生如夏花之绚烂 死如秋叶之静美

【Wigolas】Till Time Do Us Part(2):Salvage





[Chapter 2]Salvage

Sea. Endless sea. Infinite sea. Moving every second and yet for ever the same. He was almost tired of the sound of plashing waves tapping the rim his ship. He was tired of standing at the prow and staring into the widest blue. He was tired of ever waiting on his own for the next ten years to pass and never seeing a piece of soil or a face he loved. He was tired of dying of boredom and yet being unable to die. If he had ever known it would come to this, he would've stopped Jack's hand before it wrapped around his and together thrust the dagger into the beating heart of that beast Davy Jones. He would rather die first than live a lonely, meaningless life ever drifting aboard, on the sea.

But there he was. Three years had passed, and seven were still yet be come. There wasn't even one single day that he hadn't spent in unscratchable itch for longing of home. And yet somehow he was glad in a way that there wasn't. What he feared most was that after all these long, long years, he would lose all emotion, sensation, and humanity even, that he had once enjoyed without realising the luck he had had.

For there was something, or rather someone, that he would never want to forget.

He reached to his inner pocket an took out a little brooch. Embedded in smooth silver, a piece of pure emerald which had been delicately sculptured into the shape of a leaf glistened in the beam of sun, still as shiny as it had been when it was first given into his hands because of long years of meticulous polish.

Thousands of iron chunks of the same shape now lay in the chest under the bed of the captain's cabin. Those he had hewn, one per day, since the day he came onboard. And into every copy of them was poured along iron his affection and nostalgia as endless and infinite as the sea.

His recollection was ruthlessly interrupted by a shower of downpour. An unforetold storm. There had been no sign at all. Not a cloud. Not a wind. For all these years he had sailed the waters of this world, yet this was something he had never encountered before.

'Captain!' A cry came from the helmsman, 'The sea's raging. Shall we go down to the deeper waters?'

He rushed to the starboard and gazed over the rim. The ocean was outrageous as he'd never seen before. Water twirling and tossing, now rising high up to a peak of mountain, now diving down to the depth of the deepest abyss, all ina a sudden, dancing as a mad creature lost its mind and grown out of control.

'No, not yet,' he shouted back through the thick curtain of rain. 'We'd be smashed to pieces before we can reach the calmer levels. We wait for the sea to calm down.'

A sudden heat burned his hand. He stared down with wonder, and found the emerald gleaming with a blazing light though no sun shone upon its glass surface. 'Something strange must be happening,' he murmured to himself, 'strange and of great significance too...'

'Captain!' Another cry came from high up. The lookouter had clearly spotted something through the telescope. 'We've got something in the water! A man...no wait, a lady. Blonde.' His heart leapt. Why? It had been so many years since he had gone, yet every time he saw a blonde his heartbeat accelerated with an indescribable excitement. Though every time the just-kindled flame would go out when he found out it was but another normal human girl. 'Don't arouse vain hope,' he whispered to himself. 'It'll only hurt you more when it fails.'

'Drifting on a plank, she is. Knocked off, I reckon,' continuesd the lookouter. 'Poor lass. But not dead yet, I suppose. Still clenching on to the savior wood, obviously. 'Tis a wonder that she hasn't been torn apart by such an angry sea.'

Above all, saving a person's life was the most urgent task at stake. His job might be to guide the dead across the sea, but that did not mean he would not give the living a hand to prevent them from becoming the dead. 'Salvage her!' He ordered. 'I don't mind how hard it is. Gimme all you've got. Nothing's more important than a living life.'

The crew stared at each other for a moment, and then unwillingly obeyed. Ever since this little blacksmith took over their ship three years before, their workload had apparently doubled. Though Davy Jones hadn't been a considerate boss to his henchmen, neither had he been a heartful saviour to those poor dying souls drifting unconsciously on the sea. After all those long years they'd spent on this cursed ship, such kindness, or rather softness in their eyes, was something they had not seen for long. Their current captain, though firm at face and never expressed even the tiniest spark of wariness before them, had such a soft heart beneath his cold appearance.

The Flying Dutchman approached with care towards the little blond spot tossed over among the strong waves. A powerful, enormous net was cast into the water. Men heaved and pulled. Sweat trickled down their faces, mingled with rain, down onto the flooding desk as they wrestled against the furious Phosedon himself. The mighty Sea God certainly didn't prefer his prey stolen from him. Ropes ripped their muddy shirts and reined deep into their flesh, curving deep red scars out of their rough skin. But nonetheless they did it. The net was raised slowly from the sea with a figure coiled up inside. The Captain clenched his fist around the burning brooch and went over to see whose life they had salvaged with such effort. But at that moment many things happened at once.

A lightning seared the thick dark clouds and smote down onto the highest peak on the surface of the sea, which happened to be the hinges locking the ropes of the net. With a flash they burst apart and sped down around the wheel back into the sea, as if Phosedon desiring his prey back had provoked the power of the sky. Meanwhile, under that sudden beam of light, the Captain just managed to spot the face beneath that wet blonde hair. His heartbeat stopped.

It was that face. That face which he had been picturing every day in his head over and over again, hoping to see. Those beautiful eyes and brows, that delicate nose and and tender mouth. And even those pointed ears stirring out from the graceful golden braids. It was him.

He reached out his hand without thinking. It was only when the burn disappeared did he realize that he had reached out the hand clutching the emerald brooch. But now he grasped his slender arm in his hand, he cared no longer for anything else any more. Not for the brooch, or his ship, or his curse, or the fact that he had been dragged over the brim and was falling down and down. He didn't care. He only know he was in his hand again. And this time, he would not lose him. Not ever. Not while he lived.




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