The walk back through the wreckage was silent. No creaking wood, no ravenous sharks, no survivors crying for help. The only thing heard for miles around was the cold void that had replaced Gill’s heart. On the other hand, what he heard was vastly different. The small voice in the back of his mind was chattering its praise like an enslaved parrot, nattering and squawking constantly with no corner of relief to run to.
Gill occupied his depressive time by figuring out how long he could silence it by hitting his head, with anything that was nearby. By the time he got back to the spot he woke from, he felt as though he'd gone swimming by how damp his head was.
Sitting down on a small piece of twisted mast, Gill unfocused his vision and let his head flop forward, scarlet regret flowing over his eyes.
‘It was me’. The thought slammed him repeatedly, harder than any blow could ever hope to. Hopeless and weighing depression sank into Gill’s bones as he felt himself collapse to his knees. ‘I should just throw myself to the sharks. People would be safer that way, and it’s not like there's anything I have that I didn’t just destroy.’
Gill stared into the water, his steel grey eyes blinking back at him. He moved to the edge of the wood, staring into the abyss below him, preparing himself for its cool embrace. There was nothing left for him in this world, maybe he’d find forgiveness in the next.
The water rushed up to meet his face, slapping him with a sapphire embrace, both chilling and comforting. He let himself be taken, falling deeper and deeper, darker and darker. Light streamed past him, illuminating the sanguine cloud around his head. The sharks would be back any minute, it wont be long now. His eyes opened, but he couldn't see through the lights above him.
‘What? Light?’ That’s when it struck him. There's still someone he has, though there's no chance that she’d take him in after she found out. But right now, she was all he had.
His god-mother Elizabeth. She’d always seen him as a child, and always chuckled at every little thing he did, encouraging him to just be himself. It was the closest thing he had to motherly comfort after Gill’s mother died.
He ran his hand up the glowing chain that flashed into existence, catching the edge of a sail, and heaved himself up so quickly that his ears popped painfully. Gill breached the surface of the water with a pleading gasp, and lay himself down on the warm wreckage. The small voice told him to find a way to shore, find other people and make them his own. The chattering of power became a discordant choir of voice upon voice upon voice.
‘You’re a god to them.’
‘Make them submit.’
‘Kill them all.’
Gill slammed his fist onto the deck, sending splinters this way and that, shaking the voices aside. He ran his hands through his raven-hair, stiff with salt. “I don’t care what you try to tell me, I’m going home.” Gill was almost unnerved by how hoarse and pained his voice was. He decided he’d have a drink the moment he got back to land.
He grabbed his anchor into existence, its lack of encumbrance still a curiosity, and slung it through the air in low arc, trapping itself in the torn sails and what remained of the rigging. Gill steeled himself as he planted his feet in the twisted planks and heaved his section of the hull forward. If he was going to get to land then he would need to sail, and for that he'd need to get creative with the pieces of the once mighty vessel.
He had to scavenge over the ever expanding range of the devastation to find pieces that he hadn’t destroyed as much as the others. The feeling of dread and regret hung low over the bobbing splinters, but no bodies to compliment to constant sheen of red over every speck of ocean.
Arianna’s last biting retort clung to Gill like a cold sweat in the night, chilling and burning in equal measure. The voices punctuated this dread by congratulating Gill at every opportunity for the scale of this annihilation, and how impressive his power is. The only saving grace throughout the reliving of this was the only voice that Gill was willing to listen to. His own.
Assembling the raft was comforting in a twisted way. Gill and his father had often made challenges for themselves for builds and devices. After leaving the naval forces, Didric Saila had taken a fascination with mechanisms, especially firearms. He had given Gill years of crafting experience in smithing and woodworking, as his mother had taught him sewing and tailoring. They had always said that if he hadn’t chose to be a sailor, he could’ve been a respected artisan in any field he desired. Though that couldn’t happen anymore, he’d be a heartless fool if he let those skills go to waste.
“I’ll have to stop by our house and pick up some supplies.” Gill made a mental list of things to grab, like his sewing kit, or his dad’s projects. If any were left that is.
Losing himself in his thoughts made the work light and fast, despite how the sun was touching the horizon when the sail finally rose. He mulled over the things he had seen throughout the last few steps of his life, the things he had lost and the cries he had heard. Then there was the echoes of things he had never seen, but were all too familiar. The memories of fight and battles which he was immersed in, flailing around like a madman with ethereal green weapons and black coils of lightning bursting from his hands. He was sure that this was him, but his hands were different.
There was a tattoo of a snake on his wrist, his skin was as pale as Arianna’s was.
Gill knew that this wasn’t him, but he remembered everything clearly. The questions multiplied like locusts in his head, screaming a discord with the chorus of voices that chattered away as if they could do nothing else. A writhing mass of oppressive wailing threatening to take it all away and make him do something evil again.
Gill curled into a ball, hugging his knees to his chest, in an effort to free himself from the noise. They took this as their cue to give everything they have, an outcry of agony that pierced everything that Gill was and could be. Stabbing him through the heart and mind to make him suffer. It was everything that Gill could do not to tear his own head off to stop it. But in all this hell, there was a solace at the very bottom, a place where no light should be but was there nonetheless.
“Silence, mongrels!”
Gill was taken aback. The voice was as soft and soothing as satin, but as harsh and commanding as a naval admiral. Like liquid gold running through his mind and guarding him. Only then Gill realised, the voices had stopped, the noise had stopped. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, silence settled over the breezy waters.
“You owe me, cabin boy.” The soothing tones of command swam through Gill’s mind like a stream of gemstones. The sound hit his soul like a carriage, and slammed the tiredness and exhaustion into his bones.
Gill collapsed and the dark tide of sleep gripped him and dragged him into the abyss. There was a single thought that crossed his mind before he was taken by sleep.
‘This is too many voices for me.’
Gill’s eyes shot open and were immediately pierced by the sunlight of noon. That was strange, he fell asleep at dusk, but no time seemed to have passed. He took a deep breath and immediately clutched his throat. It was so dry and parched that it almost felt like it was crumbling away. Gill’s stubble scratched his hands as he tried to massage out his sore throat.
'Stubble? How long was I sleeping?'
Water. He needed water, or he wouldn’t last much longer. He desperately looked around, for anything that could save him. He gave up as his vision blurred and he lost all his strength
A short distance away from Gill’s improvised vessel, a fisherman reeled in his line in disappointment. Nothing was seeming to bite today, maybe it was the tides? Looking up, he noticed a small streak of white sail on the water. Too small for a sailing ship, but bigger than a rowboat. “What the ‘eavens?” The fisherman clambered to his oars and rowed with more power than ever before. He noticed the young man sprawled on the deck of the vessel, which he marvelled was still floating with how cobbled together it was.
Dragging the boy on board, the fisherman listened for a heartbeat, desperately searching for life. He almost gave up, but there was a slight flutter just as he brought his ear away. His face beaming, the man laid Gill down and snatched a flask from under the steering wheel, and pressed it lightly to Gill’s lips.
Gill woke immediately after the sweet water has turned his throat from a desert to an oasis. Gasping for air and grabbing the closest thing he could find, Gill found himself face to face with a weathered and grizzled old man, with a face alight with glee. Gill vaguely heard a kind voice telling him to rest and not move, which he took as his cue to reach towards the flask of water, which the man gave to him happily.
Gill felt time speed up as he lied down and observed the old man expertly tying up his lines and compiling his minimal catch into a small bag, which he hung off the small wheelhouse.
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“What's yer name, lad?” The old man inquired, kneeling down.
Gill lowered his eyes. The man would probably throw him overboard if he knew what he had done, but he couldn't exactly lie to the man who saved his life, and the seafaring communities are so tight-knit that anyone could tell a lie from miles away.
“Gill. Gill Saila”.
“Oh!” The man’s face turned to surprise, then sadness. “Didric’s boy, eh?” He sat down beside Gill with a laboured sigh. “I’m sorry to hear about yer dad, Gill. Have ye heard?” The man turned to look at Gill with deep sympathy in his eyes.
Gill nodded, his eyes lowered.
“Don’t worry, laddie. Just leave it to old Eren, I’ll get ye home.”
Gill’s eyes widened. Eren? The old fisherman on the horizon? Gill had always wanted to have a long talk with the living legend himself, but his dad always took him our for drinks before he could. And now he'd had his life saved by him. If his last few days had been different, he would be giddy with excitement and rocking the boat back and forth. He was had been a legend ever since the song was written about him and his heroic deeds during the last great north uprising.
“You’ll be wantin’ home, aye?” Eren spoke with a quiet sympathy, laying his hand on Gill’s shoulder.
“Is there any home to go back to?” Gill kept his eyes low.
“Far as I know, Elizabeth still has an open door for ye. Ye want to go see her?”
Gill looked into the gentle man’s eyes, tears in his own. “Please”. Gill’s voice cracked and this throat caught.
Eren smiled and nodded. “Just ye rest easy now. I’ll get ye there.”
Those words pierced Gill’s heart and the tears in his eyes began to flow. He curled into a ball on the deck and let the rhythm of the waves comfort him.
‘There's not much I can do about this, but I hope things become easier for me.’
As exhaustion took Gill, and sleep reared its head once more, the soothing voice that commanded the others reared it’s head once more.
“You really think you’re free from this? Naïve little cabin boy, you're going to suffer if you don’t realise it by now. There's no running from this.” Those words sparked images and dreams in the cold depths of slumber.
The rotting and twisting limbs of trees tied a maze through cobblestone-laid streets. Green and sickening blacks swelled and exploded everywhere, from the obscured streets to the collapsed houses. There was a a willow tree in the town centre, its branches a sickly white and seemingly ready to blow away into the wind. Then, out of the once proud blacksmith, a woman emerged, dressed head to toe in hunting gear.
Her red-black skin seemed to flow and ripple in the shadows of the ruins, as she furiously wiped her eyes and tugged spiked leaves from her short, brown hair. She stood out in the dead and dying surroundings, as she seemed to be the one part of the scene that actually looked like an inviting forest. She tugged at the spear on her back, making sure it’s secure, and headed off through the undergrowth towards the willow. As the tree twisted and warped into an arch, inside of which the surroundings had changed, the image shifted and shattered.
A white church, accented with red stained glass, standing in the centre of a large and beautiful city. It was three times as tall as the surrounding buildings at least, small clouds formed around the tips of its spires. Men and women in white and red cloaks streamed in and out, with ordinary citizens mixed among them with offerings and sick loved ones.
There was a man standing in the centre of the archway, his close cropped orange hair a beacon amongst the sea of alabaster cloths. He had the physique of a sprinter, and the height to intimidate, but not terrify. His eyes were pointed upwards with a smile of hope on his tanned face. He looked down in surprise, as if he had been called, and made his way through the crowds to the dark centre of the church. The white of the church grew and expanded, until it became blinding.
As the white faded, there was something new.
3 men sitting on a boulder in the expansive, rolling hills of the midlands. They raised a glass to each other from golden goblets and laughed at something they said. One was dressed in a purple and silver robe, the glint of silver mail through the material. His face was old and wise, but cold and scheming all the same.
The man on the right of the robed figure was a much less subtle person. Dressed head to toe in bright black armour, glints of silver flashed from the joints as accents of green and red complimented his scarred and jovial face, as if he enjoyed receiving them. He must've been 3 heads taller than the figure in robes, and far more honest and hardheaded.
The final figure was the least subtle of them all. Gold. Everything was gold. Wearing light gold armour, scrolls of golden paper hung on his belt and a golden key hung close to his neck. His head was a perfectly placed map of blond hair and his eyes almost glowed with shifting silvers and blacks. He was neither tall, nor crooked, nor ripped with muscles, nor even scheming. His very presence oozed command and authority, a strict and ruthless fairness that would quell the disobedience of the angriest of monsters.
They all raised their glasses to their mouths and drained the ruby liquid in seconds. The large man stood up, towering over the others, announcing something unheard, to which the others threw their head back in laughter. It was almost charming how their affection was so clear. The man in gold turned to face Gill, staring deep into his soul, enough to burn away all deceit. A wry smile spread across his face as the other figures faded into a white void.
“Better get up, cabin boy. I don’t want you dead just yet after all.” His voice filled Gill with fear and ease in equal measure, but there was something about his tone that implied something. Something important.
Danger.
Gill’s eyes flew open, to greet a dagger flashing towards his throat. Gill caught the hand that held it and threw it over his head. The body of the assailant sailed above and out of sight. Leaping to his feet, Gill steadied himself on the docked boat. He could vaguely hear cries of drowning behind him, but he was more concerned about the danger in front of him.
A small militia of 30 or so guardsmen were forming a semi-circle around the entrance to the docks, 2 were close in front holding struggling people to the floor. And then there was the two that led it all.
Aola Sicilian, and his son Athra The current heads of the most successful banking and loaning sharks in the north of the world. Well renowned for their ruthless interest rates and incredibly high tier sorcerers and sword dancers. Lethal in both the physical and social worlds.
‘And responsible for killing your mother.’
‘Ending your family.’
‘Ruining your future.’
‘They probably killed your father too.’
‘They're going to kill Elizabeth.’
‘Eren too.’
‘You have to stop them.’
‘Kill them.’
‘Kill them.’
‘KILL THEM.’
The voices returned like a hammer on an anvil, slamming into Gill over and over again. He clutched the sides of his head trying to stop them, and only succeeded in getting strange looks from the guardsmen. In the distance, Gill faintly heard Aola and Athra conversing.
“How far was he thrown, Father?”
“Hard to say. Thirty meters? Fifty? It was far, that I know.”
“You don’t need to be a seasoned warrior to see that, Father.”
“And it doesn’t matter if you're a magical prodigy, I can still discipline you, boy.”
Aola was a slim, tall, yet toned and controlled man, scars peppered his exposed forearms, and a close cut of dyed black hair was trimmed in a formal cut. He was clad in light, leather armour, covering a tailored shirt and trousers. His right wrist glowed with a golden wristband with a swallow imprinted on the top.
Athra on the other hand, was short, pale, and every part of him was covered with a layer of fat. He was wearing a heavy, brown gown, still ruffled from sleep. His eyes were a dull blue, still red from sleep.
If Gill wasn’t on guard and being bombarded with insane, kill-happy voices, he'd be at Aola’s feet begging to see his wrist band. Swallows were the king’s chosen warriors, the order of 17 fighters that were the strongest and most skilled people to ever live. Their motto was ‘a swallow on hand is a crown on the arm.’
Unfortunately, one was holding Elizabeth and Eren with knives to their throats.
Aola took a few wary steps towards Gill, his hand on his sabre.
“How did you do that, boy?”
Gill said nothing, instead pointing to Eliabeth and Eren. Aola raised an eyebrow.
“You want me to let them go? Why should I? They owe us.”
“Let them go. They did nothing.”
“They owe us. Nothing more.” Aola crossed his arms, looking at Gill with wary curiosity, as if he were a new magical creature, or a particularly colourful chicken.
Athra threw a sneer at Gill, which was quickly retracted by a glance from his father. Aola turned back, taking a measured step closer.
“You came back alone? What happened to the rest of the crew?”
Gill lowered his eyes, replying quietly, “They're all dead.”
Athra dramatically turned his head to the side and cupped his ear. “They're WHAT? We can’t hear you, peasant.” Athra called with false concern.
Gill didn’t know if he could hear him or not, but the expressions of horror and anguish on Elizabeth’s and Eren’s faces were clear. They heard, or at least figured it out. Gill’s anger sparked inside him, fanned by the chorus of murderous voices and the letters that started this all.
Gill raised his head, the air pressure around him spiked, the wooden docks began to creak violently with the unexpected force.
“They're all dead. Every one of them.” Gill spoke loudly, his voice steeped in fury and anguish.
Elizabeth screamed a wordless cry of anguish, falling to the docks and curling into a ball as the shocked guards moved their knives away from the prisoners throats. Eren joined her, hugging her close as tears streamed down his face as well. Athra looked taken aback, as if he wasn’t expecting to actually be right. Only Aola seemed unfazed, and his serious expression turned to an amused chuckle.
“Nice show, boy. I see you've picked up a few magical party tricks. From where, I will find out soon enough. But for now, I’ll see to it that you're compensated as all liars should be. There's no way that they're all dead, and you alone lived. They're probably landing somewhere differently whilst you distract us so that you can avoid the debts you all owe us. I’ll show you how liars are compensated in our lines of work.”
With that, Aola raised his hand, and the guards rushed to pick Eren and Elizabeth back up and put the knives to their throats once more.
Seeing this, Gill tried to think desperately. He needed something to make him believe that there was no plot. He could find nothing. There was nothing. His anchor? What would that solve?
Aola clenched his raised fist, signalling the guards to do the deed.
“WAIT!” Gill screamed with all his lungs, begging them to at least wait.
They didn’t.
The scarlet that sprayed from their throats covered the docks in a vivid sanguine carpet, as their bodies fell to the ground and crunched lifelessly against the wood. A flap of black wings turned the eyes of several guards as a crow perched itself on a nearby mast, watching the events unfold.
Gill could vaguely hear Aola still talking but it seemed miles away, irrelevant. Gill could only hear one thing.
‘Kill them.’
‘Kill them.’
‘Kill them.’
‘Kill them.’
‘Kill them.’
Gill tried to push the voices out of his head, but his head began pulsing with dizzying pain. He felt his body move around him, and begin walking towards the group.
‘Wait, don’t kill them!’ Gill thought to himself with as much power as he could muster, but his voice was lost as an ocean in the sea of murderous intent. Gill was no longer moving on his own, and his body was no longer his. With a chilling realisation, Arianna’s face of anguish flashed in his mind as the truth of what was happening hit him like a battering ram.
Gill couldn’t stop his body from killing them.
It was going to kill them all.