The First, the Second, and Me
The thought that I hadn’t come here to be interrogated lingered in the back of my mind even the next day.
Delicious meals arrived without fail for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The cabin door was never locked from the outside. The sailors standing guard in the corridor didn’t bark at me like a criminal or prisoner.
Captain Grain’s words remained unchanged. I’ll take you back when this is over. Hmm. She really did seem to mean it.
Well, then. If we were going to be stuck on the same ship for a while, there was no harm in learning one another’s faces. No point in deliberately making myself hated. If anything, it would be smarter to leave a decent impression.
After all, we would be eating the same food, walking the same decks, and seeing the same faces for the foreseeable future—especially if these were the people who would eventually deliver me home.
The sailors aboard this vessel looked every bit as rough and menacing as the pirates on Pirate Island. The difference was that they were far quieter. They didn’t roar with laughter or trade stupid jokes. Instead, the moment an order left a superior’s lips they moved like a single blade. Efficient. Precise. Silent.
“Again.”
Captain Grain’s voice cracked across the deck. The sailors snapped into formation at once. Boots slammed against wet planks; scabbards and wooden swords clashed in sharp staccato. Once. Twice. Three times. I gave up counting somewhere in the middle.
“Too slow. Again.”
“Yes!”
“Your toes collapsed first. Again.”
“Yes!”
Not one word of complaint. Their breathing turned ragged, sweat slid down their necks, and a few gloved hands began to tremble. Yet the line never wavered.
“Again.”
The short command fell once more.
The pirates on Pirate Island had been filthy and loud. They reeked of cheap rum, cackled like hyenas, and spat vulgar curses while swaggering about with blades at their hips. Captain Grain’s sailors were the opposite—quiet. Commands instead of curses. The thud of boots instead of laughter. Their faces might have been just as brutal, but the pressure here was heavier than any noisy tavern. It felt difficult even to breathe freely.
Getting close to them would not be easy.
The moment I assumed training had finally ended, Captain Grain did not lower her sword.
“Lieutenant.”
“Yes.”
“Face me.”
The lieutenant’s eyebrows twitched by a fraction. Still, he raised his sword.
“Again.”
Doesn’t she need rest too? By the time the thought surfaced, training had finally ended.
The sailors exhaled the breaths they had been holding and began peeling off their gloves. No one collapsed despite their exhaustion. Shoulders that had been ramrod straight now sagged a fraction; deep sighs rose here and there.
One sailor paused while removing his glove. The inside of his palm was raw red. Several large blisters had formed, a few already burst and leaking.
“Are you hurt?” I trotted over and asked.
He lifted his head. “No.”
“Your face says otherwise.”
“……”
I took out the small medicine bottle I had prepared and stepped closer. “I’ll apply it for you.”
“This is nothing.”
“It’ll fester if you leave it.”
The cap was tighter than expected. I gripped it with both hands and twisted. Nothing. I bit my lip, straining again. My fingers slipped with a pathetic squeak. Heat flooded my face.
The sailor sighed, took the bottle from me, and popped the cap open with two fingers before handing it back.
“Here.”
“Thank you.” I smiled. “I’ll still apply it.”
He stared down at me for a long moment, brows furrowed. I thought he would refuse. Instead he cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away.
“…Do as you like.”
Then he silently offered his hand.
Oh. So he wasn’t entirely opposed. This was enough. There was no need to push too hard at the beginning. It was better to tend to the small things I noticed, one by one.
When wet gloves lay abandoned, I picked them up and dried them near the cabin stove. To the night sentry shivering in the sea wind I offered a cup of warm water. When a sailor rose without finishing his meal, I quietly slid an extra piece of bread onto his plate.
“Aren’t you eating?”
“I am.”
He answered curtly and eventually put the bread in his mouth.
They looked frightening—harsh, twisted faces, voices low and threatening, hands large enough to crush my skull. Yet they weren’t so different from the pirates in the Pirate Island taverns. The only real differences were the smell of iron instead of rum and short commands instead of laughter.
And sailors—whether navy or pirate—shared one peculiar trait. They scoffed at invisible gods on clear days, yet when storms howled and the ship bucked like a dying beast, they prayed more desperately than anyone, crossing themselves with trembling fingers.
Tasha’s words drifted back to me. The sea is wide, and human hearts are small. Nothing soothes a small heart quite like a nun’s habit.
I had taken money for it then, but I had no intention of doing so here. What I needed more than coins was familiarity. A little goodwill. The absence of awkwardness with the people on this ship. So these small acts didn’t seem so bad.
“Would you like me to pray for you?”
It was right before a reconnaissance team set out into the clouded sea. One of the sailors preparing to depart glanced at me.
“Pray?”
“Yes. For your safe return.”
The man beside him snorted. “Aren’t you just a novice nun who hasn’t even received proper baptism? Wouldn’t your prayers be too weak to work?”
I pouted and retorted, “The effect lessens if the recipient doubts.”
“Oh, is that how it works?”
“Of course.” I clasped my hands. “Besides, if a young, pretty girl prays with all her heart, don’t you think God might watch a little more closely?”
The sailor looked down at me, then gave a low chuckle.
“Then I’ll ask for it, little nun.”
That day the reconnaissance team returned safely. Nothing dramatic had happened. The weather was decent and there had been no fighting. Yet the next day a rumor spread that the wind had been unusually favorable.
The day after, a team that nearly scraped a reef returned without a scratch. Then someone muttered in quiet wonder, “Not one man scraped today.”
It was probably coincidence. Most likely. But sailors never left coincidence alone.
A few days later, more and more men began lingering in front of me before heading out.
“Little nun.”
“Yes?”
“Just once.”
“A prayer?”
He didn’t answer. He simply stood there, looking down. I gazed up for a moment, then meekly clasped my hands.
“…May you return safely without injury.”
When the prayer ended, a rough hand rested briefly on my head. Hard palm, calloused fingers. Yet the touch that stroked my crown was careful and gentle. The hand soon withdrew.
Another sailor stepped forward. “Me too.”
“A prayer?”
No answer. I clasped my hands a little later. The third man said nothing at all. He simply stood in front of me with a blunt face. After looking up at him, I clasped my hands once more.
“…Return safely.”
After several days of this, the sailors’ attitudes toward me began to shift. An extra piece of bread sometimes appeared on my plate. On deck, someone would silently yield the spot less exposed to the wind. When I struggled with a heavy water bucket, a large hand would descend and take the handle.
“I was going to carry it.”
“It’s heavy.”
“It’s not. I’m fine.”
“It’s heavy.”
The conversation ended there. After setting the bucket down, the sailor placed his hand on my head once before walking away.
These men might be simpler than I thought.
That didn’t mean the ship’s atmosphere had grown lax. The same hands that added bread to my plate would silently lift swords when training began. The thud of boots echoed across the deck again.
That day’s training was long. The deck was still soaked from yesterday’s rain and seawater, yet Captain Grain showed no sign of stopping. The sailors tensed their toes to keep from slipping.
“Again.”
Every time her voice fell, the formation reset. Breathing grew ragged. Sword grips loosened. Someone’s foot slipped, but they immediately recovered. Captain Grain watched until the end.
“Breathing.”
“Yes!”
“Again.”
“Yes!”
She drove them hard but never crossed the line. When their breathing threatened to collapse she cut it short. When someone misstepped she made them correct their stance rather than push harder.
Yet the moment those brief gaps ended, it was always Captain Grain who raised her sword first. The sailors at least had time to catch their breath, roll their wrists, or wipe sweat from their necks. She allowed herself no such mercy.
When training finally ended, the sailors stood swallowing their exhaustion while maintaining formation. Captain Grain was drenched in sweat as well. The instant she lowered her sword she turned away—not like someone seeking rest, but like someone heading to receive the next report.
Does that person truly never rest?
My eyes went to the water bucket. A damp towel lay beside it. After a brief hesitation I picked up both. Water sloshed in the cup with every step. The towel was heavier than it looked. I cradled it carefully with both hands and stood before her.
“You worked hard.”
Captain Grain stopped. Her steady black eyes looked down at me. I held out the cup.
“Please wipe your sweat and drink some water.”
She did not take it immediately. For a very brief moment there was only silence. The water sloshed again. Did I overstep? Just as the thought formed, her hand moved. The cold glass slid smoothly from my small hands. The damp towel followed gently.
“……”
Captain Grain stared down at the towel without speaking. I quickly turned away. I still had the other sailors to tend to.
“I have more towels.”
The sailor paused, then held out his hand. As I passed him the towel and turned, another sailor subtly blocked my path.
“Me too.”
“A towel?”
“No.” He looked awkwardly aside. “That… thing you do before we head out.”
“Ah, a prayer?”
He didn’t answer, only cleared his throat. I chuckled softly.
“You could have just said so.”
His gaze slid even further away. Taking that as consent, I clasped my hands.
“Please return safely by all means.”
“Today it’s deck patrol.”
“Then please don’t slip.”
“…Understood.”
When the prayer ended, his thick hand rested carefully atop my head.
Grain watched the scene while holding the cup. Ria moved ceaselessly among the sailors on quick, light steps—offering towels, carrying water, never passing a weary face without stopping.
The sailors grumbled at her meddling but accepted it all the same. When her hands couldn’t reach and she rose onto her toes, they silently bent their knees for her. Grain’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.
“Is there any problem with discipline?”
Her gaze remained fixed on the deck. It didn’t seem good for discipline. Sailors bowing their heads. Extending their hands. Men who once waited only for orders now reacting first to a small voice.
She didn’t like it. The way that tiny body darted busily among them. The way she reached out fearlessly before men far larger than herself. The way she smiled as though it were nothing while carrying an armful of towels and cups.
A memory from a few days earlier surfaced. Ria had stopped at the end of the corridor, clutching her neck, unable to release the railing for a long time.
She had smiled and said she was fine, but her face had been bloodless. With such a fragile body. If she had strength enough to help others, she should tend to herself first.
Looking after others should come second. The battlefield trampled fragile hearts before anything else. No one on the battlefield waited patiently for the circumstances of the weak.
Acting that way helped no one. Approaching with a smile only invited a knife in the back. A little medicine didn’t mend torn flesh. A few words of prayer didn’t bring back the dead.
Yet even after being told that, she still looked after others before herself, tended their wounds even as her own split open, turned back for those left behind even when the retreat order sounded, said she was fine, it was nothing, behaving that way again and again until, in the final moment—
“Please bend down a little.”
A small voice laced with laughter cut through. The metallic stench of blood that had clung to her nose vanished. Screams, the muddy ground, the smoke-blurred vision—all of it washed away at once. What remained was only the clear deck of a warship. Sea breeze. The scent of wet wood. The warm towel against her palm.
Ria stood on tiptoe before one sailor. He was so tall that simply looking up seemed difficult for her. The sailor silently bent his knee.
“Don’t get hurt. Return safely.”
Ria’s small white hands clasped neatly beneath her chin. It was too plain and short to call a nun’s prayer—lacking doctrine or ritual. Yet the moment it ended, the sailor’s hand rested carefully atop her head. A rough, large hand. Strangely light and tender.
Only then did the lieutenant answer.
“No, Captain. On the contrary, they throw themselves into training more earnestly than before.”
Grain said nothing. The lieutenant watched the warm scene on deck and gave a low chuckle.
“The little nun has an eerie talent for spotting the ones who worked hardest. One prayer and a pat on the head may not seem like much, but it appears to work quite well on these sea dogs.”
“On training.”
“There is no interference whatsoever.” The lieutenant answered at once. “Rather, pointless friction has decreased.”
Grain’s gaze slid sideways. “Friction has decreased?”
“After training they usually start cursing immediately. Growling when shoulders bump, shoving to drink water first.”
The lieutenant looked toward the deck and laughed quietly. “These days they’re busy swallowing their harsh words whenever they pass the little nun.”
“……”
“After receiving a towel and a pat on the head they even pretend to be decent men for no reason.”
The lieutenant gave a small shrug. “Sea dogs are simple creatures.”
Grain looked down at the cup in her hand. The water had already gone cold.
“Then it’s fine.”
Discipline had not collapsed. Training had not been hindered. Then there was no reason to pay it any mind. Grain wiped the remaining sweat from her palm with the towel.
The cloth Ria had brought was still lukewarm. The warmth of those small hands lingered in the fabric. The sticky sweat vanished quickly, yet her palm still did not feel clean.
Even after the moisture was gone, something thin seemed to cling to her fingertips. Grain rubbed her hand once more. It refused to disappear.
Captain Grain’s pursuit did not stop. While I moved among the sailors carrying towels and medicine bottles and offering something like prayers, the investigation team continued to descend to the port.
Some of the men who had gone out after receiving my prayers headed straight to the captain’s quarters upon their return.
There were days when an unfamiliar sailor was dragged aboard with wrists bound. The smuggler stood before the door with his head bowed for a long time. Reports piled on the desk every night. Port names. Ship names. Warehouses. Taverns. Missing sailors. And Tasha’s name.
Late that afternoon, Captain Grain summoned me. Several reports and a wanted poster lay spread across the desk. At the very top rested an old poster. I recognized it without needing to look long.
Former Kingdom Naval Officer. Traitor who stole a naval vessel and defied orders. Black hair loosely tied. Slanted mouth. Playful eyes. Capture alive at all costs.
“It’s about the tavern where you were held captive,” Grain said.
“…Yes.”
“I heard Tasha visited that place several times.”
She pressed the edge of the report with her finger.
“Can you tell me what you know?”
It had come.
“Did you see him at the tavern?”
“Yes. I saw him a few times as a customer.”
“What did you speak about?”
“We didn’t talk much. I simply thought he was a customer.” After a moment I added, “Whenever he entered the tavern, the noisy pirates who usually filled the place would fall silent as if they were dead.”
Grain’s eyes never left the poster. I looked at it again. Tasha was suspicious. He reeked of money and seemed skilled at lies. Still, he hadn’t seemed like a truly evil person. I kept that to myself. My gaze instead caught on the line beneath the portrait.
Must be taken alive.
It was different from the others. Some read “dead or alive.” Some granted permission to kill. A few had been crossed out in red. Only Tasha’s was different.
“Captain. Why this one?”
Grain’s gaze turned to me. I pointed at the sentence.
“Why must he be captured alive?”
The answer did not come at once. The woman in the poster smiled crookedly. Grain’s eyes remained fixed on the red letters beneath that smile.
“That man is a former officer of the Kingdom Navy.” Her voice was low. “He came from a noble house that had produced naval officers guarding the Kingdom’s seas for generations.”
I looked at the poster again. Tasha was still smiling. Grain’s fingertips rested right beneath that smiling mouth.
“Such a person stole a Kingdom ship and betrayed orders.”
The words were stiff, as if she were reading directly from the report.
“This person is not to be dealt with on site.”
The finger pressing down twitched with minute force, as though suppressing rage. The edge of the poster crumpled. The paper creaked.
“He is to be escorted back to the homeland and placed before a military tribunal.”
Having spoken that far, Grain closed her mouth. It seemed the explanation was finished. Yet her strong fingertips remained pressed beneath Tasha’s smiling face. A little more pressure. The crumpled corner of the paper curled upward.
“That is the order.”
Her voice stayed low and rigid. The words had not come easily. Her fingertips remained on the poster. The curled edge refused to flatten.
I closed my mouth. It seemed wiser not to ask anything more.
At that exact moment, urgent footsteps halted outside the door.
“Captain. Report from the deck combat command post.”
Grain’s gaze finally left the crumpled poster.
“Sit here quietly and wait.”
Her voice had already returned to its usual calm, as though emotion had never touched it. She covered Tasha’s ruined poster with other thick documents and rose. The poster was half buried beneath the pile, but the crumpled corner remained visible.
The door opened with a heavy thud and closed at once. A sharp gust of fishy sea wind sliced through the narrowing gap. With it, an old sheet of paper that had been hanging off the edge of the desk slid belatedly and fell.
Thud.
What lay on the floor was not a report. It was a photograph.