Huge.
Living.
My fingers found something solid. It was skin slick with seawater, something that wasn’t slimy but warm with life. I clung to the fin, my nails scraping across barnacle-crusted bumps, and felt the powerful muscle shift beneath me as the whale moved.
I was delirious. Dying. This couldn’t be real.
Yet, it lifted me toward light, where I coughed salt andblood. The world bobbed around me and a blowhole exhaled, misting the air. More cannons sounded somewhere, but my ears were ringing, and I could barely make out my ship, the Crimson Wake, lighting the night sky in the distance. My final thought was in concern for my men. Were they alright? I hoped that they and the Crimson Wake would make it to the port before sinking.
The whale swam, and, I, half-dead, floated above the deep in the arms of a beast my harpoon had hungered for.
I was saved by the very creature I killed.
Sand.
I clutched it, dragging myself onto shore. Waves broke around me, and a light rain fell. The world was pitch black.
I gasped for air, trying to get my bearings.
Every inch of my body protested against movement, but I was alive.
Alive.
The sound of the blowhole filled the air behind me.
I looked, though knives pierced my side, at the last sight of the whale. All I saw was its tail, disappearing below the surface. It had an unusually white tail for a humpback whale, but I was hallucinating. Or was I?
I scanned the area, knowing that if I didn’t get help now, I would die here.
My blood curled in rage against the Kingdom of Corallure, no doubt whose island I was on at this very moment. And that anger fueled me to move.
I had to get help.
Had to get back to my crew.
I rose to my feet, clutching my side, each breath labored as I hobbled across the sand and into the forest.
It was then I smelled something.
Warmth. Sweetness. Coziness.
Nostalgia filled me with memories of sitting in my mother’s kitchen as a little boy.
It smelled like bananas and ginger and everything good in this world.
And that was when I saw the light. It flickered in the woods, like a lighthouse beckoning to me. It felt dreamlike. Had I died and now found myself approaching my mother?
I dragged myself to the cottage. Pounded on the door.
The feel of the hardwood against my knuckles told me this was real, not a dream.
Even despite my consciousness fleeing in and out like the tide.
“Help!” I exclaimed, knocking again, my knees giving out. I fell to the ground, still clutching my side. Blood soaked my shirt like stain clinging to wood in the sun.
Someonehadto be here. The smell of baking gave it away.
Then the door opened. It was just a crack, but the sweet, comforting aroma filled the air. It was so refreshing and wonderful, it caused a stir of hope inside of me. If this were the last thing I experienced before dying, that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go out.
