It was dark. It was so dark. There was not an ounce of moonlight that came down to the oarsmen who swiveled from side to side. There was not a moon to behold or glance to. There were no red clouds to await the searing sensation of rain downpouring on their skin. There were no waves to fight the tides of. There was nothing there. The 39 on that bireme were, unbeknownst to them, the last sons and daughters of the world once enticed to thrive as all had. A far cry from those with powers beyond their comprehension, the only thing they carried with them were candles and the parasite which hooked to their bodies as protection in exchange for worship and amplitude in their ability. They rowed into unknown territory they could only go forward in. The only source of light to greet each other was the flickering embers of the candlelights onboard that were refueled from time to time with a kerosene dosage plugged from the fireflies. It was dark. They would leave their oars hanging, the men and women rowing the bireme huddling together with their children to sleep. The candle was to be snuffed in eternal darkness. They'd wake up later, relight it to make talk, and continue reaching somewhere. They'll try again until they did.
