Ma’sal awoke to the rattling of the floor underneath him, his head jostled against harsh wood. Sleep clung to his heavy lids, his tired limbs screaming as he tried to move them. Abuse and neglect during his trip as a slave had left him weakened, in spite of what the auctioneer had bragged about his strength. His weary body wanted nothing more than for him to lie there, and he was tempted to agree—seeing as there was nowhere for him to go in this cart. None of the other slaves seemed to be awake, or indeed, to be moving at all.

He was on a boat, he knew, although he could no longer remember how many days had passed. Nor did he have any way of discovering, for he was trapped belowdeck along with the other slaves. Iron chains sat heavy around his limbs, binding him to unseen walls in the unlit shadows. Two of the slaves on the journey to the harbor, coughing up blood and bits of lung until their captors had been forced to slit their throats. Ma’sal could not find himself praying for them; he could only hope that he had not caught whatever sickness had killed them.

The boat shook at it was struck by a wave, the sudden motion filling him with a bout of nausea. He had conquered seasickness before, as a child—or so he had thought. Yet facing it while starving and weak was a new challenge, even for an Ossian who had grown up a fisherman. The meager rations that they gave him needed to stay in his stomach for him to survive, yet his own body mutinied against him. Sweat dripped from his brow as he groaned, fighting the urge to vomit onto the wooden floor. Spit and bile trickled out of the corner of his mouth, but he managed to suppress the nausea.

Another man was not so lucky, giving a wet cough before Ma’sal heard the sound of bile hitting the floor. His hacking fits quickly devolved into a bloody cough, a tired wheeze that would persist even through the night. That one will die soon, he knew. Yet he could not find himself pitying the man. His only thought was that he wanted the man’s rations. Some part of him inside loathed that selfishness, wanted him to be kinder. Yet kindness took too much work, and it paid him with nothing but an empty stomach.

The pain in his belly was like a distant ache, but it was ever-present in the company of nothing but darkness and one’s own thoughts. He was hungry, so crow-cursed hungry—no, he needed to turn his mind away. He needed to think of something—of anything—other than the starving pains. His captors, some part of his mind gasped out as the ship rolled once more and his stomach twitched and heaved. What did they look like? Who were they?

He had seen only a brief glimpse, when they had been leading the slaves onto the boat. Underneath those robes was flesh scarred with hideous tattoos, ornate lines of black that seemed to have been carved into the skin. They were crude affairs stained with charcoal and ink, with the flesh torn and ragged against the skin. Underneath one man’s hood was a mutilated face, the lips ripped off to leave the teeth bare. His nose had been sliced as well, almost ritualistically with gashes running down the sides. The skin was mottled and dry, cracked almost like scales. And it had been purple, a dark purple like dye or decaying muscle.

Had that been a dream? Ma’sal could not help but wonder, for it seemed so ludicrous, so fantastical. Surely, he had been mistaken? Surely, his memories had become twisted by the strain of the journey? And yet some part of him still clung to that hideous face in his recollections, and some part of him knew it to be truth.

Yet before he could think any further, the ship was struck by a particularly strong wave. The entire cabin rolled with an abrupt lurch, and Ma’sal struck his head against the wooden wall with a dizzying crack. Before the ship settled, he found himself lying against the floor with a horrible ringing in his ears. His stomach heaved instinctively, even though his lungs cried out for breath, and the contents of his last meal spilled out to leave behind only a bitter burn in his mouth. Dazed and weary, he could not find the strength in him to move. Get up, he told himself with a flickering thought, for he knew he could not sleep.

If he slept here, he would not wake. Get up, he commanded himself, pushing against the floor with straining muscles. Grunting with exertion, he struggled to lift himself up an arm’s length only for the ship to roll once more.

This time he cracked his head against the wooden floor, bits of bile and half-digested gruel from his stomach splattering across his face. The blow was abrupt, the pain even sharper, and sleep pounced on him like a beast from the shadows.

He was dreaming then, the scenes shifting before him into vision from his childhood. He saw his Pa flying into a rage, that weathered face flushing a dark red from anger. He could hear the drunken shouts that mingled with his Ma’s screams. They were an anguished chorus that night, a cacophony that Ma’sal wished he could forget. He did not want to remember as his mother bled from lips and nose, her face twisted into an expression of terror and humiliation. He did not want to remember his father, that tall, tanned man whose face seemed to always wear a scowl. He did not want to remember what came next.

And yet he could not forget.

He saw his brother Yes’san running over to stop them, the young fool. Ma’sal had been frozen with fear, his limbs like lead, but his brother had always been braver. Yes’san tugged on Pa’s arms, trying to hold them back even as Ma awkwardly backpedaled on the ground. Yet Pa struck Yes’san in turn, the blow far too great for the boy. Yes’san flew, his head striking a sharp corner of the wall, and limply he fell. Ma’sal could not forget that horrendous crack as the boy collapsed, that sound of bone snapping. He had merely watched, had felt his stomach fall as he realized what happened. No, some part of him had pleaded. No, please.

Pa seemed to have understood as well, the drunk’s face suddenly going slack. “Get up, boy.” he slurred, staggering back. “Get up!” Spittle flew from his mouth, his eyes bulging too-wide in their sockets. He knelt down, flipping Yes’san over only to reveal a faint trickle of blood puddling on the ground. Yes’san’s neck was bulged and broken, bones standing out at grotesque angles underneath the skin.

Breathing heavily, Pa had set the boy-corpse down with a shudder. Ma was silent, tears streaming down her face. Even baby Es’shira was wailing, crying noisily from her cart. It was only Ma’sal who stood there numb, his mind trudging through too-thick mud. No, came the thought, the only thought in his head. No, no, no.

Pa left that night, in spite of the rain. The last that Ma’sal thought he would have seen of his father was that broad back, once strong, now stooped with regret and shame. They had given Yes’san a proper Ossian burial, even though Ma was Valanese. They burned him in a boat at sea, the ash and smoke settling over the clear water. Ma could not stop crying, and Es’shira did as well, although she was still too young to understand why. No tears came from Ma’sal, even though his heart wept. Pa’s gone now, you need to be strong. For Ves’san. For Ma.

Yet the next night, he heard shouting from the docks as he was walking home. He followed the screams through the wooden shacks, finally seeing a gathered crowd. Gathered around a single man, standing on the roof. Pa, a part of him realized, and a scream ripped its way of his throat.

Pa seemed to see him in that crowd, the man’s eyes flickering for a moment before falling dull once more. That briefest gleam of recognition was enough to make his heart fall, and a part of him screamed at what would come next. Pa stood on the roof, a clay vessel next to him. Pausing only for a brief moment, he poured the liquid all over his shirtless body. It clung to him like honey, his skin gleaming, and Ma’sal suddenly realized that it was oil.

The shouting of the crowd grew louder, as if they wanted to drown out his screams. He howled for Pa to get down, that they needed him. There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to tell him about Ves’san’s burning at sea. He wanted to yell at him for what he had done. He wanted to scream for him to come back. If he comes back, then I don’t need to be strong. I can cry.

Pa lifted something, a stick with cloth around the end. Flame clung to the end of the torch, flickering with a strange dance. Shadows danced in the night, the crowd’s screamings finally breaking through to his mind. “Get down!” they shouted. “Stop!” they pleaded. They fell on deaf ears as Pa lifted the torch, tears streaming down his oil-covered face as he pressed the fire against his skin.

Greedy fire leapt over him, swallowing his form in an instant. The night became filled with his wails, with a dying man’s screams as the crowd hurried to fetch water. Ma’sal merely stood there, frozen once more as Pa crumpled and collapsed. His skin bubbled and cracked, charring black as flame ate away ate him. From his body, the fire spread to the roof of the hut, quickly swallowing the docks in flame.

Men threw water on the fire, trying desperately to put out the blaze before it could spread any further. Yet it continued to burn resolutely, turning half of the docks to ash that night. Ma’sal could not remember any further, could only remember the tears that fell from his eyes. He had not wept for Ma. He had not wept for Yes’san. But he wept for Pa, for the drunk, for the fool.

He had wept as he watched his father burn.