3 bar menu

Interstitial Sea – Part 02

The mother stirred. “Can someone please take care of… my child?”

The men exchanged incredulous glances.

“Do you think a stranger’s just gonna step up and care for the kid? We ain’t got that luxury!”

“We’re all just scraping by. None of us knows what kind of life awaits us in the new land!”

“P-Please…”

At that moment, from inside the gray cloth, small, chubby, oddly pale hands emerged, reaching out towards the young mother.

Disoriented, the mother did not fear the eerier pair of hands. “Are you… God?”

“No!” The tiny person inside the cloth replied, surprised.

Their voice was dark, somber, and frighteningly hoarse, like that of a centenarian. The men were taken aback. None could tell if it belonged to a man or a woman, to a youth or the elderly, or even what their nationality was.

“If anything, you could say I am the antithesis of that.”

“It doesn’t matter who you are.”

“Huh?”

“My child’s father awaits our arrival… Once we make landfall… There’s a father waiting… and a home… for this child to begin anew… So, please,” the young mother murmured before wearily shutting her eyes.

Inside the cloth, the unsettling entity—be it child or elder, man or woman, human or animal—continued their observation. They showed no tenderness or human-like hesitation. Would this entity devour the weakened mother and wailing child?

The pale, chubby hands froze in mid-air. In the hold, silence descended. People lay down, sat, leaned against each other, and closed their eyes. Exhausted, they remained motionless. Like a scene from a medieval painting depicting the apocalypse, no one stirred. Not a sound echoed.

Surging waves rocked the humble vessel. The ship pressed on to the new land, parting the old, gray sea.

Battered, gloomy, dark, it evoked image of a colossal coffin ship from an ancient ghost story or a ship of fools cast into the depths, as recounted in medieval lore.

The ship sailed on. For the immigrants who had bid farewell to the old world, there was no turning back. Their only option was to cross the vast seas.

A dark night cloaked the sky, enshrouding the ship and dyeing the sea.

It was the summer shortly after the end of the second Great War.

Kazuya Kujou, a boy from a small Eastern island nation, had studied abroad in the Old World’s Kingdom of Sauville, where he encountered the enigmatic and lovely Victorique hidden within the library tower of a secluded academy. Descendant of the legendary Gray Wolves, she possessed a sharp intellect. But as war engulfed the world, she was imprisoned by her father, Marquis de Blois, a prominent figure in the kingdom’s Ministry of the Occult. She was drugged and exploited as an occult weapon to predict the war’s trajectory. Kazuya, repatriated, enlisted as a soldier. With the help of the mother wolf, Cordelia, Victorique fled her father’s clutches and crossed the ocean to reunite with Kazuya.

Just as the long storm subsided and they glimpsed the chance for a life together, Victorique and Kazuya found themselves swept up in fate’s machinations once more, compelling them to journey to the New World.

And the ship pressed on, ferrying souls across the sea that spanned the two continents. Time passed.

Sunlight pierced the portholes like beacons. Dawn returned. Stirring from slumber, the immigrants staggered to their feet. The ship slowed down. Its engine roared like a behemoth.

“We made it!” one exclaimed in their mother tongue.

“We’re here!”

“Land at last!”

One by one, the rest of the passengers woke up. Kazuya, too, found himself abruptly roused, blinking. He gently shook the mysterious figure beside him, concealed beneath the gray shroud.

“What is it?” they asked in a raspy, irritated voice.

“We’ve reached the New World.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

The small figure rose slowly.

Joining the throng of immigrants rushing up the stairs, the pair made their way to the deck. Footsteps sounded all around them, mingling with the chatter of the passengers. Despite accidentally stepping on each other’s feet, leaning against the wall, and bumping heads, they pressed on without concern.

Emerging into the open air, they breathed in the crisp morning breeze. The deck teemed with people from various nations of the Old World, lending the scene a festive air. They sang, danced, talked, and laughed in different languages.

“Look!”

“It’s the Statue of Liberty!”

Fingers pointed in unison.

Hand in hand, the pair gazed upward, slanted emerald eyes and round black ones alike fixated on the same sight. Even the sea had taken on a blue hue.

Bathed in the morning light, the Statue of Liberty lifted her torch aloft. A young and brave woman wearing a crown, with ample bosom, a toned abdomen, and rich buttocks. Her curly locks cascaded down her back, gleaming in the sunlight. She stood as the colossal guardian of the New World, her gaze fixed to a hopeful future.

The inscription engraved upon the statue’s pedestal had become the most famous poem in the world. Most immigrants had committed it to memory, regardless of their ability to read or understand English, reciting it in their minds throughout their arduous journey.

A fervent chant arose. The deck erupted into a chorus of languages—English, French, German, Yiddish, Italian, Greek.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

A gentle breeze swept through.

Tears flowed down the cheeks of those who had finished reciting the poem. The second storm had passed. They were survivors of the twilight of the gods. The chosen ones of the new deities. They might have been foes and comrades mere months ago, wielding arms as soldiers of rival nations. But the battles had ended, and there were no longer enemies or allies. The tempest had finally subsided. Everything was over. In this new world, let them embrace, laugh, and share affection freely.

Was that truly the case? Had the storm passed? Would they not be separated ever again?

Amidst the jubilant atmosphere on deck, the coffin ship, the medieval prison vessel, crept into the bustling morning harbor filled with cargo, workers, and vehicles, entering the new land.

Cargo was unloaded from the hold. Immigrants scrambled to disembark, eager to set foot on solid ground. Among them, one remained motionless—a young woman cradling a baby.

Noticing this, the small cloaked figure paused, observing. Kazuya too returned, bending to lift the emaciated woman. She had passed away with her eyes open. Death’s scythe had left marks on her pallid face. Her arms and legs were stiff, and her skin had turned a deathly gray.

The baby stirred, and burst out crying.

Kazuya closed the eyes of the deceased and murmured a prayer before rising. The shrouded figure remained motionless, their gaze fixed on the mother’s visage. A hand emerged from under the coarse cloth, touching the baby’s warm forehead. It trembled as if burned.

“Let’s go,” Kazuya said softly. “We’re leaving. Hey!” His tone shifted to an admonishing one.

But the person remained still. Taking a deep breath, he called out their name firmly.

“Victorique de Blois!”

“B-But Kujou,” she replied in a trembling, raspy voice.

“She’s gone! She’s passed on to the kingdom of God. So—”

“She was still alive hours ago. We traveled together. But when she fell ill, I couldn’t do anything.”

“Victorique…”

“What about you, Kujou?” Victorique said feebly.

Kazuya regarded her with bewilderment.

Around them, the air buzzed with activity—footsteps and swirling dust as people prepared to step outside. Summer’s intense sunlight pouring through the windows made motes of dust glitter.

The voice emitting from the cloth shifted to a more irritable tone. “It seems you’ve changed a bit.”

Kazuya countered, “You’re the one who’s changed! Y-You’re… different now… Uh…”

“What is it?”

The voice dipped ominously. Kazuya scratched his head.

“Um… You’ve grown nicer, maybe?”

Victorique snorted. “You must’ve thought you’ve chosen your words carefully,” she said gravely. “But your intentions are clear. You think I’ve grown weak. That I’ve become an ordinary, virtuous woman! And perhaps you’re a tad disappointed in that!” Her voice crackled.

Kazuya studied her with awe. The tattered gray cloth slowly slipped to the floor.

Cascades of radiant silver hair tumbled down, unraveling like a silk turban tinged with the colors of the night and gleaming with hints of pale gold. Emerald eyes glinted fiercely, framed by perfectly delicate features—a pert nose, cherry lips, and a pale complexion devoid of warmth. She was as beautiful as a highly-priced porcelain doll forgotten in a box for a thousand years, and impassive as a statue. A presence divine yet emitting with an eerie aura.

Her otherworldly beauty, compelling enough to warrant concealment within the cloth, remained unchanged, but whether it was due to the side effects of the drugs administered on her, or perhaps some other cause, her skin appeared paler, and her body thinner than before. A faint glimmer of soft light could be seen in her emerald green eyes.

Silently, Kazuya observed Victorique, sensing the beauty, the inexplicable darkness, the changes wrought by the storm, and the vestiges of the Old World.

After a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head. “No, that’s not it!”

“Hmm?” Victorique pouted, fixing him with a glare.

Kazuya clenched his fists. “I still think that deep down you haven’t changed a bit. But it’s like the old you is tucked away somewhere. In the depths of a medieval forest. You went through a lot during the second storm. It’s like you’re poking your face out of the woods, watching, wondering if you’re finally safe now. Am I wrong?” His words rang with conviction.

Victorique’s almond-shaped eyes briefly took on an even more enigmatic glint. Then, her voice, already raspy, turned sour.

“Hmph! It seems you’ve changed a bit, Kujou!”

“Really?”

“Yes. You used to be the one fussing over someone passing away. Have you become a cold, resigned mature man? Or perhaps…” Her green eyes locked with Kazuya’s black ones as she lowered her voice further. “Is the old you still lurking in the forests of the Far Eastern island country?”

“Well, I’m not sure…” Kazuya lapsed into silence. Then, with resolve, he raised his head, fists clenched. “Regardless, let’s keep moving forward, Victorique. We’ve crossed the interstitial sea. Let’s disembark and step onto the New World. Together!”

Victorique blinked.

Kazuya raised his fist earnestly. “I sense something awaits us. Adventures, dangers, or new encounters. I can’t say for sure, but…”

“Is that so?” Victorique’s response came surprisingly calm as she met Kazuya’s gaze.

He nodded firmly, shouldering the large suitcase.

No more words were exchanged. Kazuya, now taller, bore the luggage of two on his arms and shoulders. Victorique, her chubby cheeks pale, cradled the unfamiliar baby.

Together, they ascended the stairs.