Wake

[Morgan LaLuna]

Morgan didn't leave the ship when they found a safe place to dock. He didn't leave when the crew went ashore to lick their wounds. Having asked for help, he managed to get the Bosun's body laid on his own bed in his cabin, and pulled up a chair so he could sit and watch over the man. Not that he would get up and walk away. He stared quietly for some time, quiet and watchful. The half-orc's chest did not rise, and it did not fall. The captain had covered his bloodied and crushed body with a blanket to hide the mangled legs, the broken arms. Really, the man looked quite peaceful, but for a gash on his head that would not bleed; would not heal.


"This is my fault. I know it is." He muttered softly to the dead man in his bed. "You should have died fighting. Not crushed by—" his words caught in his throat, choked off and tilting up in pitch. Hands grasped at filthy and torn pants, balling into fists as his head hung, dirty hair falling free and hiding the red shame on his face. A wet spot appeared where a tear fell, and his shoulders shook silently.


He mourned a good man. He mourned for the memory, the lives touched. He wept because he had caused this. His impatience had done so. Bosun had argued the endeavor entirely, and extolled the virtues of patience when it came to those things even too cumbersome to move. Morgan had thought the giant's immobility a weakness. And certainly, it had not come after them, but he hadn't thought he might be creating a feeding frenzy among those that kept it alive. Smaller by far, its spawn followed. The beast was irritated by the presence of the Heathen, even while eating the offering, and its tail had given a single thump. That was all it had needed to do to set the water into tumultuous motion, nearly sucking the Heathen under in a whirlpool that caused the first sail to fall. Really, they were fortunate to get caught on the wave that resulted, for it seemed the monstrosity calmed when they were no longer hanging over its head.


He had celebrated, laughed joyously, but then its children started to follow. For hours they fought, pushing back crustacean after crustacean, all the while riding the wave. Another mast fell, and again none were injured for they had gotten out of the way. This time, there was no celebration. The crew were tiring, and Morgan spotted land, jumping from the last mast to steer the boat as well as he could… but it was all he could to to keep the damn thing afloat. The closer they came, the harder it was… and soon the wave would crest, break, perhaps shatter them all on the ground. He set the wheel and shoved a broken sword into the spokes so it would stay, then fought his way through the crowded deck to grab at the red silk that still fluttered, frayed at the edge and filthy from sprays of ichor and blood.


He managed to get up halfway, and shot as many bolts as he could. Not the mild and held back reddish pink bolts of dueling, but crimson fury, crackling and hot. Bosun had just gotten another lobster's corpse off the ship when they made landfall, and he tumbled to his knees, thrown off. He hadn't had time to get out of the way when the final mast splintered and toppled. Morgan could only hope that he did as he tumbled into the blackness of sails, wrapping and nearly suffocating.


When the battle was done, he was desperate to find the man, to apologize… anything. He himself would tied himself to the prow for lashes, if need be. He would scrub the entire ship clean alone, if asked. Anything but what he finally found beneath the sails. There, bloodied and broken, Bosun was still under the thick and heavy wood of the main mast, blood pooled around his head from a gash, his skull somewhat misshapen in a way that made Morgan sick. With a heave, he pushed the column off, and hooked his arms beneath the Bosun's, dragging him into daylight. In listening for a heartbeat, he found none. In touching his skin, he only felt a chill. And yet… things needed to be done before he could truly mourn.


It was his fault. His stupidity. His impatience. His insistence that killed Bosun. As he wept the last of his tears, he dragged a ripped and charred sleeve covered in dried blood and filth across his equally dirty face streaked through with channels of clean skin that gave him a ghoulish sort of look. "What do I do?" He said quietly, pressing the heels of dirty palms into his eyes. "I killed you. You were my friend… and I fucking killed you." A bubble of anger rose in his chest, but nothing came of it before he slumped forward, falling again into sobbing.


He cried much this way for some time, eventually dropping forward in exhaustion to sleep quite fitfully. Decisions had to be made, but they would have to be made with the utmost care. For what he planned to do was expensive, time-consuming… and perhaps a bit against his own philosophy.


He couldn't lose another friend. Not when he had died so terribly, and so very soon.