ilvulcanicoâ:
your shipmate. what a simple, silly phrase to speak â what a limiting way to summarize nyima. (Â yet a phrase he would say himself. what use were words made of gold and silver? what use was saying her name aloud here, in the place that would keep her body? )Â teo took the words ephraim offered, and it was the first time, out of all the crew of the promethean, that he believed them. strange, wasnât it? that sorrow might bring this too, this inkling of something he might call trust one day.Â
âno, it isnât,â teo returned. not a clip of anger to the words, just simple truth. what use was saying sorry aloud here, in the place that killed her, that demanded blood for blood?Â
âwhen the promethean sails on, will you be onboard?â will you sail to the ends of the world with them, or will you stay here instead? or, or, will you choose something else entirely?Â
âââ
All the while, Ephraim watches him steadily, something grounded in his eyes despite the way the earth falls out beneath them each morning of late. It isnât. It doesnât bear repetition, either. Thereâs no words for the lost, now. Only those for the living, and Ephraimâs all but spent of them.
âQuestion of the hour,â he grunts as he swirls his glass between callused hands. On and on. Watches the draught whirlpool into its own depths. âIâd hate to be away from her, Teo,â the Promethean, he admits. His charge. His home. âAye, though,â and these next words he chooses carefullyâ no, painfully; as if each syllable snags as barbed on his tongue, âfar as I can see, I havenât got the choice.â Knuckles flash white as he seizes his glass in place, sends the draught on one last spin before it settles out and bears no trace of the disturbance.
âAn Icemaster holds his Captain in confidence. I held mine down the end of a barrel,â he recounts through grit teeth. Captain Estrada, as heâs conduct-bound to call him; honor-bound to. At the time, bending the knee to him felt like so many before it. At the time, he had moved without thinking. âCouldâve had Estrada between the eyes.â He taps his right trigger finger to the cool curve of his glass, as if to recall the way that metal had kissed the crook of it when loyalties split. When the skirmish boiled over in that breathless moment at landfall. The only thing stopping him, Malachyâs stepping in his way. Did you mean to? Did you want to? Ayla had asked of him at port. Yes, heâd nearly cried, then. A confession both salt-brined and saccharine to the taste. I wanted it so badly it near gnawed me through. But the budding question, the seedling doubt: why? Had it been different, would he have joined him? Had it not been reuniting with his family, seeing Canning Town once more on the line, what of Estradaâs siren song then?Â
He smothers the thought. He has to. Whatâs done is done. âThe admiralty doesnât forgive, and wonât soon forget.â




















