The ship lurched violently, like a child's toy caught in the vast, unforgiving blue abyss. "Pull the ropes!" a voice barked. Soldiers scrambled, some losing their footing on the slick deck, sliding dangerously toward the edges. The luckier ones, like Apollo, managed to grab onto something solid, their fingers clinging desperately to the soaked wood. Rain lashed against his skin, each drop a cold, needle-like prick, but the fear of being swallowed by the churning sea beneath was enough to keep his grip iron-tight. For a moment, the ship steadied, giving Apollo just enough time to rise and yank on a rope.
"Pull!" A voice, hoarse and cracked like old leather, cut through the chaos. Apollo joined the others who could still stand, their feet braced against the wind that fought them at every turn, air determined to keep the sails open.
The captain spun the wheel sharply to the right, and the ship vaulted over a towering wave, crashing down with a bone-jarring thud that sent up a spray of seawater. The sky seemed to fall with it, waves slapping over the deck, reflecting the stormy heavens as though the boat were trapped between two mirrors. Wind howled, tugging at Apollo's brown hair and drenched clothes, while the shouts of men and the constant barking of orders filled the air. But Apollo pushed it all away, narrowing his focus. One, two, three-pull! Pain flared in his sides, his muscles screaming with every heave. One, two, three-pull!
At last, the sails collapsed, and Apollo collapsed with them, his body slamming into the deck. The scent of brine filled his nostrils, the taste of salt thick on his lips. A hand gripped his arm, pulling him upright. Cronin.
The youth's face was ghostly pale-paler than usual, even for a Tzalith. His ashy grey hair clung to his thin, hollow cheeks, framing a face etched with exhaustion and fear.
Apollo blinked against the rain, trying to steady his breath, each inhale shallow and labored. The deck beneath him groaned like a wounded animal, and the storm raged on, a never-ending assault of wind and water. He glanced at Cronin, whose hands, though firm, trembled slightly-whether from cold or fear, Apollo couldn't tell.
"You alright?" Cronin's voice was low, almost drowned out by the crashing waves, but the concern was clear.
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Apollo nodded, though he wasn't sure if he was answering truthfully. His arms felt like lead, and the sharp pain in his side hadn't dulled. Still, there was no time to think about it. The sea was relentless, and any lapse in effort could mean the end.
Cronin didn't wait for more of a response. "We've gotta help the others with the sails. If they rip, we're done for." He jerked his chin toward the remaining soldiers, who were still struggling with ropes and canvas, their faces set in grim determination.
Apollo staggered to his feet, legs shaking beneath him. His boots squelched on the waterlogged deck, and the cold gnawed at his bones. The storm was merciless, and every gust of wind felt like it might lift him off the deck and fling him into the dark abyss below. His fingers throbbed as he grabbed hold of another rope, the fibers biting into his palms.
"Pull!" Cronin shouted over the roar of the wind.
Apollo gritted his teeth and yanked with all his strength. His body screamed in protest, but he kept pulling, refusing to let go. The rain blurred his vision, and for a moment, all he could see was the pale outline of the sails, flapping wildly like wings fighting for freedom. Then, with a final, desperate tug, they snapped into place.
The ship lurched again, but this time, it didn't feel like it would capsize. The worst of the storm seemed to be passing, though the waves still battered the sides of the vessel, and the wind howled like a living thing. Apollo slumped against the mast, his chest heaving with each breath, the ache in his muscles now a dull, constant throb.
Cronin collapsed beside him, his own face etched with exhaustion. "We're not out of it yet," he muttered, glancing toward the horizon where dark clouds still loomed and seemed to even intensify. "But we've got a chance."
Apollo didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted over the deck, where men lay in various states of exhaustion or injury. The ship had held together-for now-but the sea was a force that never truly rested. He felt the cold seeping into his bones again, a reminder of just how fragile their situation was.
"I don't think I'll ever get used to these strange storms," Apollo finally said, his voice raw.
Cronin chuckled weakly, though there was little humor in it. "You're not supposed to. The sea... she doesn't care about you. She takes what she wants." He looked out over the endless stretch of water, his face hardening. "But we'll keep fighting her, won't we?"
Apollo said nothing. He wasn't sure what scared him more-the thought of the storm returning, or what was waiting for them after this endless stretch of water. The abominations that are said to be eating the snake isle, bit by bit.