He felt as if he could breathe a little easier. The wind was light, was so gentle, caressing the ache of his cracked ribs, splintered arm, bruised thighs. The rancid taste of blood still hung heavy from the roof of his mouth, and he pushed his tongue over dry lips.

The clouds were still, and he hadn't heard the call of a seagull for quite some time. In fact, he can't quite remember the last time he heard one.

The sky surrounded him – and he can see the horizon all around. He wondered about this feeling of being enclosed in a tiny round ball, the feeling that is accompanied by the sensation of being taller, bigger, higher up than he had ever been before.

Trapped by the horizon and freed by it – he took a deep breath, and found that the air is all at once suffocating and soft. He wrinkled his nose, and he heard the navigator call out – turn east about… - he tuned out the rest; somehow, the world that he had woken up to was different.

They still laughed, and it was as loud and vibrant as ever, but each smile was laced with its share of tears. They still ate and gorged themselves on delicacies brewed up by the idiot cook, but with each bite, they could remember the tang of blood and fear. They still saw as they always had, but they had gotten a little better at seeing, and had gotten a little blind.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"You woke up."

"Yea."

He didn't turn around because he does not want to, because he didn't need to. The sky is so still, and the clouds do not move.

"We're reaching the Red Line."

He had expected to hear that statement spoken brighter with more cheer and howl and ruckus from everyone else. He had imagined, for so long, hearing that statement spoken with joy, with conviction, standing at the head of the ship with the flutter of their flag in his ears.

Oh yes, conviction was there. But it was so different in this soft, quiet, stern tone – so different in this low hum of a voice, so serious and pale and light.

It seemed that taking the burden of the owner of that solemn voice had only made it harder to bear.

He cannot find anything else to say so he simply agrees. "Yea."

There is no wind, and the ship eases along, cutting lines into the rippling surface of the ocean.

The closer they draw towards the horizon ahead of them, the further they move from the horizon behind them, the glitter in their eyes slowly scrapped away, the strength in their legs worn down, trudging forward with all that is left of them.

He feels the weight of the swords by his side, and put his hand on a hilt. Their solidity is a comfort and a reminder of what he is.

Despite everything, despite their shiny world being scratched and cut and chipped, despite the fading polish and the smoothing out of wrinkles, he looks behind him, and as always sees nothing.

They can only go forward because that is all that is left to do.