Chapter 32: Alaric

                                    

                                              
It wasn't easy, getting used to not having a hand that was. His whole arm: it had been a shock, when he first noticed. He wanted to run around in circles, punch things with his good arm, cry, then do it all over again. He wanted to hide under the covers forever. But Jo's face, the guilt in her eyes... he couldn't bear it. It hadn't been her fault, he couldn't let her see him like that. After he awoke, they drank a funny-tasting tea, then slept for what felt like days: every time he woke afterward was like waking up all over again. The arm gone, that void in his chest, that scream pushing to leave his lungs, dead on his lips. Dante was kind enough to slip some of his special herbs into his regular morning tea every day: he could tell. They never mentioned it.
                          
Losing an arm felt terrible, but at least it made that whole "oh no, we're trapped in the bottom of the ocean" business seem a little more tolerable. It kept him busy; training every day, after a frugal breakfast, keeping balance with his sword without relying on the weight of his shield, and most importantly: tying his own shoelaces in less than thirty minutes. He'd gotten to fifteen now. Progress. Jo had been of great help, always keeping him on his toes, quick with a joke and words of encouragement when needed. They'd both cry themselves to sleep at night, hugging each other; but they didn't talk about that. Nights made everything crush down over their heads. The darkness, the creaking noise of the hull, the fog sticking to it like rain and the occasional sea monster flying just above them, missing them by chance or on purpose? Maybe they weren't worth their time. Too small, he hoped. Not enough meat.
                          
Alaric made a nick in the wall near the bed with his sword: three weeks. Maybe. It was hard to tell when the sun never rose. Dante had time tellers and he promised he was turning the lights on and off at the same time every day, to keep their circadian circles well-greased. But who knew. Maybe he was lying to them, maybe he wanted more time by himself to read, to write, or whatever he did all that time awake. Soon, he'd need to eat. Eat, as in revenant eat. He rubbed his temples, his neck, closing his eyes. He was losing his mind down there, and he wasn't the only one. Jo paced back and forth, memorizing poetry just to keep herself busy. She'd given embroidery a try, ended up stabbing Dante in the arm an hour in.

                          
They needed to get out of there, but so far: nothing. He looked at his reflexion on the sword. A soft brown beard covered his face now. His amber eyes surrounded by dark circles. His hair touched his shoulders, he didn't exactly hate the look. It distracted the eye from the stump to his left.
                          
Dante's plan made sense, in a way, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that wasn't how magic worked, really. You couldn't just put a magical thing on top of the other and hope it would infuse itself with the necessary magic to start working again. He had one thing right though, about Jo's blood, maybe. The magic she took wasn't locked inside her cells. He had studied blood magic, part of the many courses to become an Onturian Knight: when mages tapped on their own blood, or the blood of others, they ripped the very fabric of what they were made of. They unleashed mutations into the body. But it was a secret. The mages didn't know. "Divine punishment of the soul" sounded way scarier. Some mages believed in spirit animals, as a way to explain the physical changes in chrisalidae and imagi, but they would find out the truth one day. Maybe soon. He hoped they would, honestly. It was wrong, hiding something like that from them. But if the Onturian Mage medics figured it out, and didn't say, maybe— who knows. The College Mages? What if they knew? He put his sword down. It didn't matter much, in the bottom of the ocean. But his mind was thirsty for knowledge and challenges. Books. Dante's books were a little below his usual reading level, but he didn't want to let it out. Playing dumb worked just fine for him, no questions, no people looking at him for guidance. Jo was better at that, anyway. At decisions.
                          
"I'm going out, to catch dinner," Dante sat up abruptly, dropping the book he'd been reading. His hands trembled.
                          
Alaric's senses had sharpened since he left Ontur, his powers were more stable now: he could feel Dante's energy was different. He didn't fizzle the way he used to, did that make sense? He wished Gerard was around to show him what it meant. He assumed it had something to do with revenant magic. Mages said magic made a sound, a hum, and he'd heard it before, but what he heard on Dante was different. Like sulfurous water, gas. It waned, and as it grew quieter, Dante's mood grew darker. He sulked, paced around the ship, muttering to himself. That day it was almost gone.