Delia's heart throbbed.

Even three days after the battle, tears threatened to blind her vision, the seared image of Jonah's body a constant suffering.

The ringing of bells told her it was now ten at night and her stomach groaned to be fed. Were it not for the bells, she would have lost track of time. The bells and -

Knock Knock

-and the knocking.

“I’m comin’ in Del.”

Not waiting for an answer, Greg opened the door, the lantern illuminating his face against the pitch-black backdrop. In his other hand he carried a tray, the wafts of Lenton's signature soup causing her stomach to growl.

Delia didn’t move despite its protest; hunger was the least of her concern.

Greg sat down next to her, placing the tray on the bedside table beside the stale bread from the morning.

“You need to eat, you know that right?” His voice was quiet and soft, the façade of the captain replaced with that of a tired old man. “If Jonah saw you like this…”

Delia clenched her fists at the mention of his name, fury and sorrow surging like the tides. If they had helped him. If she wasn’t locked away and brought over the crossbows as Jonah had asked. If they had distracted it!

“Delia. Starvin’ yourself isn’t helpin’.”

“You!” Tears burst from her like a dam as her emotions exploded. “You could have helped!”

She didn’t turn to face him, not trusting herself to speak her mind to the old man's face. “You…you let him die!” Her tears flowed freely now and she clenched her fist tighter. "You!"

“He’s not dead,” he said softly.

“You.” She paused as she registered his faintly spoken words.

Not dead… what a bunch of salt! Anger seeped from her along with the blood from her palms as nails fed on flesh.

“YEAH! If he’s not dead, then why don’t you let me see him? And if I’m going to starve by not eating, you think he won't!”

“It’s because you weren’ ready Del”.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, clearly trying to calm her shaking body.

“I’m not… a child… anymore.” Her voice cracked with her sobbing and she felt Greg's grip tighten for a second before he moved his hands.

“No. No, you’re not.”

Greg sighed, his voice sounding heavy and regretful. “You’re right. I guess it’s time for me to move on.”

He paused, clearly trying to elicit a reaction, but Delia didn’t bite.

“You know, I've been doin’ this for a real long time now. Real long. Much longer than before I met your mother.”

That caught her attention. It wasn’t often her old man spoke about her mother, the few words he ever did say were filled with sorrow.

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Delia finally faced him, throat tight as an oyster.

His gaze was distant, watching a scene she couldn't see. Greg shook his head, turning to her with a soft fatherly smile.

“You might look like her, but I guess you’re nothin’ like her, huh? Do you want to see him?”

She stared at him, words not forming. How long had it been since she saw her Pa?

Delia's ferocity was lost in the face of a wearied old man. The captain was gone. Greg was gone. Her pa... he was so different.

In front of her was a man in his 60s with frown lines in the shape of waves, only adding to his age. The crown of his head, usually covered with a hat, was sparse of hair, and that which remained was white from worry and stress. His wiry moustache drooped like a frown, and his eyes - his eyes looked tired.

Delia nodded meekly.

The man in front of her returned the gesture. “Are you..." He shook his head, sighing before speaking softly. "Del, are you ready to see a corpse?”

Delia’s teeth clenched and eyes blurred, but she nodded once more as tears streaked down her face despite her attempts to hold them.

“Nothin’ like your mother.” He chuckled quietly. “She was terrified of blood, you know that? Would’ve fainted on the spot seein’ even a bleedin’ finger.”

He took in a deep breath, standing to his feet. “If you want to see him, finish your meal. I’ll come back in a few moments and take you to him.”

As he got up, he looked her up and down. “You look like you’ve been mournin’. You should probably get changed.”

Greg left, leaving a different type of burden on Delia’s shoulders.

Was she really ready to see him? She might not have fainted, but even she knew she was a crying mess. No, that didn’t matter. She would see him.

She did as instructed, and when her old man returned as promised, there was an empty bowl and plate where she had sat.

“Ready?” he asked, standing by the door.

Delia dabbed at her eyes, trying to hide the dark circles which lingered. She saw the old man smile from the reflection as he watched her apply the makeup, but she didn’t comment.

Jonah was ok, he had to be. And she wasn’t planning on showing the fool the sleepless nights she spent because of him.

She mirrored Greg's smile thinking of how she would get back at Jonah. Everything felt normal. It was back to the way it used to be. It was right.

Delia took in a shuddering breath, purging her mind of the image of Jonah's broken leg held together only by his skin.

“Delia?”

“I’m fine.”

She straightened herself and ironed out her white dress with her hands before she turned towards Greg and the door.

“I'm ready.”

* * *

The thumping of her heart echoed like her footsteps as Delia made her way towards Jonah’s room. Her legs were slack ropes, her stomach the ensign of a ship, wavering with each of her buckling steps.

“You okay, Del?”

It was the third time her old man had asked, and she responded with a simple nod, too focused on his shadow cast by the lantern held in his hands.

She thought she was ready, so why were her steps faltering?

The absolute darkness didn’t faze her, it didn’t make her feel fear, even knowing there were things which lurked beyond the horizon. But the thought of Jonahs limp and lifeless body…

“Are you sure you’re ready Del?”

The shadow stopped moving and she looked up at him.

“You know you didn’t say a word for the last five minutes.” He shook his head. “You were dawdling like those penguins from your books. Salt, you didn’t even notice we’re here! You sure you’re ready?”

Delia looked behind the captain to find the oakwood door illuminated with an orange hue. Her stomach twisted into knots but she nodded, swallowing her doubts. Even still, her voice came out little more than a raspy whisper. “Yes.”

Her old man sighed, before moving out of the way.

Delia approached the door, hand tentatively touching the cold brass of the handle. This was what she was waiting for, so why was she hesitating?

She closed her eyes, taking in a calming breath.

“Delia…”

Delia imagined a voice. It sounded like Jonah, though somehow unlike him; It was a distant echo calling her from beyond. The voice was faint, faraway and almost grating.

But despite it all, the voice was a whisper to the heart, the sound of home, a call of love.

Steeling her resolve, Delia opened the door, letting the candlelight flood the room.