Across the Midnight Sea

Chapter 24: Bellow

I've been having a real rough day emotionally today. There is so much stuff going on in my life. And this is where I came-to this story amid the chaos. I wrote this particular chapter little while ago, and have been too busy to edit lately, but today I needed something to help take me away and this story just felt right. Even if I'm in the middle of a storm myself these characters and writing brings me an oasis of calm. I hope that you enjoy my writing and that it can take you away from your day or problems if only for a moment, and if there's nothing you need to get away from I hope you can enjoy the adventure nonetheless. Much love. -MW

PS. Its a long one.

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Waves rocked the side of the ship as Imre  ducked beneath revenants of the fallen mast. Looking to his left he saw the small embroidered bag Adira had carried onto the ship floating in several inches of water. 

Her room, his eyes were drawn to the log that had crashed through the ceiling. It lay on an angle by her bed. There was red on the sheets the same as there was red on her nightgown. 

Blood.

Her blood.

Despite growing accustomed and somewhat numb to the site of blood over the years, seeing Adira's blood there on the white sheets affected Imre intensely. He felt suddenly sick and it wasn't from the pain in his arm, or the rolling of the water, it was from a gnawing worry in his gut.

"Come on boy," Smithers voice prompted.

Imre followed the older sailor further down the hall to a modest room with a large bed.

A wave rocked the boat and Imre staggered, barely keeping his footing.

"Sit down before you fall down," Smithers ordered gruffly.

"What can I do to help?" Imre replied back.

"Nothing just yet, now sit."

Imre obeyed, for once happy to follow a Tamerian's orders.

Smithers laid Adira gently down on the bed with a delicate touch at odds with his bulky frame. Watching him for a brief moment Imre felt a flicker of remembrance of his own father and being laid gently down after falling out of a tree outside their home.

The first mate's face was lined with concern as he turned Adira's head to the side to examine the cut there. 

The gash across her hairline sent prickles across Imre's skin.

"This will need stitches," Smithers grumbled, more to himself than to Imre. Then he looked up and clearly seeing the stricken look on Imre's face added. "There's not much to say about what it might be like under the skin. Wounds to the head are fickle."

"Can you help her?"

"I'll do my damndest," Smither's answered.

The ship tilted and Imre lifted his working arm to brace against the wall and hissed in pain as the strained tendons protested use.

Smithers looked at Imre, and after checking to make sure Adira was alright for the moment marched over to the younger man.

"Give me your arm," he ordered. 

Imre stood and gave his hand to the big Tamerian.

"The other one," Smithers pointed at the arm which had dislocated when then had slammed against the side of the ship while being hauled up out of the water.

"I can't lift it," Imre admitted.

It was a dangerous thing to admit, not just because Smithers had said he needed help, but also because slaves that were injured or sick to the point of being unable to work often never made it through to the end of the voyage.