Asuma woke up with the sun on his back.

There was sound again--creaking ropes, groaning timber, the slap of gentle ocean waves--and light, when he forced bruised eyes open. Stinging salt crusted his lashes. He blinked hard, reactionary tears blurring the landscape, and realized a few crucial things.

His wrists were lashed together. His arms were wrenched high above his bed, bound to a mast spur--he was hanging from the mast spur, weight not even remotely on his feet--and it felt like someone had beaten seven kinds of tar out of him.

Groaning seemed like a good plan. Maybe curling up into a ball and whimpering.

Instead, he got his feet planted firmly on splintered wood, taking his weight off numb hands--pins and needles from hell--and tried to reorientate. The ship was a mess. One quick, neck-cracking glance showed him shattered wood, scorch marks from jutsu cast by his clones, fallen bodies, broad scarlet smears of blood--

Tsume hanging by his elbow, deathly pale and covered in bruises.

Asuma almost hauled his shoulders out of joint trying to twist around and get a better look at her. The sun--it wasn't high, barely a mark past the horizon--had dried seawater on her skin, leaving a white crust of salt that cracked and flaked every time she breathed. Her head hung low, chin braced on her breastbone, matted hair obscuring her face. Rope burns scored her wrists; her hands were bright red, the nail-beds tinged blue. She was still naked.

He was still naked.

Asuma hissed the rudest word he knew and twisted his fingers together, calling up the fastest rope-breaking jutsu he could think of.

Which was when the first whip blow cracked across his back.