Revolutions

86 - Legido

It's the looks of disgust you receive from all the crew members that hurts the most. After the storm devastated the ship, tossing sailors and cargo overboard, the navigators have spent a painstaking amount of time trying to figure out how badly you've all been knocked off course. Unbeknown to you, the other ships were trailing the one you're aboard, following you to the destination. Searching the horizon, you see nothing but the golden sun shimmering on the vast expanse of the ocean like sparkling diamonds—a sight that would usually take your breath away, but instead, now fills you with dread.

The task Gartzen assigned to you didn't appear all that difficult. Make sure the ship steers clear of any impending storms, and notify the captain and crew of any trouble. It seemed as if you were going to avoid the tempest far off in the distance, sailing out of harm's way to where it would remain to the starboard side. The night was quiet otherwise, uneventful besides the entertaining banter occurring below your post in the crow's nest.

Yet you dozed off—by accident! you plead to no one but yourself—and the storm caught you off-guard, having lulled you into a false sense of security. It seemed so obvious, so apparent, and difficult to miss, so you didn't think you needed to state anything about it. Didn't everyone see it? How could they not?

The labor-intensive clean up of the storm's destructive force is a clear reminder of how costly your assumption was. Splintered masts lay like fallen giants across the deck. Their once proud sails are tattered, flapping weakly in the morose wind. Though still intact, the hull bears the scars of nature's fury, with gaping holes that are hastily patched to keep the merciless sea at bay. Waterlogged supplies are strewn about as water still sloshes in the hold below, with many provisions and goods spoiled and irretrievable. Crew members move with a heavy silence. Their glances toward you are a mix of disappointment and thinly veiled resentment. Born from a moment's oversight, this devastation brings a guilt from which there is no escape aboard this crippled vessel.

If the looks from the other crew members wasn't enough, it's Gartzen's silent treatment that is the most punishing. Each moment you attempt to approach him, to apologize, to give some kind of explanation, you're met with a steely cold glare before he charges off in another direction. He always seems to conveniently find some other task to do, or some other crewmate to speak to—anything to avoid talking to you. With each dismissal, you feel the pain in your heart, knowing you've disappointed someone whom you respected and admired, who placed their trust in you, however misguided. And there doesn't appear to be any way to regain his trust, to undo the hurt, to make up for letting him down.

Seeking redemption and a way to productively pass the time, you find tasks to assist with, contributing what you can to the ship's restoration. Picking up debris, swabbing the deck, sewing patches into the punctured sails... anything to make yourself useful. Your offers to help are met with reluctance, at best, and aggressive, flat out rejection, at worst. Nevertheless, you persevere, insisting on giving your assistance wherever you can.

While helping a team of crew members lift a large and heavy mast that's badly damaged and has fallen onto the deck, Captain Lema darts past you. He mutters something inaudibly to himself as he marches toward the wheel of the ship. You want to continue assisting your crewmates, but there's something about his demeanor that concerns you. Perhaps it's the blank stare at nothing in particular, or the frantic, frenetic frenzy in which he carries himself that alarms you. It's not the cool, controlled captain you're accustomed to seeing, and you're eager to discover what's happened, if there's some new development of great concern.

Once you all are able to set the mast aside for repairs, you hurry off to the back of the ship—or 'stern', you recall Lander once calling it. There, Captain Lema speaks to one of the crew members, a "first mate" as he's called. The man is a head's length taller than the captain, though towering over the small-statured captain isn't a difficult feat. Despite the youthfulness suggested by his stature and the liveliness in his sharp and discerning eyes, his face tells tales of countless voyages. The sun has marked him with lines that indicate relentless days under scorching skies and fierce gales battled at sea. There's a certain ruggedness to him, a testament to his experience navigating through treacherous waters and guiding this galleon with a seasoned hand.