I stand at the ship's rail as Okeon's coastline disappears into the morning haze, my fingers clutching Kai's pendant as I process the finality of leaving everything behind. The initial excitement of the sea voyage and the adventure ahead feels romantic, full of possibility. But as the Stella Polaris encounters the deeper waters of the open ocean, that romance quickly transforms into something much less pleasant.
Within hours of departure, as we hit the natural swells of the deep ocean, the constant rolling and pitching motion begins to affect me in ways I never anticipated. At first, it's just a slight queasiness. A sense of unsteadiness that I try to ignore. I've survived capture, slavery, combat—surely I can handle the motion of a ship.
But seasickness proves to be unlike any challenge I've faced before. It's not an enemy I can fight or a problem I can solve through determination. The nausea builds gradually, then suddenly overwhelms me completely. I try to hide my discomfort at first, not wanting to appear weak in front of the crew or other passengers. But soon I'm retching over the side of the ship, my body betraying me in the most humiliating way possible.
Frazier guides me below deck to our cramped cabin. A space so small that when one person moves, the other must adjust. The cabin contains two narrow bunks stacked against one wall, a tiny fold-down table, and a single porthole that provides the only natural light. Our travel packs take up most of the remaining floor space, making movement even more restricted.
"This will pass," Frazier tells me as he helps me into the lower bunk. "Everyone gets seasick their first time on the ocean."
But I'm already too miserable to take comfort in his words. The constant motion that seemed gentle on deck feels magnified below. I can't see the horizon or feel the wind. Every roll of the ship sends waves of nausea through my core.
My condition rapidly deteriorates from uncomfortable to debilitating. The seasickness is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Waves of nausea that seem to originate from my very center. Dizziness that makes even lying still feel like spinning. A weakness that leaves me unable to lift my head without triggering more retching. I can't keep water down, much less food, and the dehydration makes everything worse.
I'm mortified by my helplessness. This is the woman who survived her village's destruction, endured capture and slavery, learned swordplay, and killed her former captors in combat. Yet I'm defeated by the simple motion of a ship.
"I'm sorry," I whisper after another bout of dry heaving, my voice weak and hoarse. "I'm so sorry. I thought I was stronger than this."
"The sea doesn't care how strong you are on land," Frazier replies gently, dampening a cloth with our precious fresh water. "It humbles everyone eventually. Even experienced sailors get sick in rough weather."
He helps me arrange our single thin blanket around my shivering form. The cabin feels like a prison. Cramped, stuffy, and constantly moving in ways that make my stomach lurch. Through the thin walls, I can hear other passengers talking, laughing, going about their normal activities while I lie helpless and miserable.
The worst part is feeling like a burden. We're on this dangerous journey because of my quest for freedom. Now I'm too sick to contribute anything. Frazier has to take care of me like a child, and I hate the dependency almost as much as the nausea.
What follows is a period of unexpected tenderness that reshapes my understanding of Frazier entirely. He becomes my constant caretaker. He empties the basin when I'm sick, brings damp cloths to cool my fevered forehead, and coaxes me to take tiny sips of water even when I protest I can't keep it down.
His care is methodical and gentle, but never condescending. He doesn't make me feel ashamed of my weakness or impatient with my needs. When I apologize for the mess, the smell, the constant attention I require, he simply says, "This isn't your fault. Bodies do what they do."
He uses minor healing magic. Not enough to cure the seasickness entirely, but sufficient to ease the worst of the symptoms and help me rest. His hands glow with soft warmth as he places them on my stomach. I feel the churning settle slightly, the cramping ease.
"Better?" he asks quietly after each healing session, and I nod, too weak to speak but grateful beyond words.
The ship's cook, Harren, proves unexpectedly helpful. The gruff man has seen plenty of seasick passengers over the years and knows what might help. He brings plain ship's biscuits soaked in weak broth until they're soft enough for me to manage. Also ginger root to chew and peppermint tea that sometimes stays down.
"Small bites," Frazier instructs, supporting my head as I try to eat. "Don't think about keeping it down, just focus on the taste." When I inevitably lose even these small amounts, he simply cleans up without complaint and tries again later.
During my worst periods, when I'm too weak to do anything but lie still and try not to move in ways that trigger more nausea, Frazier sits beside my bunk reading by lamplight. The cabin is too small for privacy, so I become intimately familiar with his habits—how he turns pages carefully to avoid rustling that might disturb me, how he sometimes mouths words silently when reading complex passages, how he periodically checks on me without making it obvious.
I discover that he's brought a small collection of poetry along with his magical texts—something I never would have expected from him. When I'm too weak to sleep but too sick to talk, he sometimes reads aloud in a low, soothing voice. The words wash over me like a gentle current, giving me something to focus on besides my misery.
One evening, during a particularly rough patch of weather that has the ship pitching violently, I wake to find him braced against the wall, one hand on my bunk to prevent me from being thrown out by the ship's violent motion. He's been there for hours, I realize, protecting my sleep while sacrificing his own comfort.
"You don't have to..." I start to say, but he cuts me off with a gentle "Rest."
I begin to see him differently during these quiet hours. Without the complications of our physical relationship or the power dynamics of our daily interactions, I observe his simple competence and kindness. He reads quietly, tends to our gear, and watches over me with a patience I never expected from him.
The man who bought me as property is caring for me with no expectation of return, no demand for gratitude, no impatience with my weakness. It's a side of him I've glimpsed before but never seen so clearly—the person he might have been if circumstances had been different, if slavery and magical contracts hadn't defined our relationship.
On the fourth day, I wake to find the nausea has finally begun to recede. I'm still weak and shaky, but the constant churning in my stomach has settled to a manageable level. I manage to sit up without immediately needing to lie back down, and Frazier notices the change immediately.
"Better?" he asks, and this time I can answer with genuine hope: "I think so."
The improvement is gradual but real. He helps me to the tiny table, where I manage to eat a few spoonfuls of broth without losing them. The simple act of keeping food down feels like a victory, a sign that my body is finally adapting to the ship's motion.
"The worst is over," Frazier tells me, and I can hear the relief in his voice. "Your body is learning the ship's rhythm."
He's right. Over the course of the day, I find myself able to tolerate more food, more movement, even brief periods of sitting up without triggering waves of nausea. The constant motion that once made me miserable begins to feel more natural, more predictable.
"I was starting to think I'd spend the entire voyage in that bunk," I admit as I manage to eat half a bowl of soup.
"I wouldn't have let that happen," Frazier replies. "We would have found a way to help you, even if it meant turning around and going back to land."
The casual way he says it makes me realize he's serious—he would have abandoned our quest rather than let me suffer indefinitely. The knowledge touches me deeply, another sign of how much our relationship has evolved from its original foundation.
As my strength slowly returns, I become acutely aware of how much Frazier has cared for me during my illness. He's seen me at my absolute weakest, most vulnerable state, and responded with nothing but gentleness and patience. This realization creates a complex mix of emotions—gratitude, embarrassment, and something deeper that I'm not ready to name.
The care he's shown me has been entirely non-sexual, focused purely on my comfort and recovery. There's been no expectation of anything in return, no sense that he's earning credits for future favors. It's been simple human kindness, the kind of care someone gives to a person they genuinely value.
I try to thank him properly, but he brushes off my gratitude with characteristic directness: "You would have done the same for me." The simple statement carries weight because I realize it's true—and that he knows it's true. Somewhere along the way, our relationship has evolved into something based on mutual care rather than just magical compulsion and physical attraction.
"I feel like I owe you," I say, struggling to articulate the complexity of my emotions.
"You don't owe me anything," he replies firmly. "Taking care of someone when they're sick isn't a debt—it's just what people do for each other."
The matter-of-fact way he says it highlights how much he's changed from the man who originally bought me. That person might have seen my illness as an inconvenience or an opportunity to demonstrate his power over me. This person sees it simply as a time when I needed help, and he was able to provide it.
When I'm finally strong enough to leave the cabin, Frazier helps me climb the narrow stairs to the deck. The fresh air hits me like a blessing after days in the stuffy cabin. My legs are unsteady from days of inactivity and lingering weakness, but the violent nausea doesn't return.
The ocean stretches endlessly in all directions, vast and powerful under the evening sky. For the first time since the voyage began, I'm able to appreciate its beauty rather than curse its motion. The water is deep blue-green, capped with white foam where the wind catches the waves. Seabirds follow the ship, their cries adding to the symphony of wind and water.
"It's so big," I whisper, and Frazier nods. "Makes you feel small, doesn't it? But also... free."
The paradox captures something important about our situation. The ocean is vast and dangerous, capable of killing us without effort or malice. But it's also the path to Seroven, to the possibility of breaking the contract that binds me. It represents both threat and promise, danger and hope.
We stand together at the rail, and I realize that something fundamental has shifted between us. The experience of my illness and his care has created a new kind of intimacy—one based on vulnerability and tenderness rather than power and desire. I've seen him as master, as lover, as protector—but during my illness, I saw him simply as someone who cared for my wellbeing without expecting anything in return.
Other passengers and crew members nod to me as they pass, some offering words of encouragement or sympathy. "Feeling better?" asks Elena, a merchant's wife who's been making the crossing for years. "The first voyage is always the hardest. You'll have your sea legs soon enough."
The kindness of strangers, combined with Frazier's constant care, reminds me that there's goodness in the world beyond the cruelty I've experienced. Not everyone is a slaver or a demon or someone seeking to use me for their own purposes. Some people are simply decent, offering help when it's needed without expecting anything in return.
As we return to our cabin for the night, both of us are processing the changes of the past few days. The cramped space that felt like a prison during my illness now feels more like a refuge—our private space in the larger community of the ship.
"Thank you," I say as we settle into our respective bunks. "For everything. For taking care of me, for being patient, for not making me feel ashamed of being weak."
"You weren't weak," Frazier replies. "You were sick. There's a difference."
"Is there? I couldn't do anything for myself. I couldn't contribute to the ship's work or help with anything. I was just... helpless."
"Being helpless when you're ill isn't the same as being weak when you're healthy," he explains. "Strength isn't about never needing help—it's about accepting help when you need it and offering it when others need it."
The wisdom in his words surprises me. This is a man who has clearly thought deeply about concepts like strength, weakness, dependence, and care. His understanding seems to come from personal experience, though he doesn't elaborate on what that experience might have been.
As I settle into sleep, no longer fighting the ship's motion but moving with it, I feel something I haven't experienced since my capture. The security of knowing someone cares for my wellbeing without expecting anything in return.
The shared experience of my illness and his caretaking has subtly shifted our dynamic toward something more complex. We're no longer just master and slave, or even just lovers. We're two people who have learned to care for each other.
The ocean continues its endless motion around us, carrying us toward Seroven and whatever challenges await us there. But tonight, as I drift off to sleep with the sound of his quiet breathing nearby, I know that whatever lies ahead, I'm not facing it alone.
The ship rocks gently beneath us, carrying us toward our destiny one wave at a time.