She packed food and a knife. She never made sandwiches beforehand, but preferred to make them right before they ate. They had dark bread, sausage and cheese and a couple of beers in green bottles. That would have to suffice.
The World Eater – a vessel of great antiquity, built by one of his forefathers – lay on the descent platform. He stood beside it wearing his uniform. It was worn, the imperial blue had become greyish. She noticed the place where the bullet had gone in. She had washed and washed to get the blood out and sewn the hole with matching blue string. He loved that uniform, so she had never asked if she could throw it out.
The World Eater smelled of tar and diesel oil. The wood was dark grey and spotted by the slime of the abyss. Suction cup marks from the creatures that lived down there were all over the scarred vessel. It looked like a wreck, but she knew he kept it in tip top condition.
She had put on riding breeches and her long-sleeved brown boots, a white open shirt and her sun hat. She wanted to look elegant no matter what happened.
“Shall we?” she asked and boarded without further ado. He untied the moorings while she settled into the worn brown, leather seat. It rocked slightly as he jumped aboard. He knew how to handle her – the World Eater – she rocked slowly in the sticky substance. Then he grabbed the wheel and downwards it went. She felt a pull in her stomach, and reached for his hand. “I must admit that I am scared senseless,” she said.
He took her hand in his, his eyes on the darkness below. “But we are together,” he said. She couldn’t see his smile, for her eyes were fixed on the deep purple maelstrom in front of them. But she could hear the smile in his voice, and that was all that mattered.