As Lucian prepared whatever spell or technique he was about to perform, Kane scanned the crew one last time. In case, of course, it was the last time he’d ever see them. And he was mildly surprised at how different everyone seemed compared to two days prior.
Saul was leaning on the railing to the side, his fingers interlaced as he overlooked the Sea. He’d replaced his shirt and leather jacket, and his facial expression almost made it seem as if he found the scene before him pretty: sea of blood, fog creeping in at the horizon, and those ever-present stalactite clouds up above, what wasn’t to love? Perhaps foreboding was simply his style.
The other four sat by the ship’s wheel. Esau had shed the tunic Lucian had lent him in favor of his tank top. Now, he tinkered with the tinderbox Kane had used earlier. Kane had found it in some back room deep within the ship, stuffed in some hidden crevice, while he’d made his rounds the previous day. He’d had to intuit how to use it, succeeding after many, many attempts. Now, it was funny watching Esau do the same. The chef was faced downwards and solely downwards, avoiding all eye contact with the others. He didn’t say a word.
Tal was seated on another barrel, beside Esau, squirming about for some reason, as if he couldn’t sit still. He tapped his leg slowly, and rolled his shoulders. He fidgeted with the folded map in one hand, and was unable to stop touching at the necklace around his neck with the other. Now that Kane really thought about it, he’d never seen the man without his characteristic black hoodie before. But judging from his appearance alone, with the black baggy jeans and beat-up white runners, he seemed like the type of guy to be comfortable in it regardless of temperature or circumstance.
Lucian seemed to maintain his trademark go-getter attitude. But now, there was some sort of darkness behind it, as if Kane had managed to peek behind the curtain. Now, Kane couldn’t see him the same way he did when they had first met. He sat across from Kane now, chest puffed out, chin up and proud, tricorne adding too much height to the man's stature for Kane’s liking. The captain remained with his right hand clasped in Kane’s own, both of their hands getting sweatier by the minute. It was an odd position to maintain — simply holding hands, as if they liked each other that much yet — but Kane knew there was a reason behind it, that Lucian was doing something more, because as Kane had learned down here, looks were deceiving.
The candle Lucian held between them served as some form of indication. The captain kept the candle holder steady in his left hand, his eyes downcast, watching the enchanted flame flicker in the breeze, his focus unbreakable. It wasn’t too windy out, yet some part of Kane felt that that wouldn’t pose an issue to the small fire regardless.
Kane’s job had been made pretty clear. All he had to do was sit there and wait. Wait until I finally see the truth of all this. And, damn, did he want to see it.
And so he waited. He waited for a minute. For five. For ten. For thirty.
As Saul watched the Sea.
As Esau lit a fire.
As Tal squeezed the map.
As Lucian watched the candle.
…
Why hadn’t he noticed it before?
With his left hand, Kane touched the hairs on the back of his neck. They were standing on end.
It was like static had silently flooded the air, as if lightning was about to strike. The candle between them continued to flicker as heat danced over Kane’s skin. Lucian’s palm on his own felt electric, charged like a battery. Kane couldn’t let go if he wanted to — there was some sort of magnetic force between them, keeping them pressed together, defying any possible war of wills. It was too late to back out.
Lucian kept doing what he was doing: staring downwards, the bright orange light of the flame reflected in his eyes. He sat completely motionless, yet beads of sweat trickled down his face. This was the most focused Kane had ever seen anyone, as if the man were multiplying five digit numbers in his head against the clock, or attempting to win five games of chess mentally, against himself.
The flickering intensified, and Kane felt Lucian squeeze harder. His tan face grew redder and redder, and in a shock of movement, Tal attempted to stand up, only to be gently pushed back down by a stoic-looking Esau. Even Saul had turned his head to face the spectacle, although he daren’t come any closer.
In fact, both Esau and Tal scooted their barrels away, causing Kane’s stomach to drop.
What the hell had he gotten himself into?
The candle flickered faster and faster, unrealistically so, as if it was a tape being fast-forwarded. Lucian began to tremble as the blue at the base of the candle began to creep upwards, but as if in retaliation, the flame itself grew taller, hungrier, brighter. Kane leaned back so as to not get his nose singed, and the flame rose until it was at least a foot in height. The blue hue indicating the hotter temperature continued to climb, like moss over a rock, and Lucian stomped his boots on the deck to steady himself, to keep from swaying and collapsing.
The pressure mounted, as if gravity had doubled around them. Compared to all the magic Kane had felt from Lucian, all the odd moments and empty threats, this magic was magnitudes above whatever he had shown in the past. Kane’s hair danced about his forehead, and as he held firm to keep from getting crushed, he knew lightning would strike any moment now.
In an instant, the flame surreptitiously shrunk back down.
Kane observed its new motion. Except it wasn’t really moving at all. The tiny blue flame was frozen in time and space, and the air around them shook with a raw, flooring power.
He looked back up to Lucian, who was bleeding from his nose, his eyes, his ears, and his mouth. With his face dripping big red drops onto the deck between them, the captain mouthed one thing to Kane, a wry grin on his face.
“Don’t hold back.”
The magic hit him like a freighter.
—
Kane gripped the strap of his backpack with one hand, keeping it pressed to his shoulder, while the other strap flew freely behind his back as he jogged towards the lecture hall.
His eyes darted to the plaque on the wall beside the double doors. 1203. This had to be it.
He latched his hand onto the handle and yanked it open in a grand gesture.
The professor’s voice faltered mid-sentence. He stopped talking, looking down at his watch, his lips pressed together in a tight line before lifting his gaze back up to Kane. The lecture hall was huge — row upon row of uncomfortable cushioned seats and old fold-up wooden desks that had been scratched to hell and embellished with chewing gum. A large chalkboard dominated the front of the room, dwarfing the professor himself. The hall was nearly at capacity, roughly 300 students scattered throughout.
It seemed the professor wouldn’t let Kane’s entrance stop his flow, but the damage was done when the door he’d entered slammed shut with a noisy thud and click. A good hundred or so heads turned around to look back up at the kid who had arrived at the first lecture of the year forty-five minutes late.
Professor Lang looked like he was about to go off on him, but then seemed to decide against it. He shook his head, the jowls of his cheeks wobbling with the motion, then continued his lecture on cognitive dissonance.
Kane yanked off his headphones and swiftly swung himself into a seat in the very back row, which was fortunately sparsely populated. He tried to ignore the lingering stares of the especially nosy classmates of his, his face heating up. But after a good few seconds, the last of the students returned their attention to the professor, and to their notes already covered in words and diagrams and, if they were lucky, useful knowledge.
Just his luck his alarm clock would screw up on the first day of class. But he knew no one would believe him, because it was too obvious and easy an excuse. Kane fumbled with his backpack, pulling out a spiral notebook and a half-dried-out pen. It was already mostly full from previous writings and musings of his, since he could hardly constrain any notebook to one subject at all, and he hadn’t gone out to the bookstore and bought one specifically for this class like he had promised himself he would. At the end of the day, he’d never really had a good relationship with promises.
He flipped past pages filled with notes on what camera equipment to buy next, past constant reminders to get new bearings for his skateboard, past stupid sketches of faces he’d seen, of buildings he’d passed, of abstract things altogether, and past yesterday’s new rankings of the music he couldn’t stop listening to on his Walkman. Perhaps staying up till four in the morning listening to Sting, Radiohead, Nirvana, all the rock and alternative he could cram into this newest mixtape, had been what had done him in in the end.
Finally, he reached a blank page near the end of the notebook, making a few scratch marks with his pen to get the ink flowing once again. As he scribbled Intro to Psych at the top of the page in his trademark illegible handwriting, the door behind him creaked open once again.
Another student stood at the door. The guy’s light brown hair was long and unkempt, and the cigarette in his mouth had just about burned out. His flannel shirt was too large for his frame, his jean shorts far too wide. He had no backpack or notebook to speak of, only the Yankees cap on his head, pulled low so as to cover his eyes.
Professor Lang, who had been writing something in a frustratingly tiny script on the blackboard, looked back and up, his right eye twitching, and the entire class felt the shift in attention and in mood. The man placed the piece of chalk down and brushed the powder off his hands in three mighty claps.
“Let’s test what we’ve just learned,” he boomed, clearly having experience with getting his voice to carry when he wanted it to. “Can anyone tell me what aspect of psychology comes most into play when someone is late to class?” His gaze was laser-focused on the newcomer.
The student froze just in front of the door, which snapped to a close behind him. A flush crept up his neck as his mouth opened and closed like that of a fish, hundreds of eyes on him, and he took a step back. “Uh…”
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“Yes, I’m asking you.” Lang walked around his desk, placing his hands on his hips. He wore a devastating smirk, as if he were getting a sick kick out of all this — or perhaps he’d been just about ready to snap this whole time, and this was finally his chance. “There isn’t a wrong answer; I’m not grading you for this, I just want to hear your thoughts. Why do people arrive late to something they know is important? What causes this kind of cognitive dissonance when you don’t treat an event with the gravity you know it deserves? Is it an indifference to consequence? A personality disorder? A lack of self-knowledge, of willpower, of intelligence, of empathy? Or is it more selfish than that, perhaps — maybe you like the attention it nets you?”
Lang turned his attention back to the class, voice rising with authority. “What can we say about a person’s cognitive state when they can’t get their shit together? Is college truly a place for them?”
Kane’s eyes flicked back and forth between student and professor. He could feel the tension hanging in the air draped over his shoulders, as Lang waited for a reply, the newcomer shifted his weight between the teeth, looking like he wanted to sink into the floor, and as no other student dared say a thing. Part of him was glad he wasn’t this poor sod. It seemed he’d gotten lucky.
But as soon as Kane thought it, that was when something unfamiliar came over him.
He hated know-it-all assholes. It was likely a trait he’d carry with him until death and beyond.
Despite knowing he would regret this, be it due to sympathy, empathy, guilt, indignance, ignorance, or a bone-deep unwillingness to put up with this bullshit at eight in the morning on a warm summer day, he decided he’d had enough.
“Professor.” Kane raised his hand straight up, his gravelly voice carrying through the hall more confidently than it should have, thanks to the damned acoustics. He didn’t wait for permission to speak, nor did it seem he needed it; all eyes snapped to him in an instant.
Surprise flashed over Lang’s features for a fraction of a second before his jaw set. He narrowed his eyes at Kane. “Yes?” he asked, tone commanding Kane to tread lightly.
“With all due respect, I think you’re missing the point here.” Kane crossed his arms, if only to keep himself sturdy. “It’s not just about procrastination or a lack of organization. You’re implying a personal failing, when in reality, some people’s circumstances are simply outside of their control.”
His face was hot as the surface of the sun, but his lips moved despite his body commanding him to stop. “I’d argue that rather than taking a look at why people are late, we instead take a look at what aspect of human psychology causes someone to jump to conclusions without first asking the right questions. Why assume a lack of respect or some sort of moral error right away, rather than attempt to first accommodate your fellow man? I imagine you would dislike it if someone were to talk down to you upon first meeting you, but here we are.” Kane stroked his chin, getting into it, a sneer on his face. “There’s a lot to dive into here, actually.”
Professor Lang’s brow furrowed, clearly taken aback by Kane’s words. He adjusted his slacks around his waist, his gaze on Kane old yet piercing. “Is that so?”
Kane nodded, leaning back in his seat despite the way his heart was pounding in his chest. “Yep. In fact, I imagine it might take a whole semester to dive into what kind of upbringing causes a well-respected man to act like an asshat who picks on 18-year-olds.”
Against Kane’s expectations, the class ooh’ed and ahh’ed at his jab, some people openly chuckling while others attempted to stifle their laughter. The professor’s eyes grew wide, the fury within them indubitable. The man shook with rage, pale face flushing red, the veins in his neck not looking so hot for a man of his age. He tugged on his collar, loosening his tie ever so slightly, and then jabbed a finger at the newcomer, who was still standing by the door, but now twice as flustered as before.
Albeit, with a small, shy smile on his face.
“You. Sit. I’ll see you two after class.” Lang circled his desk once again, returning to the chalkboard, and picked up where he left off, although his grip on the chalk was so tight it looked as if he'd snap the piece in two.
The newcomer took a seat beside Kane, exhaling deeply, the sweat on his forehead gleaming in the bright overhead lights. He glanced up at Kane, and Kane glanced back, and the newcomer ducked away, avoiding Kane’s gaze, rubbing the back of his neck.
Kane understood the sentiment. He knew what it felt like to be singled out and abandoned, with no one to depend on, to look to. So at least, just this once, the least he could do was not let it happen again.
He extended a clammy hand towards the student, with a nervous smile of his own. “Fuck this guy, right?” he said in a whisper.
The other student’s eyes flicked to Kane’s hand warily, as if it were dangerous to touch. But after a moment of hesitation, he decided to clasp it rather than simply shaking it, the unexpected beginnings of a fire in his eyes coming to life as he leaned in. “Fuck him indeed.”
—
Every single one of Kane’s nerves screeched in unison.
He didn’t even know he could feel pain in some of these spots on his body, but beyond all comprehension and logic, he did. This was worse than all the times he’d fallen off his skateboard, all the blows he’d received in the fights he’d gotten himself into. It was worse than when he broke his leg, when he’d broken his arm, when he’d dislocated his shoulder. This was worse than the times his father lost his nerve and slapped him across the face with his callused hands, worse than the too-frequent migraines and the slipping on winter ice and the pulling his muscles during workouts and the scraped knees and hot cooktops.
The white-hot sensation of the shearing of every molecule in his being was worse than all those things combined. And due to that sentiment, and that one alone, Kane realized he was dead.
There was no doubt about it. The human body wasn’t made to withstand all this, not without going into shock. His vision had consisted of Lucian’s bleeding face, and a moment later, it consisted of a million purple sparks in the air, surrounding the pair with the clasped hands, the flame between them turning purple, still stock-still, and a million beams connecting the lights that orbited them like a gentle snowfall. And then, Kane’s vision was every color he’d seen before, static, and then nothing at all.
Other than the sound of him screaming his vocal cords raw, he could make out Tal calling Lucian’s name, Esau calling his name, the touches of agony to their voices, as if they were the ones in pain and not him. He could hear objects clatter to the ground as the two men stood up and approached them.
He tasted the copper of blood in his mouth, and the smoke in the air. He could smell that ozone smell, indicating the lightning had finally struck. He felt a hundred thousand pinpricks, inside and out, dragging needles across every surface of his body, opening up a hundred thousand tiny cuts. He felt the heat on his skin, he felt the blood dripping down his face, he felt enough electricity to power a small city.
And he felt Lucian’s grip on his hand, the very medium that had caused this. Osmosis truly was a bitch; the captain’s hand felt dry and devoid of energy, but Kane’s own was anything but.
Lucian dropped the candle to the deck and pulled his hand away from Kane’s like a reflex from heat, shaking it out as if it ached and burned. Kane tumbled off of his barrel, body crashing to the deck, the absence of feeling starting in his right eye first.
Noises around him gradually grew quieter as the hearing was the second sense to leave, and two hands clapped onto his shoulders as men ran and shouted and screamed, footsteps vibrating the wood beneath him as they — theoretically — tried to save him.
Of course, that was only a hypothesis. Kane had no indication that that was true, and since he was, for all intents and purposes, dead, he would likely never know. It was the opposite of what Lucian had expected — rather than popping like a balloon, it felt like Kane was imploding, starting with his eye.
The sensation in the rest of his face began to disappear next, and the pressure of a grip on his shoulders tightened like a vice. He could have sworn there was some heat there, but everything was hot right now regardless; albeit, growing cold fast.
The cold spread down past his eyes to his lips, to his chin. From there, it crawled down his neck, and finally, it reached his shoulders, where someone’s hands were still squeezed tight.
It was like some sort of battle. The hot and cold warring within and outside of him — rather than producing a lukewarm feel, Kane felt as if he were being frozen to death and burnt alive simultaneously, the pain intense but not a fraction as intense as whatever the hell had happened before.
The battle warred on for far too long, and Kane felt as if his shoulders were about to snap. He couldn’t even take a breath, since his throat and lungs didn’t feel like working together, seeming to engage in a battle of their own that endured long enough for him to suffocate.
His consciousness wasn’t allowed to fade out completely, because the heat won out in the end.
Like a bonfire that refused to freeze over.
The conflagration consumed Kane entirely, and he found himself half-awake and screaming, as if woken from a nightmare, spasming as the warmth pushed back the cold, away from his heart, up his face, and back into his eye.
And then, his limbs ceased to respond, and he went still.
—
The crew stood above Kane with bated breath. Esau slowly released his shoulders, staring at his own hands in awe. Tal, who had just finished wiping the captain’s face clean of blood, held himself upright, all his weight on one walking stick, while Saul held Lucian steady with one arm, his own face gone pale.
“Speak to us, buddy,” Esau said, turning his attention to Kane. “Please.”
Kane opened his eyes and took in the sight of the four men above him. All four of them recoiled with varying degrees of shock and abject horror.
As he sat up, the first thing he felt at was his hand. He pulled it into his field of view: the skin of his right hand had been fried raw, a tree-like pattern indicating the path of energy, an altogether horrifying sight.
Overall, the pain that had suffused him had dulled down to a very ominous, deep ache. It had gone far too quickly. And yet, the memory of it alone caused Kane’s shoulders to bunch.
Tal took a seat on a barrel that had been knocked on his side, steadying himself, and Saul clenched his jaw, looking appalled and stomping away. But Lucian looked down at Kane in plain wonder.
Kane cleared his throat, surprising himself when he produced the words. “Did— did it work?”
Esau pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, knocking the air out of him. Kane hadn’t seen it coming, and had had no time to brace himself. A million thoughts popped up in his brain in conjunction with a thousand emotions — confusion, uncertainty, revulsion — but relief won out, and Kane hugged his Esau — his friend — back.
“Alright, alright, you can let go now,” he croaked, and Esau silently acquiesced, stepping back. He helped Kane to his feet, and Tal passed Lucian the map.
Lucian seemed to be mostly fine, if not a bit tired, a bit more hunched over, a bit smaller. He could not help but keep staring at Kane, as if he were the world’s most delicious science experiment. Kane did not like it one bit.
“I really thought you were going to die,” Lucian admitted. A horrible way to start things off, but Kane was growing accustomed to this type of behavior. “And I have to say, I’m really glad you didn’t.”
The captain unfolded the map and glanced down at it, biting his lip as he did so. He shook his head once. Had something changed?
Cautiously, he turned it around, and showed it to Kane.
Kane’s eyes went wide as coins. So Lucian hadn’t been lying to them after all.
The map was absolutely covered in lines. A compass in the northeast, a dimension above. An X in the southwest, in front of the first circle of many. Circle after circle after circle. Much like the design on Saul’s coin, it threatened to knock Kane off balance.
But it all made sense now.
Kane tore his gaze away. His breath caught in his throat as the crew waited for his verdict.
He looked at Lucian and nudged him with his elbow. “I still think you’re crazy. But it seems you can be both crazy and right.”
Elation took off in the air between them like a firework. Esau pumped his fist triumphantly, pulling Kane tight. Tal threw both his walking sticks in the air, with little care for where they landed, and Lucian managed a tired, wry grin, the light in his hazel eyes brightening ever so slightly.
Saul stalked forward, both hands wrapped around one scimitar. He shoved past Lucian and pushed Esau aside. He lifted up the weapon, and Kane gasped, shutting both eyes as Saul brought the sword down towards his head.
But no impact came.
Kane opened one eye, feeling the cold wicking off the metal near his face. He could see his reflection in the polished metal of the blade.
He looked gaunt and sort of roughed up, but that really wasn’t anything new. He straightened fully, thinking himself handsome for a moment, and then opened his other eye and froze.
Because his right eye was gone. The socket was but a void. A purple void containing a million stars, a billion sparks, swirling, orbiting about in concentric circles of light that threatened to swallow him whole.