Harry Ellis watched the Dove dancing on the boat with narrowed eyes and a straight mouth.
The Dove was a strange thing. A fisherman's boy, all long and thin, and wearing baggy shirts that fluttered in the wind and stuck to his chest when wet, lining every one of his ribs, he stood like a bastion in such hard times as his people were in. Few knew his name, but more knew that it wasn't important to him, and the smile ever affixed to his face (while a treasure chest, cracked open to reveal the finest ivory) put even the sun in its place. He was a matchstick of a boy, all thin, fragile limbs that flew about and reached in delicate gestures. Yet no matter what was thrown, the Dove would fly again in the morning.
Harry Ellis, some would argue, was even stranger. Brought to this strange island for his eye for what men valued, he had skin like wet paper and rusting hair. His eyes were cold, and pinned down any who dared meet them and laid them bare. But the Dove didn't meet his eyes, and while Master Ellis was certain it was defiance, it was merely a lack of care on the former's part.
Cruel boys break the things they love, the Dove should have known. And Master Ellis was a very cruel boy.