At World's Beginning

...Another Door Opens

Now

Captain Franklin Sharp strode across the deck of his vessel, and though he strode with strong purpose his steps were not as smooth as they used to be. He came to a stop beside his navigator and rubbed at the ache at his right hip. Both of his knees were doing him no favors either. He released a soft sigh of complaint and gazed out at the waters, noting the unnatural fog they were still mired in. The bright moon, somewhere overhead and obscured by the clouds, cast a paltry loom over the dense mist.

He glanced at his navigator, also at his side, as she leaned against the gunwale and gazed over the unnaturally still waters.

"How bad is the pain tonight?" she asked before he could question her for the 49th time if this direction was the safest course.

Franklin gave a quiet chuckle—it never ceased to amaze him how she could predict the state of his joints as accurate as she could the weather.

"Fairly. It's the mist, I think," he said. Franklin rubbed the back of his neck and silently cursed at his taut muscles.

"It's not the mist," she answered evenly. Her eyes never wavered from the night, and the unease Franklin felt was absent from her features. "The veil between the worlds, the living and the dead, has become thin."

She often said strange things like that, but only to him, and only when they were alone. She had learned long ago how men reacted at such words, and it had been a hard lesson indeed.

Franklin waited for her to speak, knowing it was best not to rush her and she would come to her point when she was ready. It didn't take her long, and there was an edge to her voice.

"Something has happened in these waters. A... shift. It feels... disturbed." She trailed off, brows furrowed with troubled thought.

"The men have been making bold claims these past few days," Franklin ventured forth, hoping that would prompt her to say more. "Tales of glimpses of dead men in boats and ghosts floating under the water."

"The crew is not wrong. For once."

A chill went down his spine; he wasn't necessarily afraid of the dead, he had lived his life well enough that he knew most wouldn't take vengeance against him. His concern lay with the living, and more pointedly, his crew and what actions they would take if they continued to sail these apparently haunted waters.

"Perhaps we should divert our heading for a safe port," he offered. It wasn't the first time he'd made this suggestion, and her answer was the same as before.

"No."

Franklin sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. No other person, be they man, woman, or child, could speak to him the way she did and get away with it. But she could ask the moon of him and he would gladly fetch it from the sky. That was the nature of the pact one made when mutual lives were saved multiple times.

"Can you at least tell me why?" Franklin asked, a hint of impatience in his tone. She had always been able to explain her reasoning before, pointing to his maps—which were offensively inaccurate according to her—and showing him which waters were safe and which were the territories of creatures he'd rather not think about. She could also navigate the things that were not on maps, such as storms, doldrums, and foreign ships. The Mariner's Lament had avoided Spanish and French naval vessels on more than one occasion, thanks to her warnings.

But apparently, this time was different.

"I... can't." Her words were spoken with uncertainty and that unnerved Franklin more than the miasma off their bow.