Chapter 12 - The Awakening (Morgan's POV)

(Morgan's POV)

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Salty and damp with something herbal trying to fight its way through.

I cracked my eyes open and immediately saw a pair of big, hazel eyes staring back at me.

I recoiled in surprise, but instantly regretted it. My skin felt hot and tight and the sudden movement made me feel like it was going to split open.

A pained gasp slipped from my lips as I tried to lie as still as possible.

"Evening, Miss. Glad you aren't dead," he announced, a little too chipper for my liking.

He was young. Maybe around eight or nine years old with scruffy sandy brown hair and freckles over his nose.

Where was I? Who the hell was he? Something about him felt familiar, but I couldn't give him a name.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice hoarse as I motioned to sit up and get my bearings, but the pain was excruciating and I gave up.

God, I was thirsty.

"I wouldn't do that, Miss," he said, standing up quickly with a worried expression. "Old Mr Finch says to make sure you keep still. I should go fetch him. The Captain too. He's been waiting for you to wake up. You’re awake this time, are you not? Not as before?"

My head swam and throbbed and I was confused as fuck. What did he mean 'not as before'? Old Mr Finch? The Captain? What the hell was this kid on about?!

"What are you even talking about?" I asked. A little rudely, I'll admit. "Where am I?"

"You're in Old Mr Finch's infirmary. He's the surgeon. But don't tell him I called him Old Mr Finch... he doesn't like that," the boy explained, with a mischievous grin. "He says you hit your head and had a brain fever. Are you feeling any better now?"

Okay.... literally NONE of that made sense. He may as well have spoken fucking Dothraki to me.

"Brain fever?" I asked, raising my hand to feel my head. That sounded like a diagnosis from the fucking Oregon Trail.

My head was fine. Same size as far as I could tell, no lumps or bumps or—

I paused, my fingers trailing over a tender spot at the back of my head where there were a few rough bits bristling up from my scalp.

Did I... Did I have stitches?

A memory came flooding back. The cave. I'd been exploring a cave and I'd hit my head.

Someone had said it was bad. Someone had—

"There's another cut over there," the boy went on, pointing to a spot near my temple, "But Old Mr Finch said that one didn't need stitches."

I felt where he was pointing and he was right. It was tender and my fingers grazed over a rough scab that had begun to form against my scalp.

Something felt wrong. This all felt wrong. Where was I? Why was I here? Who was this boy? Why did it feel like the floor was moving? Why did it look like I was in some weird wooden cabin or something?

"Where am I?" I pressed again, feeling panic beginning to rise in my chest.

"I told you, in the infirma—"

I cut him off before he could even finish.

"Where is this 'infirmary'?" I demanded, desperate for actual answers.

He looked a little disappointed for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, we’re aboard the Harbinger, Miss. I ain’t much good with charts yet, so I can’t rightly say where we are exactly, but we sailed from Bermuda three days back—and Captain Flynn says we’re bound for Nassau. I’m pickin’ it up fast, though!" he added quickly. "He calls me a bright lad and reckons I’ll have the hang of it proper soon.”

The boy gave a shy smile, looking rather proud of himself.

"The Harbinger? Captain Flynn? Nassau?" I mumbled in response. At first, I was confused, but then bits and pieces started coming back to me.

A dark room filled with boxes and barrels. A blindingly bright lantern. A cave. A rowboat. The sea... So much sea. Only sea. And throwing up until I couldn't stand anymore.

A boat... I was on a boat. Some fucking re-enactment pirate ship, to be more specific.

"That's right," he said, smiling brightly. "You wait here, I'll fetch the Captain," the boy announced, rushing out of my line of sight.

"No! Wait!" I called after him.

I had more questions. I wanted to know more before this bastard captain came sauntering back in here like he was above the fucking law.

But the kid was already gone, hurrying away like a little ferret who'd had too much sugar.

I tried to sit up again, but my body didn't want to comply and my skin felt like it was on fire every time I moved, so I just lay there on my side, feeling miserable and sore.

God, I was thirsty. I just wanted a nice cold glass of water. The kind with the condensation slipping down the side. I could already see it in my mind's eye.

The sound of footsteps approaching brought back a whole new memory and I could picture his face before he even stepped foot into the room. The Captain...

His face loomed in my mind. I'd been throwing up on the deck, then he came. What did he say again?

The footsteps stopped abruptly behind me, but I couldn't turn to look. My skin was too tender for that. I must have gotten a sunburn. A bad one by the feel of things. Moving hurt, so looking wasn't really that high on my list of priorities right now if it meant more pain to deal with.

"Are ye awake then?" he asked, his familiar Irish brogue catching my ear.

I still couldn't see him. He was still hovering somewhere behind me, but just then the young boy stepped into my line of vision again and took his seat in front of me.

"She's awake, Captain," he announced proudly, like a dog who'd just retrieved a ball for his owner.

I felt like a wounded animal, waiting for the predator to pounce on me again as I lay there helpless.

He stepped closer, his boots echoing through the room, each stride calculated and deliberate.

"Ah, alive and well," he said, sounding pleased as he stepped into my field of vision.

"Not sure I'd say 'well', but alive, I guess," I replied sarcastically.

He snorted.

"And how's yer memory?" he asked cautiously.

I tried to shrug, but the skin on my right shoulder felt like it was tearing, so I abandoned the gesture.

"I remember you," I replied with a scowl. "You left me on the deck to die of exposure!"