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Zolf’s knees hit what’s left of the Vengeance ’s deck in a dull, metallic thud. The shock sends a jolt of pain throughout his body, running from the metal ports of his legs all the way down to his glove-covered fingertips. Zolf vaguely recognises it as the first sensation he’s actually felt in the past hours. Whether that’s due to the cold or their loss, who’s to say.
Mechanically, his fingers land on and unclasp the hook of the safety harness tied to the steering wheel. Shifting the gear around in his hands, he takes a few seconds to search for any signs of weakness or damage, and feels a tick of frustration when he finds nothing to fault the leather straps and fasteners. Why had some held but not the others?
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.
With a sigh, he straightens up again, before carefully securing the harness to his waist. Now’s not the time for rookies mistakes. Whatever comes next, they’re going to need him. He can’t let himself slip. Can’t let himself think. Can’t —
Behind him, he hears the shuffle of quiet footsteps edging closer. Earhart.
He tugs harshly at the harness one last time and shifts around, his eyes landing on Earhart’s small hooded figure, standing motionless beside a severely mangled section of railing, crushed and twisted as if split open by some vicious invisible creature. Zolf felt his heart constrict at the sight. It wasn’t that long ago since Earhart had crawled her way out of a similar wreckage, her skyship a mere vestige of what it was supposed to be.
“How’re you holding up?” Zolf asks, despite anticipating Earhart’s clicking noise of annoyance that immediately follows.
“I’m fine, Mr Smith.”
As strange as it seems, Zolf believes her. On a composure scale of Hamid to Skraak, she somehow appears to be doing alright, her voice adopting the same bored monotone as always. Though she looks haggard, the shadows under her eyes speak of fatigue, not despair.
After acknowledging her response with a nod, Zolf casts a brief glance around. “There’s another harness there,” he provides, chin pointing towards Azu’s crow’s nest, having miraculously survived the crash mostly intact. “Should probably double-check it for damage though, just in case.”
Earhart throws him an insulted look, but is otherwise silent as she picks her way among the debris of fractured pine trunks, jagged multi-coloured splinters of metal, and other sharp-ended reminders of the crash. She reaches for the harness and attempts to detach the safety hook from the rail, only for it to slip from her bare hands and collide back against the metal in a quiet clink .
On her third failed attempt to snap open the hook, Zolf decides to step forward and help.
“Here, let me,” he offers, gently pushing her icy hands aside with his and unhooking the harness in one swift gesture. He hands it back to Earhart, deliberately ignoring the frown creasing the skin above her brows.
While she slips on the gear and fiddles with the straps, Zolf slides off his knitted gloves and holds them out for Earhart to take. Though he tries to ignore it, the clash of skin and frost-tipped air immediately sends a chill up his spine.
Still adjusting one of the harness buckles, Earhart’s eyes glance down slowly to take in the gloves, then swing back up to meet Zolf’s. “You need those too.”
He gives her a shrug. “Dwarf. We’re better at withstanding the cold.”
“I can look after myself, Mr Smith,” she declares, but reaches for the gloves anyway.
Being familiar enough with Earhart’s prickly pride by now, Zolf is careful to keep any sign of relief from his features. He turns his head away to gaze into the distance, peering at an indented patch of snow, where a giant wooden platform had descended from the clouds and landed in a flurry of ice, before vanishing back up and taking his friends, and the remains of his friends, away from him.
That woman, Sohra, had assured their ship would follow closely behind, but as of yet, no one had returned for them. Not that he thought they could trust her — they’d barely exchanged any words. And promises of string-free resurrections fostered as much suspicion as they did hope. Cel having apparently vouched for Sohra's people does little to appease Zolf’s growing uneasiness with every passing second.
Earhart slumps down against the mast, her arms moving to enclose her knees, her whole body seemingly curving in on itself. The wind was picking up, sending biting blasts of air to crash against them and steadily work their way through layers of cold gear.
Earhart nudged the tip of his boot with her own. “Sit down. We’ve secured the ship, secured ourselves to it. Now all we can do is wait.”
She’s right. They’ve done everything they can to prepare. Yet, that doesn’t sit right with him. There has to be something else he can do: a part of the ship still waiting to be salvaged from the snow or a spell to signal their position. Anything to keep him occupied.
“Sit down, Mr Smith. That’s an order,” Earhart commands from below, her tone leaving no room for argument.
“Yes, captain,” Zolf answers, promptly sitting down with his legs crossed, almost shoulder to shoulder with Earhart.
Although it’s subtle, he feels Earhart’s body slowly inch closer to him, most likely trying to capture any minute amount of heat managing to escape from the confines of Zolf’s parka. He’s not even sure she’s doing it consciously.
For a while, they stay like this. Silent, hunched together, heads buried up to their nose in their fur-lined collars. If it wasn’t the stupidest thing he could do right now, Zolf would close his eyes and succumb to the feeling of drowsiness slowly engulfing him.
Beside him, Earhart shifts, as if trying to find a position that isn’t uncomfortable when leaning against frigid metal in the middle of a deserted, icy landscape.
It’s not the worst way to go. It’s not how he’d pictured it, but maybe this is better, quieter. Maybe Oscar and Carter will be waiting for him with a drink in hand. His eyelids flutter as another strong rush of wind comes at them, and this time, they remain closed until he musters the necessary strength to push them open again.
As he feels his eyelids become heavy again, a muffled voice emerges from the bundled-up shape beside him. “Tell me Mr Smith, are you trying to take my job?”
For a brief moment, Zolf tenses at the memory of mutinous tête-à-têtes, before the reality of their situation sinks in again. Nonetheless, he settles for a safe but somewhat unconvincing, “What?”
Turning his head to face her, he meets Earhart’s eyes, partly concealed by her hood, already pointed and narrowed at him. “Stickin’ with the ship. That’s a captain’s duty.”
Zolf makes a show of looking around, gaze brushing over the brightly-covered wreckage surrounding them. “Not much ship left to stay with.”
She shakes her head. “This is nothing. You should’ve seen her after — right after Guivres. You landed her. We crashed down.” She pauses and slides her gaze towards the forest treeline. Still looking away, she adds, “And if they can bring the dead back to life, then they can fix up a ship.”
Except there’s no guarantee they can bring them back. No guarantee that whatever ritual or spell or relic they use will work. No reason for the others to choose to come back. Why would they?
Before the silence falls again at Zolf’s invitation, Earhart speaks up again. “How do you think they’re going to lift her off?”
Who goddam knows.
“At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if another giant eagle gave us a ride,” he replies.
Earhart gives a thoughtful hum. “At least she’ll get to fly once more.”
Zolf lets a quiet chuckle escape him, feeling momentarily surprised at being able to do so. Somehow, the simple action makes him lightheaded enough to feel like the ground has shaken along with him.
“Got something to share, Mr Smith?”
“Nothing, it’s just, you — you don’t usually do sentimental.”
This time he’s sure. The mast shuddered against his back. Judging from her arched eyebrows, Earhart’s felt it too.
She pushes herself up to her feet as another tremor, stronger than the last, courses creakily through the deck. Whatever’s doing this, it’s coming their way.
“Well,” she starts, extending a hand down to Zolf, “I think we’re far beyond the scope of usual circumstances. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Gripping her hand tightly, Zolf propels himself up, feeling his muscles strain in protest at the sudden effort.
His eyes widen as they catch on a pair of colossal four-toed hooves, large enough to crush a vessel double the width of the Vengeance, steadily treading their way through the snow. Above each hoof stands a column of rich brown fur, climbing too high for Zolf’s eyes to follow.
Bracing an arm against the mast as another quake reverberates through the ship, Zolf turns to Earhart and admits, “Yeah, you’re not wrong about that.”