The captains POV

  Every board, rope, and sail of this vessel emanates hopelessness and cruelty.

  This horrid slavers ship.

  The few hands above deck are filthy, clad in black leathers and canvas cloaks. From their belts hang sets of iron chains and manacles, and several of them carry clubs, their purpose? To beat slaves.

  The smell is terrible, and from below one can hear cries for mercy, calls for water, and the sound of a whip.

  He sighs and turns his attention to himself, he unties the coin rope around his neck and begins counting. His hammock sways side to side, side to side.

  This tough rope made of horsehair has a tidy row of coins hanging from it, the rope is pulled through the eye of each coin, it’s much more convenient than a pouch, harder to steal.

  Foreigners find it foolish to display their wealth so openly, and they’re not wrong. Only the rich can afford to, safeguarded by their status and the protection of the upper districts. But wearing a coin rope isn’t just a sign of wealth; it’s a statement. It declares that you’re here to buy, trade, and spend. And in a place where deals hinge on trust, few question the word of someone who proves they can pay.

  . . . which the captain, cannot.

  Coin ropes can hold bronze, silver, gold, and platinum. Although no one accepts bronze anymore, it is a metal of a bygone age. The pure metals are akin to the three champions that rule over the eight poleis, the fourth champion rules over the bronze shield. The captain looks at the coins. He touches his one singular bronze coin, on the coin is a depiction of a man holding a shield, it’s almost unrecognisable due to the green hue that has formed on the bronze.

  He hangs the rope around his neck again and readjusts his tattered cloak. The slaver's ship came from distant lands and stopped at the archipelago to restock, and attain a permit to enter the metropolis harbour. The captain convinced the slavers to let him board. . . for a price. With the captain’s current funds, he’ll be on the streets in less than a week.

  The captain readjusts his body in the hammock. Sleep has been rare ever since he lost his ship. Older memories are resurfacing. His job as a captain kept him distracted but that life is over now. His eyelids become heavy, and sleep demands his mind, making him drift away.

  The retired centurion purveys his land, the lush gardens surround him, vibrant and alive, the old oak tree stands sentinel in his crop field, providing much needed shade from the scorching sun. His daughter’s presence is a comforting warmth amidst the fragrant earth, her laughter filled him with joy. She’s already so big.

  He blinks, and time reshapes her before his eyes, faster than memory can hold. It feels like only a moment ago that her tiny fingers curled around his, her warmth nestled safely in his arms. And yet, here she is; darting through the garden, laughter spilling like sunlight, her joy boundless, untamed. She plays, she teases, she dances with the world, unaware of how fleeting this innocence is, how precious each second feels.

  He wished he could capture this moment in time, and keep it forever. To watch her play, so happy.

  He watches her pick wildflowers beneath the oak tree, a little bouquet she’ll gift her mom, or him. The old centurion sighs contently.

  He turns around and spots his wife near their house, currently picking radishes. She’s already planted cabbages, leeks, onions, garlic, and turnips. She stands up and groans, sweat rolling down her back. She stretches with a pained expression.

  He should really go help her, but he wants to watch his daughter play a little while longer. He can make it up to his wife later when he fixes the clay gutters and finally builds her a cistern lining, which is all the rage according to her friends. The centurion doesn’t know what’s wrong with a simple rain barrel, but alas.

  Tranquillity is shattered as the sky grew dark with unnatural speed, a tempest brewing in the heavens. Rain slashed down, cold and relentless, stinging his skin with icy needles.

  With urgency, he called out to his daughter, “Lea, let’s go back inside sweetheart, we can’t keep your mother waiting.”

  His daughter looks up towards him, and squeals when the cold rain hits her neck. She giggles in excitement. She hops towards her father.

  “Look dad, It’s raining! Catch it with your tongue!”

  His wife Lorali beckoned them indoors. She’s at the back entrance, “Come on you two! Get inside now or I’ll close the door. Don’t you dare muddy my mosaic! Quick now, if Lea gets sick that’s on you, Hué!”

  Hué laughed and turned back to his daughter. She stood beneath the swirling storm, her innocent face tilted toward the churning sky.

  Her golden locks began to rise, floating in the charged air. She giggled, reaching up, delighting in the strange weightlessness.

  Hué smiled, until his breath caught.

  His blood ran cold. His stomach lurched.

  Static.

  Hair rising.

  He launched forward, instinct shredding through thought. His body tore through the space between them, but before he could reach her—

  His world shattered in a blinding bolt of blue.

  The captain awakens to the sound of thunder and ringing in his ears. Lightning arches across the dark skies, painting him in pale light. He looks at his hands, they are shaking, shaking from anger. He touches the side of his head to make the ringing stop and he feels something wet, looking at his hands it is blood seeping out of his ears.

  He looks around him, at his situation, his reality. He’s not a centurion, he’s not a captain. He’s a crazy old man surrounded by slavers. He’s a few silver coins removed from being a beggar on the streets.

  The captain looks at the creepy middle-aged men sleeping in their hammocks, tired from their long shifts on the slave ship, tired from humiliating men and treating them like animals. . . and he fits right in, indistinguishable from these monsters.

  He gets out of the hammock, slowly slandering over to the water barrel to have a ladle of water. He peers into the inky void, staring back at him is a shadow of his former self. Drops of blood fall from his ears, clouding the water below. Making his eyes reflect, shine, glow.

  He misses his daughter. More than words can ever describe. Everything he sees that might bring him joy reminds him of the joy she would’ve had.

  He breathes in, and he breathes out.

  He breathes in.

  And he breathes out.

  His hands shake, and his lip quivers. There are a thousand things he wishes to say, his mind floods with thoughts and memories of his daughter.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  He does not sleep for the rest of the night.

  A day later the ship reaches the metropolis harbours. Fliege fish circle overhead, their calls shrill on the salt-laced air, the horizon is a flutter of sails and windswept flags.

  The docks bustle with activity—ships arriving and disembarking, crates and barrels loaded and unloaded by thick-armed deckhands. He can hear the shouted orders from captains who still have ships.

  The city itself hums with activity as sailors take to the markets and taverns, and as merchants hailing from near and far prepare their goods for shipment.

  But the sight is fleeting as the slavers ship docks a few kilometres further under the champion’s shadow. The backdrop of the cliffside that holds the four statues honouring the gods and their champions.

  The bronze statue is being dismantled, piece by piece.

  The captain sneers to himself staring up at the backs of these gigantic statues. He spits on the ships deck, a meaningless act of defiance.

  The captain leaves the ship and watches as rows of slaves that were previously holed up in the lower hull exist the vessel.

  The slaves are finally able to stretch their legs, stumbling and falling to their knees every other step, their feet raw and blackened.

  They look sick. Their eyes look glassy and hollow. All their humanity was stripped from them.

  He pities them, why must the metropolis stand on the backs of slaves? He sighs and wanders the docks, tired from his journey.

  He thinks of Sebastian while touching the hilt of his sword.

  He stares up at the statues, in particular the bronze champion, the champion of valour, its back turned to the poor, the downtrodden, the homeless.

  He thinks of the centurions nervous expression when talking about the scroll and his cart of bodies, the contents of this scroll better be valuable. He needs to deliver them to the Senate. To the champion of intellect.

  But first, let’s report to the seafarer’s guild. There was business to attend to, obligations to fulfil. With a resigned expression plastered on his face he sets off towards the guild, his steps heavy with fatigue and apprehension.

  The captain is eager to find out what the contents of the scroll are, he already figured out the little ruse Valerius chose not to share with the centurion Sebastian. What else did she hide?

  The captain inspects the seal on the scroll, it’s impossible to remove without showing some sign of tampering. Maybe he could make an excuse, or use the sinking of the ship as an excuse.

  No it is too risky, if the contents are confidential he might not be able to deliver it, lest he lose his head.

  He turns his attention to more urgent matters, there were debts to settle, alliances to forge, and secrets to keep. He makes his way through the docks, and enters the labyrinthine streets.

  He arrives at the seafarers guild. This building is nestled into the cliffside on which the champion statues stand. The metropolis was built on sea trade, and this ancient building was once the centre of that.

  A bevy of chatter bubbles up from the different pockets of conversation in this bustling guild. Friendly chuckles and good-natured comments pass between the rough sailors. A lowly scribe makes sense of numbers by moving beads on an abacus. A knife is whetted against a swathe of rough leather in an open common room. New tools are forged or re-forged at the on-site smithy. Mostly weapons meant for sea monsters.

  The guilt has statues, monuments and exquisite art spread around its main hall. Quite the contrast with the kind of people that now visit this place.

  A foreigner might wonder why nothing has been stolen yet.

  The captain trudges past the stone pillars, shoulders hunched, boots heavy with seawater and regret. The guildhall is grand, too grand for the likes of him. Gilded mosaics gleam under the oil lamps, the scent of incense drowning out the stench of salt and sweat that clings to his skin. He doesn’t miss the stares. The sneers. The way sailors spit at his feet as he walks by. He ignores them, same as always.

  At the head of the hall, behind a wide marble desk, sits Mera, the head guild scribe. A platinum chain rests against her collarbone, heavy with authority. A mark of wealth. A mark of power.

  The platinum eye.

  She is bald, her scalp inked with a single white eye that seems to stare straight through him. Her real eyes, silver-bright and knowing, flick up from her parchment.

  Her lips part. Then she snorts.

  “So. I heard your ship sank.”

  It is not a question.

  The captain opens his mouth to respond, but she is already pressing forward.

  “You know as well as I do that whalers are not eligible for insurance. You signed that agreement ten years ago. No compensation, no appeals, no loopholes.”

  She leans back, tapping a long, ink-stained finger against the desk. “I assume the crew is dead?”

  The captain exhales slowly. “Yes.”

  Mera gives a single nod. “Unfortunate.”

  The sentinels flanking her shift their grips on their halberds, gauntlets tightening over iron shafts. The air in the hall thickens, but the captain barely notices.

  “I have a few silver pieces,” he says. “Enough for a room for the night. I’ll clean up, get my affairs in order, and return tomorrow evening to—well—” He clenches his jaw. The words taste like bile. “To work as a miner. You take half the commission. I work until the debt is paid. Simple.”

  Mera tilts her head. “Really? That’s your plan?”

  She leans forward, her gaze sharp with something he can’t quite name. Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Pity, perhaps worse. “You are the first man to walk in here and resign himself to that fate. You were a good captain. Why didn’t you put more money toward your debt?”

  She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “I warned you. I reminded you. I offered you opportunities. I can still pull strings, keep you out of the mines—”

  “Don’t.” The captain waves her off, expression grim. “I’m old, Mera. I thought I’d die a noble death. But I never got the chance to be noble.” He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Might as well resign myself to breaking rock for the republic.”

  Mera exhales sharply. “Just run.”

  The captain blinks.

  Mera gestures broadly, exasperated. “Or let me see what I can do. I’m not saying it’ll be easy. If you run, they will catch you. Eventually. There is nowhere to go. The republic owns everything. But you—” She sighs. “You are old. You might live out your days before they find you.” Her voice drops, quiet, almost pleading. “Is that not worth a shot?”

  The captain studies her. For the first time, he sees it. True concern, buried beneath all the ink and protocol.

  “No,” he says. “I’d rather die a miner. At least I’ll have food. A place to sleep. It’s better than starving on the road. I’m not one to break rules.”

  Mera scoffs. “They will work you to death. When you’re spent, they’ll toss your bones to the dogs. That is no way to die.” She searches his face, desperate now. “The man I knew would never—”

  His expression hardens.

  “You do not know me.”

  Silence. A cold, bitter silence.

  Mera swallows. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “I’ve done more for you than you realize. It breaks my heart to hear you give up like this. You were one of the few people with a heart. Someone I could trust.” She hesitates. “Your wife still speaks fondly of you, sometimes.”

  The captain flinches. Just a fraction. Just enough.

  “Just… give me a room,” he mutters. “I’ll think about it.”

  Mera hesitates. Then, wordlessly, she slides a key across the desk.

  He can’t let her know of the scroll. This is plausible, they won’t see it coming.

  That night, the captain scrubs the salt from his skin, trades rags for clean linen, eats a meal he barely tastes. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling. Sleep does not come.

  His mind drifts, back and back, to things best left buried. But recent wounds have a way of unearthing old ones.

  And some ghosts never stay drowned.

  He gently touches the scars on his fingers, tracing patterns across the forking lines. He starts speaking to his daughter.

  “Lea, sweetheart I am sorry. Even now when so much time has passed it brings me to tears to think of your passing.”

  His throat clamps up, but he pushes through with a shaky voice, “I cannot bring myself to move on, Lea. I tried everything. Two months from now, you would have been eighteen. Can you believe it? I wonder what you would have been like, what kind of trouble you’d have gotten into, how defiant you would have been as a teenager,”

  The captains laughs thinking of a life that never was, “I wish I got to know you. My precious daughter Lea, would I have been a good father?”

  The captains tears fall onto the floor, “I’ve started to forget things. Things that any father should know of their child. Your voice, your eye colour, your favourite animal. Which you’ve changed a couple times.”

  He makes himself laugh, which then makes him cry, “I’ve pushed out so many memories in an attempt to dull the pain, I robbed myself of what little I had.”

  A gust of air travels through the room, goosebumps appear on his skin even on this humid night.

  The captain clutches his heart, “I’ve- I’ve lost you, and my whole heart with it. You were my little girl, My-my little girl.”

  He clenches his fists. He grits his teeth.

  “and they murdered you.”