And fly to the skies from your land
Meeting Bassian is easier than it should be. He gives me a once-over, grins like he’s already decided I’ll do just fine, and wastes no time assigning chores or pointing out which end of the ship is which. His kindness throws me a little, but I don’t dwell on it. I take the mop he hands me and get to work.
By the time I'm pointed below deck, my arms are sore, my shoulders tight, and my sleeves soaked even after pushing them up. I’ve scrubbed clothes raw against a washboard, chipped grease off dishes that may or may not have been alive, and hauled enough buckets to make my arms tremble.
Lazarus, the cook, doesn’t even glance up when I step into the galley. He jerks a thumb toward a pile of root vegetables, mutters something that sounds like "slice those, don’t bleed," and returns to his vat of something delicious-smelling with the reverence of a man guarding a sacred relic.
I shrug out of my damp jacket and take my place at the prep counter, settling in with a sharp knife and a stack of root vegetables. Peel, slice, drop, repeat. I know the rhythm. I’ve done this in dusty cabins and snowed-in shelters, usually while my dad told me I was over-seasoning things again.
After a few minutes, I glance over at the pot. "Not to be dramatic, but I’d scrub another mountain of socks just to get a bowl of whatever that is." I smirk slightly. "And that’s after I already did my time in sock hell today, so that should tell you something."
The land that you love and all that you are
