“Sympathy for the Devil”

[Magdalena]

Closed to Arsène

Sati had always despised the snow. Sweeping across the land in rains or storms, it cast the face of her home in a crude mold of ice, turned everything into a shoddy sculpture of what it once was. It robbed the blood of its living warmth, it buried worlds. The feeling, however, was not one of passion, was not all-consuming, threatening to swallow her in its dark, rapacious flames. No, hers was hatred that would never thaw, as cold as the world that had first shaped it. Hatred from a chilled heart, and for that she despised herself just as much as the snow, if not more.

Yet, if she loathed the curse of winter, then that of water came in a close second. The smell of brine rose in warm and humid winds that weaved into her hair, disheveling. This was her second week on the Molinari, a ship full of escapees whose only means of survival was flight from the civil conflicts that were ravaging the face of Salvar. This was also her second week, escaping the harsh cost that came with this deceptive survival.

On one side of the coin was the price of noble blood. Here, there were nobles by name, only not by wealth: without it, they had been unable to buy a ticket onto the larger, cleaner and safer ships that had left the rime-bitten shorelines, and had no choice but to fall in with the riffraff of the Molinari. Only a fool would think that the barriers of lineage could ever hope to fend off the oppressed and their vindictive hands – cutthroat hands. On the other side of this coin was stained with the blood of a woman, the blood of a priestess. Two weeks at sea, and hands that killed had become hands that invade, hands that violated. As there had been noble blood spilt, there had been virginal blood as well. Screams that tore the night, in the throes of death and rape.

“One and the same,” she whispered, wrapping willowy arms around her legs, holding herself tighter. “After all is said and done… one and the same.” On this voyage, she had seen the eyes, had felt them skitter across her dress, crawl over her skin in dreadful caresses – had felt those eager eyes disrobe her all too avidly. Desire burned in them: to feel her flesh, her lips, the silk of her fiery hair… to grip them and tug onto like chains to a collar. “As they have done to so many before me.” Yes, she had heard the cries, and this night they yearned to hear hers, to feel the spilling of her dual blood. “Men, death and rape… one and the same.”

Pushing herself off the railing, the priestess rose above the shadows, one hand shaking on the gunnel. The briny air was thicker as she stood, the salt pulling her scalp taut, almost till it cracked. Looking beyond the ship, she saw only ripples in a spill of darkness, an expanse of watery ink and dead mists. A few days ago, she could still see a cracked ridge of ice from Berevar, a line of distant ice floes bordering the cold northlands. Though on the other side, she could not yet perceive her destination, still couldn’t see the green and thriving shores of Raiaera, Sati knew they were close. She knew, because a feeling rang deep in her heart, the feeling that her sister’s presence was growing stronger. Sapna, dear Sapna had gone ahead before the civil war had erupted, to investigate these elven lands. The woman had her reasons, but her departure had left the priestess next to empty. It wouldn’t matter for long, because they would be together again. No matter what, she would survive until they were reunited again.

Even if it meant being the last one alive, when the keel hit land.

Something had caught the corner of her eye, trawling her from those gloomy thoughts. Not far off in the distance, barely shrouded by a screen of gauzy mist, was a vessel of some sort: Coronian, from its solid yet gilded craft. Slightly smaller than the Molinari, it wandered on dead waters, its mast broken and the sails in tatters. She considered informing the captain, but after a while, she couldn't care less about stranded vessels or ghost ships. And even so, they already seemed to be veering towards the wreck. Sati turned away, but quickly returned her eyes to the broken ship, as if she'd seen a ghost upon its deck. It was almost unnoticeable, but she could have sworn she'd caught the glimpse of a man, his figure as broken as all that surrounded him.

Mists moved to engulf the vessel, a slow drifting motion upon black waters. The priestess shook her head, and quickly lost interest in the whole affair. "You already have the living on your mind. There is no more room for the dead." The priestess finally walked away to find refuge on the other side of the ship.

She ignored the faint wails in the distance, the lament of a violin that knew only how to weep.

[Arsène]

It was a sad and haunting melody that traveled the seas that night, drifting over the darkened waters like a gull. The slow, creeping melody sent shivers through men's spines and dampened their already crushed spirits. The notorious notion that seamen were superstitious proved tried and true on the Fortitude, a finely crafted vessel decommissioned from its days in Corone's navy. They scuttled about, tongues flailing incomprehensible prayer to whichever sea demigod in the form of a water fowl took their fancy at the time.

The Fortitude, it seemed, was cursed. It had been stranded for nearly a day, rough winds and waves knocking down it's sail and nearly capsizing the entire vessel, its cargo and crew. The ship's belly housed a small cache of shoddy weapons and armor, as well as a few cheap passengers who thought it a money saving strategy to be ferried along to Raiaera inside of a merchant vessel. And all was meant to aid the elves in the war against the undead, for a price.

No one aboard the ship had every terrible detail. None knew how badly the war was going. It was unfathomable to think Raiaera could be burning. Instead, they lamented for their broken mast and sails. The Fortitude's crew hurried about and attempted to patch any breech in the hull with tar and planks of wood. Passengers ran like chickens with their head's severed, the would-be mercenaries asking the ship's captain what they could do to help. It seemed everyone had a place.

Everyone except Arsène.

He leaned on the broken stump of the mast, bringing his bow back and forth of his violin, creating soft and maddening notes of music. He didn't do it to keep spirits high, the piece of far too melancholy for that. He didn't even do it for entertainment. The musician was simply bored. Trapped in his little world where only the music existed on a blank canopy, he ignored the sound of ecstatic cries that followed the sighting of an approaching vessel, or the smell of fresh leather kept limber by the briny waters as the two ships exchanged rope and ramp. There was only the boredom, brought on by the regret of purchasing such cheap transport to the elven lands.

As the Molinari's captain began loading up people and cargo onto his ship, Arsène was first in line. He had stopped playing the violin, if only to pretend to listen to the captain's instructions. The man had with him everything he had taken from Corone, from his newly purchased sword to his violin and spare clothes, as he walked up the shaking ramp onto the larger ship.

He was greeted by the ghostly pale Salvic faces, kept white by the moons sickly glimmers. Their beady eyes starred down at them, attempting to appear regal. Arsène merely slumped over to the new ship's mast, leaned against it, and fiddled with his violin to keep it in tune.

His song would begin again.

[Magdalena]

Following the arrival of the Coronian refugees, opinions quickly became divided on the Molinari. For some, these new arrivals were as spices to the staleness of the voyage, a dash of diversity amidst their pale and brooding faces. Many wasted no time, introducing themselves the very moment these strangers had boarded the ship, thinking any one of these new souls could become the saving companion they could not find among their own kinsmen. They called it hope, precursor to a blessing or miracle of some sort. Sati called it mere delusion, and she was not alone to think so. On a boat that threatened to crumble with the batter of each wave, that had seen enough weeks for its supplies to grow insufficient, these foreigners were more mouths to feed, more dead weight to bog them down on their way to the elven lands. Still, a few twisted mavericks saw them as fresh meat, and literally at that, merely new victims with which they could have their sick and depraved way.

The newness of the moment died down a few hours later, after each party had realized the other was just as worn and hollow. Even spice could grow stale, it seemed. Sati found it a great deal more entertaining to watch the fogs unfold, beneath the grey skies and above the black waters that beset them. They were great, ghastly breaths that stank of death and deceit, like languorous clouds still drifting on an ancient and watery sky that had long ago died and fallen from its celestial perch. All her amusement, however, lay in the belief that these lingering mists were nothing but shrouds, that behind these gossamer walls lurked horrors of ages past, forgotten predators that lay in wait to sink their teeth in a centennial repast. To sink their teeth in this wandering prey that was the Molinari and its crew.

Eyes wide and heart pounding, she gripped the railing until her fingers ached. Had she just heard a foghorn? The few who remained on deck, as still and lifeless as they had always been, seemed to have noticed nothing of the sort. Still, the priestess would rather not rely on their senses, dulled to oblivion by time and tedium. After a scoff, Sati turned to the distant hazes that concealed the horizon in a feeble attempt to pierce its hidden secrets. She saw nothing unusual, and now she doubted having heard anything in the first place. The protracted days, the numbing mists that blanketed her body and mind were finally taking their toll on her, it seemed.

“No one wants to say it.”

At first, Sati paid no heed to those whispered words, wayward fragments of some worthless conversation between a trembling refugee and a Salvaran, one of those dignified and hoary old merchants, if she remembered well. “If they had told the truth, your captain would not have let them board.” The man shook like a leaf, eyeing the sea as if he expected it to gobble him up whole. “The reason why the Fortitude was in shambles… why so few of us remained!”

Absently listening to the quavering man, the Salvaran lazily propped his back against the railing, unbuttoning the top of his sweat-stained shirt with a tired scoff as he rummaged through his jacket, produced a silver lighter and a roll of tobacco. “I don’t see what’s so barmy about a stupid storm,” he said with a shrug, his voice limp and lethargic as he lit the butt.

“Not a storm! Not a storm!” the man cried out, grabbing the other by his worn lapels. “It was not a storm!” he continued with a vengeance, his fear turning him madder than a hatter. He shook the merchant so hard that his cigar dropped right as its tip burned red, hitting the railing once before it fell over and into the sea.

A thin rain began to pour, drowning out the rest of the madman’s ramblings, but something else brought a sudden unease to the priestess. The dropped cigar, still red and smoking, had been afloat on black waves. Only seconds later, when the rain drew ripples upon the sea, did it finally vanish. “Swallowed like a fly,” she mused with apprehension.