#prospero.9

Alrik’s could feel how his hands trembled as he approached the crucifix, every breath sharp with iron and incense. The scent of blood - old, dried, and fresh - clung to the ship's walls like a curse. The dreadnought was in an uproar, a battle raging from one end of the vessel to the other, from the Captain's quarters to the holdings below but Alrik could only help those in front of him. Above him, Prospero hung in unnatural stillness, his limbs spread wide, nailed through flesh and bone. His head drooped forward, curls matted to what remained of his charred brow with sweat and blood, the once-charismatic man now ruined and silent.

He'd been made to see it firsthand, what Prospero had done had resulted in so much despair... But this had to be worse. Whatever the lies, whatever the betrayal, he'd seen Prospero's heart firsthand and felt its weight when the man who'd been just as much a father to him over the last year as Asbjorn had been.

Alrik stepped closer, bootfalls softened by the ash that settled below. There was no breath, no heartbeat, no sign of life; that enough was enough to make Alrik's features fold, but it didn't stop him. "Help me get him down," Alrik cleared his throat as he looked at the metal spikes driven deep and the ropes burned into flesh.

“We're here,” Alrik whispered, as though speaking louder might break what remained. “We've got you-" Something in the witch quivered, his throat bristling and breath wavering, "we won't leave you like this." Alrik braced himself, fingers wrapping around the cold shaft of a nail, and with a grunt, he began to work it free.

"Odin," Alrik's voice was raw, whether it was tears or the budding rain that struck his face, he wasn't cognisant to say. "One-Eye, Lord of Secrets... He who hung upon the Tree for knowledge - spare my father your Golden Hall. A warrior, more worthy than any I've met: give him back to me, bring him back to us."