The Cry Above Deck

I woke to the sound of my daughter crying. At first, it slipped into my dream, a soft, faraway sound, as if she were calling from another life. Then I realized it wasn’t a dream at all. The cry was real. It echoed faintly through the timbers, rising and falling with the creak of the ship. My heart lurched so hard I thought the chains would break from the wall.

“Mara,” I whispered, her name trembling from my lips before I even meant to say it.

I pulled against the iron wrapped around my wrist, the links biting into my skin until it burned. The sound of her crying clawed at me, desperate, shrill, frightened. She shouldn’t sound like that. Not unless something was wrong. The air in the brig was heavy, thick with the stench of rust and seawater. My lantern had burned itself out hours ago, leaving only the faintest light that slipped through the cracks in the ceiling above. Each shadow felt alive, shifting, breathing, mocking me. I pressed my forehead against the cold stone and tried to steady my breathing. It came ragged, uneven. Every time she cried, the sound tore another piece of me apart.

I didn’t know how long I’d been down here. Hours, maybe. The last thing I remembered was Blackthorn’s hands on my shoulders, shoving me through the lower passageways until my knees scraped the boards. The chains had been thick, heavy enough that I could barely lift my arm. When the door closed, it had sounded like a final sentence. Now, the storm outside was gone, replaced by the rhythmic groan of the ship cutting through calmer waters. That could only mean one thing, he’d made his decision. My child was part of it.

The crying grew louder, closer. She was above deck. I could hear the shuffle of boots, the low murmur of voices. Then, Blackthorn's. That voice, I could never mistake. Rough as the tide and twice as cruel. I pressed my hand against the damp wall, as though I could feel him through it.

“She’s quieted now,” I heard Mauve say faintly, her tone calm but weary.
“She’ll learn to be quieter still,” he answered. “The sea doesn’t coddle the weak.”

My breath caught. I pulled harder against the chain, desperation surging through me. The shackle scraped against my skin, opening the wound I’d torn earlier. Warm blood slid down my wrist, but I didn’t stop. If I could just get one hand free, I could. A sharp sound cut through the air above, the crack of a boot striking wood. My daughter’s cry rose again, frantic, and I froze.

“She’s just a baby!” Mauve snapped.
A pause. Then Blackthorn’s voice, quiet and cold. “So was I once.”

The deck went still. I sank back against the wall, trembling so hard my chains rattled. My throat burned from holding in the scream. Every memory I’d buried, every night on this ship, every bruise and whisper and command, came rushing back like the tide reclaiming its own. He’d said once that everything aboard the Serpent belonged to him. The sails, the crew, the sea beneath its hull. Especially me. Now, he would claim my child too. The thought made me sick.

I tried again, slower this time, testing the chain. The wall was damp enough to loosen the bolt, maybe. If I twisted just right, if I ignored the pain long enough. A distant thud startled me. Footsteps, descending the stairs. One set only. I stilled, wiping my wrist against my sleeve, smearing the blood away. The sound came closer, boots heavy against the boards, deliberate. A lantern’s glow began to bleed into the darkness. When the door swung open, the light hit my face like a slap. Blackthorn stood there.
He filled the doorway, the sea’s chill clinging to his coat. His hair was wet, his expression carved from stone. The lantern in his hand threw shadows across his face, deepening the hollows around his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched me, the way a wolf watches something caught in its jaws.

“What did you do?” I whispered. My voice came out hoarse, raw from disuse. “Where is she?”
“Sleeping,” he said simply. “Mauve has her.”
“I heard her crying.”
“She’ll live.”
The words were too calm, too clean. My stomach twisted. “What does that mean?”
He took a slow step closer, the chain between us clinking softly. “It means she’s not my concern.”
I stared up at him, my heart pounding so violently I thought I might faint. “You can’t, she’s just a child.”
“Not mine. I know betrayal when I see it. I bought you, Isabella. I gave you my name, my ship, my time. You gave me a brother’s child in return.”
“I never slept with James while we were married.”
“Don’t lie to me.”

He crouched down in front of me, close enough that I could smell the sea on him, the faint trace of smoke and iron. His eyes met mine, cold, glacial, unreadable.

“I was never dead, which means you are still married to me. You think I don’t see James every time I look at her?” he hissed. “You think I don’t hear the same cry he made when the blade went through him?”
I flinched, the words like knives. “You killed him.”
“Yes.” His tone didn’t waver. “He took what wasn’t his."
"Now you’ll take what isn’t yours,” I said, the anger breaking through the fear.
His expression didn’t change. “Everything on this ship is mine. You should remember that.”

He stood again, towering over me, and for a moment I thought he might strike me. He only looked down, his gaze moving to the chain at my wrist.

“Do you remember the first time I brought you aboard?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

“You were terrified. Couldn’t speak. You thought if you obeyed, you’d earn kindness.” He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes. “You learned fast that kindness doesn’t live at sea.”
“Neither does mercy,” I said quietly.
He tilted his head, studying me. “No. It doesn’t.”

The silence stretched. Then he turned and reached for the door.

“Wait.” My voice cracked. “If you mean to kill me, do it. Please, don’t hurt her.”
He paused, his hand resting on the latch. “You think I’d waste effort on that?”
“Then let her go. She’s innocent.”
He looked over his shoulder, his gaze sharp as a blade. “No one born of betrayal is innocent. She will one day be of use to me."

Then he was gone. The door shut with a heavy thud, and I was left alone again. For a long while, I couldn’t move. My legs shook too badly, my wrists throbbed. I could still hear her cries echoing faintly above, softer now, fading into hiccupped whimpers. I pressed my hand against my heart and tried to breathe. Tried to remember the feel of her tiny fingers curling around mine. Tried to hold on to the sound of her laugh, soft, fleeting, like sunlight on water. The chains clinked as I shifted, the noise too loud in the silence. I stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned. I’d thought the worst pain was losing James. I’d been wrong. The worst pain was hearing your child cry and knowing you could do nothing. Outside, the sea was calm again. Too calm. That meant we were far from shore. The scent of salt and old wood filled the air, mingling with the faint sound of the waves. Blackthorn had made his decision. I would make mine. If he meant to take everything from me again, he would learn that I had nothing left to lose.