when: several nights after the aftermath. late evening. where: living area of the common mess whom: closed to @fatherfoxhound
the stress on her since the captain’s announcement has been almost insurmountable. every waking moment was steeped in a great desire for cosmic retribution. she wanted to scream at the sky. screech at the ocean and the winds. she wanted to grasp the heavens and pull them downward, if only to find the face of God and curse him for all that she is being put through. was this is his joke? to give her a chance to save her brother only to rip it from her reach.
but she could not break composure, especially with all the eyes on her now. oh how she regrets intervening that day. she should have let the seamen tear each other and the survivors apart, limb by bloody limb. at least then she would have kept the good-will of her fellows, something infinitely more useful to her than the survivors’ lives.
since she cannot violently rebel against the elements, or scream so loud her voice breaks, she releases the stress in other ways. namely, whiskey and biscuits. in the kitchen, she is armed with both and fully intends on medicating her stress in solitude. but part way through her bottle, and half-way through her plate of biscuits, she hears it. a violin’s tune floating through the air to meet her and suddenly her feet are following it to the source.
she casually leans on the doorframe, bottle tucked under her arm as she pops another sugary bake into her mouth. she waits for the tune’s completion and when it comes, she realizes she cannot clap with only one free hand. so she does the next best thing.
“ bravo, father. almost makes me believe in heaven. “