Chapter 24: A Sea of Monotony

Morning came with the usual discomfort. Juhtmed had stopped waking up expecting solid ground beneath him, but that didn't make the ship's sway any easier to bear.

He sat up slowly, bracing for the nausea that always lurked at the edge of his consciousness. His body had adjusted somewhat, but every sudden shift of the ship still sent his stomach twisting.

There was no time to dwell on it. The crew didn't care if he was a prince or a corpse—they expected him on deck.

"You're late again."

Jaska grinned as Juhtmed finally climbed up from below, blinking blearily against the morning sun.

Juhtmed yawned. "And yet the ship didn't sink without me. Strange."

"No, but I nearly died from the sheer weight of all the work I had to do alone," Jaska said dramatically, leaning against the railing. "Truly, it was unbearable."

Lian passed by, carrying a coil of rope over her shoulder. "You sat there eating an apple for half the morning."

"Suffering," Jaska corrected.

Juhtmed sighed and ran a hand through his already-messy hair. "What pointless task do you have for me today?"

"Pointless?" Jaska scoffed. "How dare you insult the fine art of deck scrubbing? It's a noble tradition."

Juhtmed groaned. "We scrubbed it yesterday."

"And yet, here we are."

The only consolation was that Juhtmed wasn't alone in his suffering. The entire crew had their share of mind-numbing tasks, and while most of them were clearly used to it, even the seasoned sailors occasionally grumbled about the monotony.

Days at sea blurred together.

After an hour of work, Juhtmed sat back on his heels, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Is it always like this?" he asked no one in particular.

Jaska, leaning lazily against a barrel, nodded. "What, you expected adventure? Storms? Sea monsters?"

Juhtmed shrugged. "Not hoping for them, but… something interesting."

Jaska laughed. "The ocean doesn't do interesting unless it's trying to kill you."

Lian, passing by again, added, "If you're bored, you could always jump overboard and see how long you last."

Juhtmed gave her a flat look. "I'll pass."

After lunch, Juhtmed found himself roped into another humiliating round of "learning basic sailor skills." This time, it was rigging maintenance.

Climbing the ropes was—predictably—awful.

His limbs still felt weak from days of seasickness, and his balance was not suited for this kind of work. Jaska practically skipped up the ropes like he was born for it, but Juhtmed nearly lost his grip twice before even reaching the first set of crossbeams.

By the time he made it to the top, his arms burned, his legs ached, and he was very aware of how high up he was.

Jaska, sitting comfortably, grinned at him. "You look pale."

Juhtmed clung to the rope beside him. "I hate you."

Jaska laughed. "You keep saying that, but I think I'm growing on you."

Juhtmed made a vague gesture toward the ocean. "I could push you off."

"Sure, but then who's going to make your life miserable?"

Juhtmed sighed. He had no good answer to that.

Below, Lian was watching them with her arms crossed, clearly unimpressed. "If you two are done flirting, maybe get back to work?"

Juhtmed nearly lost his grip. "Excuse me?"

Jaska grinned. "Oh no, Lian, don't make him blush—he might fall."

Juhtmed resisted the urge to kick him off the ropes. Barely.

By the time evening came, exhaustion had settled deep into Juhtmed's bones.

He had never really thought about how much work went into sailing, but now he had a grudging respect for it. It wasn't just hauling ropes and standing around looking rugged—it was a constant, unending cycle of maintenance, coordination, and problem-solving.

And somehow, the crew did it every single day without complaint.

After dinner, Juhtmed found himself leaning against the railing, staring out at the horizon.

The water stretched on forever. No walls, no borders—just endless sky and sea.

He had never been anywhere like this before.

In his first life, he had never even seen the ocean.

It was strange, thinking about that now. The memories of his old world felt more distant with each passing day. Would there come a time when he stopped thinking about them entirely?

He wasn't sure if that thought scared him or comforted him.

Lian joined him, resting her elbows on the railing. "You're quieter suddenly."

Juhtmed exhaled slowly. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

He hesitated. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth.

Instead, he just shrugged. "What comes next."

Lian nodded, as if she understood more than he said. "One more days."

"Yeah."

They stood in silence for a while, the ocean stretching out before them, vast and unknowable.

The journey wasn't over yet.

But the monotony of the sea was starting to feel… almost familiar.

Almost.

The last full day at sea dawned with the same predictability as the ones before it. The creak of the ship's timbers, the rhythmic crash of the waves against the hull, and the sharp calls of the crew going about their duties all blended into a familiar pattern.

Juhtmed had stopped waking up expecting solid ground beneath him, but that didn't mean he had gotten used to the constant sway.

Still, he moved through the morning routine with less resistance than before. There was no point in fighting it anymore. If this was his life now, he might as well endure it with some level of grace.

As he climbed onto the deck, Jaska was already waiting.

"You're getting faster," Jaska observed. "Almost like you want to be here."

Juhtmed rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't go that far."

Jaska smirked. "Maybe by the time we dock, you'll actually miss this."

Juhtmed scoffed. "Unlikely."

But as he glanced around, he felt an odd sense of familiarity settle over him. The crew moved with the same efficiency as always, the sails billowed in the wind, and the salty air stung his skin just like it had every day before.

There was a certain rhythm to it all. And maybe, just maybe, he had started to fall in sync with it.

The day passed much like the others, with Juhtmed enduring yet another round of ship duties.

If anyone had told him weeks ago that he would be learning how to properly tie knots, he would have laughed. And yet, here he was, painstakingly looping and pulling ropes under Lian's sharp gaze.

"Wrong," she said.

Juhtmed scowled. "How can it be wrong? It's a knot."

Lian gestured at the tangled mess in his hands. "And if you use that on the rigging, it'll come undone at the worst possible moment. Try again."

Juhtmed sighed, undoing his work and starting over. Nearby, Jaska watched with amusement.

"Careful, Lian," Jaska said. "Push him too hard and he might start crying."

Juhtmed didn't even look up. "I will tie you to the mast."

Jaska grinned. "Promises, promises."

Lian ignored their bickering and guided Juhtmed's hands through the proper motions. He had to admit—begrudgingly—that it was getting easier. At the very least, he wasn't completely useless anymore.

By midday, he had gotten the hang of it, and when Lian gave him a rare nod of approval, he felt an unexpected swell of pride.

Maybe he was actually learning something.

That evening, the air was different.

Excitement hummed through the crew. The journey was almost over. By midday tomorrow, they would reach land.

Juhtmed wasn't sure how he felt about that.

He had spent so long thinking about leaving this ship, about returning to solid ground where things made sense. But now that it was so close, he found himself… hesitant.

Had the sea really gotten under his skin that much?

"You look troubled," Lian said, joining him at the railing again.

Juhtmed exhaled slowly. "Just thinking."

"Again?" she teased. "You do that too much."

He chuckled. "Maybe."

Lian leaned against the wood, gazing out at the darkening horizon. "You'll get used to it," she said.

Juhtmed frowned. "Used to what?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she just let the silence stretch between them, as deep and vast as the ocean itself.

Then, finally, she said, "The feeling of wanting to go back."

Juhtmed's breath caught.

He turned to look at her, but she was already walking away.

Leaving him alone with his thoughts.

And the quiet realization that maybe—just maybe—a part of him would miss this after all.