The dark water stretches in every direction beyond the stern window. With a clear sky and no record of how long he's been unconscious, there's no way of putting together even a vague notion of their bearing. The sea could be running in any direction and though the wind from here blows southeasterly and he can tell it must be blowing abaft their beam, none of those points in isolation from a chart or observation means anything. Nowhere.
"I see."
It's the only thing he says, attention apparently arrested so by the ship's foaming way that he might as well be talking to it instead of the man in the chair. Maybe there's the expectation that something more is to follow - a series of words meant to make this different, an argument attempting to allow the ship to wear windward and spin like a top back in the direction they'd come, at the very least a question for their intended landfall -, but nothing comes. Flint lapses back into silence. Anything more would be fundamentally wasteful of the energy necessary to shape the words, to hang them in the air where nothing can logically come of them.
Maybe it's the wound in his side or the weight of the irons at his wrists, but he can't bring himself to swallow and summon the effort. (Does it occur to him to save it for other things - like if Silver strays within arm's reach or Rackham does; to fight at the bolt in the bulkhead so fiercely that they're forced to move him from the greatcabin and into the fore where men with less resolve might be spoken to. Or is this just the end of that too?)
no subject
"I see."
It's the only thing he says, attention apparently arrested so by the ship's foaming way that he might as well be talking to it instead of the man in the chair. Maybe there's the expectation that something more is to follow - a series of words meant to make this different, an argument attempting to allow the ship to wear windward and spin like a top back in the direction they'd come, at the very least a question for their intended landfall -, but nothing comes. Flint lapses back into silence. Anything more would be fundamentally wasteful of the energy necessary to shape the words, to hang them in the air where nothing can logically come of them.
Maybe it's the wound in his side or the weight of the irons at his wrists, but he can't bring himself to swallow and summon the effort. (Does it occur to him to save it for other things - like if Silver strays within arm's reach or Rackham does; to fight at the bolt in the bulkhead so fiercely that they're forced to move him from the greatcabin and into the fore where men with less resolve might be spoken to. Or is this just the end of that too?)