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Consciousness broke over him like someone dropping a clay pot on his head. Bristles pricked at his face and he started backward, having to swim through what he understood to be a large broom. His movements stopped and he squeezed his eyes shut harder, confused and knowing that immediate first thought wasn’t right. There was a warm something pressed against his back, preventing him from pushing that way and his hand, when he finally swung out, met...wood? Isaiah blinked and squinted, more confused than ever when his vision didn’t clear and he found himself in dim, intermittent darkness. Whichever way he moved, his face and body prickled. Closing his eyes again, he tried to breathe, but found that the prickles were in his nose. His limbs were heavy enough that the effort of batting at his nose and mouth was enough to make him slip back into the darkness.
Isaiah could have been unconscious again for hours or seconds; it was hard to tell. A loud snort startled him awake and he finally realized what it was that surrounded him. Grabbing a straw away from his nose, he peered at it in confusion. Why was he in a bale of hay? He jumped when he heard the snort again and recognized the sound as distinctly horse. In a rush, it came back to him; he was still in the stall with the king’s horse. He must have fallen somehow, which accounted for the raging headache. Rubbing his head, he gathered his strength, and sat up, feeling like he brought half the bed of hay with him as it fell from his face, shoulders, and chest to pool in his lap like a blanket.
A long black face swung around to look at him, mouth slopping away, ears flicking back and forth. Isaiah squinted at the horse and fought the urge to place all the blame for this on it. It was an animal. Whatever had happened probably wasn’t intentional. To restore good will between them, Isaiah patted the horse’s rump, which was the thing that had been blocking him from rolling over, and used the horse as leverage to help him stand. The king’s horse didn’t seem the least perturbed to find a man rolling out of the hay and turned its head away, seeming bored.
Isaiah stumbled out of the stall, clambering over the rope that kept the horse inside, falling flat on the timbers of the floor, and mourning the loss of his dignity. At least there was no one to see him, save some horses who didn’t care. Picking himself up again, he dusted the hay from his clothes and rubbed his head, looking around for the stairs. The ground beneath him was vastly unsteady and he felt as though the floor was pitching to and fro. Bumbling across the floor, he felt if he could just make it to the stairs and up onto the deck, he’d be able to wobble his way onto the sandy beach and from there, make it back to his room. Then he could have a nice lie down and -
“What?” he breathed in Hebrew as he climbed up the stairs and beheld not the city that the ship had been facing, but endless, wide open blue as far as he could see in any direction. Someone shouldered past him and he started muttering under his breath. “No, no, no, no, no,” the horrible realization of what was going on hitting him full force.
“What day is it?” he grabbed the nearest man, demanding that of him in Hebrew but the Greek soldier didn’t understand him and shoved him back. Isaiah, unsteady as it was, fell but jumped back up. Blinking, holding his head, and just now remembering to speak in Greek, he rasped out, “What day is it?” to anyone who would answer.
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This character is currently a work in progress.
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Consciousness broke over him like someone dropping a clay pot on his head. Bristles pricked at his face and he started backward, having to swim through what he understood to be a large broom. His movements stopped and he squeezed his eyes shut harder, confused and knowing that immediate first thought wasn’t right. There was a warm something pressed against his back, preventing him from pushing that way and his hand, when he finally swung out, met...wood? Isaiah blinked and squinted, more confused than ever when his vision didn’t clear and he found himself in dim, intermittent darkness. Whichever way he moved, his face and body prickled. Closing his eyes again, he tried to breathe, but found that the prickles were in his nose. His limbs were heavy enough that the effort of batting at his nose and mouth was enough to make him slip back into the darkness.
Isaiah could have been unconscious again for hours or seconds; it was hard to tell. A loud snort startled him awake and he finally realized what it was that surrounded him. Grabbing a straw away from his nose, he peered at it in confusion. Why was he in a bale of hay? He jumped when he heard the snort again and recognized the sound as distinctly horse. In a rush, it came back to him; he was still in the stall with the king’s horse. He must have fallen somehow, which accounted for the raging headache. Rubbing his head, he gathered his strength, and sat up, feeling like he brought half the bed of hay with him as it fell from his face, shoulders, and chest to pool in his lap like a blanket.
A long black face swung around to look at him, mouth slopping away, ears flicking back and forth. Isaiah squinted at the horse and fought the urge to place all the blame for this on it. It was an animal. Whatever had happened probably wasn’t intentional. To restore good will between them, Isaiah patted the horse’s rump, which was the thing that had been blocking him from rolling over, and used the horse as leverage to help him stand. The king’s horse didn’t seem the least perturbed to find a man rolling out of the hay and turned its head away, seeming bored.
Isaiah stumbled out of the stall, clambering over the rope that kept the horse inside, falling flat on the timbers of the floor, and mourning the loss of his dignity. At least there was no one to see him, save some horses who didn’t care. Picking himself up again, he dusted the hay from his clothes and rubbed his head, looking around for the stairs. The ground beneath him was vastly unsteady and he felt as though the floor was pitching to and fro. Bumbling across the floor, he felt if he could just make it to the stairs and up onto the deck, he’d be able to wobble his way onto the sandy beach and from there, make it back to his room. Then he could have a nice lie down and -
“What?” he breathed in Hebrew as he climbed up the stairs and beheld not the city that the ship had been facing, but endless, wide open blue as far as he could see in any direction. Someone shouldered past him and he started muttering under his breath. “No, no, no, no, no,” the horrible realization of what was going on hitting him full force.
“What day is it?” he grabbed the nearest man, demanding that of him in Hebrew but the Greek soldier didn’t understand him and shoved him back. Isaiah, unsteady as it was, fell but jumped back up. Blinking, holding his head, and just now remembering to speak in Greek, he rasped out, “What day is it?” to anyone who would answer.
Consciousness broke over him like someone dropping a clay pot on his head. Bristles pricked at his face and he started backward, having to swim through what he understood to be a large broom. His movements stopped and he squeezed his eyes shut harder, confused and knowing that immediate first thought wasn’t right. There was a warm something pressed against his back, preventing him from pushing that way and his hand, when he finally swung out, met...wood? Isaiah blinked and squinted, more confused than ever when his vision didn’t clear and he found himself in dim, intermittent darkness. Whichever way he moved, his face and body prickled. Closing his eyes again, he tried to breathe, but found that the prickles were in his nose. His limbs were heavy enough that the effort of batting at his nose and mouth was enough to make him slip back into the darkness.
Isaiah could have been unconscious again for hours or seconds; it was hard to tell. A loud snort startled him awake and he finally realized what it was that surrounded him. Grabbing a straw away from his nose, he peered at it in confusion. Why was he in a bale of hay? He jumped when he heard the snort again and recognized the sound as distinctly horse. In a rush, it came back to him; he was still in the stall with the king’s horse. He must have fallen somehow, which accounted for the raging headache. Rubbing his head, he gathered his strength, and sat up, feeling like he brought half the bed of hay with him as it fell from his face, shoulders, and chest to pool in his lap like a blanket.
A long black face swung around to look at him, mouth slopping away, ears flicking back and forth. Isaiah squinted at the horse and fought the urge to place all the blame for this on it. It was an animal. Whatever had happened probably wasn’t intentional. To restore good will between them, Isaiah patted the horse’s rump, which was the thing that had been blocking him from rolling over, and used the horse as leverage to help him stand. The king’s horse didn’t seem the least perturbed to find a man rolling out of the hay and turned its head away, seeming bored.
Isaiah stumbled out of the stall, clambering over the rope that kept the horse inside, falling flat on the timbers of the floor, and mourning the loss of his dignity. At least there was no one to see him, save some horses who didn’t care. Picking himself up again, he dusted the hay from his clothes and rubbed his head, looking around for the stairs. The ground beneath him was vastly unsteady and he felt as though the floor was pitching to and fro. Bumbling across the floor, he felt if he could just make it to the stairs and up onto the deck, he’d be able to wobble his way onto the sandy beach and from there, make it back to his room. Then he could have a nice lie down and -
“What?” he breathed in Hebrew as he climbed up the stairs and beheld not the city that the ship had been facing, but endless, wide open blue as far as he could see in any direction. Someone shouldered past him and he started muttering under his breath. “No, no, no, no, no,” the horrible realization of what was going on hitting him full force.
“What day is it?” he grabbed the nearest man, demanding that of him in Hebrew but the Greek soldier didn’t understand him and shoved him back. Isaiah, unsteady as it was, fell but jumped back up. Blinking, holding his head, and just now remembering to speak in Greek, he rasped out, “What day is it?” to anyone who would answer.
Their voyage had begun with a kind wind at their backs and a cloudless sky so that it was hard to believe the Gods did not favour the Taengean’s in this endeavour. The coastline of Serenn had faded into naught but a distant shimmer on the horizon, and there was some peace to be found in the soft sough of the wind and the rhythmic splash of wave upon hull, oar cutting through water.
Achilleas had shed the armour that he had worn to bid farewell to Taengea: a load of bronze strapped to him would be unfortunate if they were to have any mishaps at sea, and he was slightly more relaxed now he did not feel under so much scrutiny. These men, these soldiers knew him well enough, he had led them into enough battles before that he did not for one moment think they might doubt him. Yes, it was easier to be confident now. War was a game he had played many times before.
This campaign was of a different ilk, it was true. They did not sail with vast numbers, looking to overwhelm their enemy. Not even a third of Taengea’s forces set sail with the King. Instead, the men here were tasked with a more tactical goal, and so had been assembled to cross the Aegean quickly, complete their task and then return home quickly as well. And with a folded piece of parchment tucked safely alongside the dagger sheathed at his hip, Achilleas had good reason indeed to ensure that happened.
Wherever the King’s thoughts may have been leading him, some commotion updeck had him turn his head to see a man grab a hold of another, babbling something and becoming more and more agitated as he was pushed away. There were not many greeks who would recognise Hebrew, let alone speak it, and so Achilleas could not blame the soldier who responded in such a manner. But given his father had spared no expense when it came to his own education, the King could at least recognise the sounds. He stepped forward, a frown drawing dark brows together as the man continued to speak
‘What day is it’ in Greek this time, and Achilleas hesitated before answering, now equally confused. The man looked vaguely familiar though the King could not place him, Achilleas holding out a hand to stave off those who were watching carefully lest the man - who was not outfitted as a soldier, he noted, made any sudden moves toward their ruler.
Having appeared from below decks, he was either a terrible stowaway, or his confusion stemmed from something else. Either way, it needed to be established and dealt with.
“Is there a problem here? What is your name?”
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This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Their voyage had begun with a kind wind at their backs and a cloudless sky so that it was hard to believe the Gods did not favour the Taengean’s in this endeavour. The coastline of Serenn had faded into naught but a distant shimmer on the horizon, and there was some peace to be found in the soft sough of the wind and the rhythmic splash of wave upon hull, oar cutting through water.
Achilleas had shed the armour that he had worn to bid farewell to Taengea: a load of bronze strapped to him would be unfortunate if they were to have any mishaps at sea, and he was slightly more relaxed now he did not feel under so much scrutiny. These men, these soldiers knew him well enough, he had led them into enough battles before that he did not for one moment think they might doubt him. Yes, it was easier to be confident now. War was a game he had played many times before.
This campaign was of a different ilk, it was true. They did not sail with vast numbers, looking to overwhelm their enemy. Not even a third of Taengea’s forces set sail with the King. Instead, the men here were tasked with a more tactical goal, and so had been assembled to cross the Aegean quickly, complete their task and then return home quickly as well. And with a folded piece of parchment tucked safely alongside the dagger sheathed at his hip, Achilleas had good reason indeed to ensure that happened.
Wherever the King’s thoughts may have been leading him, some commotion updeck had him turn his head to see a man grab a hold of another, babbling something and becoming more and more agitated as he was pushed away. There were not many greeks who would recognise Hebrew, let alone speak it, and so Achilleas could not blame the soldier who responded in such a manner. But given his father had spared no expense when it came to his own education, the King could at least recognise the sounds. He stepped forward, a frown drawing dark brows together as the man continued to speak
‘What day is it’ in Greek this time, and Achilleas hesitated before answering, now equally confused. The man looked vaguely familiar though the King could not place him, Achilleas holding out a hand to stave off those who were watching carefully lest the man - who was not outfitted as a soldier, he noted, made any sudden moves toward their ruler.
Having appeared from below decks, he was either a terrible stowaway, or his confusion stemmed from something else. Either way, it needed to be established and dealt with.
“Is there a problem here? What is your name?”
Their voyage had begun with a kind wind at their backs and a cloudless sky so that it was hard to believe the Gods did not favour the Taengean’s in this endeavour. The coastline of Serenn had faded into naught but a distant shimmer on the horizon, and there was some peace to be found in the soft sough of the wind and the rhythmic splash of wave upon hull, oar cutting through water.
Achilleas had shed the armour that he had worn to bid farewell to Taengea: a load of bronze strapped to him would be unfortunate if they were to have any mishaps at sea, and he was slightly more relaxed now he did not feel under so much scrutiny. These men, these soldiers knew him well enough, he had led them into enough battles before that he did not for one moment think they might doubt him. Yes, it was easier to be confident now. War was a game he had played many times before.
This campaign was of a different ilk, it was true. They did not sail with vast numbers, looking to overwhelm their enemy. Not even a third of Taengea’s forces set sail with the King. Instead, the men here were tasked with a more tactical goal, and so had been assembled to cross the Aegean quickly, complete their task and then return home quickly as well. And with a folded piece of parchment tucked safely alongside the dagger sheathed at his hip, Achilleas had good reason indeed to ensure that happened.
Wherever the King’s thoughts may have been leading him, some commotion updeck had him turn his head to see a man grab a hold of another, babbling something and becoming more and more agitated as he was pushed away. There were not many greeks who would recognise Hebrew, let alone speak it, and so Achilleas could not blame the soldier who responded in such a manner. But given his father had spared no expense when it came to his own education, the King could at least recognise the sounds. He stepped forward, a frown drawing dark brows together as the man continued to speak
‘What day is it’ in Greek this time, and Achilleas hesitated before answering, now equally confused. The man looked vaguely familiar though the King could not place him, Achilleas holding out a hand to stave off those who were watching carefully lest the man - who was not outfitted as a soldier, he noted, made any sudden moves toward their ruler.
Having appeared from below decks, he was either a terrible stowaway, or his confusion stemmed from something else. Either way, it needed to be established and dealt with.
“Is there a problem here? What is your name?”
Not a violent man, and unused to being immediately shoved in response to a question, Isaiah fell back and did not rise again. He blinked rapidly against the vivid sunlight glaring off the white glass of the sea. That couldn’t be right and his mind refused to grasp what was so clearly happening; that he was aboard a moving vessel. His denial of what was happening was further helped by the bodies of the men now encircling him, staring down at him as though he was an annoying bird in a cage. Such a look was familiar; he’d dealt with it from Greeks who did not travel and did not appreciate a foreigner living among them. What he hadn’t expected was the backlash and the refusal to answer his simple question. None of the men surrounding him said a word and it wasn’t until he could see heads moving to one side or another as the crowd parted that he decided to stand.
A pulsing ache throbbed right behind his eyes and on the side of his head where he’d initially hit the stall. Straw still clung to his hair and bits of it in his beard; another thing that set him apart from these Greeks. Most Greek men kept their faces clean shaven and their hair cut short. Isaiah had adopted the short hair but his beard remained as a right of manhood, though, again, he’d but that much shorter than he’d have had it in Judea.
Standing now, side of his head held in one hand, he watched King Achilleas approaching him with dawning horror. The king might not know him, but it was a servant’s job to know the monarch and Isaiah, born of Taengea or not, was, for the present, under this man’s command. Of any person on this ship, this was a man he didn’t want to anger and he tried his level best to stand straighter and bowed as low as he was supposed to, though the action made him dizzy as he straightened back up.
Isaiah did not dare raise his eyes back up to the king’s face and instead focused his attention somewhere over Achilleas’s right shoulder. "Is there a problem here? What is your name?" The king’s tone suggested annoyance to the Hebrew. Swallowing, Isaiah’s speech came out slow, but as clear and formal as his Greek had ever been.
Except that he wasn’t terribly good at keeping his eyes averted and made the mistake of looking straight into Achilleas’s face as he said, “No, your majesty,” before looking away again. He stiffened, resolved within himself to do better than that, and set his shoulders back. “I am called Isaiah of Matthias.” The absurd idea of explaining to the king that he needed to know what day it was occurred to Isaiah and was dismissed just as quickly. It was one thing to ask a strange nobody and another thing entirely to annoy the king of Taengea with an inane question.
Being from a land that had no king, Isaiah wasn't entirely familiar with what it meant to be royal, but he certainly understood the differences in class. For example, he, as a poor man, wouldn't dream of wandering up to a rich man, obviously blessed by Yahweh, and conversing as though they were equals. Having seen Achilleas's palace from a distance, and tending to the fine animals that now belonged to the new king, Isaiah used this as a basis for how vast the differences between them were. It felt as though not only were they of two different lands, but two different planes of existence.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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Not a violent man, and unused to being immediately shoved in response to a question, Isaiah fell back and did not rise again. He blinked rapidly against the vivid sunlight glaring off the white glass of the sea. That couldn’t be right and his mind refused to grasp what was so clearly happening; that he was aboard a moving vessel. His denial of what was happening was further helped by the bodies of the men now encircling him, staring down at him as though he was an annoying bird in a cage. Such a look was familiar; he’d dealt with it from Greeks who did not travel and did not appreciate a foreigner living among them. What he hadn’t expected was the backlash and the refusal to answer his simple question. None of the men surrounding him said a word and it wasn’t until he could see heads moving to one side or another as the crowd parted that he decided to stand.
A pulsing ache throbbed right behind his eyes and on the side of his head where he’d initially hit the stall. Straw still clung to his hair and bits of it in his beard; another thing that set him apart from these Greeks. Most Greek men kept their faces clean shaven and their hair cut short. Isaiah had adopted the short hair but his beard remained as a right of manhood, though, again, he’d but that much shorter than he’d have had it in Judea.
Standing now, side of his head held in one hand, he watched King Achilleas approaching him with dawning horror. The king might not know him, but it was a servant’s job to know the monarch and Isaiah, born of Taengea or not, was, for the present, under this man’s command. Of any person on this ship, this was a man he didn’t want to anger and he tried his level best to stand straighter and bowed as low as he was supposed to, though the action made him dizzy as he straightened back up.
Isaiah did not dare raise his eyes back up to the king’s face and instead focused his attention somewhere over Achilleas’s right shoulder. "Is there a problem here? What is your name?" The king’s tone suggested annoyance to the Hebrew. Swallowing, Isaiah’s speech came out slow, but as clear and formal as his Greek had ever been.
Except that he wasn’t terribly good at keeping his eyes averted and made the mistake of looking straight into Achilleas’s face as he said, “No, your majesty,” before looking away again. He stiffened, resolved within himself to do better than that, and set his shoulders back. “I am called Isaiah of Matthias.” The absurd idea of explaining to the king that he needed to know what day it was occurred to Isaiah and was dismissed just as quickly. It was one thing to ask a strange nobody and another thing entirely to annoy the king of Taengea with an inane question.
Being from a land that had no king, Isaiah wasn't entirely familiar with what it meant to be royal, but he certainly understood the differences in class. For example, he, as a poor man, wouldn't dream of wandering up to a rich man, obviously blessed by Yahweh, and conversing as though they were equals. Having seen Achilleas's palace from a distance, and tending to the fine animals that now belonged to the new king, Isaiah used this as a basis for how vast the differences between them were. It felt as though not only were they of two different lands, but two different planes of existence.
Not a violent man, and unused to being immediately shoved in response to a question, Isaiah fell back and did not rise again. He blinked rapidly against the vivid sunlight glaring off the white glass of the sea. That couldn’t be right and his mind refused to grasp what was so clearly happening; that he was aboard a moving vessel. His denial of what was happening was further helped by the bodies of the men now encircling him, staring down at him as though he was an annoying bird in a cage. Such a look was familiar; he’d dealt with it from Greeks who did not travel and did not appreciate a foreigner living among them. What he hadn’t expected was the backlash and the refusal to answer his simple question. None of the men surrounding him said a word and it wasn’t until he could see heads moving to one side or another as the crowd parted that he decided to stand.
A pulsing ache throbbed right behind his eyes and on the side of his head where he’d initially hit the stall. Straw still clung to his hair and bits of it in his beard; another thing that set him apart from these Greeks. Most Greek men kept their faces clean shaven and their hair cut short. Isaiah had adopted the short hair but his beard remained as a right of manhood, though, again, he’d but that much shorter than he’d have had it in Judea.
Standing now, side of his head held in one hand, he watched King Achilleas approaching him with dawning horror. The king might not know him, but it was a servant’s job to know the monarch and Isaiah, born of Taengea or not, was, for the present, under this man’s command. Of any person on this ship, this was a man he didn’t want to anger and he tried his level best to stand straighter and bowed as low as he was supposed to, though the action made him dizzy as he straightened back up.
Isaiah did not dare raise his eyes back up to the king’s face and instead focused his attention somewhere over Achilleas’s right shoulder. "Is there a problem here? What is your name?" The king’s tone suggested annoyance to the Hebrew. Swallowing, Isaiah’s speech came out slow, but as clear and formal as his Greek had ever been.
Except that he wasn’t terribly good at keeping his eyes averted and made the mistake of looking straight into Achilleas’s face as he said, “No, your majesty,” before looking away again. He stiffened, resolved within himself to do better than that, and set his shoulders back. “I am called Isaiah of Matthias.” The absurd idea of explaining to the king that he needed to know what day it was occurred to Isaiah and was dismissed just as quickly. It was one thing to ask a strange nobody and another thing entirely to annoy the king of Taengea with an inane question.
Being from a land that had no king, Isaiah wasn't entirely familiar with what it meant to be royal, but he certainly understood the differences in class. For example, he, as a poor man, wouldn't dream of wandering up to a rich man, obviously blessed by Yahweh, and conversing as though they were equals. Having seen Achilleas's palace from a distance, and tending to the fine animals that now belonged to the new king, Isaiah used this as a basis for how vast the differences between them were. It felt as though not only were they of two different lands, but two different planes of existence.
The awe that accompanied the title of King was an annoyance sometimes, Achilleas decided, as he watched the man’s face change as he realised who addressed him. When one was just trying to establish facts, such as now and instead was faced with someone too overwhelmed by his station to respond naturally. There had been a degree of it ever present, when dealing with those of lower echelons of society, those who were dazzled by the Mikaelidas name and nobility. But Achilleas was less used to finding it amongst his soldiers, which was why it stood out so much now.
The frown that carved its way beneath the simple circlet that denoted his station was not one of irritation, but rather concern as he watched the man rise a little unsteadily from a too-deep bow. Heavily-accented greek was carefully formed, and the King nodded as a name was given, though it meant little to him, it at least meant he could address the man with some degree of cordiality.
A sweep of his gaze over the other man left him under no illusions that he was not a soldier, and his rather unkempt appearance suggested he had been hiding with the livestock. There was something vaguely familiar about him that meant he was less suspicious than he might have otherwise been, but still, his presence needed explaining.
“You are no soldier, Isaiah” Achilleas observed simply, aware that more than one hand nearby had strayed to rest upon a sword hilt. “Come sit and tell me how it comes to be that a man who is neither a soldier nor a greek finds his way on to the King’s ship”.
He had turned and begun to walk, expecting the man to follow him, and went as far only as to where the barrels of pitch had been stored. The Jewish man had a pallor to him that appeared out of place, and the command had been more out of worry that the fellow might tip over if he were to remain standing. “Fetch me some water” he added as an afterthought to the soldier standing nearest to him, and then Achilleas gestured for Isaiah to sit upon one of the barrels.
“You look unwell. Is it the seasickness that bothers you? If so, try and focus on the horizon”
There were men enough who did not take to the incessant rolling motions that came with sailing: it had only struck Achilleas once, but it had been miserable enough that his sympathy went out to those afflicted by it. When the soldier reappeared with a skin of water, the King gestured for it to be given to the Judean, and Isaiah would find it thrust roughly into his grip before he was left to answer to the King.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
This character is currently a work in progress.
Check out their information page here.
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The awe that accompanied the title of King was an annoyance sometimes, Achilleas decided, as he watched the man’s face change as he realised who addressed him. When one was just trying to establish facts, such as now and instead was faced with someone too overwhelmed by his station to respond naturally. There had been a degree of it ever present, when dealing with those of lower echelons of society, those who were dazzled by the Mikaelidas name and nobility. But Achilleas was less used to finding it amongst his soldiers, which was why it stood out so much now.
The frown that carved its way beneath the simple circlet that denoted his station was not one of irritation, but rather concern as he watched the man rise a little unsteadily from a too-deep bow. Heavily-accented greek was carefully formed, and the King nodded as a name was given, though it meant little to him, it at least meant he could address the man with some degree of cordiality.
A sweep of his gaze over the other man left him under no illusions that he was not a soldier, and his rather unkempt appearance suggested he had been hiding with the livestock. There was something vaguely familiar about him that meant he was less suspicious than he might have otherwise been, but still, his presence needed explaining.
“You are no soldier, Isaiah” Achilleas observed simply, aware that more than one hand nearby had strayed to rest upon a sword hilt. “Come sit and tell me how it comes to be that a man who is neither a soldier nor a greek finds his way on to the King’s ship”.
He had turned and begun to walk, expecting the man to follow him, and went as far only as to where the barrels of pitch had been stored. The Jewish man had a pallor to him that appeared out of place, and the command had been more out of worry that the fellow might tip over if he were to remain standing. “Fetch me some water” he added as an afterthought to the soldier standing nearest to him, and then Achilleas gestured for Isaiah to sit upon one of the barrels.
“You look unwell. Is it the seasickness that bothers you? If so, try and focus on the horizon”
There were men enough who did not take to the incessant rolling motions that came with sailing: it had only struck Achilleas once, but it had been miserable enough that his sympathy went out to those afflicted by it. When the soldier reappeared with a skin of water, the King gestured for it to be given to the Judean, and Isaiah would find it thrust roughly into his grip before he was left to answer to the King.
The awe that accompanied the title of King was an annoyance sometimes, Achilleas decided, as he watched the man’s face change as he realised who addressed him. When one was just trying to establish facts, such as now and instead was faced with someone too overwhelmed by his station to respond naturally. There had been a degree of it ever present, when dealing with those of lower echelons of society, those who were dazzled by the Mikaelidas name and nobility. But Achilleas was less used to finding it amongst his soldiers, which was why it stood out so much now.
The frown that carved its way beneath the simple circlet that denoted his station was not one of irritation, but rather concern as he watched the man rise a little unsteadily from a too-deep bow. Heavily-accented greek was carefully formed, and the King nodded as a name was given, though it meant little to him, it at least meant he could address the man with some degree of cordiality.
A sweep of his gaze over the other man left him under no illusions that he was not a soldier, and his rather unkempt appearance suggested he had been hiding with the livestock. There was something vaguely familiar about him that meant he was less suspicious than he might have otherwise been, but still, his presence needed explaining.
“You are no soldier, Isaiah” Achilleas observed simply, aware that more than one hand nearby had strayed to rest upon a sword hilt. “Come sit and tell me how it comes to be that a man who is neither a soldier nor a greek finds his way on to the King’s ship”.
He had turned and begun to walk, expecting the man to follow him, and went as far only as to where the barrels of pitch had been stored. The Jewish man had a pallor to him that appeared out of place, and the command had been more out of worry that the fellow might tip over if he were to remain standing. “Fetch me some water” he added as an afterthought to the soldier standing nearest to him, and then Achilleas gestured for Isaiah to sit upon one of the barrels.
“You look unwell. Is it the seasickness that bothers you? If so, try and focus on the horizon”
There were men enough who did not take to the incessant rolling motions that came with sailing: it had only struck Achilleas once, but it had been miserable enough that his sympathy went out to those afflicted by it. When the soldier reappeared with a skin of water, the King gestured for it to be given to the Judean, and Isaiah would find it thrust roughly into his grip before he was left to answer to the King.
Isaiah kept up his rigid posture, only nodding along as Achilleas made the all-too-astute summation that he was not a soldier. At that, Isaiah looked down, despite himself and was mildly mortified to find bits of straw and animal hair sticking to his clothing. He ignored the vague smudges of brown somewhere about his knee area. It wasn’t horse dung, he told himself. Probably it was some mud or maybe dust from the stable. Usually clean, as king’s servants were meant to be, he felt undeniably shabby, even in the midst of soldiers and sailors. Like Achilleas, he also noted the hands that were ready to draw swords the instant they were ordered to do so. But, before his bad day could turn into a lethally permanent one, Achilleas invited him to follow and discuss his story.
Relief coursed through him and he performed another of those ducking bows, clumsily done in his haste to trail Achilleas’s heels. He was already rehearsing the Greek words in his head so that he could say them perfectly and clearly so as not to be misunderstood. Should he start from the very beginning? Or would that bore the king? No, probably he should stick to just the pertinent information that involved Greece and leave off anything to do in Judea. He thought it unlikely the king had ever been there and likely the man would be bored to tears about the life of a Judean merchant. They walked the short distance to where a cluster of barrels stood waiting and Isaiah naively assumed them to be filled with water. Because of the amount of people on the ship, there was no real privacy but he was glad enough for the illusion of it. Sitting on the nearest barrel’s side when Achilleas gestured for him to do so, he held his head and did not react when the king commanded for some water to be fetched. At first, he did not think it was for him but when the cup appeared in front of his face, he belatedly thanked whoever had given it to him and took a sip.
This was not water from fresh springs. It tasted like stale, waterlogged wood and a hint of vinegar. He was polite enough not to wrinkle his nose and said “Thank you.” Until the water hit his throat, he hadn’t been thirsty. But now it washed away the dust and hay particles. The splash of it reminded his body that he hadn’t had water in nearly a day by now and the cup was empty by the time he realized he wanted more. This was a ship. What if there were rations? It would have been better not to gulp this down and to have savored it but it was too late now.
“I will grow used to it,” Isaiah peered into the bottom of his cup. It was easier to speak to that than to the king, who he thought was probably kindness itself. He’d never heard anyone say anything bad about this king; not like the last two. But he was still aware of his precarious situation. Deciding to keep the fact that he did not believe himself to be sea sick at all due to how much time he’d spent on a ship to himself, he motioned to his head. “I was loading your majesty’s horse,” he began by way of explanation. “I do not know precisely what happened.” His voice was slow, feeling out each word and trying to make it understandable. “But I turn to leave, next thing I know, I wake up and my head feels heavy and sore. I must have hit it when the horse spooked. I assume my fellows did not rescue me because I fell into hay and it covered me enough. I did not mean to stow away. By Yahweh I did not.”
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Isaiah kept up his rigid posture, only nodding along as Achilleas made the all-too-astute summation that he was not a soldier. At that, Isaiah looked down, despite himself and was mildly mortified to find bits of straw and animal hair sticking to his clothing. He ignored the vague smudges of brown somewhere about his knee area. It wasn’t horse dung, he told himself. Probably it was some mud or maybe dust from the stable. Usually clean, as king’s servants were meant to be, he felt undeniably shabby, even in the midst of soldiers and sailors. Like Achilleas, he also noted the hands that were ready to draw swords the instant they were ordered to do so. But, before his bad day could turn into a lethally permanent one, Achilleas invited him to follow and discuss his story.
Relief coursed through him and he performed another of those ducking bows, clumsily done in his haste to trail Achilleas’s heels. He was already rehearsing the Greek words in his head so that he could say them perfectly and clearly so as not to be misunderstood. Should he start from the very beginning? Or would that bore the king? No, probably he should stick to just the pertinent information that involved Greece and leave off anything to do in Judea. He thought it unlikely the king had ever been there and likely the man would be bored to tears about the life of a Judean merchant. They walked the short distance to where a cluster of barrels stood waiting and Isaiah naively assumed them to be filled with water. Because of the amount of people on the ship, there was no real privacy but he was glad enough for the illusion of it. Sitting on the nearest barrel’s side when Achilleas gestured for him to do so, he held his head and did not react when the king commanded for some water to be fetched. At first, he did not think it was for him but when the cup appeared in front of his face, he belatedly thanked whoever had given it to him and took a sip.
This was not water from fresh springs. It tasted like stale, waterlogged wood and a hint of vinegar. He was polite enough not to wrinkle his nose and said “Thank you.” Until the water hit his throat, he hadn’t been thirsty. But now it washed away the dust and hay particles. The splash of it reminded his body that he hadn’t had water in nearly a day by now and the cup was empty by the time he realized he wanted more. This was a ship. What if there were rations? It would have been better not to gulp this down and to have savored it but it was too late now.
“I will grow used to it,” Isaiah peered into the bottom of his cup. It was easier to speak to that than to the king, who he thought was probably kindness itself. He’d never heard anyone say anything bad about this king; not like the last two. But he was still aware of his precarious situation. Deciding to keep the fact that he did not believe himself to be sea sick at all due to how much time he’d spent on a ship to himself, he motioned to his head. “I was loading your majesty’s horse,” he began by way of explanation. “I do not know precisely what happened.” His voice was slow, feeling out each word and trying to make it understandable. “But I turn to leave, next thing I know, I wake up and my head feels heavy and sore. I must have hit it when the horse spooked. I assume my fellows did not rescue me because I fell into hay and it covered me enough. I did not mean to stow away. By Yahweh I did not.”
Isaiah kept up his rigid posture, only nodding along as Achilleas made the all-too-astute summation that he was not a soldier. At that, Isaiah looked down, despite himself and was mildly mortified to find bits of straw and animal hair sticking to his clothing. He ignored the vague smudges of brown somewhere about his knee area. It wasn’t horse dung, he told himself. Probably it was some mud or maybe dust from the stable. Usually clean, as king’s servants were meant to be, he felt undeniably shabby, even in the midst of soldiers and sailors. Like Achilleas, he also noted the hands that were ready to draw swords the instant they were ordered to do so. But, before his bad day could turn into a lethally permanent one, Achilleas invited him to follow and discuss his story.
Relief coursed through him and he performed another of those ducking bows, clumsily done in his haste to trail Achilleas’s heels. He was already rehearsing the Greek words in his head so that he could say them perfectly and clearly so as not to be misunderstood. Should he start from the very beginning? Or would that bore the king? No, probably he should stick to just the pertinent information that involved Greece and leave off anything to do in Judea. He thought it unlikely the king had ever been there and likely the man would be bored to tears about the life of a Judean merchant. They walked the short distance to where a cluster of barrels stood waiting and Isaiah naively assumed them to be filled with water. Because of the amount of people on the ship, there was no real privacy but he was glad enough for the illusion of it. Sitting on the nearest barrel’s side when Achilleas gestured for him to do so, he held his head and did not react when the king commanded for some water to be fetched. At first, he did not think it was for him but when the cup appeared in front of his face, he belatedly thanked whoever had given it to him and took a sip.
This was not water from fresh springs. It tasted like stale, waterlogged wood and a hint of vinegar. He was polite enough not to wrinkle his nose and said “Thank you.” Until the water hit his throat, he hadn’t been thirsty. But now it washed away the dust and hay particles. The splash of it reminded his body that he hadn’t had water in nearly a day by now and the cup was empty by the time he realized he wanted more. This was a ship. What if there were rations? It would have been better not to gulp this down and to have savored it but it was too late now.
“I will grow used to it,” Isaiah peered into the bottom of his cup. It was easier to speak to that than to the king, who he thought was probably kindness itself. He’d never heard anyone say anything bad about this king; not like the last two. But he was still aware of his precarious situation. Deciding to keep the fact that he did not believe himself to be sea sick at all due to how much time he’d spent on a ship to himself, he motioned to his head. “I was loading your majesty’s horse,” he began by way of explanation. “I do not know precisely what happened.” His voice was slow, feeling out each word and trying to make it understandable. “But I turn to leave, next thing I know, I wake up and my head feels heavy and sore. I must have hit it when the horse spooked. I assume my fellows did not rescue me because I fell into hay and it covered me enough. I did not mean to stow away. By Yahweh I did not.”
Achilleas was trying to place the man, some dim recognition still gnawing at him as he watched the other take a seat upon one of the barrels and held his head in his hands. He seemed more than a little worse for wear, and it was this and that aforementioned familiarity that had the King at ease enough to speak with the man without a blade being held to his throat.
Watching with some sympathy as the other gulped down the water, Achilleas waved away the thanks, his curiosity as to how the Judean man had ended up here more pressing than appreciation for the man’s manners. When Isaiah began to speak, the picture became clear enough though.
Of course! He was one of the stablemen. Achilleas had seen him around the stables when he had been trying to do something with Aenaeus, and again at the Circus when he’d been charioteering. He didn’t make a point of memorising each and every face of the many servants around the palace, but given the prompt, it was easy enough for him to recall where he knew the quietly spoken man from.
The King pulled a face. “ I believe you” he replied. “Amyntas has never been fond of ships. I’m not surprised if he gave you trouble” Eyebrows lowering slightly as he considered this news, there was little Achilleas could do about the situation now. “An unfortunate accident then, but one that has seen you on a journey you are stuck on I’m afraid. Are you hurt?”
He gave the other man a look over and shot a glance down the ship. Another mouth to feed, but another pair of hands that could be put to use, it was just the way it was. He would mention to Krysto about loading procedures though because if nothing else it made it abundantly clear that should someone wish to stowaway for nefarious means, they would not find it difficult. That, if nothing else, was a little disconcerting. With a sigh, he turned back to Isaiah.
“If you need to, see the ship's medic. Get yourself cleaned up and then report to the Captain. As you are here, you’ll need to work.” The instructions were delivered firmly, but the King made certain to speak clearly, measuring his words so they were easy to follow. He stopped as a thought occurred to him and this time he made certain he had the man’s eye contact before he asked: “You know where we are headed, yes?”
In truth, Achilleas wasn’t sure how much attention such a man would pay to the circumstances the Taengeans found themselves in. For all he knew, he just acted on the orders he was given and never stretched so far as to ask for the why. There was perhaps little point when one had no say over anything anyway. But he could at least grace the poor fellow with that information if he did not have it already.
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Achilleas was trying to place the man, some dim recognition still gnawing at him as he watched the other take a seat upon one of the barrels and held his head in his hands. He seemed more than a little worse for wear, and it was this and that aforementioned familiarity that had the King at ease enough to speak with the man without a blade being held to his throat.
Watching with some sympathy as the other gulped down the water, Achilleas waved away the thanks, his curiosity as to how the Judean man had ended up here more pressing than appreciation for the man’s manners. When Isaiah began to speak, the picture became clear enough though.
Of course! He was one of the stablemen. Achilleas had seen him around the stables when he had been trying to do something with Aenaeus, and again at the Circus when he’d been charioteering. He didn’t make a point of memorising each and every face of the many servants around the palace, but given the prompt, it was easy enough for him to recall where he knew the quietly spoken man from.
The King pulled a face. “ I believe you” he replied. “Amyntas has never been fond of ships. I’m not surprised if he gave you trouble” Eyebrows lowering slightly as he considered this news, there was little Achilleas could do about the situation now. “An unfortunate accident then, but one that has seen you on a journey you are stuck on I’m afraid. Are you hurt?”
He gave the other man a look over and shot a glance down the ship. Another mouth to feed, but another pair of hands that could be put to use, it was just the way it was. He would mention to Krysto about loading procedures though because if nothing else it made it abundantly clear that should someone wish to stowaway for nefarious means, they would not find it difficult. That, if nothing else, was a little disconcerting. With a sigh, he turned back to Isaiah.
“If you need to, see the ship's medic. Get yourself cleaned up and then report to the Captain. As you are here, you’ll need to work.” The instructions were delivered firmly, but the King made certain to speak clearly, measuring his words so they were easy to follow. He stopped as a thought occurred to him and this time he made certain he had the man’s eye contact before he asked: “You know where we are headed, yes?”
In truth, Achilleas wasn’t sure how much attention such a man would pay to the circumstances the Taengeans found themselves in. For all he knew, he just acted on the orders he was given and never stretched so far as to ask for the why. There was perhaps little point when one had no say over anything anyway. But he could at least grace the poor fellow with that information if he did not have it already.
Achilleas was trying to place the man, some dim recognition still gnawing at him as he watched the other take a seat upon one of the barrels and held his head in his hands. He seemed more than a little worse for wear, and it was this and that aforementioned familiarity that had the King at ease enough to speak with the man without a blade being held to his throat.
Watching with some sympathy as the other gulped down the water, Achilleas waved away the thanks, his curiosity as to how the Judean man had ended up here more pressing than appreciation for the man’s manners. When Isaiah began to speak, the picture became clear enough though.
Of course! He was one of the stablemen. Achilleas had seen him around the stables when he had been trying to do something with Aenaeus, and again at the Circus when he’d been charioteering. He didn’t make a point of memorising each and every face of the many servants around the palace, but given the prompt, it was easy enough for him to recall where he knew the quietly spoken man from.
The King pulled a face. “ I believe you” he replied. “Amyntas has never been fond of ships. I’m not surprised if he gave you trouble” Eyebrows lowering slightly as he considered this news, there was little Achilleas could do about the situation now. “An unfortunate accident then, but one that has seen you on a journey you are stuck on I’m afraid. Are you hurt?”
He gave the other man a look over and shot a glance down the ship. Another mouth to feed, but another pair of hands that could be put to use, it was just the way it was. He would mention to Krysto about loading procedures though because if nothing else it made it abundantly clear that should someone wish to stowaway for nefarious means, they would not find it difficult. That, if nothing else, was a little disconcerting. With a sigh, he turned back to Isaiah.
“If you need to, see the ship's medic. Get yourself cleaned up and then report to the Captain. As you are here, you’ll need to work.” The instructions were delivered firmly, but the King made certain to speak clearly, measuring his words so they were easy to follow. He stopped as a thought occurred to him and this time he made certain he had the man’s eye contact before he asked: “You know where we are headed, yes?”
In truth, Achilleas wasn’t sure how much attention such a man would pay to the circumstances the Taengeans found themselves in. For all he knew, he just acted on the orders he was given and never stretched so far as to ask for the why. There was perhaps little point when one had no say over anything anyway. But he could at least grace the poor fellow with that information if he did not have it already.
Isaiah nearly sagged in relief. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized exactly how certain of imminent death he had been. The king’s ”I believe you,” was essentially permission to live. Or at least, permission or perhaps an acceptance that Isaiah could roam freely about the ship without the spectre of a lengthy prison sentence. Not that the Judean expected this would be a pleasure cruise. He knew that this ship was bound for Egypt, though precisely where or why eluded him. Other than ”We’re at war”, he and the other stable hands hadn’t been told all that much. It was more of a need-to-know and truly, until right now, he hadn’t needed to know. The king went on about his horse not being fond of sea voyages and Isaiah nodded. He’d never met a horse who was.
“An unfortunate accident then, but one that has seen you on a journey you are stuck on I’m afraid. Are you hurt?” the king asked suddenly. Isaiah thought about it for a second. He did not believe he was harmed, but he gingerly felt along the knot that had sprung up and pulled his fingers away to see if there was blood. There was none. “If you need to, see the ship's medic,” the king went on but Isaiah shook his head mutely. No. He did not need to be seen. Nor did he wish to be viewed as weak, which he surely would be now.
”Get yourself cleaned up and then report to the Captain. As you are here, you’ll need to work.” At that, Isaiah stood, bowing again. All of this was expected. Even if he was a free man, he would have to pull his weight aboard the ship. The trouble was, even though he’d spent years rowing, he didn’t know the first thing about sailing. The only benefit he’d reaped from his time aboard the galleon was that he could stand on a ship and not be the least bit seasick. What a skill.
Isaiah lifted his eyes back to the king’s face when Achilleas spoke next. ”You know where we are headed, yes?”
“I do, sire,” he straightened up from his bow and tucked his hands respectfully behind his back. “To Egypt. By your leave, I will report to captain, now?” He waited until Achilleas saw fit to dismiss him and went to seek out the captain. That proved tricky, as all these Greek men looked nearly the same. However, the captain was finally found. Isaiah was given a rag to clean up as best he could but there weren’t exactly spare clothes to give him. He had to make do with being in his underthings for a while as his clothes were being washed with lard soap and seawater, then hung to dry.
Later that night, as he mucked out the horse stalls, the realization hit: Egypt. He’d be closer to Hannah than he had been in years, and as he worked, the dangerous daydream began: he could see her. He could hold her. He’d see his child at last...perhaps have another together that he’d be around to help raise...it was all so close and he’d do nearly anything to make his dream come true.
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Isaiah nearly sagged in relief. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized exactly how certain of imminent death he had been. The king’s ”I believe you,” was essentially permission to live. Or at least, permission or perhaps an acceptance that Isaiah could roam freely about the ship without the spectre of a lengthy prison sentence. Not that the Judean expected this would be a pleasure cruise. He knew that this ship was bound for Egypt, though precisely where or why eluded him. Other than ”We’re at war”, he and the other stable hands hadn’t been told all that much. It was more of a need-to-know and truly, until right now, he hadn’t needed to know. The king went on about his horse not being fond of sea voyages and Isaiah nodded. He’d never met a horse who was.
“An unfortunate accident then, but one that has seen you on a journey you are stuck on I’m afraid. Are you hurt?” the king asked suddenly. Isaiah thought about it for a second. He did not believe he was harmed, but he gingerly felt along the knot that had sprung up and pulled his fingers away to see if there was blood. There was none. “If you need to, see the ship's medic,” the king went on but Isaiah shook his head mutely. No. He did not need to be seen. Nor did he wish to be viewed as weak, which he surely would be now.
”Get yourself cleaned up and then report to the Captain. As you are here, you’ll need to work.” At that, Isaiah stood, bowing again. All of this was expected. Even if he was a free man, he would have to pull his weight aboard the ship. The trouble was, even though he’d spent years rowing, he didn’t know the first thing about sailing. The only benefit he’d reaped from his time aboard the galleon was that he could stand on a ship and not be the least bit seasick. What a skill.
Isaiah lifted his eyes back to the king’s face when Achilleas spoke next. ”You know where we are headed, yes?”
“I do, sire,” he straightened up from his bow and tucked his hands respectfully behind his back. “To Egypt. By your leave, I will report to captain, now?” He waited until Achilleas saw fit to dismiss him and went to seek out the captain. That proved tricky, as all these Greek men looked nearly the same. However, the captain was finally found. Isaiah was given a rag to clean up as best he could but there weren’t exactly spare clothes to give him. He had to make do with being in his underthings for a while as his clothes were being washed with lard soap and seawater, then hung to dry.
Later that night, as he mucked out the horse stalls, the realization hit: Egypt. He’d be closer to Hannah than he had been in years, and as he worked, the dangerous daydream began: he could see her. He could hold her. He’d see his child at last...perhaps have another together that he’d be around to help raise...it was all so close and he’d do nearly anything to make his dream come true.
Isaiah nearly sagged in relief. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized exactly how certain of imminent death he had been. The king’s ”I believe you,” was essentially permission to live. Or at least, permission or perhaps an acceptance that Isaiah could roam freely about the ship without the spectre of a lengthy prison sentence. Not that the Judean expected this would be a pleasure cruise. He knew that this ship was bound for Egypt, though precisely where or why eluded him. Other than ”We’re at war”, he and the other stable hands hadn’t been told all that much. It was more of a need-to-know and truly, until right now, he hadn’t needed to know. The king went on about his horse not being fond of sea voyages and Isaiah nodded. He’d never met a horse who was.
“An unfortunate accident then, but one that has seen you on a journey you are stuck on I’m afraid. Are you hurt?” the king asked suddenly. Isaiah thought about it for a second. He did not believe he was harmed, but he gingerly felt along the knot that had sprung up and pulled his fingers away to see if there was blood. There was none. “If you need to, see the ship's medic,” the king went on but Isaiah shook his head mutely. No. He did not need to be seen. Nor did he wish to be viewed as weak, which he surely would be now.
”Get yourself cleaned up and then report to the Captain. As you are here, you’ll need to work.” At that, Isaiah stood, bowing again. All of this was expected. Even if he was a free man, he would have to pull his weight aboard the ship. The trouble was, even though he’d spent years rowing, he didn’t know the first thing about sailing. The only benefit he’d reaped from his time aboard the galleon was that he could stand on a ship and not be the least bit seasick. What a skill.
Isaiah lifted his eyes back to the king’s face when Achilleas spoke next. ”You know where we are headed, yes?”
“I do, sire,” he straightened up from his bow and tucked his hands respectfully behind his back. “To Egypt. By your leave, I will report to captain, now?” He waited until Achilleas saw fit to dismiss him and went to seek out the captain. That proved tricky, as all these Greek men looked nearly the same. However, the captain was finally found. Isaiah was given a rag to clean up as best he could but there weren’t exactly spare clothes to give him. He had to make do with being in his underthings for a while as his clothes were being washed with lard soap and seawater, then hung to dry.
Later that night, as he mucked out the horse stalls, the realization hit: Egypt. He’d be closer to Hannah than he had been in years, and as he worked, the dangerous daydream began: he could see her. He could hold her. He’d see his child at last...perhaps have another together that he’d be around to help raise...it was all so close and he’d do nearly anything to make his dream come true.