Edward closed his eyes and draped his forearm over them to rest as much as he could, but through all the layers, he could still feel Herbert's gaze on him. "If you've some witty comment to say, just be done with it so I can rest what little amount possible."
"Hmph," Herbert scoffed. "You know you're quite skilled at pushing allies away? Does it come naturally, or is it from your father?"
Edward's hand clenched, and his breathing caught in his throat, but he didn't move his arm away nor open his eyes. After a moment, he could hear Herbert's wheelchair scraping against the wood of the ship as he turned around and let Edward be.
Edward lay there motionless as the rocking of the ship swayed him in all directions. The frigid night breeze pulled away his heat, both from exertion and anger, and when he had calmed, he opened his eyes to the pale waxing sliver of the moon.
A gift from my father? I wonder.
Edward rose to his shaky feet and gave himself another moment to muster the strength he needed to continue. After that tenuous moment, he went back to work with the new set of crewmates who looked much more full of vigour than he.
That extra vigour didn't change their attitude towards him, and the new mate in charge continued the work of the last. They conspired in pushing Edward beyond his limits while letting the other crewmates be. Since Nigel's untimely end, those meagre few who had seemed to be of a better calibre, who had helped him in the morning, were either gone or no longer sympathetic to his plight.
The thought only served to irritate Edward further, and incidentally bestowed him with a bit more wind in his sails.
Edward worked, and pushed, and pulled, and ripped every last ounce of strength he had. He had been going with practically no rest for nearly a whole day, and he felt it in his bones.
The sounds of the mate shouting orders, the wind whipping the sails, the waves lapping against the ship, and even the creaking of the vessel itself washed away. He only felt his heart beating up around his ears and the breath in his chest.
The cool sea air felt crisp and alive as he took it in and made it a part of him over and over. It made him feel strange at that moment, though. Coupled with the exhaustion, he felt as though he were floating in that wind surrounding his body. He was no longer himself, but he was the sea and the air.
Before, it had always been in battle, but now the only battle was against himself and his own body. He told himself to take stock of this feeling, whatever it may be, and hold it within. Through the fog of his mind at that moment, he knew this was important.
Edward looked around the ship with new eyes, as though seeing it for the first time. The crew around him were inconsequential, just statues atop a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.
After a moment to take in all he felt and memorize it, he noticed the statues moving on the quarterdeck in a peculiar pattern.
The crew had bunched up on the quarterdeck, several of them surrounding Herbert. They had trapped Herbert between them all, and he couldn't get away.
Edward kept hold of his state of mind, the floating feeling between the sky and sea, where he could see everything clearly. He glided over to the statues, the crewmates who were not his crew, the many faces he cared not to take stock of.
On the quarterdeck, two of the statues moved to stop him, and Edward understood better then why they reminded him of statues. Their movements looked unnaturally slow and stiff at that moment.
Using the lessons Anne, William, Pukuh, and countless battles had taught him, he grabbed the men and used their own momentum and limbs against them. With the most minimal effort on his part, Edward pushed one of the men over the side of the railing of the quarterdeck, where he fell to the deck below, and the other tripped and dashed down the ladder behind Edward.
The other men surrounding Herbert took notice of Edward approaching and said words to him, but he couldn't hear them. He was floating too far above everyone for the words to reach him. The sea air would not carry the words to him across its sweet notes.
He walked forward on legs so far beyond numb that it felt as though he were gliding across the deck. Judging by the faces of the men in front of him, he must have looked like a spectre coming towards them. They pulled back at his gaze and moved out of his way without a touch, each of them turning pale when they looked up at him.
Next to Herbert, two of the men, stouter or stupider than the others, it would be hard to say, stayed put. They made threatening gestures and appeared to shout obscenities, a possible plea for him to stop his advance.
Edward stopped, but not because of anything they said. He bore his gaze down on the first man who had the gall to take a step forward and before long, the man's threatening words caught in his throat. He coughed and stepped aside.
The other man had hands on Herbert, and though he looked confusedly back and forth from his comrades to Edward, his brow was slick with sweat, and his lips trembled.
Edward stared into the man's eyes and then recalled a saying that the eyes were the window to the soul. He pictured himself bashing the man's head into the fife rail of the nearby mast and the man's body twitching before it went limp. As he imagined it in his own mind's eye, he slowly pulled his massive fist into a ball.
The final crewmate received the
