Riven Isles

20 | Tough Love

As predicted by the doctor, Simon was a stubborn patient, refusing to accept the offer of opiate or rate the level of pain he was in. It was a mission to keep him in his bed, which led us to taking shifts. Lydia and I watched him for an hour or two each, just to make sure he wasn't getting any worse, that he was comfortable, that he was staying still, that he didn't need anything to take the edge off. Elian volunteered himself for one of these watches as well, and he went before me. I caught him reading to Simon, commenting on the dullness of Simon's books. He made Simon smile, but laughing hurt the professor, so Elian was careful not to be too energetic.

On my watch, I lay in my hammock and stared at the ceiling, and he sat up against his pillows and did the same, and we didn't talk. I think I was his least favorite overseer. I asked about the mark on his back, and he took a breath so sharp that I had to fetch Dr. Oswald to calm the coughing fit that followed.

Dr. Oswald made the professor do simple exercises during his watches. He applied the last of the oil in the afternoon. Simon's food was brought to him, to his protest. Above decks, the rest of us continued to learn our weapons. Captain Clarke joined Lydia and I for a solid half hour, and I'd been inwardly giddy about it. It kept running through my head that he was my pa. Before he left us, he'd given me Simon's collection of broken rock pieces, which I'd returned to the professor on my watch that evening.

The watch system worked seamlessly, for the most part. I could see Simon's stubbornness ebbing away by the second morning, when he asked for tea, and snapped at Dr. Oswald when the doctor reminded him about the spirits. The spirits in the tea put him to sleep. The fight in Simon had not lasted.

The captain was kind enough to put a reef in the sails and take the ship a little further from the Giant's Claw current, which has done well to reduce the uncomfortable rocking below decks. He kindly takes our comfort into consideration. The Giant's Ring, about twice the height of our masts, sits about three miles away. The current is only half a mile.

I relieve Elian from his watch in the afternoon and sink into my hammock, preparing for another hour or so of boredom. We lay in near silence. His struggle to breathe is the only noticeable sound, as is usual. Lydia told me that when he breathes, his lungs scrape against his ribs, and that's what makes it hurt so much.

"Walter," says Simon, and I start. It's been half an hour at least.

I peer over my hammock's edge, expecting him to ask me for something, like another cup of spirit-tainted tea, or a glass of brandy, or water. He hasn't asked me for anything, yet.

He glumly finds my eyes. "Thank you."

I wait for him to elaborate.

He takes his time. He looks exhausted. Pretending everything was fine for a whole day has left him in even worse shape. "For saving me. Thank you."

I can't say that I hadn't thought about it. I'm no hero. It irritated me to no end to not have received thanks, and that was one of the things I thought about on my watches all of yesterday. Stewing on it.

"The mark on my back," Simon continues, slowly and carefully, "is not my own doing. I do not follow the religion of Daim's Trough. I can barely call myself a follower of the Crest. I'm not a religious man. I'm sorry if it offended you."

"Who did it to you? Why?" Daim's Trough; all things evil. To carry His mark is to carry a curse.

Prodding his glasses up his nose, he tiredly glares back at the ceiling. "I don't owe you anything. Certainly not personal information. I explained that much out of courtesy. I wouldn't want you to think of me as an embracer of sin."