Descending Night

3) The Voyage

Now safely out at sea, the Degorian refugees has settled down for the night. Philip, however, remains on deck.  He stands over the ship’s railing, staring into the vast, open sea with an unseeing gaze.  The calm waters glisten as it reflects the countless stars and full moon.  Off in the distance, the fumes from the explosion still loom over the land that was once his home.  Even with the brilliance of the lunar light, there is no chance any werewolf could have survived the silver-tainted blast.  In a single night, Philip has lost his home, his coven, and Rafael.

The image of his deceased friend suddenly invades Philip’s mind, and a knot forms in his throat.  He clutches his cloak close to his chest, heaving a deep, solemn sigh.  It’s the same cloak Rafael wore earlier, before he returned it to Philip and set off on his final mission that earned him his knighthood.

“Damnit,” Philip whispers, his voice nearly inaudible to himself.  Mounted on a pair of masts, the brigantine’s grand sails ripple against the wind, the sound of its flapping reminiscent to thunderclaps.  In spite of this, Philip manages to pick up another sound.

“Excuse me, General,” says a small, but confident voice.

Philip turns around, and his eyes meet a familiar pair of big, doe eyes.  “Hello, Rachel.  Is there something wrong?”

Guarding against the chilly night air, Rachel holds her wool cloak tightly around her waist.   She frees one hand, and points towards Philip.  “May I have that?”

Philip follows her gesture, and his gaze falls on the cloak in his arms.  “This?”

“Uh-huh,” Rachel says, making an affirmative nod. “It’s for David.  It has his father’s scent on it.”

Philip gasps inwardly.  Here he is, upset over the death of a friend when, in fact, the true tragedy is the death of a father.  Philip stares at the five-year-old girl standing before him, ashamed that it took her arrival for him to realize his selfishness.

Holding back a sob, Philip forces a smile.  “Of course, you can have it.”  He folds the cloak several times and gently places it into Rachel’s tiny, outstretched arms.  

“Thank you, General,” she says with a quick curtsy. “This will really help with David’s socialization.  Who knows if he will ever see another werewolf?”

The smile on her round face brightens Philip’s mood.  Getting on one knee, he pats Rachel on the top of her head, ruffling her mass of red tresses.  “Rafael and I were friends for decades.  He was one in a million, but not one of a kind.  There are other werewolves who desire peace over domination.  We just have to find them.”

“Rachel!” calls a feminine voice.  “What are you doing out here?!”

Rachel spins around while Philip returns to his feet.  The latter raises his hand, shielding his eyes from the blinding beam of a torchlight in the distance. His vision gradually adjusts to the glare.  He soon makes out an approaching knight garbed in a silver and red cloak with short, blond hair beneath a dome helmet.  

“Sorry, General,” says the knight, pointing the torchlight away from the pair’s faces.  She gives Philip a salute, standing a full head shorter than himself.

“That’s okay, Florence,” Philip says.  “There’s no need to be so formal. Just call me Philip.”

“I’m on guard duty, tonight,” she says. She turns to Rachel, her sapphire eyes narrowed into a stern, but maternal glare.  “But I must insist that you get below deck this instant.  It’s way past your bedtime, young lady.”

“I was just on my way, Miss Leon,” Rachel says.  She makes another curtsy before scampering away towards the stairway leading below deck.  Right before she reaches the entranceway, a sudden gust of wind snatches the cloak from Rachel’s grasp.  Her reflexes are quick, however, and she manages to grab the wayward cloth out of the air with a single hop.  Realizing that Philip is still watching her, she gives him a final wave.  “Thank you, again!”