siobhan

The linen-wrapped bundle is heavy in your hands, made heavier as the wind and rain whips around you, soaking it further. A crash of thunder drowns out the shouts of the ship's crew as they scramble after you, cutlasses bright as signal fires as another flash of lightning illuminates the deck. Your eyes dart between them frantically. There's too many of them and you know it.

This was meant to be /easy/.

You pivot on your heel, making a break for the portside handrail at the same moment that a particularly angry wave slams into the hull. Time slows to a snail's pace as you pitch forward, slamming gut-first into the handrail and watching helplessly as the parcel flies out of your hands. The ocean, ever hungry, opens its jaws and swallows it whole. You realise, your eyes wide with panic, that you are well and truly fucked.

And then reality catches up with you.

Countless hands grab at you, hoisting you up and away from the railing. You kick and scream, flailing hands clawing at whatever they can reach. A mountain of a man catches you by your wrists and swiftly winds a length of rope around them as you snarl in outrage. It's rough and digs into your skin, rubbing it red and raw. Obscenties stream from your mouth as your ankles recieve the same treatment. You buck and writhe, rage mutating into desperation as the group of men carry you back towards the railing, hooting and hollering now with the assurance of their victory. One of them shouts "Say hello to the Grave Mind for me, you rotten bitch!" and then the hands around your wrists and ankles are gone and you're falling.

You barely have time to gasp for air before your back slams into the waves below, the impact almost enough to knock the air straight back out of you. You slip beneath the waves. There's a moment of serenity as you open your eyes underwater, the roar of rain and thunder and salt wise above muted by the water's embrace. But it's only a moment, and you promptly jump into action, curling into yourself to try and grasp at the binds around your ankles. You're a sailor and you know every knot there is, know how to tie and untie them all by heart, but the men have done their jobs well, and the knot at your ankles is taut and will not budge. You struggle to pick it apart with your fingers, digging in with your fingernails to no avail.

You glance up towards the surface, feel your stomach drop when you see how deep you've sunk already. Your limbs already feel much too cold, and your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen. You curse your shitty, no-good, broken gills over and over as your actions become frantic, imprecise. You want to scream. You want to tear your hands into those men and rip them to bits. All you can do is sink.

The surface rises further and further away and you let go of the ropes around your ankles. The panic has worn away, replaced with a calm that you think is probably closer to numbness. You can't feel your hands or feet anymore, and your chest feels fit to erupt. At last you gasp, bubbles racing to the surface as cold salt floods your lungs and you sink down, down, down.