Mini Brain Dumps

Hello everyone! We’re diving back into Darkest Depths with Chapter 9 and… another surprise chapter! Thank you so much for your continued support and enthusiasm for this journey!

If you’re new to the story or need a refresher, you can catch up on the beginning of the novel here: Beginning of the Story.

Missed Chapter 8? No problem! You can read it here: Previous Chapter.

Trigger Warning: This novel contains references to sexual assault and mental health disorders. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 9:

The streets of Marielle were quiet as he made his way through the narrow and twisting streets. The lanterns swung in the slight breeze that came in from the ocean, carrying with it the scent of the sea. His footsteps echoed off the cobblestones as he walked, looking around at the town once more before he left everything he had ever known behind.

His stomach was a mess of butterflies, and a part of him felt like he was going to throw up if he walked too fast. He admired the stain glass windows of the cathedral as he passed, the spires rising into the sky, and he was reminded of Lucy and him climbing the hundreds of steps to the top when they were younger. As he passed through the town square, he thought of the Sunfire Festival, of spinning in circles with Lucy to the sounds of fiddles as they moved across the cobblestones. The memories of what he was leaving behind seemed to haunt him with every step.

He glanced back at the darkened streets, first towards where he instinctively knew his house to lay just beyond the town limits, then back in the direction he had just come. For a moment he thought of Lucy and of their goodbye. He knew that she knew he was leaving, but it still didn’t make it easier.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered under his breath, puffs of cloud coming from his mouth in the slightly chilled air.

As he came to the port, Quentin scanned the harbor, his eyes flitting from one ship to another. In a perfect world, he would’ve been able to earn his keep on Captain Elias’s ship, able to sail the seas without a care in the world. But in Quentin’s current reality, he didn’t have the money to buy himself passage onto a ship, nor did he have anyone who he knew who would take a chance on a scrawny kid like him. His only option was to find a ship, and pray that they wouldn’t throw him overboard the minute they found out he wasn’t supposed to be there.

He was searching for the perfect vessel to stow away on. As he stood at the edge of the harbor, his gaze swept over the myriad vessels moored in the moonlit waters. Then, his gaze settled on the ship he had seen in the port just the other day – the one with the king of the beasts etched into the bulkhead.

It was the same ship that the red-haired lady had been in front of it that day he had been at the docks. It was the same lady one he had bumped into at Eloise’s bakery the day he had went on errands for his mom. The red-haired lady had smiled at him and had told him it was no problem when he had nearly toppled her over. She had been nice to him then, a stark contrast to how she acted in front of her crew on the docks, but perhaps her sternness was only an act. Maybe, when it came down to it, she would take pity on him if she were to discover him. It was a risk, but one he was willing to take.

With quiet determination, Quentin untied the ropes of his small rowboat, the wood creaking softly in protest as it bobbed on the surface of the water. He cast off from the dock, the night air was cool against his skin, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea. Casting a final glance over his shoulder, Quentin pushed off from the dock, the oars dipping into the water with a quiet splash. Each stroke propelled him further from the safety of the harbor, closer to the unknown expanse of the sea.

As Quentin’s rowboat glided through the tranquil waters of the harbor, his gaze fixated on the looming silhouette of the majestic vessel he had spotted earlier. The moonlight danced upon its midnight black sails, casting an ethereal glow that illuminated the figurehead carved in the likeness of a lion. The ship stood as a testament to centuries of maritime history, its sturdy oak hull weathered by countless voyages across treacherous seas.

The lion’s mane, expertly sculpted from the same wood, seemed to ripple in an unseen breeze, framing the figurehead’s noble face with waves of intricately carved curls. But it was the lion’s eyes that held Quentin’s attention captive. They gleamed with an otherworldly intensity, reflecting the silver light of the moon as if imbued with a fierce spirit that watched over the ship and its crew.

With each passing moment, Quentin felt a sense of awe wash over him, a reverence for the vessel that stood before him, proud and unyielding against the backdrop of the starry sky. It was as if the ship was calling out to him, beckoning him to seize the opportunity of adventure that lay before him. As Quentin paddled closer, he couldn’t help but marvel at the lion’s expression – regal yet fierce, its mouth frozen in a silent roar that spoke of power and authority.

Through the darkness, Quentin saw the ship’s name emblazoned in golden letters on the side: The Sovereign. The very name sent shivers down his spine, filling him with a sense of reverence for the vessel that had captured his imagination and ignited his spirit of adventure. With steady but cautious strokes, Quentin guided his rowboat towards The Sovereign, his heart pounding.

Nearing the ship, Quentin spotted a rope ladder hanging over the side, swaying gently in the breeze. With a surge of determination, he maneuvered the rowboat as close as he dared and reached for the ladder, his fingers slipping on the slick, wet rope. Muscles straining, heart pounding, Quentin pulled himself up rung by rung.

With his heart pounding like a drum in his chest, Quentin scrambled up the rope ladder, his hands slick with sweat gripping onto the rough hemp. Each rung brought him closer to the deck of the ship, his breath catching in his throat as he imagined the consequences of being caught. Finally, Quentin hoisted himself over the rail and onto the deck, his muscles trembling with exertion.

The ship loomed around him, its towering mast stretching towards the star-studded sky like a sentinel guarding the secrets of the sea. With a wary glance around, Quentin knew he needed to find a place to hide – and fast.

With cautious steps, Quentin slipped into the shelter of the ship’s cargo hold, breathing a sigh of relief as he found a hiding spot. Nestling himself amidst the crates and barrels, he pressed against the rough wood, feeling its solidity beneath his fingertips. His heart still raced with adrenaline from his daring feat, but a sense of quiet triumph washed over him as he realized he had succeeded, at least for the moment.

As the night wore on, the ship remained anchored in the harbor, its massive form swaying gently. Quentin listened to the distant sounds of the crew preparing for departure, as the first light of dawn began to peek over the horizon, casting a golden glow over the harbor.

With each passing moment, Quentin’s exhaustion began to catch up with him, his eyelids growing heavy with fatigue. He leaned back against the oak wall of the cargo hold, his breathing slowing as he succumbed to sleep. In the darkness, surrounded by the comforting scent of salt and wood, he allowed himself to drift into a restless slumber, his dreams filled with visions of uncharted waters.  

Chapter 10:

Quentin’s heart jumped into his throat as he was jostled awake by the swaying of the ship. He blinked a few times to clear his vision and to let his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the cracks of the ship’s hull. He tried to shake of the remnants of unconsciousness.

With a groan, Quentin clutched his churning stomach, knuckles white as he battled against the rising tide of sickness. He pushed himself into an upright position, his head swimming. The scent of salt hung heavy in the air, mingling with the stale aroma of sweat and damp wood. Despite the overwhelming urge to surrender to the sickness, Quentin knew that he could not afford to let the nausea consume him.

His eyes scanned the cargo hold, hoping to find something to throw up in. In his frantic search, he discovered a small wooden crate tucked away in a corner. He got on his hands and knees and half crawled, half dragged himself towards it. As he approached the crate, the contents in his stomach churned and he barely had enough time to grab it before retching into the crate. As he emptied the contents of his roiling stomach, a wave of relief washed over him, temporarily easing his nausea.

Leaning heavily against the cool, rough surface of the ship’s hull, Quentin took a moment to catch his breath. Doubts gnawed at the edges of his mind as he wondered if he had made a grave mistake. Was he ready for the challenges that lay ahead? The adrenaline rush from boarding the ship was starting to wear off, replaced by a deepening sense of apprehension about his uncertain future. But there was no time for doubt now. Quentin knew he had to push forward.

Quentin moved silently, clutching his crate to his chest; his footsteps muffled by the creaking of the ship. He scanned the rows of cargo, searching for any sign of food or water. Though the thought of eating made him want to vomit again, he knew he would need something for later.

He made his way through the rows slowly, digging through the barrels. After what felt like an eternity later, Quentin’s eyes fell upon a crate tucked away in a corner, its lid partially ajar. With trembling hands, he pried it open to reveal somewhat he had been searching for – dried biscuits, salted fish, and a few precious bottles of fresh water. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. He grabbed a handful before placing the lid back onto the crate, hoping that if someone came to check on their food storage that they wouldn’t notice the meager amount he had taken.

Quentin found himself leaning against the wall, straining to catch every sound that drifted in from the hallway outside, his senses on high alert. The faintest of noises echoing through the ship, causing his skin to crawl as he through about what would happen if he was caught. Would they make him walk the plank? Throw him overboard? Would they hear him out and let him stay? He strained to distinguish the sounds of footsteps from the shifting of cargo, the murmured conversations of the crew from the groaning of the timbers. Every rustle of fabric, every creak of the floorboards sent a holt of adrenaline coursing through his veins, a stark reminder of the perilous fame he was playing.

As the day stretched on, Quentin’s stomach growled with hunger, protesting the meager sustenance he had manage to scavenge. With reluctant fingers, he reached for one of the dried biscuits, forcing himself to nibble on it despite the dryness that parched his throat. He washed it down with a sip of water, the cool liquid providing some relief to his parched lips.

Time seemed to drag on endlessly, the hours blending into one another in a haze. Quentin’s muscles grew stiff and sore in protest the unnatural stillness he had to maintain. He tried to stretch his legs our as much as possible in the cramped space, massaging them to remove the aches, but it only offered a slight reprieve.

“…Headin’ for the port of St. Marlo,” one of the crew members remarked, his voice carrying a hint of excitement. “Got a lucrative cargo to offload there, if the winds’ll allow us to get there on time.”

At the mention of St. Marlo, he swallowed hard, his palms growing clammy as he imagined the bustling port city, he’d only heard tales of – a place where fortunes were made and lost, where every corner held the promise of adventure. But St. Marlo was weeks away at best, and Quentin couldn’t stay hidden for that long without being discovered.

His mind raced. He needed to find a way to blend in with the crew – a task easier said than done. The crew members he had seen were all dressed in rough, practical attire, their clothing stained and weathered from long days at sea. There had to be spare clothing he could use somewhere on the ship. He just needed to find it.

But moving about the ship in the daytime would be too risky; he could easily be seen by the crew. They were observant, and he couldn’t afford to make a mistake. He’d have to wait until darkness provided him with the cover he needed to move about unseen.

As hours passed, Quentin’s anxiety grew. For a moment he contemplated staying hidden for the entirety of the trip, if he rationed his food enough, he would be able to make it. But what would happen when they docked? He wouldn’t have enough food for the trip back. Besides, stowing away in a storage room was not really his idea of an adventure. Staring out the cracks in the hull at the open sea was almost as bad as spending his days just off the shore of Marseille in his boat. No, getting a disguise was the only way. He had to do it.

Finally, as daylight faded and darkness enveloped the ship, Quentin knew it was time to act. With careful movements, he emerged from his hiding spot. With a silent prayer for luck, Quentin ventured into the maze of corridors and stairwells that crisscrossed the ship. He moved quickly and quietly, avoiding the gaze of any crew members he encountered as he searched.

Quentin’s heart raced as he searched the ship’s storage rooms, moving as quietly as he could. When he heard approaching footsteps, he would duck into an alcove or hallway and pray that he was not discovered. It was slow work. Too slow. Each moment he spent out of the cargo hold, the greater the chance he would be discovered.

Finally, in a dark corner near the bow, he found it. A pair of trousers and a sweat stained white top. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he grabbed a handful of clothes, his hands trembling. Now to make it back to his hiding spot.

As Quentin cautiously made his way back across the deck, keeping towards the shadows as much as possible, his arms laden with stolen clothes, he froze at the sound of approaching footsteps. Turning, he saw a crew member emerging from the shadows, their gaze locking onto him.

“Lost, are we?” the crew member asked, a crooked smile on his face.

Quentin’s throat tightened, he tried to laugh but it sounded hollow to his ears. He cringed at the strained sound. “Ah, just getting my bearings,” he managed, his voice crackling slightly.

The crew member raised an eyebrow, nodding towards the clothes. “You must be new here…”

“Uh, yes,” Quentin stammered.

The crew member chuckled. “Laundry is down that way,” he said, pointing towards the end of the corridor. “You can’t miss it.”

With a grateful nod, Quentin watched as the crew member continued their way. He breathed a sigh of relief, his shoulders deflating. He hadn’t been caught. Not yet. With renewed determination, he hurried back to the safety of the cargo hold.

As he settled back into his hiding spot, he set down the stolen clothes onto one of the crates. The fabric was coarse and worn, but Quentin knew it was his best chance at blending in with the crew. He quickly discarded his own clothes, exchanging them for the ones he had stolen, feeling a sense of unease at the thought of impersonating a crew member.

Quentin’s jaw clenched as he wrestled with his discomfort, a knot of unease tightening in hi stomach. Yet, the urgency of his situation spurred him forward, driving him to continue. Survival depended on his ability to adapt and overcome the challenges that lay ahead. With determination fueling his every move, he set about making the stolen fit as best he could, adjusting the sleeves and trousers to match his own proportions.

Once he was satisfied with his makeshift disguise, Quentin allowed himself a moment of respite, sinking down against the cool, wooden floor of the cargo hold. He felt like a stone was crushing him underneath it’s weigh, a heavy burden threatening to crush him.

But Quentin refused to succumb to despair. He had come too far to turn back now.
As he lay there, contemplating his next move, an unsettling sensation crept over him—the distinct feeling of being watched. Before he could decipher its source, a sharp voice pierced the silence.

“Hey, you there!”

Startled, Quentin spun around to see a familiar figure emerging from the shadows. It was a young woman, her red curls tied back in a bandana. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her tone cutting through the air like a sharpened blade.

“Jeez, how long have you been there?” Quentin said, his cheeks warming as he realized she must have seen him changing.

“Long enough,” she answered, crossing her arms in front of her chest, and narrowing her eyes at him. “What are you doing…?”

“Did you see me naked?” Quentin asked.

He saw a hint of red touch her cheeks. “Um… yes,” she said. “But it… it..” she stammered.

Quentin raised his hand to cut her off. “It’s fine. Next time though… maybe make yourself known before… you know,” he said, gesturing towards his discarded clothes.

“Noted,” she said. “You never answered me. What are you doing on my ship?”

“I…I can explain,” he managed, his voice faltering.

The woman narrowed her eyes. She took a step closer. “You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” she said, her words slicing through the air like shards of glass.

“I know I shouldn’t be here, but… but I had no other choice.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “No other choice?” she echoed; quirking her eyebrow at him.

“I’m running,” he confessed. “I want more. I want to see the world, not be stuck in Marielle for the rest of my life without even living,” Quentin began. “I know I shouldn’t be here, but… but I had to take this chance. My one chance at escaping.”

He waited, the silence growing so heavy he felt like he was suffocating.

The woman’s gaze softened. “We’re all running from something,” she murmured.

He watched as she closed her eyes, the internal debate going on in her head strong. She shook her head and breathe deeply. At last, she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Very well, then,” she said. “You may stay, but I will not have you be a freeloader. You will work alongside the crew, eat with them, sleep with them, and perhaps learn a thing or two about how hard the life of a sailor truly is,” she took a step forward. “Otherwise, I’ll have you sleeping with the fish.”

“Quentin Hayes, at your service…um….” he trailed off.

“Catherine Sinclair,” she introduced herself. “Most people call me Cate though.”

“Got it, Miss Sinclair,” Quentin said, saluting her.

Cate rolled her eyes. “There’s no need for formalities, Cate will do.”

“As you wish, Catherine,” Quentin replied with a mock bow.

Cate shook her head and turned on her heel. “I’ll see you at dawn,” she called over her shoulder. As she reached the door she turned back to him. “And don’t be late,” she said before disappearing, leaving Quentin alone.

As he watched her disappear into the shadows of the ship, he couldn’t help but grin.

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