingers. “Hold still until I tell you otherwise. Does your head hurt?”
I managed a nod. In truth, my head was throbbing abominably, and the rest of me wasn't faring much better. I rather felt as though several burly men had taken turns giving me a severe beating, and my side ached and burned where I had been stabbed. The doctor startled me a moment later by placing a hand on my brow, and I realized with some surprise that I had been in danger of falling asleep.
“Not just yet,” he said gently, and favoured me with a smile that was just as kind as his brother’s, if more subdued. It softened his otherwise stern countenance, and I saw the beginnings of crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes. “Give me a few more moments to finish examining you, and then you may sleep to your heart's content.”
He was true to his word. A few minutes later he ceased his ministrations, satisfied that, even though I was still weak and feverish, I was well on my way back to health. He dosed me with some bitter-tasting medicine, and after mere seconds I was fast asleep.
That was two days before the time of this writing, and since then, my darling, it seems to me I have done very little other than sleep. The few times I have been alert, it has been only for a few minutes at a time, long enough for the doctor to coax broth and medicine into me, but no longer. This evening, though, he has pronounced me sufficiently well to acquiesce to my request for paper and ink to write you and tell you of my change in fortunes. Tomorrow, I am told, Captain Winchester and the heretofore-unseen Admiral Castiel wish to speak with me. I do not know what they will think to do with me, but I am hopeful that, having struggled to keep me alive thus far, they will be reluctant to undo all their hard work.
I will write to you as soon and as often as I am able. Please tell Claire that I love her and think of both of you at every waking moment, and dream only of being reunited with you, in the end.
Love,
Jimmy
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