Amalfi

Chapter One: Curse His Name, Lest He Forget

Still, he felt no fear. Not at first.

He wasn't the type to fear weather. He had faith in his crew, in the sturdiness of his vessel, and of course, an abundance of faith in himself. No, he had no reason to worry, he thought. He was wise enough to acknowledge that perhaps the sky didn't look quite right; that the sea wasn't heaving like it should've been; that the winds were picking up as if to bring the storm upon them—but he shook it off with that observant indifference of his.

He'd never been to this part of the sea. As odd as the environment's reactions to the storm were to him, he had no basis to go off of; for all he knew, it was a daily occurrence. He'd have to ask at their next stop. He thought about what the scholars back home would say if he told them about the odd symptoms on display from the storm. They'd surely babble on with elongated nonsense. Undocumented eccentricities of unknown areas, and their corresponding surprises, are part of the journey, they'd probably spout. He wouldn't be surprised if he got an earful when he returned for not taking meticulous documentation of all aspects of the voyage.

The water was becoming slightly choppy by then, lapping against his boat as if watching the storm with him. He could see the very heart of it now. It was certainly getting closer, with a speed he hadn't expected.

It didn't matter. He'd be ready when it hit.

Turning his resigned gaze to his ship, he did a quick survey of his crew. Some of his sailors were still dreary, infected with morning grays. Many others were glancing up. Of those, most seemed unbothered by the sight of the simmering sky—as confident in the lack of danger as he was—yet others pouted as they accepted the oncoming spoil of a beautiful day. It'd be another long day at sea, lashed with whipping pelts of rain, tugging slippery ropes with hands bloodied raw from ripped callouses... no, it wasn't a preferable turn of events. Especially when the morning had first seemed hopeful, soft. He sighed and glanced back up with a grimace.

How had the storm descended so fast?

As soon as the thought landed, he heard the rush of footsteps, the rattle of wood under the press of wind, the surprised, annoyed grumbling of his men.

The shout of his kybernētēs reached his ears. "Oy! Looks like it's going to be a rough day, my friend!"

He turned, his mouth opening to respond with orders, or joke at his longtime friend's expense, but—

The thunder boomed, right overhead, and he didn't get the chance.

At the sound, he suddenly realized that for all the lightning he'd seen that morning, all the time he'd considered the storm, that was the very first time thunder had made itself known.

And then he heard his name. No, not how it was yelled by his sailors when the storm entirely fell out of the sky. No, not how it whistled through the teeth of the lightning, or how the wind plucked notes through the upheaval and torment of great, sloshing waves. It was different. Unknown. Folded among the rumbles, tucked into the reverberations, lurking in the clench of the sky's dark jaws, the voice was... feminine. Soft in the base of his skull, a bloom of a sound—gods, how uncomfortably gentle it was—and yet... it sounded a little angry. It wasn't the first time a woman's wrath was because of him, nor directed at him, or even on his behalf, but it was the first time he felt guilty. Guilty, in that split second of open air and opportunity. For a sliver of a moment, something was open to him, a channel that wasn't supposed to be, and the voice had reached him.

Then, the yells of his crew were sucked into the rattling collision of a thunderous clash. He pushed it all away. The voice, the surprise, all of it. He bent his knees and readied himself again. He was ready for any new trial thrown his way—or so he thought.