The cold cuts into his skin, spreads out like a wound along his side. He applies pressure to the throb, feels the pounding of blood through his veins.

He rocks along with the waves, the hum of the gentle sea stroking the hull. The deck dips just to the left and he can hear the anchor behind lowered – the groan of chains and the splash of water.

Footsteps.

The stars lie up in the sky, fragments of the moon's reflection.

Footsteps stop; a shadow drips over the deck beside him, melts into his.

They say nothing – he tips his straw hat over his eyes and the second shadow shifts its weight. He can tell that the other has a bandana on. It may already be dark enough but both of them hide their eyes and avert them to the horizon.

There is no one else on the deck but there is the clatter of cutlery and muted voices spilling from the kitchen.

He makes out blurred outlines of other ships in the distance. The other fleets were keeping their distance, some sort of messy armada sworn to follow him. He personally preferred to hand-pick his crew members but as time wore on and he got older, wearier, it didn't matter anymore as dreams were claimed while worlds were destroyed, rebuilt, conquered.

It's been so long but he can still remember damp tears in the crook of his neck, the exhale of thanks into the shell of his ear. Old wounds ache as memory diminishes and even those impressions on his skin were fading.

He did not have a shirt with a breast pocket like his cook but pant pockets were useful, and it is then he reaches in, rummages around. He taps a cigarette out from its case, presses the edge just to his lips. The other stretches forward, clicks open a lighter.

Fire leaps to existence, its light piercing the darkness.

In the moments between sleeping and waking, he holds onto the warmth of a hand in his that was just like the flames dancing off his eyes.