In the hearth, the fire burns warm, burns easily. She sips her tea, instead, willing its bitter herbs to restore the flame within her. The lighthouse keeper attempts to doze but can’t help but watch the stranger sleep on the single bed in the corner. I don’t understand, but I’m grateful anyway. “Just leave me here, come back in an hour?” I say, wincing and light-headed. My eye is swollen shut.Īll in all, I’m a misery and feeling bloody fucking sorry for myself. My ribs scream against every breath and I hold one arm close to my body to balance. With her help, I wedge myself from the rocks and when we reach the narrow strip of pebbles you might generously call the beach, she chuffs some heat back into my legs until I can feel them enough to walk.Įven then, the way is rough and slow because I am rough and slow. Her hands are rough and strong and too warm for the brisk air. She stands split-legged and sure above me, one foot on each rock as she pulls me up. I don’t know how far she could’ve gotten.”Īnd what can I say to that? Not a bloody thing. I don’t realize I’ve said the words aloud until the goddess answers me, her face pained. Hard to point out a single injury when you feel bow to stern as if you’ve been keel-hauled. The goddess? I’ve heard that she can take whatever shape she likes, but why would she come to me? Unless I’m dead.Ī sharp slap stings my cheek and my eyes shoot open. All I hear, though, is the lapping of the ocean against my legs, against the rocks beneath me. Wide dark eyes, short curls across her forehead, dampened by the spray. That keening sound is me.Ī face appears above me, golden in the dawn light. Still, the pulling scrapes my ribs against cold rock and I protest through my half-frozen lips. My arm is numb and their touch doesn’t feel like aught else but a vague probe on some fleshy limb. I wake up in agony, and I’m so goddess-damned cold my teeth are chattering before I even realize I’m conscious.īefore I realize someone’s got my arm in their grip. The guilt belongs to the lighthouse keeper alone. For now, though, the sea is calm and bears no guilt for the unconscious woman’s fate. She hopes this will be the last ship that braves the strait this year. The lighthouse keeper finds the ragged sailor in the morning, caught in the stone teeth at the base of the lighthouse cliff. I have only two coherent thoughts in the frigid darkness: Iouni’s palm, flat and wide and too slow as I sail over the rail and hit the water with a deafening splash. Then the ship bucks again, properly, like an unbroken horse, and I’m airborne, Iouni looking at me with her mouth in a round “O” of surprise. She’s got this look of confusion on her face and I want to say there’s not a bit of disdain because we’ve been the best of mates as I learned the ropes, but that would be a lie and her mouth is already twisting when the ship shudders beneath our feet. Iouni grabs me by the collar as I run past her-the lantern swinging from her upraised hand highlights her stern glare and soft cheeks. The captain screams something but goddess knows I can’t make out a single blessed word she’s saying. We can’t well get through the Strait of Splintered Masts blind. Make the whole ship into a bloody torch, if we have to. I run for a lantern, just like everyone else. Nothing left but the burning after-image against the black night. The lighthouse, which burned so bright not half a second ago, was gone. “Fuck me,” I swear at the sudden black spot in my vision. Until she is not, and the lighthouse goes dark as the waves crash against the cliffside, the rocks at its foot jutting and jagged, a peril to even the most skilled navigators’ ships.
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