At dawn, the waves were larger than predicted. The ship was sailing with only a small storm jib and was still making a few knots. As the ship crested each wave he could see endless enormous seas rolling towards him, and the screaming of the wind and spray was painful to his ears.
The crew members had to slow the boat down, battling against the raging storm. With urgency and precision, they dropped the storm jib and lashed a heavy mooring rope in a tight loop across the stern. Every item on the deck was double-lashed, their movements synchronized as they went through the life-raft drill. Lifelines were attached, oilskins and life jackets donned — all in preparation for the tempest that awaited them. And then, they waited, bracing themselves for what lay ahead.
Meanwhile, Neil's gaze drifted towards Dove, who stood at the prow, his eyes fixed upon the island in the distance. Despite his outward appearance of normalcy, there was a subtle shift in Dove's demeanor. Having spent considerable time with him, Neil had grown to understand Dove on a deeper level. He knew that Dove was just as, if not more, nervous than himself. The light that usually danced in Dove's eyes had faded, replaced by a shadow of unease.
As their vessel approached the three-fourths mark of the treacherous journey, a solemn procession unfolded. A couple of dozen men stepped forward, joining Dove's side at the rail. Their collective gaze was locked onto the mysterious island ahead, their expressions devoid of words but laden with anticipation. A tense silence engulfed the air, broken only by the gentle susurration of the sea. Simultaneously, as if guided by an invisible force, they shifted their left hands to the railing and turned their eyes towards the island's northernmost point.
Neil's stomach churned with discomfort, the weight of the moment settling upon him. He turned his attention to the man nearest to him, a thin old figure who exuded an air of peculiarity. The man's coarse gray-black hair and beard contrasted with his unkempt appearance. Dull, fishy, watery eyes met Neil's, marked by deep-brown crow's feet etched at the corners. The man's weathered clothes, reminiscent of a farmer's attire, hung loosely on his angular frame, their age evident in the worn-out patches at the pockets, the ill-fitting collar, and the frayed elbows and knees.
In a sudden outpouring of emotion, a single tear escaped the old man's eye, followed by an unbroken stream that cascaded down his weathered face. Overwhelmed by his anguish, he bent forward, pressing his hands against his cheeks in a desperate attempt to conceal his pain. The intensity of his crying mirrored that of a person retching on all fours, stirring an unsettling unease deep within Neil's own stomach.
Driven by an urgent need to find Dove amidst the bewildered crowd, Neil's heart raced as he pushed through the men who stood in a state of confusion or feigned ignorance towards the old man's emotional breakdown. The scene unfolded before him in a disorienting tableau, with the boat's occupants either disconnected from or equally confounded by the old man's turmoil. Yet, amidst the chaos, Neil's search for Dove held an unexpected weight, unearthing a wellspring of concern and attachment he hadn't realized he possessed. It intensified the disquietude that swelled within him, a mixture of fear and determination that pushed him forward.
"Dove!" Neil's voice echoed through the tumult as he fought his way toward his friend. And then, he saw him. There stood Dove, tears streaming down his face, his anguish palpable. It was a sight that stirred both pity and a renewed resolve within Neil.
His gaze shifted downward, drawn to the River Gantrick. What was once a humble stream, gently glimmering behind thick reeds, now stretched before him as a regular river. It was a sight that triggered a flood of horrifying memories, unearthing a deep-rooted phobia that turned his blood to ice and left him paralyzed with fear.
But reality crashed back in with the force of a tidal wave when Dove leaped into the river. The roar of Neil's own blood rushing in his ears drowned out the chaos around him, and the branches of lightning that streaked across the stygian sky seemed to forge forks of liquid, golden ore above his head. The stern of the boat moved up the face of the river, propelled by an unseen force.
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Those Lovely Shards (BXB)
Historical Fiction**When Bridgerton meets Once Upon a time in a compelling historical fantasy.** Everyone knows the elite and the working class don't mix. Royal princes and noble ladies wed and fall in love all the time. But even look at a commoner for too long, and...
