The Iconoclast

Weren’t they dropping it a little early? 

The crew's collective panic hit him like a freight, paralyzing and pinning him in place as what was once familiar suddenly turned violent as the chain ran. Links moved at an abnormal speed, tearing through the hawse until it came to an abrupt stop, chain rattling taut. The deck lurched as if the ship had been yanked by the throat, nearly throwing Mercer off his feet.

The anchor had wedged itself into the jagged seabed, only to break free and send them off course. Even worse - the chain had started its sprint once again. Others had rushed to the windlass, trying to get it under control. Ayla had begun to dash over to help though Leoris was quick to lift his hands. The same hands that had told so, so many stories, were now urging them to stay away. Get back. Mercer grasped at the spine of her shirt, yanking her back towards him.

It all happened in a blink. The anchor found purchase again, except it didn’t hold this time. The vessel lurched as the housing was ripped straight from the deck in a lightless explosion of splintered planks, metal and bolts. The chain glided and whipped as if it were weightless, cutting through everything in its path before the entire fixture went over the side and was pulled beneath the waves, taking some of the crew and Leoris with it. Mercer felt himself yell. Whether it was words or just sound, he’d never know. 

Chaos erupted and the ship began to list. It hadn’t just taken the housing but had torn an entire chunk out of the deck and hull. Not only were they taking on water but they were still full sail, now heading straight for the towering, rocky coast line of the Azure Span. Without Leoris’ leadership, a few were already abandoning, leaping and taking their chances with frigid waters. 

At some point, Ayla had stumbled back into him and when he finally peered down over her shoulder, he saw red. A lot of red. Trembling hands were clutched over her stomach and her shoulders shook with what he could only assume were frantic sobs, having been impaled by fragments of the deck. Or maybe the housing? It didn’t matter.

Save her, save her, helphersaveher.  

He didn’t even think, moving on instinct as he pulled her close, looping an arm beneath one armpit, fingers settling against the opposite shoulder and gripping tightly while he led them to the edge and leapt, plunging into the waters. He’d never swam so hard in his life, trying to put as much distance as he could between them, the ship and those rocks as he fought the waves and currents on his back, dragging her along with him.

Mercer watched from a distance as one by one, the people he loved were pulled beneath the surface, slammed against stone and swallowed by the sea. One by one, he felt each death as their emotions were snuffed out. A few had seemed to’ve accepted their fate but that did little to quell the absolute agony Mercer found himself in. Worst, still, was the woman bleeding out in his arms - not just physically. Her regret overwhelmed him, wrapping around his throat like a vice as he struggled to breathe and tread water.

“Ayla,” he rasped. What could he say? They both knew she was going to die. Too much blood had been lost and adrift as they were, there was no telling how long it’d be before he could make it to a safer coast or if he’d even make it at all. He pitched forward, righting himself to bob along with the surf, carefully turning her to face him. Mercer felt her speaking but without the lanterns it was entirely too dark for him to make out the words and his heart wrenched.

Refusing to release her even for a moment, he used his teeth to tear off one of his gloves and gently cradled the side of her face. It was the only thing he could do for her. Focusing on those long nights and longer conversations, he flooded her with the calm she always brought him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered in repetition, a mantra he’d keep repeating even after she’d long gone lifeless.

By the time rescue came, everyone was lost. Ayla’s body would be the only one recovered for a long while as he had never let her go. Mercer would later find out the ship had been in desperate need of repairs and had skipped numerous safety systems. Officially, a faulty windlass would be blamed but he couldn’t help the feeling that if he had been able to place those vibrations, ones he felt long before anyone had heard or seen anything, that maybe it could’ve been prevented. He’d come to terms with that. Probably. What would always stick with him, however, was that the shrapnel had been meant for him. 

He’d unintentionally used Ayla as a shield.