It's a damned, damned ship

It's been a few days -- they've blurred together so he couldn't say how many -- since his term in the brig ended and his punishment assignment of guard duty began. There's very little difference, truth be told; he's sitting alone and staring at the bars from the other side now, is all.

He doesn't mind. Being alone suits him.

Dimly, from somewhere above, he can hear the distant wail of the captain's pipe organ. That's good; it means he won't be coming down here.

The wall behind him is thick with folds of waterweed like decaying curtains, yielding a little as he leans back. Once you get used to the sensation, it's almost comfortable. And you can get used to anything, really.

Bootstrap sits hunched, turning his one bright thought over and over in his mind. The shine's worn off of it by now, but it's no less warm: my boy will come for me.

He doesn't notice that he's begun to hum under his breath along with the organ. Doesn't notice when the tune he's humming changes subtly, no longer quite what the captain's playing.

William will come for me. He promised.

Doesn't notice when the humming begins to fragment here and there into unconnected words: bound and the seas and where we will and haul together.