#flint x gates

[shaunanats]

Black Sails Ship Tourney - Round 1

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic} - Ch. 6

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, James Flint, Jean DuBois, Mr. Logan, Mr. Muldoon, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Jean duBois/OC (bffs) Additional tags: Original character-centric, first person POV, canon character x original character romance, self-discovery journey, kinda alternative prequel to canon, canon compliant, slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting sweetness, cute but also sexy, angst galore, found family, Hal Gates has two children now, canon typical violence Series: Part One of Six of A Girl, An Ocean Chapters: 6/13 Summary: At last, the crew arrives in Nassau and Constance gets to see it for the very first time. However, the experience is somewhat spoiled when the crew is called for one of the most dangerous and tedious labors a pirate must endure: careening.

Author's note: Originally, I had a particularly dramatic scene in this chapter written in a completely different way, and then I realized it was completely bonkers because of physics and had to change it 😅No matter. I ended up enjoying this version far better.

Chapter vi.

About a week later, we finally made landfall.

It was a foggy morning, as so often seemed to be the case. The sun had just begun its traverse through the sky, struggling to peek through the thick veil of mist, which rendered the sky a milky tone of white. The sea was calm, with small peaks of foam dotting her vast expanse here and there, whilst the Walrus' keel cut through them like scissors on silk.

At the helm, Mr. de Groot informed me that the island should be within sight any time, now. He gave me leave of my lessons to go climb the shrouds and search for it, even lent his spyglass so I could scan the horizon.

My heart pounded with anticipation. Despite the chilly breeze propelling us forward, my blood ran hot in my veins. Many were the stories I had heard of New Providence Island, each more terrifying than the last, so embellished and impregnated with legend that it became blanketed with an aura of myth. From England, it seemed so distant, so far away from my own perception that one could almost be forgiven for believing it didn't even exist.

But now... Now, I was about to see it with my own eyes.

As the hours passed, the mist dispersed. Sunlight forced its way through the wisps of cloud in bright beams, making the water glitter like jewels. Sea birds followed our sails with great cries, our very own welcoming committee. I noted that the usual smells of the sea were beginning to mingle with something else – wood smoke, tar, spices. Smells from land. I swerved the spyglass around more avidly, searching... searching...

And then... I saw it.

Nassau.

With a gasp, I scurried down the shrouds and ran along the railings, toward the bow. I gave poor Mr. Folsom a scare; he nearly choked on the apple he was eating.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He yelled. “What's the damn rush??”

But I didn't stop to reply. My whole body was crackling with energy. Using my recently developed agility, I hopped onto the forecastle, past the rails and crawled along the bowsprit on all fours until I could grab onto the ropes connecting the sails to the foremast. I was risking a fall that would most certainly get me trampled by the ship's unstoppable hull, all so I could take a closer look.

Behind me, I heard dispersed laughter from the morning watch, no doubt amused at my childish excitement. It would be at least one more hour until we entered the bay and dropped anchor, but I didn't want to miss a single detail of that moment. I sat and straddled the bowsprit the whole while it took for the Walrus to approach.

Slowly, the featureless line of brown and green became more discernible. The first thing I noticed was the fort: a stone structure sitting on top of a tall hill, the sentry that would protect the town and its denizens from invasion by sea. Those smells I'd sensed so faintly, earlier, became stronger. At last, the settlement itself came into full view.

Nassau Town was unlike any place I had ever seen before. Here, there were no grand monuments of granite and marble - instead, tents and rickety wood structures dotted the white sand beaches. From a distance, the people were no more than ants scurrying about, and although I couldn't distinguish any of them individually, I could hear them. The racket coming from land was a constant droning of countless voices mixed with music played from de-tuned, old instruments.

And the smells... Spices and tar, but also roasting meats and drying fish, cracked and stale wood, freshly pressed sails, obnoxious perfumes, human bodies, all of them combined into a single odor that belonged only to Nassau. In the years that followed, and after countless adventures lived, I found that there was nowhere else in the world that smelled the same. It smelled like decadence and depravity. It smelled like home.

I could hardly wait to get on a launch and explore it.

However, my plans of running around town and soak it all in were about to get cut short. The anchors had barely gotten wet when Mr. Gates' voice thundered across the deck: "Listen up, you band of lubbers! Before you rush off toward the brothel, let it be known that you are all to report for the careening by eight bells to beach the old girl." A wave of groans followed these words. Since I had no idea what careening was, I turned to Logan with a furrowed brow. "He means bring the ship ashore to clear the hull of marine growth," he explained dejectedly. "Takes a long fucking time and it's rough work."

"Now, I know that's not what you want to hear," Gates conceded. "But you know as well as I that a proper and regular cleaning makes all the difference when we're on the hunt. It means a swifter, faster ship, which leads to better hauls and more gold lining your pockets that you can then piss away in a day or two with women and booze." That got a roiling cackle out of the men. Once again, just like that, Mr. Gates was able to shift the mood from a resisting force into something constructive. Whether the credit for it lied with the quartermaster's talent to mold people's minds at will, or the prospect of even more gold, prostitutes and rum, was hard to say.

The crew went out by order of seniority, which meant that, as the most recent recruit, I was stuck at the very back of the line. I paced around the deck like a woman possessed, pestering everyone with questions, crawling up and down the masts, making sure I had everything I needed to bring with me to land (which wasn't much, anyway). It was only half an hour, no more than that, that I had to wait, but it felt like an eternity.

Either way, before long I was in the water with the other newbies, including Jean, and we rowed together to shore. The closer we got, the more my senses were overwhelmed by the chaos of it all. Wherever I looked, there was something happening, something worth paying attention to, something disgusting that made me gag, something that filled me with wonder. I must have looked like a child in Christmas, surrounded by all that novelty, incapable of choosing a single thing to unravel and inspect furthest.

Next to me, Jean sniggered. "Your head is like a banner in the wind. You best be careful not to snap your neck!" I smiled from ear to ear. "I know, it's just... There is just so... Everything is so much, you know? I've never seen anything like it."

"Oui, I know. You never forget your first time in Nassau." Jean let out a wistful sigh, recalling his own experience with a nostalgic smile. In a matter of minutes, our group was on the jetty and spread through town. The sheer amount of goings-on was dizzying; I scarcely knew where to turn! Thankfully, I had Jean there to ground me and keep me from getting lost. He led me through the confusion of bodies, tents and objects of every kind like a veteran.

Once we found ourselves right at the center of it all, he stopped and turned to me. "So. Where would you like to start?" "Oh, Jesus, I don't know..." I spun around slowly for a moment, overwhelmed and at a loss. Not a minute ago, the jetty was behind us, but now it was nowhere in sight. I was irreparably turned around. "Where do you normally go?"

Just then, Muldoon and Logan emerged from the confusion and stood by my side. They traded a cheeky look that immediately made me regret asking anything. "Of course," I sighed with a shrug. "Stupid question." "Yeah, you really set yourself up for that one, didn't ya?" Logan snorted. "THAT may be a little too much for your Ladyship's sensibilities," Muldoon joked. "Fuck you," I snapped back. God forgive me, I was getting far too comfortable with profanities.

He patted my shoulder and nodded for us to follow him. "Let's start with the tavern and we'll go from there. C'mon." The tavern, as it turned out, was like a microcosm of the street: loud, bustling, ever-shifting. The only difference was that it was much more cramped - we literally had to shove people out of the way to even get to the bar. And it was stuffy in there. The weather in and of itself was hot enough, in the Bahamas; couple that with the human heat and the smell of sweat in that room and suddenly one knew exactly what a pod corn felt like boiling in a pot.

Still, it wasn't entirely unpleasant. People laughed and drank and played cards, or told each other about their latest conquests or traded gossip. The wooden furniture and open windows with their hand knitted off-white curtains blowing in the lazy breeze made the space feel cozy, almost homey, especially as the servants passed through the narrow space with trays full of steaming food.

When we finally reached the bar, Logan ordered lunch for us while Muldoon, Jean and I found a table. We ended up having to share it with a group of four already occupying most of it, but from the way my shipmates greeted them loudly, it was evident they were already acquainted. Muldoon didn't even have to ask; they invited us to sit instantly, shuffling around to make room for our group.

At first, I felt somewhat like an intruder, but the man sitting at my right, a burly one with arms thrice the width of mine and a bushy greying beard, offered me a tankard of ale with a warm smile, like we knew each other for decades. In a matter of seconds, I felt myself relax, for something in my gut told me I could trust him, that he meant no harm. I accepted the ale and took a swig to quench my parched throat. Although bitter, it was cool and satisfying in that intense heat.

The man patted my back with a laugh, and even if I almost choked from how hard he hit me, I joined in on his contagious laugh. I had never felt so accepted among strangers, so welcomed.

"That there is Hammer," Muldoon told me. "So named because he's good at using a hammer, whether to build or to crack a skull open, but mostly because he likes nothing more than to get hammered." A burst of cackles rattled the table. Hammer, not one bit offended at the jab, offered me his meaty hand, which I was going to shake, until he leaned down and placed the gentlest kiss on my knuckles. "A pleasure, m'lady." It was such an honest gesture, genuinely sweet and unassuming, that I had to giggle through a blush. At least he had manners, unlike some other pirates I knew.

"Nice to meet you, Hammer. I'm Constance."

Jean tapped my arm. “Look, over there. Here comes the Pirate Queen.”

I stretched my neck to see whom he was pointing at.

From the back of the room, a petite blonde lady crossed the tavern with the haughty gait of nobility. What she lacked in stature, she made up for it in poise; while she passed by our table like we weren't even there, she struck me as much taller based on her confidence alone. Men twice her size hurried out of her path and greeted her with utmost respect.

Long skirts covered her legs and her hair was done up in complex coils, but from the waist up she wore a vest over her blouse and a cravat, like a man. I couldn't help to notice how beautiful she was.

“Who is that?” I inquired after she was gone.

“Eleanor Guthrie,” Logan answered. “She's the boss, around here. Her father used to be in charge, but after the Rosario raids, he fucked off to Harbour Island and she took his place. All trade on the island goes through her. It's thanks to her that we get to earn a living stealing off of rich merchant ships.”

“How does she do that?”

“We come in with our cargo, she stamps the Guthrie name on it and sells it to the colonies as if it were legitimately obtained.”

“It's the worst kept secret in the Bahamas, so I'm told,” Jean muttered. “But while Mr. Guthrie lines the pockets of the governors, the magistrates, the colonels and every other navy officer in on it, they won't lift a finger to accuse him. Everyone gets a piece of the cake, so to speak, and that's how we stay in business.”

I arched my eyebrows in incredulity. So that was the real issue with Nassau and her pirate scourge. It wasn't the pirates themselves; it was the corruption. And for as long as that corruption remained out of reach of the gavels in Whitehall... The problem would continue unresolved.

And now, I had become part of that problem.

I smirked to myself and drank some more ale. I once heard Folsom say something like, one man's trash is another man's treasure. In this case, one nation's problem was another woman's solution.

My solution.

I prayed that the corruption ran rampant in Nassau for many centuries to come.

*** After filling our bellies with roast pork, potatoes and a generous but not exaggerated amount of grog, our party returned to the beach to board the Walrus and steer her to a careenage - the steep beach we would use for the endeavor of beaching our ship. Normally, the maintenance of the hull and keel was made on a dry dock, but there wasn't one in Nassau, so we had to do it the hard way.

The way Logan explained the process of what we would be doing was something like this: during the high tide, our longboats would row in the Walrus until the keel touched the sand. Next, those on land would pull her further in. The ship would then be tilted at an angle on her side and the masts tied down to trees or whatever else was rooted firmly to the ground. Lastly, during the low tide, we could clear the hull of seaweed and barnacles with scoops. When one side was done, we would bring her back into the water, turn her around, and repeat the process. When both sides were done, she would be ready to sail again.

Careening could take anywhere between a few days to weeks. Everything that wasn't bolted down to the ship needed to be brought out, guns included (which we could use as anchor points in the absence of trees). What could be repaired would be brought to town; everything else was disposed of. The more Logan elaborated on the whole exercise, the least I looked forward to it.

When we arrived at the careenage, the longboats were already taking advantage of the tides to bring in the Walrus and a small crowd waited in the shade, while others bathed themselves in the sea to cool off.

Somewhere to the side, a tent was being erected. I noticed a small flock of scantly clad women sat near it, fanning themselves and fluttering their long lashes at any sailor who passed by. As we dropped on the cold sand beneath a palm tree, I felt an uncomfortable tightness in my stomach.

"Muldoon?” I said. “Who are those women?" He twisted around to look over his shoulder and gave me a shark-like grin. "Never you mind that. You probably wouldn't be interested, anyway."

I arched an inquisitive brow at him. "Interested...?" "You don't know that." Logan gave the other a playful shove. "Maybe she is into it and just doesn't know it yet. Don't knock it 'till you've tried it." "Oh, so you admit you've tried it with a bloke before?" Muldoon chortled. "I knew you were secretly queer, you bastard!" "No, I didn't say that!" Another shove, this one harsher than before, though it only made Muldoon laugh louder. "You know I only have eyes for Charlotte. In my case, I don't need to try it to know I won't enjoy it. A man knows these things." I turned to Jean while those two bickered. His face was flushed red, but I assumed it was from the heat, nothing more. Still, he was unusually quiet. "What the fuck are they talking about? And who's Charlotte?" He cleared his throat and refused to look at me whilst he scratched the back of his head. "Um... Well, you see, those women? They were hired from the brothel. Charlotte is... well..."

"A prostitute." Muldoon stated, plain and simple. "That there, is what we in the industry call a fuck tent." Now I was the one with a burning face. My mouth hung open in shock as I stared first at him, then at Logan (who winked and wagged his brows suggestively) and finally at Jean, who could do no more than glance sideways in my direction.

I had never heard of such a thing. It was scandalous! And yet... I was not at all surprised. Of course pirates would have something called a fuck tent.

"Oh." I huffed.

To their credit, Logan and Muldoon stifled back the need to laugh at my ignorance and lady-like mannerisms. "I suppose we don't need to explain what it's for, do we?" I shook my head. "No, thank you."

An hour latter, the Walrus was ready to be hauled ashore. Billy Bones divided us into lines across the beach so we were ready to receive the cables tossed to us from the ship. I was placed along the foremast, somewhere in the middle, between Logan, behind me, and Jean, at the front.

After verifying that everyone was in position, Billy joined the line at my left and wrapped his hands around the tether. "Aright, everyone ready?" He shouted.

In response, the crew gave a loud and unison 'Aye!'

"That's what I like to hear. On my mark!... Two, six--" "Heave!"

As one, we pulled on the cables. The sand shifted beneath my feet and I almost stumbled, but managed to remain firmly on them while tugging. Although the effort was great, since it was well distributed I found no difficulty to it. Not at first, at least. In a steady, continuous rhythm, Billy barked: "Two, six--!" "Heave!" Another strong tug. "Two, six--" "Heave!!" I screamed as loud as my voice and lungs permitted. Surprisingly, it did help make the exercise easier.

"Steady!" Billy adjusted his grip. His arms bulged with each pull, making the rolled up sleeves of his shirt strain under the stress.

Quickly, I turned my attention back to my task.

"Slow and steady!” He repeated. “Don't tire yourselves out!"

"C'mon boys, put your backs into it!" From the mizzen mast lines, Mr. de Groot's roughen voice reached my ears, encouraging the men.

For every pull and every step, the Walrus crept up the beach, a hulking beast that towered over the crew, ready to devour us. As I looked up at her massive hull and far-reaching masts, I felt tiny and insignificant before such a marvel of wood and rigging. "Oh, wow..." I swooned, awestruck. "Constance!" Billy called. "Get back to work!"

With a startle, I realized my grip had gone slack with my distraction.

"Sorry!" I scrambled to get back into the rhythm.

For God knew how long, we persisted on this almost Sisyphean task until the Walrus could go no further up the beach and our bodies could take no more. The job in itself wasn't so bad - it was the unrelenting sun and the heat. Swear dripped down my chest, my forehead, my back... everywhere, really! It got in my eyes and made them sting. My skin was so hot, I was about ready to rip it out with my own fingernails.

"Hold!" Billy commanded.

We pinned the balls of our feet into the sand and held the ropes in place.

I gripped my share with both hands close together, which strained my shoulders and back to the breaking point. With gritted teeth, I prayed the riggers would be quick with the lashes so I could finally let go.

"Psst! Constance!"

I looked back to Logan, who held on in a completely different posture. So did everyone else, in fact.

"Like this." He twisted his body to the side, just enough for me to see what he was doing. His feet were spread evenly apart, one in front, the other back. Likewise, he maintained his right hand in front of him, but the left was tucked close to his side, to keep the rope over his hip in a subtle angle.

As fast as I dared, I adjusted my pose to match his. Immediately, my muscles sighed in relief, while the cable remained secure. "Like this?"

"Just like that." He grinned with approval. "Feels better, doesn't it?"

"Much," I agreed, smiling back. "Thanks."

Fortunately, the riggers worked the ropes fast and swift, so we didn't have to wait much longer. Billy oversaw their task from his position while practically hanging off the cable like my uncle Charles' pet Capuchin, using his sheer weight to keep it taunt.

He whistled to get their attention. "All good, there?"

“We're good!” I heard Folsom confirm.

"Everyone! Release her, slowly! Slowly..."

Little by little, we let the tethers loose and hoped the anchor points would hold. I felt the hemp coils gently slip from my grasp, chafing my skin, and then it stopped. Up on high, the masts groaned in protest for a few seconds, and finally went quiet.

Still, for safety, we kept our fingers wrapped on the cables for another minute. Apart from the wind on the palm fronds and the lull of the waves, an eerie silence hung heavy on the beach.

When nothing happened, we collectively breathed a sigh of relief.

"Good job, lads." Billy said, signalling for us to let go and relax.

I massaged my back with a drawn out breath, then my thighs. I wasn't the only one; most of the crew complained from their arms and legs. Some simply let themselves flop on the sand like flounders. I myself felt tempted to do the same, but somehow managed to stay upright.

I'm gonna be so stiff, come morning, I groaned internally. And we still had to take care of the barnacles. Lord have mercy.

As I straightened up, I saw Billy walking among his mates to check if everyone was alright.

"Take a break while I divide the shifts," he said, just as he ducked under the cable at my left and passed our line by, one man at a time. When he reached me, he gave my shoulder a gentle touch and arched his eyebrows in a mute inquiry for my well-being. I nodded to let him know I was fine and he moved on. I turned to watch as he and Logan clasped their hands in a brotherly exchange and kept going, further and further away from me.

For some reason... I felt appreciated by that quick, yet meaningful pause to make sure I wasn't hurt. So did the others, I imagined. No wonder he was so loved by everyone. Frankly, he made it easy to like him.

"Thirty minutes, no more!” He warned once he reached the last man on our file. “Let's see..."

All around me, the crew began to dispose of their vests and shirts, unceremoniously. I could hardly blame them - their clothes were drenched with sweat and their faces were red from the effort, the heat and the booze they had likely consumed before presenting themselves for duty.

My borrowed shift was all humid as well. The way it stuck to my skin was so very uncomfortable, even as I pulled it away from my torso.

I followed Logan and Jean toward the water barrels for a much needed drink and saw they too had their backs bared to the sun.

"I wish I could do that," I hummed.

Logan snickered. "I mean, you could, if you really wanted to. No rules against it, here. It's not like none of us have never seen breasts before." The heavy layer of hope in his tone didn't go unnoticed.

"Dream on," I bit back while I poured a cup of fresh water. The feeling of it down my dry throat was like a balm on a burn, instantly relieving it. As soon as the cup was empty, I scooped up another.

"Suit yourself," he shrugged, then moved off to go find some shade.

Jean smiled timidly at me, then cupped his hands in the barrel to drench his face and neck. Once he was cool and satisfied, he sighed and leaned with his hands on it.

“Want to go dip our feet in the sea?” He offered.

“Hmm, let's.”

We went down the beach and walked out until the waves lapped at our ankles, close to the knee. Just our luck, a drooping palm tree had taken root near the water line, the perfect shelter from the sun.

I closed my eyes as we stood beneath its wide fronds. I don't know how long we stood there, just listening to the ocean and drinking water, but honestly? I could have stayed there in silence with my friend until nightfall.

“Feels nice, doesn't it?” He murmured.

I peeked from one eye. He had his closed, too, plus his hands tucked in the pockets of his trousers. I shut both lids again and smiled. “It does. One of these days, we should come back during down time and just sit right here.”

“There's a great idea,” he chuckled. “We bring something to eat, some good ale, proper attire to go for a swim, if we want. Mon Dieu... I would want for nothing else.”

On that, I completely concurred. The soft breeze blew my hair to the side and brushed my neck deliciously. I pulled it out of my shoulders, pinned it down on top of my head and almost moaned. I could sense the excessive heat pour out of my body and it felt so fucking good.

Unfortunately, duty called. And it sounded just like Billy Bones.

"Gather 'round, you bunch of lazy bums! Gather 'round for the shifts.”

A chorus of groans followed his call.

“C'mon, you've had your rest, now get over here."

Sighing, I finished my water and prepared to go back to work.

However, when I turned around on my feet, I got my first good look at the ship's hull and felt my heart drop to the ground: it wasn't wood colored, like it was supposed to - it was white with barnacles!

How the fuck were we supposed to remove all that? It seemed impossible!

Jean, who was a couple of paces ahead of me, stopped, looked over his shoulder when he realized I had stayed behind and burst into laughter. My face of terror must have seemed hilarious to him.

“Considering making a run for it?” He jested.

In response, all I did was stare at him slack-jawed. He laughed some more and kept going.

Oh God, oh sweet baby Jesus, please let me have the second shift.

I stopped at the edge of the gathering crowd and crossed my fingers. Billy read aloud from the list he'd made.

"First shift: Abel. Bobby. Burns. Craig. Constance..."

Fuck. So much for my adoration for Billy.

With slumped shoulders and a resigned heart, I joined the growing line of unlucky bastards who would get to start scrapping barnacles until six bells.

*** "You're sure this is necessary?" I asked Folsom at around four bells.

For the better part of the afternoon, I had been breaking my nails and covering my hands in bloody gashes by prying the blasted barnacles from the port side of the keel. Half of our team worked on the ground or even under the hull, while the other was on scaffolds and hung from suspended planks to do the upper part of the ship.

We would take breaks once in a while for about thirty minutes each. Once again, being the newest addition, I was last to get my turn. Obviously.

When it finally came, I drank at least three cups of water before I flopped on my back under the extensive shade of the ship. It felt so nice, I almost fell asleep... Until someone tapped my leg.

Folsom was grinning down at me with his near-toothless mouth when I cracked my eyes open. Behind him stood Muldoon and Logan, both also smirking like they shared a secret. They were there to tell me my break was over and it was time to go back to work, except instead of leading me to the hull, they made me climb a net that hung from the rails, then the shroud, all the way to the mast. Folsom accompanied me and brought a coil of rope wrapped around his torso. The excuse they gave me to get up there was that the main sail footrope needed replacement, but it made no sense. Tilted at that steep angle, it seemed impossible. Still, given that they were all far more experienced than I and how eager I was to impress them, I followed along.

And so, there we were, hanging several hundred feet off the ground.

"Aye, quite necessary," he assured me. "You don't want the rope snapping while one of us is on it, do you?" "Sure, but why don't we do it when the ship is upright?" I questioned whilst crawling over the platform's aperture around the mast to get to the footrope in question. "This feels dangerous."

I went quiet to focus on not falling to my death. Folsom didn't reply. After I found a good position straddling the mast, I turned - and caught him shimmying down the rope he had brought along while stifling a snort. On the ground, far, far below me, the rest of my shift looked up with big smiles as they urged him down. "Oy!" I called. "Where the hell are you going?!" "Why, off for a quick fuck and a tankard of ale!" Folsom cackled. "Wait--" I looked around, suddenly realizing that I had no idea how to get out from my position without help. My heart burst into a mad rhythm. "How am I supposed to get down??"

"Oh, don't worry, love!" I heard Muldoon cackled. "We'll come back to get you in no time!... As soon as we're done, of course!" "Folsom!!" I bellowed at the top of my lungs, equal parts furious and scared out of my wits. "Folsom, you get back up here right now or so help me God!!!"

"Hazing's not over yet, newbie!" He laughed. When he reached firm ground, he gave the rope a tug and I watched in utter horror as the knot he'd tied broke up and the line fell at his feet. "Hang in there, Constance!" Logan joked. Then, they all turned around and walked away to our camp, leaving me trapped on the mast.

Oh, I was SO going to knock the rest of Folsom's teeth out. With an oar! And chase the rest of them out of town for a fortnight! Bloody... pirates!! Shit, I was so high up. I could see the town, a few miles from where we were. I could also see the fort and a good stretch of the jungles toward the interior. So, the view was nice.

But the heat... the heat was unbearable.

With my sleeve, I wiped the thick layer of sweat from my forehead and tried to ignore the feeling of boiling alive from the inside out. Summer was almost upon us, which meant the sun wouldn't go down for at least another three or four hours. And God only knew how long those bastards would take coming back. "Fuck..." I bent my body forward so I could rest my forehead on the mast. It was growing weak from the labor and the sweltering temperatures. How long had I been perching there...? A minute? Ten? An hour? Whatever water I had taken during my break was long gone, poured right out of my skin, and now a mad thirst gripped my throat. If I stayed up there much longer, I was sure to faint and drop. I would most certainly die.

Somehow, I had to find a way out of that mast.

I glanced behind me, at the platform. The shrouds were well within my reach. If I could shuffle backwards and crawl through again, I could climb down to safety. I just had to keep telling myself it wasn't so hard.

Besides... I could just imagine the look on those morons' faces when I found them and slapped them all across the face, one by one. The thought put a frail smile on my lips. They were going to pay dearly for this prank, oh yes, they were.

Slowly, I started pushing back along the mast, squeezing with my thighs to stay upright. I was so tired, I could barely breathe. My brain was sluggish, like it was about to melt out of my ears. Just another few centimeters... a few more... I reached the platform. As cautiously as I could, I swiped one leg over the mast, then the other, reached out to hold onto the edge of the passage that would lead to the shrouds-- A wave of dizziness robbed me of my balance. My bloodied fingers scrapped the wood and dropped into nothing. Then, my whole body slipped from the mast and suddenly there was nothing separating me from the ground. My heart stopped. I opened my mouth to scream. My hand hooked onto something -- the footrope.

Quickly, I snapped my free arm up and held on for dear life while I swung lazily back and forth.

"Oh dear..." I whispered to myself. Out of some stupid instinct, I took a peek down and immediately regretted it. I was too far high. If I fell, I would break every bone in my body. My flesh would become a gelatinous mess on the beach.

A wave of nausea punched my stomach at the thought.

"Help... Someone..." Fuck, I was scared, almost too scared to raise my voice. “Helloooo...? Help..."

This was it. I was going to die. My little adventure was over before it truly began and it was all over a stupid joke, I couldn't believe it...!

I shut my eyes tight and tried to calm my racing mind. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be how my story ended. I had to fight, just as I'd done with Cutthroat Fred. I kicked my feet to build momentum and try to find purchase on the platform, but my legs had gone numb and my arms were too used up from the day's work. There was no way I could pull myself up.

The crew was in the camp, very close by. I could hear them conversing and shouting at each other, singing shanties, playing music. If I could just scream, someone was bound to hear me. So I sucked in a shaky breath and cried: "Help! Help! Somebody! Heeeeelp!!!"

I could feel my sweaty hands starting to slip. My arms went into spasms, stretched to their limit. It was a matter of time before I fell. I tried to scream louder. "Somebody, please, help me!!" For a short moment, all chatter came to a stop. Then, someone shouted in alarm and a commotion followed, of men calling out for rope, for a net, telling me to hold on, that help was coming.

Above all others, I heard Billy's thunderous roar telling them to get out of the way. I risked another glance down. He hadn't wasted a second; he crawled up the net, ran over the railing on light feet, then up the shroud. In less than a minute, he was at the platform. “Hold on, Constance!" He urged me. "Hold on just a little longer! I'm coming to get you.” My palms chafed against the hemp. “Please, hurry!”

No sooner had the words left my mouth, one of my hands finally gave out. My panicked cry mingled with those of the men on the beach. My fingers trembled on the rope as they lost their strength.

“Fuck! Fuck, Billy, I'm slipping!”

“Almost there!” He passed through the platform, balanced his enormous body on the mast and snatched my wrist at the exact moment I lost my grip on the footrope with a scream. Time stood still. Wide eyed, I stared down at the ground, at the indiscernible faces of the Walrus' men while they held their breaths and brought their hands to their heads. But they stayed where they were. They didn't rush up to me.

Stunned, I slowly let my head fall back. Billy's hand gripped my arm so tight, my fingers had turned purple. He returned my look of shock with his own, like he could scarcely believe he had reached me in time.

“I got you," he puffed. "I got you."

With my breath caught in my lungs, I stared up at his face, red and drenched from his efforts. I could hardly believe I was still alive, too.

"Billy..." He took in a breath, gritted his teeth and heaved me up.

The second I was within reach, I hooked my arm onto the mast and clambered up with his help. He fell back on the platform and held me to him, breathing laboriously, while I buried my nose on the crease of his neck and clung onto his shirt like a child did to their parent after a nightmare.

“It's alright.” His voice was quiet and soothing, not at all judgemental, even as I trembled and sobbed into his skin. One of his hands smoothed down my hair in slow sweeps, over and over, which helped settle my nerves, if only a little. “It's alright. You're safe.”

My teeth chattered too much for me to respond, but I was so grateful for him. So grateful. To my shame, hot tears prickled my eyes and ran down my cheeks, staining his shirt. I hoped no one would notice – especially not him.

After a few minutes of this, I finally found my courage, dried my eyes and pulled away. Billy gave me a once over to assess my state and make sure I wasn't hurt. "You all right?" "Y-yes..."

Through the haze of panic, I realized we were much too close. I was practically on top of him. Yet, there was no room for me to put distance between us, so I remained where I was, though I at least moved my hands from his chest to the platform behind him.

"Good..." He cracked a smile and pushed a loose piece of hair behind my ear. "Feeling brave enough to go back down?"

I took a look over my shoulder, saw the thirty or so men below, as small as toy soldiers, and got this strange impression that the ground was rushing further away from me. With a gasp, I shut my eyes tight and shook my head. "That's fine, don't worry." He touched my shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. "We can just sit here for a bit until you're ready, yeah?" I nodded, did my best to focus on my breathing so I could clear my head. How were we going to get out of that predicament? We were too far high, there was barely anything to grab onto, no space for maneuvering. It was impossible.

Against my best efforts, my breath became shallow. My throat clogged up with a new wave of sobs that tried to force their way out. Fuck me, I was going to start crying again, right in front of Billy. Pathetic. Girly. Weak.

"Do you have any siblings?" I snapped my eyes open. For an instant, I forgot all about our current situation. "... What?" I quipped. "I asked if you have any siblings," he repeated. Calmly. Casually. Like we were sitting down for tea instead of perched hundreds of yards in the air. "Brothers? Sisters?"

"I-I do." I shook my head to get it to focus on his question. "Sisters. Five sisters." "No brothers?" Had he perhaps gone mad from the heat? I continued to stare at him with my mouth hanging open. "You want to know about this now?"

"I'm trying to distract you from the fear," he explained with a chuckle.

How was he so tranquil about everything?? Why wasn't he scared out of his mind? It was absurd!

"No brothers, then. Six girls. Tell me about them. Are they older than you? Younger?" I swallowed a lump in my throat. "I'm the third youngest." "How old is the eldest?" My gaze wandered back down.

"Constance." I returned my stare to his. "Keep your eyes on me. How old is your eldest sister?"

His brow was so tense that the skin creased in deep furrows. His eyes were an bright blue color, almost electric, blinding. They demanded my full attention. I found that I couldn't look away, even if I wanted to. "Thirty-nine," I sighed. "She's thirty-nine years old." "And the second eldest, how old is she?" "Thirty-four."

"The third eldest?" His gaze softened and, to my surprise, I felt my body start to relax. "She's thirty-two," I told him. My voice was nearly back to normal. "What about you?" He offered me a warm smile that made my stomach do a flip. "How old are you?" I managed a snort. "It's very rude to ask a lady her age."

That got his smile to widen. "Well, I figured since a I already asked about the age of three other ladies, you wouldn't mind. Besides, I'm curious." He rested his head against the platform. "I want to know." If I didn't know better, I would say he was flirting with me. My gaze dropped to the strings adorning his neck.

"I'm twenty-eight," I murmured. “I will turn twenty-nine in August." He made a little hum. "I'm twenty-eight, too." I looked up again with a stupid wide grin. "You are?" "Just turned, three months ago." "Happy belated birthday," I chuckled.

"Thank you." There was a pause then, like he was waiting for something whilst searching my face. His smile faded away. "What about your two younger sisters? How old are they?" "Twenty-one and fifteen," I replied. "Do you miss them a lot...?" My heart did a plunge. I bit my lip to stop the sorrow from getting the best of me and nodded a couple of times.

"You will see them, again." He swore. "I'm going to get you out of this mess, and you will see them again, alright? I promise." A tremulous smile pulled at the corners of my mouth. "I don't know about the second part... but if you can get me out of this mess, I would consider myself satisfied." I saw a question flash in his eyes, but whatever it was, he didn't pronounce it. Instead, he gave my shoulder another squeeze.

"Ready to go back to solid ground?"

To resist the temptation to look down, I let my eyes shut one last time and pressed my mouth into a tense line. "Not really... but let's go." "Right. Um..." I opened my eyes slowly at his hesitation. He was studying our current position to formulate our exit strategy. It wouldn't be easy; the mast was tilted at a pretty steep angle, which pushed me onto him and offered us very little space to move. His cheeks, already rosy from the heat, turned a brighter shade of red. "Aye, right. Constance... I'm going to need you to pass your leg over me, plant both feet on the platform and... lie back."

Every inch of me went still, even my brain. Especially my brain.

"I... beg your pardon?" "I-I need space to get up and climb to the other side," he stammered, no longer able to look me in the eye. "Which means you have to lie flat on the mast so you won't fall while I do that."

If my face wasn't already burning up, it would have surely combusted. He was talking about my straddling him -- as in, having him between my legs. I might have slapped him, were it not for three things:

One, there were literally no better alternatives.

Two, I liked and respected him too much.

And three, he had just saved my life. "All due respect," Billy muttered as he peered at me with utter embarrassment. "If you really want to get out of here, I'm afraid you're going to have to discard your puritanical sensibilities for a few minutes." It would be the most scandalous thing I had ever done until that moment, but I could recognize it was necessary. So, after taking a shaky breath, I started to move.

Slowly, being extra careful not to touch him, I pulled my left leg up and over his hips. He stayed perfectly still, patiently waiting while I positioned both my feet on either side of him. My face was inches from his; I could feel his shallow breath on my cheek. I licked my dry lips and began to ease myself back, but then stopped, too afraid to drop abruptly and risk falling. I flicked a glance at him. "Would you mind...? Helping me lie back..." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Sure."

He took hold of my elbows and lowered me until I was lying fully on my back with him half on top of me.

My heart was pounding in my chest. I could feel it kicking against my ribs, heard it drum in my ears. However, as I looked up at him and he down at me, lips slightly parted over his perfect teeth, it wasn't dread that I felt. At my core, a simmering sensation of heat spread up my belly and down my thighs, filled my chest with an intense longing. Desire. I was feeling desire. "You good?" He hummed, so softly I half wondered if he had spoken at all.

"Aye..." The new wave of thirst filling my mouth had nothing to do with my need to take in water. "I think so..." "Good... In that case, I'm going to let go and get a move on. Do exactly as I do, yeah? I'll wait for you on the other side and we'll climb down the shroud together." "Uh-huh..." His hands slipped away from me so he could lean on the platform again. Next, he turned on his side, grabbed onto the edges of the aperture and slid his legs through it. After he had crossed to the other side, he poked his head out. "C'mon. Remember, don't look down. Keep your eyes on me."

I took a couple of deep breaths to calm myself before I sat up and slid down the mast. I passed one leg first, then the other, going painfully slow compared to when I climbed up. I couldn't understand how I'd done it without a drop of fear, yet now struggled to hold it at bay so I could concentrate.

"That's it..." Billy encouraged me in hushed tones. "Take your time, find your footing. You're doing great, Constance."

He moved back to give me space while I passed the rest of my body through that narrow opening. Never once did I look down, nor let go of the platform. It was the only way I knew to stay calm and collected. "There you go." Billy dropped his feet onto the ratlines and grinned as he rested his arms on the mast. "See? Hard part is done. Now we just climb down, hand over foot."

Right...

I risked a brief glance down. We were still so far from the beach... That illusion of the ground sinking away from me returned, stronger this time. I immediately snapped my gaze back to Billy's, who watched me with some apprehension. "Do you need to stop?" He asked me in that casual tone, no pressure in his voice at all. I shook my head no. The sooner we reached the earth, the better. "Let's go, then. No rush, yeah? I'll match your pace."

Very carefully, I lowered myself onto the shrouds. Billy waited until I was by his side before he too started his descent, so we could go together. The whole while, he reminded me to take my time, to look at my hands, told me I was making good progress. I truly believe that, if it hadn't been for him, I never would have left that mast alive. Finally - finally! - we touched down on the rails. The crew shouted their own encouragement, urging me to keep going, that I was almost there, just a little more. I waved at them so they would know I was all right, but the truth was that, even as we were closer to the ground, it was still too high. I kept a tight grip on the ratlines and fought to contain the nausea rolling in my stomach.

About two and a half meters from me, Billy stopped and frowned. "What's wrong?" "I... I feel dizzy," I moaned. The nausea, I realized, was caused by the light-weight sensation my head was in, coupled with swimming vision and a feeling of being out of balance. I was certain that if I let go of the shrouds, I would faint and probably never wake again. Billy shuffled sideways to return to my side and held out his arm. "Take my hand. I'll help you." Struggling to control my breaths, I stared at his open palm for a second or two before taking it. However, as he started to move away, I gripped it tight and froze. When he realized I wasn't moving, he looked up and tilted his head. "What if I fall...?" I whispered. My bulging eyes clung to his desperately, but he only smiled and squeezed my fingers.

"You won't fall," he said. "I saw you sprint along the bowsprit on all fours like a damn cat. You can do this, Constance. I'm right here and I'm not leaving your side, alright? Even if this takes all night." I let his words envelop me and sighed in relief when my heart settled. We were so close to the end. The net was right there. I could make out the faces of each man below as they waved me over, promising to catch me if I slipped.

Jean was right at the front, pale as a sheet, hands cupped over his eyes to shield them from the sun.

All I had to do was let Billy guide me. Only a few dozen steps later, we reached the net. Billy didn't let go of my hand until the last moment. On wobbly legs, I descended, step by step, one hand over the other...

When I felt hands on my arms, shoulders and back, I knew it was over.

The crew – my crew – aided me down and settled me on the sand. Jean pushed his way through them to kneel at my side and lay a comforting hand on my back. Behind him, a sea of heads hovered over us, telling me to lie on my back and breathe, asking if I was injured, if I needed water, or perhaps some ale? They inquired each other as to what had happened, where was the rest of the watch, why I was up there all alone? I couldn't answer any of their questions. My head was still spinning wildly. Ironically, now that I was on the ground, safe and sound, the nausea was getting worse. I pressed my palms into my eyes and bent over. I was going to vomit any minute, could feel that tell-tale burn just under my jaw getting stronger and stronger. “Get back, you lot!" Billy commanded. "Give her room to breathe. Jean, move over.”

Callous fingers, gentle as the touch of grass, hooked around my wrists and tugged lightly on them. I resisted. "I think I'm going to be sick," I warned them.

"Put your head between your knees. It'll help."

I did so, keeping my eyes closed so the spinning would stop. My mouth watered repeatedly and at first that burn got worse, but with the passing seconds, it faded away. My stomach calmed and returned to normal. Jean rubbed gentle circles on my back while Billy held my hand in one of his. His thumb stroked my skin almost tenderly. "It's all right, Constance," he murmured. "It's over, now. Just breathe."

Jean huffed a laugh and said, in French: "You are, without a doubt, the luckiest girl I've ever met. Christ almighty." I managed a frail chuckle. "Or maybe I just have very good friends," I replied, also in his mother tongue.

At last, I was well enough to sit up straight and look at them. Billy was crouching in front of me. The sun shone bright behind him like a halo, giving him this almost angelical look. That, combined with his blue eyes, tinged with concern, his flushed tan skin and his golden hair, always cropped short, struck me in that moment as so beautiful that my breath caught in my throat. The dizziness and the fear washed away from me, replaced with a sense of peace, of... safety. I was safe. Not just from certain death, either; from everything. As long as Billy was there to watch out for me, I would always be safe. He smiled with relief as he saw I had recovered. “There we go. Good girl.”

Hesitantly, the rest of the crew closed in around us. They kept a safe distance for my sake, though they were worried and eager to take a look at me. No one spoke up above a whisper, like they were afraid to perturb me further or break the tranquility both Billy and Jean had instilled in me.

There were no words to describe what I felt for those men, all of them, as I took in each and every one of their faces. I tried many times since then, but they always fell short of how my chest sizzled, igniting with this warm feeling of belonging. More than my crew, this was my family. The one I had chosen and the one that had chosen me, in return.

One thing I do know for sure: after that day, I would have died for any one of them. No exceptions. No conditions.

“Constance!”

All heads turned inland to see who was coming. Billy's face, soft and kind while he took care of me, twisted into a frightening scowl of barely contained rage. He turned to Jean. “Stay with her?”

“Oui,” the other nodded.

Billy let go of my hand, stood to his full height and marched out through the men, who quickly parted to let him pass, spooked by that dark expression.

Mr. de Groot advanced from the crowd. In his hand, he carried a bucket. He took Billy's place and offered a ladle full of water. “How about something to drink, hmm?”

Having mastered my fear, I sat up straight and accepted the water, sipping slowly so I wouldn't choke. Not far from us, an argument exploded.

“Oh God, is she alright?” I heard Muldoon asking – followed by the dry sound of a fist landing on a jaw.

A chorus of “oh” rose and fell in a wave.

“Where the fuck were you?!” Billy bellowed. “You left her up there alone without aid! She almost died!”

Logan's voice: “We were only gone for a minute to get something to eat! It was just a joke, I swear!”

“Well your fucking joke could have cost her life! It's like I'm dealing with a bunch of amateurs instead of seasoned seamen! Are you all amateurs?! What am I always telling you? Stick together and watch each other's backs! And what did you do? The exact fucking opposite! What is wrong with you?!”

No answer.

I couldn't see much, but from a tight breach in the crowd I managed to spot Muldoon on the sand, bleeding from a burst lip. Despite the humiliation, he didn't dare get back on his feet. The mood among the crew was of intense interest mixed with resentment. For me. Against them. If it weren't for Billy standing between them and my watch, they probably would have torn my watch apart for abandoning one of their own in such a precarious, dangerous situation.

De Groot tried to give me more water. “Never you mind that. Have another sip.”

Gently, I turned the ladle down, anxious to see what would happen next. On the one hand, I was angry at them for what they had done; a joke is only a joke while all parties are perfectly safe. This had gone too far. Billy was right, I could have died.

On the other... I couldn't help to pity them. This was grave indeed and the punishment would have to match the trespass.

“Unbelievable.” Billy said. “You really have nothing to say for yourselves?”

“What's going on here?”

Mr. Gates.

Again, all heads whipped around as the crowd parted. And it wasn't just Gates – Captain Flint followed close behind.

His presence alone blanketed us all with a sense of unease.

Captain and quartermaster surveyed the scene: Muldoon bleeding on the sand; my shift mates tweedling their thumbs, chins tilted down in shame; Billy towering over them, arms crossed over his chest; and me, still trembling from the aftershock as Mr. de Groot and Jean tended to me.

Flint's stare hopped from my sheet-white face to the careened ship and back, stopping at my hands. Suddenly, I became very aware of the dried blood that covered them, from scrapping barnacles all afternoon.

Billy gave them the account of what had happened, from the moment they first heard my cries for help to the scolding he was delivering Logan and the rest. Gates' expression turned darker and darker with each word, going red, then purple, then red again. On the other hand, Flint remained impassive, his hands tucked behind his back as he listened.

When Billy finished the report, Gates turned on my friends, fists shaking at him sides.

“These are some serious allegations. I ought to pin you down to that sandbar until high tide! Captain--” He turned to Flint. “I believe a trial is in order. We can't let this one slide. Someone could have died.”

Murmurs of agreement spread about, faces grim as they looked between me and my neglectful companions. And to think, only a few hours ago, we were at the tavern eating and laughing together. Now, I could hardly look at them.

From my left side, I felt a persistent tingle on my cheek and turned my head to look: Captain Flint stared at me from across the crowd, examining me.

I don't know what he divinated from my eyes, but after almost a minute, he broke contact and addressed the crew. “I agree. Let's take a moment to collect ourselves and get the story straight. I will hear the account of all parties involved... And then we go to votes.”

The crowd split up. Muldoon, Logan and the others were taken away and made to sit on the sand under some shade, with a ring of men standing guard over them. Mr. de Goot and Jean helped me to my feet and took me to the aft of the Walrus, where they sat me on a rustic wooden chair. They insisted I had some more water and biscuits, to recover my strength; they tasted like sawdust on my tongue and felt just as rough. One month in this crew and this would be the second trial I was at the center of. How unlucky could I be?

Not long after, Captain Flint and Mr. Gates came to me to hear my version of the story. I told them everything, swearing to the truth of my words. After they left to go talk to the others, I bent over my knees and held my head in my hands, worried about what was going to happen to them. No matter how I had wanted to shove my fist into all their kissers, I didn't want them to get too hurt. Or worse, expelled from of the crew.

Yet, with a sinking feeling, I was certain that was the most likely outcome.

Out of nowhere, a heavy hand clamped on my shoulder, nearly startling me out of my seat.

“Sorry,” Billy said in response to my gasp. “Didn't mean to scare you.”

“It's fine,” I sighed while massaging my heart. “Guess I'm still a little out of it.”

He crouched in front of me, same as before. With a quiet snort, I realized that, even low to the ground and while I was on a chair, he still towered over me.

“Something funny?” He asked.

“No, it's just...” I tilted my head back just a smidge to look him in the eyes. “I was thinking that even when you're crouched, I still have to look up to you. How did you get to be so damn tall?”

A shy, adorable smile graced his features and he brought a hand up to scratch at his nose. I decided then and there that a bashful Billy Bones was my favorite Billy Bones.

“Would you be surprised to find out I was once tiny and skinny?”

“Noooo... Really?” I arched my eyebrows at him, trying to imagine him as a short, lanky child (I couldn't).

He nodded a couple of times whilst that smile widened into a relaxed chuckle. “Really. Until my sixteenth birthday, I was a spit of a kid. Then I had a growth spurt and just... Never stopped stretching.”

I pointed to his broad shoulders and large arms. “Upwards or sideways,” I jested.

“No, that part came from hard work and dedication. It takes effort to get this big, y'know?”

I laughed, delighted that he played along instead of chiding me. He was still the boatswain, after all, and I a subordinate. My adoration from earlier returned in full force, especially as I recalled how he saved me from falling to my death. I was indebted to him for that and had no way to repay him. Or so I thought, then.

Sighing through my nose, I chipped off the flakes of dried blood from my forearms. “Thank you, by the way... For saving my life. It was very brave of you.”

He half shrugged, avoiding my gaze. “What else was I supposed to do? Let you fall?”

Now it was my turn to be bashful. I let my head turn to the side so he wouldn't see my flushed cheeks or my big, stupid smile.

“Listen, uh...” A pause, during which his tone shifted to something more serious. “I wanted to talk to you about what's going to happen next. With the trial.”

My smile crumbled right out of my face. Slowly, reluctantly, I faced toward him once more. He wasn't smiling anymore, either. In fact, there was something fierce behind that calm demeanor, something violent – a caged animal fighting to be let out.

“Things aren't looking good for those dumbasses. You and I both know that expulsion from this crew is going to be the inevitable result in all this mess. However...”

He let out a heavy breath and rubbed his palms together. “As angry as I am about the whole thing, that's not what I want. Apart from my friends, those men are good sailors and it would be a waste to have a handful of our best leave suddenly, all at once.”

He scrutinized my features carefully. When he saw the way I pouted, gaze on the sand at my feet, his sneer softened up. “And I get the feeling that's not what you want, either.”

I shook my head side to side. “No. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm pissed beyond belief, and it's gonna take me a long while to forget about all this. But I don't want to see them banished. They're my friends, too, and they didn't mean any harm by it. They were just... inconsiderate.”

“And as you know, there are some in the crew that would much rather see you gone than they,” he pointed out.

Like Mr. Singleton. Mr. Turk. Cutthroat Fred... Indeed, it was no secret that a not-insignificant number of the men didn't like me, never had and probably never would. They only tolerated me because Mr. Gates willed it so, and Flint ordered it so, and Billy and a handful of others enforced it so.

“I think--” He continued. “You would go a long way to gain their favor if you were to publicly declare you held no grudge against them for their antics and voted in favor of them staying.”

I leaned back on the chair and searched his eyes. “Do you think it would be the right thing to do?”

He made a face of 'I dunno'. “Doesn't matter what I think. I'm just laying out the cards for you. You're the wronged party here. What do you think?”

I chewed on my bottom lip for a bit, torn between resentment and love for my friends. I would forgive them... One day. And they would have to remain a part of the crew in order for that to happen.

“I think it would be for the best, for everyone. Including me. I want to forgive them. I want them to have a chance to earn that forgiveness.”

A half smile crossed his lips. He reached out to give my forearm an encouraging touch. “Very well, then. I'll let the captain know you're ready.” He stood to his feet and walked away.

Where his hand had been, I suddenly felt very cold. I liked his touch. It reminded me of the feeling of honey on my fingertips, silky and supple, or how the waves licked at my ankles, like earlier that afternoon. Inadvertently, the thought that he was certain to give great hugs tugged at my gut.

Then it struck me that, in a way, I already knew how good his hugs were. He had held me against him so strongly, up on the mast, yet so carefully, at the same time. His hand was so gentle as it stroked my hair, and his skin...

God, his skin. Smooth, sun-kissed, feverish. He smelled of sweat, but not the kind that burned your nose and made you want to hurl. It had the kind of natural musk that was strong, but not unpleasant, a smell so delicious it made my mouth water. If I could of have it lathered on my own skin, I would bask in that scent for eternity.

Alarmed, I realized that my chest was hurting from the way my heart pounded. With wide eyes, I covered my mouth with my fingertips, horrified at my own carnal thoughts. The same thing had happened up there, when I'd had him between my thighs and...

Heat crept up my neck and cheeks and forehead, until even my hair roots seemed to be catching fire. Oh, this wasn't good. This was not good, at all.

*** The sky was beginning to turn a lovely shade of pink when the crew gathered around in a wide circle on the beach.

Mr. Gates, my friends and myself were at the center of it. Captain Flint stood to the side, on the front row of this circus. Though he presided over the crew, he was also an equal among them, for during trials, the captain's vote held no more sway than the lowest ranking deckhand.

Torches had been lit as the cloak of night crept on us, so we wouldn't be stumbling in the dark by the time this was finished. I pulled Jean's borrowed frock tighter around my shoulders to fight off the cold that gained strength as the day died out. "So," Gates began. "We all know why we're here, but to recapitulate, I will give you a quick account of the events that led to this trial.”

He cleared his throat. “This afternoon, at four bells, the defendants before you were selected to form the first shift chucking and tarring the hull of the Walrus. Sometime after six bells, they saw fit to leave their colleague, Miss Constance Tilly, alone on the mast while they went to get food and drinks, as a poorly conceived method of hazing. Under the sweltering heat, she feared for her life and saw fit to try to come down by herself. As a result, she slipped and hung several hundred yards in the air. As she does not yet possess the brute strength spending months at see bestows upon a sailor, and after the better part of the day working practically without reprieve, she was unable to climb up to safety. She called out for help and our boatswain, Billy Bones, courageously went up the shrouds to rescue her. It is solely thanks to him that Constance is still drawing breath." I had to smile hearing the little note of pride in that last sentence. Billy tried not to show, but his chest puffed visibly as he held himself tall, with a small smile on his lips. "As such, we are now here gathered to vote on whether to oust the defendants from this crew, definitely and irreversibly."

Gates addressed my companions, who each held a mixture of regret, fear and trepidation on their faces. "Gentlemen, this is your opportunity to defend your honor before your shipmates. Who among you do you choose to represent you?" Mr. Folsom came forward. "I will represent our party."

"Very well." Gates stepped back with an outstretched hand, inviting him to take the stage. Folsom started by taking in the silent men, eyes lingering on those I knew were personal friends of his. He spoke to them first.

"What we did today was unforgivable. Of this, we are aware. By our own recklessness, Constance could have lost her life over a moronic prank. She might be new in our midst, but she has proven her worth time and time again. She's a quick study, hard-working and serviceable. Never denied lending a hand and never complains. Well... for the most part. But whom among us never complained at least once?"

A wave of uneasy laughter rolled through the men. Even I had to smile, a little.

Next, he turned his attention to me and I saw the furrow of his brow deepen in honest guilt. "You may have joined less than a month ago, but we already consider you a part of the crew. That makes you a sister to us, which should cover us all the more in shame. Please know we bore no ill will toward you. We never meant to put you in real danger, yet that's exactly what we did. Can you find it in your heart to forgive us?" Though he spoke for everyone to hear, and this apology was just as much for their benefit as it was for mine, somehow I knew it was directed first and foremost to me. I searched the faces of the other accused and saw nothing but regret and the need for absolution.

If it had been Logan, I might have forgiven them before bed. If it had been Muldoon, I would have made good on my thread by giving him an extra bruise on the jaw to pair up with Billy's and forgiven them the following day.

But it was Folsom who apologized for them all. Folsom, with whom I'd had my first altercation and for whom I'd developed deep respect. I had learned so much from him, once we'd found some common ground.

He looked so humble before me, before us, as he begged forgiveness. "Constance?" Mr. Gates called. "Would you care to say a few words before we vote?"

I tilted my chin up and sighed through my nose. Without taking my eyes away from Mr. Folsom, I declared: "I won't lie and say I'm not angry with you. I am. You shouldn't have left me alone up there. Today... was the scariest day of my life and I won't forget that so soon." Folsom's fists balled up. Logan, Muldoon and the others gawked at me, fearful, no doubt already counting the minutes before they found themselves out of a job. I was making them squirm, sure, but could I be blamed? Honestly? Then I glanced at Billy, who observed me with a knowing smirk. He nodded ever so slightly in approval. I returned my attention to Folsom and the others.

"Even so, I believe your sentiment of guilt. And yes, I know you had no bad intentions when you left. This doesn't change how I feel about you all, and I will still call you friends and brothers whole-heartedly. I forgive you. All of you."

Folsom and the others deflated in relief. I could have sworn I saw Logan wipe a runaway tear, though I would never tell my suspicions to his face.

Around us, the men hummed their approval. I even felt a few hands touch my shoulder and back, accompanied by soft comments like a wise attitude and you're a noble woman, Constance.

Mr. Gates stepped forward to address us all one more time. "If no one else has anything to add?"

No one professed themselves.

"Then let us go to votes. All those in favor of letting the defendants remain with us?" Several hands shot up. Most of them, from what I could tell. They included Billy, Flint, de Groot, Jean, Gates and my own.

My shoulders slumped and my heart was at peace. They were staying. "All those against?" Hardly a dozen hands went up.

"That settles it then." Mr. Gates clapped. "Gentlemen, you may stay with us for a while longer." There was a tentative applause for the close call. But, it became apparent I wasn't the only wronged party here, after all. A betrayal of your crew, no matter how slight, was a serious offense. They were going to have to work hard to make up for this incident.

"Now, as for punishment," Mr. Gates proclaimed once the clapping stopped. "The captain, the boatswain and I spoke on this matter and have reached a consensus: for abandoning your stations and putting your companion in peril from your negligence, you will be working double shift cleaning the hull and you will be scrubbing the decks while we're at sea for the next three months."

The group groaned and grimaced (Muldoon buried his face in his hands in despair), but no one dared contesting. They knew they deserved worse, so this, they would endure. "With that said, I declare this trial officially concluded. Thank you all for your participation. Now, how about some roast pork on the spit for supper, to end the day on a high note?"

We all whooped in agreement, energized by the thought of some food and rum. But, while the others dispersed, I stayed where I was.

My regretful friends slumped forward . Truth be told, after Mr. Folsom's speech, plus the thought of their imminent expulsion, my anger had somewhat cooled down. I was ready to put this whole ordeal behind us. Muldoon was the first to speak, eyes as watery as a puppy's. "Are you all right?"

"I am," I muttered. "Billy got to me before I could fall. I wasn't hurt." "We're really sorry, Constance." Logan rubbed a hand down his neck, incapable of meeting my gaze. "We never meant to put you in harm's way, honest." "I know, Logan." I offered him a compassionate frown. "Sorry you won't get to see Charlotte much." He shrugged with an unconcerned grin. "She'll still be there waiting for me when we're done. It's fine." "Besides, we were asking for it, weren't we?" Muldoon added, to which the rest agreed. "And Constance? Thanks for vouching for us. We owe you a lot for this." "Damn right, you do. But for now..." I smirked and punched his arm. Hard. "Let's get some booze and dinner. I'm starving." They bellowed in agreement, though Muldoon was massaging the spot where I'd hit him. I did say I would get him one day, didn't I?

As a unit, we marched up the dark beach towards the fire pit where our food would cook. One day, I would collect this favor, with interests. But not tonight. Not tonight.

[illuminated-in-darkness]

Perspective Shift Black Sails Musical Parallels | III. VI. X. XVI. XX. XXVI. XXVII.

random note: the working title for this parallel was 'swoopy slide', and I still haven't found a better way to describe the music cue lol.

I spent a year rewatching Black Sails and tracking all the bits of music that repeated at any point during the show, and my findings are reinforcing that Bear McCreary is a genius and this show should have been called 'parallels that will kill you over and over again'* (tag | chronological)

[phenomenal1500]

Target #0001 | Charles Vane

Chapter 5: ~A Private Matter~

For Chapter 4: ~Change The Future~ click here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She smiled and took his hand which he kissed like he did back on the jetty. "When do we start?"

"Today."

~~~

A new woman walking side by side with the most fearless captain in Nassau definitely caught people's attention, but she couldn't care less. At least her once blue hair couldn't give her away anymore. She honestly had never thought so far back people were already coloring their hair, but she thought wrong as Vane had helped her use different plant extracts to cover up her genetic white/blue color. There wasn't much option yet so all she could pull off was black, but it looked cute and subtle so she went with it.

Besides changing her hair to black, he had also let Anne cut it to a more wild wolf-cut style so the uneven parts were out before changing her clothes to more practical ones for work as well.

She was currently wearing simple black leather pants and a white blouse on top of it tucked into her small corset since a dress wasn't helpful in a fight and he was expecting to get into a lot of them before anyone would believe them. People for sure would see the news as a threat rather than take it as advice and help.

"So what now?" She looked up at the tall man and he looked back at her as they walked over the hot sand into Nassau's alleys.

"We try to make the people believe us." He smirked a bit, leading the woman to the tavern with him.

"How are we supposed to do that?" She walked inside while the captain held the door open for her, scanning the place carefully.

"Find Flint." He growled lowly, his face changing to a more grumpy expression and she nodded a bit. She didn't wanna push it any further cause it was clear he still held some hatred towards the red-haired man. Thankfully he did know it was necessary to get him involved for the future of Nassau and so that's why he mentioned Flint.

"What do you need me for?" Another deep voice growled in response from behind the two and Levana slowly turned her head to the side.

"A private matter." Vane narrowed his eyes, moving his head to the side too so he could side-eye both men behind them.

"You think I'm going to talk to you in private again after the last time you screwed us over?" Flint hissed coldly, but Gates cut the man off before he could go on bitching any longer to the other captain. Gates' attention was more so focused on the woman next to Vane. She had changed her hair, yes, but he was trained in recognising faces. He was a quartermaster after all, he was supposed to remember who was on their crew and what their names were.

"Miss Blue?" The bald man spoke up, recognising the soft, but also yet sharp, facial features the woman had.

"I think you have the wrong woman in mind." She reacted casually, but her accent gave it away.

"No, it's unquestionably you. Didn't I tell you I was planning on making an arrangement and you would be safe, ma'am? Didn't I tell you not to do anything stupid while I was gone too?" He crossed his arms, kinda disappointed yet another young woman fell into Vane's arms even though that wasn't the case at all.

"Yes, but I found myself better protection. It was necessary." She plainly explained and crossed her arms too.

"Necessary for what? You're walking around with the most dangerous captain on this island-...."

"Exactly." She interrupted Gates and he watched her in shock. Where was her sweet attitude? "I'm not safe and I need protection from someone that is feared, someone people can't get close to. That way people won't question me and that's one of the reasons why we need to discuss some things in private." She shrugged and watched down on the two pirates, back straightened hoping they would take her seriously.

If they weren't up to talking to the captain, she had to make sure to get them curious enough to be willing to talk to her instead.

"What is possibly so urgent a foreign woman has to find protection from a man like him? No one knows you, you aren't in any danger and you surely won't have my protection anymore. Now get out of my way." The red-bearded man scoffed and shook his head, walking past the two to find Eleanor. He wasn't going to accept the arrangement Gates proposed to someone who was 'fucking' around with his rival.

"Levana.... what's going on?" Gates stepped closer to the woman, noticing the concern behind her attitude and wanting to hear her out despite his captain's reaction. Flint was only busy with himself, but Gates could poke through every attitude to figure out what was really going on with someone.

"The end of piracy." She whispered, appreciating that at least he wanted to listen to her.

"The end of piracy? How do you know that, dear?"

"I think Captain Vane here can explain it better than I can since he's no stranger, but either way we can only do so in private. People will bring chaos if they hear and we can't afford that in these times right now." She sighed, watching her feet for a second. "They need to hear it from a beloved or feared pirate captain when the time is right, and I'm no such thing."

Vane listened to the woman's calm voice, snatching a rum bottle from the bar he could drink from as he leaned against it. Even though he knew about what was about to come, even he had trouble settling with the idea of some civilized douchebag coming to take his home.

"I perhaps can persuade Captain Flint into participating in the meeting, but I think it would be a better idea to try and gather more captains to do so."

"Captains like who?" Vane furrowed his brows, swinging around with the bottle before taking another sip. "They're all too stupid to even understand the importance of Nassau's ford and defending the island."

"Edward Teach."

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

X

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

X

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

X

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

X

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[gorgiawrite]

BLACK SAILS, timeline study :

I.

One day, a captain named PARRISH came across a Spaniard named VASQUEZ, at a tavern in Port Royal. There the man, dying, told him of the treasure galleon Urca de Lima and detailed its schedule to him.

A spy of Flint’s overheard the conversation and sent FLINT the information : the tale, and possibly the name of the man who had the details of the schedule (PARRISH, captain of an english merchant), but not the name of his ship (both FLINT and GATES call it Parrish's ship in conversations together)

It then took 3 months for FLINT to capture PARRISH’s ship and he had to seize 3 other (GATES mentions this ship as the 4th prize worth almost nothing, captured in the 3 months they have been chasing the schedule).

FLINT boarded PARRISH’s ship 1 day away from Nassau (SILVER says he memorized the schedule in 3 days : one day at see on the Walrus, one day at Nassau meeting MAX and snooping at night on the Walrus to read Parrish’s journal in Flint’s cabin, one day starting with the Singleton fight and ending at The Wrecks were he burned the schedule).

So, between meeting VASQUEZ at Port Royal and getting boarded by FLINT 1 day away from Nassau, PARRISH spent 3 months, doing God knows what, with FLINT needing first to capture 3 ships to find him.

Parrish's ship (x)

THE WALRUS'S SPEED

the Walrus top speed is 7.5 knots. That speed was reached while chasing the Andromache (V.) by risking the masts's integrity (argument between FLINT and DE GROOT, the t'gallants should not have been unfolded in that wind). With a proper carrening, that speed could be reached safely ("A clean hull means an extra knot or two in speed" in IV.), but the carreening was not completed (in IV: "A few more days, we'll have the keel cleared and tarred and she'll be ready to go back into the water", but the very next day they were chasing the Andromache, as established by SILVER mentionning Randall's amputation being the previous day).

the Walrus chasing speed is 6 knots, in favorable winds (the speed reched before risking the masts's integrity, see above).

the Walrus average cruising speed is 5 knots (my estimate, somewhat arbitrary : I take into account the occasional slow wind and a lighter workload on deck to allow shifts for the men to rest).

PARRISH'S SHIP SPEED

very similar to the Walrus : it is also a frigate with three mast, square rigged, with as many sails on each mast), maybe slightly smaller ? : 5 knots on average.

NASSAU - PORT ROYAL TRAVEL :

Port Royal, Jamaica - Port of Nassau, Bahamas: 754 nautical miles

1 knot = 1 nautical mile / h

5 knots = 5 nautical miles / h

754 / 5 = 150.8 ; so it takes 150.8 h to make the travel

150 h = (6 x 24 h) + 6 hours ; so the travel takes 6 days at 5 knots

CROSS ATLANTIC TRAVEL

In the 18th century, it took on average six weeks to sail accross the Atlantic. If weather conditions were bad, it could take up to three months.

So, either PARRISH went to and right back from England after his encounter with VASQUEZ at Port Royal (6 weeks to cross the Atlantique one way + 6 weeks to cross it the other = 3 months) ; or he stuck around - maybe traveled along the coast to make commerce in the main ports (back then, only noteworthy were Boston, New York, Newport, Philadelphia, and Charles Town).

Map of colonial america in the 18th century (x)

THE ISSUE :

When would have SILVER boarded the ship ?

I can't imagine him being on Parrish's ship since the VASQUEZ encounter and not learning about it (the actual cook of the ship found out, so I doubt a man like SILVER - clearly used to gather information and manipulate - wouldn't have, had he been there around the time it happened).

How did FLINT track the ship ?

Flint had to capture 3 other ships to get to it. I somehow doubt he randomly followed a route and hoped for the best, attacking ships at random intervals.

IF PARRISH WENT BACK TO ENGLAND :

It would have been a round trip (no delay in the timeline for more than a stop).

Did FLINT have words that Parrish went to England and right back from it, and hit 4 ships in a row on the right route at the calculated time frame of his return? It sounded, from MR SCOTT that it was a while since FLINT made a good earning. That would go against this theory : the 3 ship attacked to track Parrish's ship would have been spaced over 3 months.

Which means FLINT knew exactely the route PARRISH would take, and probably an approximation of his scheduled stops. How would 3 ships attacked in the Bahamas, or even the continental colonies's coast, know of the schedule of a captain on his way to of back from England? Even if Parrish told someone in England, he left right away, so no one could have preceeded him with the info.

This case figure also implies SILVER would have joined Parrish's crew in England.

IF PARRISH MADE SEVERAL STOPS IN THE COLONIES :

If all FLINT had - and it seems to be so - was PARRISH's name and the fact that he sails an english merchant, it could explain the 3 month to track him. The spies mentionned in the show (his, Guthrie's, Max's) are all in the West Indies (Jamaïca, Cuba). So it stands to reason that FLINT had a hard time tracking Parrish's ship.

The most likely scenario would be that FLINT spy in Port Royal knew in which port of the colonies PARRISH was headed, and FLINT attacked every ship he knew came from that very same port, until one of them told him that PARRISH was finally underway, at which point Flint could finally go after him now that he was back on the water.

But that would imply PARRISH spent three months not working : unlikely. Maybe FLINT had to track him from one port to another, but couldn't attack because he stuck too close to the coast guarded by the colonial navy?

That theory does imply SILVER joined the crew from an English colony port (most likely Charles Town, Philadelphia, Newport, New York or Boston). That, or he was picked on a recent new stop at Port Royal right before FLINT caught them.

--

And this, this is why I have avoided writing anything in the past decade. I overthink shit way too much.

Still, I'm doing this. So if anyone feel like going crazy with me, feel free to message me. Otherwise, ignore this, I just need to put it in writing to figure it out.

[lavender-nerd]

Before Her

Summery: Azriel having a nightmare about life before meeting Rhysand, Cassian and Reader

Pairing: Azriel X Reader

Warnings: A bit agnsty and abuse

Word Count: 1.7K

(A/N: this is my very first post on Tumblr, so any feedback is appreciated!!)

(not 100% cannon)

Azriel age 11 pov:

Cold, so very cold.

Coldness, that was the only thing I felt, and darkness surrounded me like a blanket.

Drip, drip, drip.

The only sound besides my breathing could be heard in the stone-cold bricked room I'm in. At this point, I don't even remember where I am. The cracks in the wall let in the harsh wind from outside. I could hardly move my wings, or any of my limbs due to the cage I was stuffed in. They were the first to betray me, the ones I called family, my father, my brothers.

Hands and laughter woke me up as I was thrown from the cage onto the snow from outside. Snow, how cold and cruel it was. My two brothers came at me, one with a bottle in hand and the other with flint.

"Give me your hands" Radin commanded.

"What?" Fear slowly rised in me as Thoman held my shoulders to the ground. Snow and rocks pinched my stomach when I started to fight back.

"Give me your hands now!" Radin commanded once again, but with more anger.

"Hahaha come on you bastard, give him your hands" Thoman now sat on my back grabbing at my elbow, raising them up.

"Now be a good bastard boy and keep your hands still". Radin now popping the cork from the bottle and oil invading my nose.

"No stop, please stop no no no NO" Fear now taking full control as oil now coated my hands. Bottle dropping to the ground below.

"Give me the flint now" Thoman now handing the flint to Radin I start to wiggle and thrash around not wanting my horrors to become true.

Clink. clink, clink, WOOSH.

"AHHHHH" I scream in pain as fire now engulfs both of my hands, Thoman now off my back I hunch over trying to put the flames out with the snow, but nothing works. Laughter fills my ear as now the once beautifully white snow has been tainted with my bastard born red blood. My screams reach my father's warriors as they rushed over with a dripping wet rag. Skidding to a stop in front of me both warriors kneel down and roughly drapes the rag over my hands. Tears stream down my face as they desperately try to kill the flames.

"Hahaha, now look at yourself, you think your 'Illyrain healing gift' can help you now?" Radin and Thoman both laughed at me, looked at me as if I was a piece of gum on the bottom of their shoe. Once the flames were out, I laid on my back, tears still coating my face, looking up at the sky thinking how cruel the mother above could be. Picked up by the two warriors, I was hauled back into my cold metal cage.

Blood slowly dripped from the many gashes and burns on my hands. My brothers- no, they were no longer my brothers, not when they did this to me. Those vile creatures. I was left to rot in this cage for what I presume, for the rest of my life. Darkness took over me as I succumb to the pain.

After a long and cruel beating from those vile creatures, I laid quietly trying to regain a steady breathing pattern, relaxing my limbs and my wings. I roll to my side blinking slowly, trying to clear my blurry vision. I realised that they left the door open. I hastily got up and try to open the cage door by lifting, pushing and pulling, hoping it will open.

My freedom is right in front of me, if only I could get this stupid cage to open. I could see the blue sky, even taste it at this point. The snow from outside has never looked so white. I need to get out, I NEED TO GET OUT. I lift and push with all my might, sweat coats my brow. Please, mother above, hear me, please. I fall to my knees and give one last push of every strength left in me. The hinges fall off and the gate swings wide open as I fall onto the bricks below. I pull myself up and made a dash for the door, only to stop a foot away. What if my father and my brothers saw me or or if the warriors saw me? What would happen to me then? Should I just go back into the cag- NO NO I'm never going back into that cage again!!

I step into the doorway and look left then right, all clear. I made a mad dash into the woods in front, snow nipping at my bear feet.

"Stop right there". I hear behind me but I'm not stopping now, not when I'm finally out. The crunch of snow behinds me let me know that the warriors are behind me. I duck left and right, dodging the trees ahead. It's cold, so very cold. My breathing rough and ragged as large cloud of mist comes from my mouth, again and again. My feet snagging on rocks and roots, staggering I keep myself up. I look behind me and the estate has never looked so small, but I don't stop running. Looking forward, I keep running, even though my legs and feet feeling stone cold. The shouting behind me getting quieter and quieter, then nothing, but that didn't mean I would stop running.

I kept running till the sun went over the horizon and the moon rose. I slowed to a walk finding my breath and finally looked at my surroundings. Nothing but snow and trees for miles and miles. As my adrenaline faded, I finally realised just how cold and sore I am. I found a stump to sit on and have a look at my legs and feet. My feet and legs were blue and starting to turn a dark purple in some spots. I needed help and fast. I started to look for higher ground to see if I could see any fires or any signs of life. But there was nothing, nothing at all, no fires and no signs of life. Frustrated tears filled my eyes as I realised that death may just come for me.

I started aimlessly walking but the cold was harsher than I thought. There was no place in sight and had no destination in thought, all I knew is that there had to be someone out there. Sleep started to creep up on me as I fought my lids to stay up. Black dots evaded my vision, then everything went black as I collapse to the snowy ground.

I don't know how long I was out for, but I could hear voices ahead of me. I tried to get up but had no strength left in me. I tried and tried again, over and over again. There's voices and they're close!

"Please" my voice too soft. I was desperate at this point, nothing around me could aid me to get their attention. If I couldn't walk, I'll crawl, and that I did. I clawed at the snow beneath me, longing to see them. to see life. I crawled and crawled, their voices growing louder and louder. I came to an opening and finally see two other Illyirans flying without a care in the world and laughing, then I see the most beautiful being in the world. It was as if the mother above touched her at birth and gifted her the beauty of a thousand. It was as if I was lost in a trance as warmth filled me, but that warmth didn't exist. Then she looked at me.

"Hey are you alright?" She came rushing over to me amd knelt down.

"Oh my god, you're freezing! Cassian, Rhys, come down here!" She called. The two Illyrians dove down and rushed over once they were on land. The snow stirred for a moment before settling down.

"Hey are you okay?" The taller one asks, voice uncertain. I could hardly even answer him, voice trembling as I replied a quiet "help".

"We need to get him to my mother, Cass, give me a hand". And thus, I was lifted between the two and off we walked to who knows where. I could hardly keep my eyes open as winter fought tooth and nail to bring me down.

"It's okay, you can rest now, we're going to my mother. She can help you" and with that, I was out like a light.

I woke with a cold sweat, chest heaving, sweat coating my brow and chest.

"Azriel?"

A soft-spoken voice invaded my ears as I tried to come to sense.

"My love? Are you okay?"

I looked to my side and see the mother touched women sitting up in bed next to me. Her soft skin was kissed by the moonlight that swept through the curtains. I came to sense about where I am. I'm home in our cabin near Velaris, in bed with my amazing mate, y/n. She softly touched my shoulder as I collapsed in her embrace.

"Was it that nightmare again? About your past my love?"

I slightly nodded in her shoulder, and she kissed my head softly and said nothing but reassuring words into my ear and all felt better after those kind words.

"After 500 years you would think I would stop having these nightmares." I said with a breathy laugh.

"My love, there is no shame with having nightmares, it's a part of us, it makes us who we are today. I will always love you, nightmares and all".

"And this is how I know I have the perfect mate in all of the world". I raise my head and look deeply into her eyes before capturing her lips to mine.

"Come on my love, let's go back to sleep". She says through the soft kisses. I nod and I pull the covers over us and pull her onto my chest. She draws lazy lines over my chest that soon stops as she falls back to asleep.

"I will always love you too, to the moon and back I will always be here for you, thank you my love for showing me that kindness still exists to this day". I soft speak to her, kissing her temple before closing my eyes and letting sleep takeover.

[geekusfemme]

What if?

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Full story on AO3 — Wattpad 100k+

Astarion x Female OC

Rating: Mature

Summary: What if Astarion was betrayed by the Dark Urge and handed over to the Gur Hunter? And what if another kind of hunter saved him and set his life on a new course, one that would ultimately lead him to cross paths with those who had abandoned him? This story aims to give Astarion his own hero's journey separate to the main party, and will run parallel to the canon story in which Durge will be an antagonist.

*******************************************************

The forest lay quiet, bathed in golden light filtering through dense canopies that arched like ancient cathedrals over the narrow dirt road. The clip-clop of Gandrel's pony disturbed an otherwise tranquil woodland, his cart rolling steadily as he adjusted his reins, his attention largely on the road ahead. Behind him, in the cart's shadow, lay a large cage cloaked in heavy canvas, edges bound tightly with rope. Gandrel's eyes flicked occasionally to the side, cautious, as if sensing something amiss in the quiet.

In his periphery, a dark shape loomed, slinking from the undergrowth. A giant direwolf, fur like tarnished steel, padded up beside the cart, its massive paws silent on the earth. Astride the beast sat a young elven woman with raven-black hair, braided and woven with feathers. Her ice-blue eyes held him in a gaze as unwavering as her mount's. She wore a mix of leather and fur armor, each piece worn and shaped by use, the rough sinew of her life in the wilds. In her hand, a bow rested, almost lazily, but her body remained taut, poised as if she could spring from her seat at any moment.

Gandrel steadied his voice, though his grip on the reins tightened. "Greetings, friend - if friend you may be," he called out, keeping his tone cautious yet amiable. "I am Gandrel. May I know your business with me?"

The woman inclined her head slightly. Her expression gave nothing away, yet something about her presence prickled at his instincts. "Greetings, Gandrel. I am Ashara. My business with you will depend on what is contained within that cage of yours."

Gandrel glanced back to the covered cage, feeling a sudden surge of unease. Though he masked it, a shiver crept up his spine. Guiding his pony to the side, he stopped, watching her with wary eyes. She made no move to approach, but the direwolf's amber gaze was fixed upon him.

"It holds no beasts of the forest, if that is your concern," Gandrel replied, choosing his words carefully. "Only a prisoner, one I am taking to Baldur's Gate."

Ashara's expression didn't shift, but her posture did, almost imperceptibly; her bow was suddenly, dangerously, taut, the arrow aimed directly at him. "People are disappearing up and down the Sword Coast," she said, her tone sharp as flint. "I've been hired to investigate. You will show me this prisoner. Now."

Gandrel forced a placating smile, raising his hands slowly. "Please, do not mistake my intent. The prisoner I carry isn't one of your missing innocents. He is vampire spawn - a creature my tribe tasked me with capturing and delivering to Baldur's Gate."

Ashara's gaze never wavered, the bowstring taut in her grip. "Nevertheless, I require you to show me this prisoner."

Reluctantly, Gandrel clambered down from the cart, moving slowly to avoid provoking her further. He reached for the ropes holding the thick canvas in place, fingers steady but betraying a flicker of resignation. With a swift motion, he pulled the covering free, revealing the cage's occupant.

—♤—

Ashara's gaze sharpened as she took in the unusual features of the elven man in front of her: red eyes like garnets gleaming beneath the tangle of his silver curls, pale skin sunlit, but without the burns that would afflict a vampire. He was on his knees with his hands bound behind his back, a strip of twisted cloth silencing any cries he might have given. A rope wound tightly around his neck, the other end of which was passed through the bars of his prison and tied to a metal ring in the bed of the cart.

As he caught sight of her, the elf strained against his bindings, muffled sounds slipping past the gag as he glanced between her and Gandrel with urgent desperation.

Gandrel held up a hand, intercepting her questions before she could voice them. "I understand the confusion," he said, his voice calm yet resolute. "I was also taken aback to find a vampire walking freely in sunlight. But make no mistake - his immunity only serves his deceit. He used it to win the trust of a band of adventurers."

Inside the cage, the elf shook his head furiously, his eyes flashing with fierce protest. In a desperate effort, he scraped his gag against the bars until he managed to free his mouth. Though Ashara searched for telltale fangs, he kept his lips firmly pressed - a gesture that did not escape her notice. She hesitated, her gaze sharp with suspicion, yet unwilling to accept Gandrel's explanation outright.

"Please, listen," the elf gasped, his voice smooth yet strained, an accent polished with nobility. "This Gur is lying through his teeth! My name is Astarion, and I'm a magistrate from Baldur's Gate. I was kidnapped by this thug, who most likely intends to ransom me. Free me, and I'll see you richly rewarded."

Ashara studied him, noting the regal, carefully groomed air about him, the elegance of his speech, his clothing - though dirtied - was finely made. She looked back at Gandrel, suspicion flickering in her gaze. "Proof," she said quietly, her tone brooking no argument. "Show me proof of his nature beyond mere words."

Gandrel's expression flickered as if with hesitation, but he nodded in resigned acceptance. Climbing up onto the cart, he took hold of the rope tied to the elf's neck and pulled it taut, dragging him toward the back of the cage despite his furious writhing. Tying it off, he produced a key and moved to the cage's door, opening it and stepping inside.

Ashara watched, a prickling unease creeping up her spine as he seized the man by the hair, forcing his head back with a relentless grip.

Astarion snarled, his voice venomous. "Unhand me, you filthy bastard! What are you - no!"

Gandrel ignored his protests, gripping Astarion's lower jaw with his other hand, forcing his mouth open to reveal sharp, glinting canines, gleaming in the sunlight like a predator's trap laid bare.

"See?" Gandrel murmured, his voice low, yet something in his eyes seemed troubled as he looked back at Ashara.

All pretense vanished from Astarion's face, twisting his elegant features into something feral as he jerked his head, his fangs flashing as he snapped at Gandrel's hands. The hunter barely flinched, releasing Astarion with an eerie calm, stepping back as if accustomed to such wild resistance.

Gandrel's voice was devoid of sympathy. "I take no pleasure in this, spawn. It would have served you better to be truthful."

Astarion strained against his bonds, spitting like a wild cat. "Go to the hells! I'll tear you to pieces for this, Gur."

Ashara felt a chill crawl up her spine at Astarion's abrupt, vicious change. He'd gone from a desperate prisoner to something far more dangerous, a predator wounded and cornered. Still, her voice was steady when she spoke to Gandrel, watching him as he locked up the cage and loosened the rope tether, giving Astarion just enough freedom to slump back onto his knees.

"What will happen to this vampire once you've delivered him to your people?" she asked, her gaze flicking to Astarion, now panting heavily, his eyes wild with fury.

"What do you think? They'll kill me!" Astarion cut in before Gandrel could answer. The fear in his gaze stirred something reluctant in her, as he pleaded, "Look, I'm sorry for lying, but I haven't done anything wrong. I wasn't going to hurt anyone, I swear."

Gandrel's expression hardened, his voice now cool, a wall built from old wounds and memories. "That may be so these past few days, but you're wanted for more than just being a vampire. You helped steal away the children of my tribe. My own included."

The words fell like stones, each one a blow that left Astarion frozen. He flicked a nervous glance at Ashara, his composure wavering. She caught the tension in his shoulders, the flicker of shame in his eyes, so brief it could've been a trick of the light. But when he looked up, anger masked his face once more.

"I didn't have a choice!" Astarion's voice rose, a bitter edge cutting through it. "Cazador ordered me to take them, and I had to obey. All his spawn have to obey - you know that damn well, Gur!"

Gandrel's face hardened, but a flicker of pain crossed his eyes, so brief Ashara almost missed it. "Willingly or not, it makes no difference. You know what happened to those children, and you will tell us."

Astarion looked away, jaw clenched. "You want to know what happened? They're probably dead by now." His voice was low, resignation tainted with anger. "Nothing I say can change that, and I won't apologize for something I couldn't control."

The weight of Gandrel's sorrow settled heavily in the silence between them, and his jaw tightened, a haunted glint in his eye. "Then my people will have their vengeance... one way or another."

Astarion scoffed, a hollow, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Killing me won't change a damn thing."

Gandrel turned to Ashara, his eyes weary but resolute. "Now that you've seen my prisoner, am I free to continue on my way?"

She glanced back at Astarion, who had slumped back against the bars, head bowed as though each breath was an effort. A faint sense of guilt stirred within her, but she forced herself to nod, her voice quiet. "Yes... your business with this man is your own."

Astarion's head jerked up, his eyes ablaze with fury and betrayal. "Damn you!" His voice cracked, the anger veiling something more fragile. Then he fell silent, a hollow figure against the iron bars.

Ashara straightened, stroking her wolf's thick fur as she gave Gandrel a respectful nod. "Onyx and I apologize for detaining you, Gandrel of the Gur. May your journey be swift and your burden light."

A weary smile ghosted across Gandrel's face as he climbed back onto the cart, his eyes softening as he inclined his head. "And so too may yours be, Ashara."

She nudged Onyx to step aside as Gandrel took up the reins, his cart lumbering forward along the winding path. But as they passed, her gaze fell back to the figure in the cage. Astarion was watching her, and in his eyes, she caught a shimmer - a trace of something unguarded, unfeigned. A plea that was all the more startling for its sincerity.

"Please..." he whispered, his voice a fragile thread, breaking under the weight of despair. "Help me."

She tore her gaze away, her chest tightening as a pang of guilt twisted within her. Beneath her, Onyx sensed her discomfort, and gave a low rumbling growl of reassurance as they slipped back into the forest.

Beneath the cover of trees, she dismounted, letting her thoughts drift as she resumed the task she'd abandoned earlier - skinning the deer she'd taken down just before Gandrel had passed by.

Onyx settled beside her, his watchful eyes fixed on her with a calm assurance as his voice echoed in her mind.

"You feel guilt over the vampire. Waste not your sympathy. His kind are known for cruelty and deception. His fate is one he surely deserves."

Ashara paused, turning to run her hand over the thick fur along Onyx's neck. "I know. But something about seeing him caged like that - so desperate for freedom - it reminded me of you. People said you were a monster too." She gave a half-smile, her eyes softening. "And I'm glad I didn't believe them."

Onyx's muzzle curled into a canine grin, his teeth glinting. "As am I, my friend."

She sighed, tracing the line of her blade over the deer's pelt. "I know I shouldn't get involved-"

"Then don't." Onyx's voice was calm, grounded in a wisdom that often tempered her impulsive nature.

"But maybe we could free him and let him go somewhere remote and far away from people?" she argued, more to herself than to him. "Like that owlbear we rescued from hunters?"

Onyx scratched an ear, tilting his head thoughtfully. "A vampire is not an owlbear, Ashara. If he is freed, he will remember every slight, every indignity. And he will eventually return to civilization, hungrier and more cunning than before. Do you truly wish the blood of the next innocent traveller he meets to be on your conscience?"

Ashara felt the weight of his words and lowered her gaze, her resolve weakening. "No... you're right."

Onyx's voice softened as he leaned his head against her arm. "If you choose to free him, his fate is your responsibility. You would have to ensure he never harms another innocent soul. And that would mean keeping him close and watching over him."

She glanced up, startled. "What... like a pet?"

A rare bark of laughter escaped Onyx, a sharp huff that made her smile despite herself. "No, not quite. I do not think he would take kindly to that title."

Ashara grinned, feeling slightly foolish at her assumption. Then, a spark of curiosity glinted in her eyes as she remembered. "Oh, how did I do back there by the way?"

Onyx nuzzled her cheek affectionately. "You handled yourself well. You were confident, respectful."

"I wasn't too aggressive?"

"For a man who captured a vampire? I think you showed just the right amount." His amber eyes gleamed approvingly.

Ashara gave a small, proud smile, her hands resuming their work. But even as she focused on the deer, her thoughts drifted back to the prisoner. Those crimson eyes, filled with anguish, haunted her. And as the forest wrapped around her, she wondered if she could truly let that plea go unanswered.

Like what you're reading? Check out the full chapter in the link below.

[blacksailspolls]

🏴‍☠️ BLACK SAILS EPISODE BRACKET

ROUND 1, GROUP 2

SUMMARY

VIII. (1.08) — The hunt for the Urca de Lima begins when Silver divulges the schedule to Flint, taking them to the ship's location. Rackham stops paying Ms. Mapleton, which causes her to threaten to blackmail Rackham. She threatens to tell the locals what really happened to Mr. Noonan. Meanwhile, Vane makes his way back to New Providence with his new crew. Eleanor's situation changes when a small band of men take over Hornigold's fort and start sinking supply ships in the bay. Gates threatens to call off the attack of the Ranger, so Flint kills him. The final scenes of the season show that the Walrus has beached itself upon the same isle as the Urca de Lima.

X. (2.02) — A member of the Walrus crew unexpectedly returns, but finds himself cruelly tethered down on a beach. Flint, still stuck in the bowels of the ship, sets his plan in motion to become a captain in two days' time by offering advice to Dufresne on a certain route to navigate the galleon through. Meanwhile, Silver tries to make himself indispensable to his crewmates by reading them gossip that the quiet cook Randall witnesses daily aboard the ship. Meeks asks Eleanor to dispose of his captain, Ned Low since his unquenchable thirst for power is causing the crew to be reckless. After Jack learns about the intimate encounter between Max and Anne, he accepts it and later proposes his next money-making scheme with them.

[lupismaris]

The Walrus- whiskey & blues. The "official" playlist for Cobble Hill's favorite queer bar. No, we don't take requests. -X, Flint.

yes i made a playlist for a fictional bar to accompany a fanfic. Sue me.

I approached this as Gates asked Flint to assemble a formal Spotify playlist for the bar that patrons could pull up as a reference after they got the upteenth person asking about what was playing. Flint made the playlist based on the bar's vinyl collection which is predominantly blues oriented, they pride themselves on being an alternative music venue for the facet of the queer community that doesn't enjoy the same club music as their cohorts vibe to in other gay bars.

It'll probably update as I go and yes I'll throw a link to it on AO3 .

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic} - Ch. 5

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: Graphic violence, displays of misogyny, gendered slurs Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, James Flint, Jean DuBois, Mr. Logan, Mr. Muldoon, Dr. Howell, Mr. Singleton, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Jean duBois/OC (bffs) Additional tags: Original character-centric, first person POV, canon character x original character romance, self-discovery journey, kinda alternative prequel to canon, canon compliant, slow burn, mutual pining, friends to lovers, tooth-rotting sweetness, cute but also sexy, angst galore, found family, Hal Gates has two children now, canon typical violence Series: Part One of Six of A Girl, An Ocean Chapters: 5/13 Summary: As she continues to learn the ropes, Constance begins her fighting lessons with the gunner Bjorn. And just as well, as very soon afterwards, her new brawling skills are put to a harrowing test.

Author's note: WOW, this one is LOOOOONG. I actually considered dividing into parts, it's such a monster of a chapter. Hopefully not a boring one, tho! Another sort of filler, I promise we go back to the romance on the next one! Btw, I love writing fight scenes, they're so much fun. Oh yeah, there will be blood.

Chapter v.

The very next day, some time before sundown, Bjorn pulled me aside as I was preparing for my grueling tasks, such as scrubbing the decks or sharpening the kitchen blades with Randall (almost cut my own finger off the previous night). He said I wouldn't be working that evening; instead, he was going to teach me something else, something that was equally crucial in the life of any pirate, but far worse on the body.

He was going to teach me how to fight.

"I... beg your pardon?" I said with a tiny note of hysteria in my voice.

"You're going to learn how to punch, kick and stay standing when someone attacks you." He numbered each by raising a thick finger, grinning beneath his ginger beard. "Thierry and I talked last night and figured what happened with Folsom wouldn't be the last instance you would go looking for trouble. So, since it seems highly likely that soon you're gonna pick more fights you can't possibly hope to finish, we decided to initiate you on the art of brawling."

"Um..." I felt a cold chill in the pit of my stomach, for I was painfully aware I had never thrown a punch in my life, much less gotten into a fight. "A-alright? I mean... You do know that this will be the first time I will find myself in such a position, yes?"

Bjorn produced a boom of a laugh that shook the wooden floorboards. "Stick around us a while more--" he motioned for me to follow him into the hold. "And you will find yourself in all sorts of positions, if you know what I mean. Just wait until we get to Nassau and you meet Noonan's girls."

He winked at me from over his shoulder, but the fact was that, no, I did not know what he meant. And frankly? I didn't think I wanted to know.

He brought us to the stern of the ship, near the door to the armory, then cracked his knuckles (the sound made me gulp). "We won't be disturbing anyone here. Now, show me how you make a fist."

I stared at my left hand like I was seeing it for the first time. My fingers were long and delicate, but the days of hard work had destroyed my nails and put dirt into every crease and fold of my skin. I curled it into a feeble fist. Bjorn approached, took a quick look and nodded.

"That's good. You didn't make the mistake of tucking your thumb into it. That's a good way to break these fingers." He tapped a pointer twice the thickness of mine on my first and second knuckles. "Now squeeze tight, as much as you can, and try to hit right here." He raised his meaty tattooed hand, palm to me.

I stared at it wide eyed, then up. "What if I hurt you?" I whispered.

"Psh. You won't. Trust me, I've had much worse. Come on. Put your weight into it, like you're stretching out your arm. Go on!"

I bit my lip and got ready. I pulled back my fist, took a couple of anticipatory breaths, then held in and shot my arm forward. However, at the last minute, I hesitated out of fear of making some sort of damage, so my fist barely made noise when it touched his palm.

Bjorn shot me an unimpressed look. "I can feel you holding back."

"Sorry, I... I got scared. I really don't want to hurt you."

He shoved my hand away. "Let's get something straight. One day, you're going to be ordered to go over the side and join an attack. It might be in a year, it might be next week. But it is going to happen. Hell, you might end up having your first real disagreement right here on this ship, and let me tell you, those boys up there?" He pointed at the ceiling. "They won't give two shits that you're a girl. They will strike with the aim to fuck you up.”

Smile gone, he leaned over me and looked straight into my eyes with his pale, icy ones until I shrunk, fighting every instinct to run away screaming. “When were on the hunt, whoever we happen to board will have one thing in their minds and one thing only: survive to see another sunrise, even if they have to kill every single pirate in front of them. So you better learn to defend yourself, or else you're going to die out there. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

This was a harsh reality for me, one I knew I would have to accept sooner rather than later. Even so, the thought of violence of any kind chilled me to my core. With only a few select occasions, I had hardly ever wished it upon someone. Even so, this was a part of my choice and I needed to embrace it, whatever the cost. Bjorn was right, it was for my own good that he was teaching me.

Don't be a burden, or worse: a liability. I repeated Flint's words like a chant in my brain to encourage myself, then set my jaw tight and brought both my fists up. I gave Bjorn a nod to indicate I was ready. He lifted his palms.

"Left fist, right here." He clenched his right hand fingers.

This time, I put everything into it. My knuckles produced a dry smack against his hand, which hardly moved an inch. "Better. Right fist, now."

I punched his left palm. He grunted in thought. "Left handed, you?"

"For almost everything, yes."

"Lucky for you, that might be an advantage. Most men expect attacks from the right. I suggest you always start on the left, to throw them off.”

I nodded and got into position again, but Bjorn dropped his hands and came closer while examining my shoes with a furrowed brow.

"What?" I asked.

"Your feet are all wrong." He stood behind me, which made me nervous given I didn't know him that well to feel comfortable opening myself up to an attack, but all he did was use the tip of his boot to push my left foot forward. Next, he came around on my right and pushed my other foot backwards. "You want to have them firm on the ground so you can support your own weight. This will lend strength to your punch and make you more difficult to knock down if you're hit in turn. Flex your knees a little. No, not that much. Like that. Now watch."

He gave my shoulders a shove that made me stagger backwards, but thanks to my new pose, I managed to stay upright.

"See? Always return to this position whenever you have a break. Let's practice those punches some more."

For the following fifteen minutes, Bjorn had me repeating the same moves until I got used to them and gained confidence. He had me change the direction from which my punches came, first from above, then from below. And afterwards, with a set of established commands, we mixed up the combinations. At the beginning, the instructions came at regular intervals that I could keep up with, but as the minutes passed, he started picking up the pace. Between my poor reflexes and the building exhaustion from the exercise, I messed up more times than I liked. Whenever I missed, Bjorn would hiss or shout a mockery, which prompted me to focus harder and pause a few seconds before obeying the command correctly.

"Don't hesitate," he warned me. "You're thinking too much. Let your instinct take over. Trust yourself to get it right."

I could feel my punches growing weaker as my arms tensed up, muscles burning under my sweat soaked skin. Still, I didn't slow down. I was huffing and puffing, my hair sticking to my neck and forehead, yet I didn't stop. Not until Bjorn told me to, or until my arms gave out. Whichever came first.

Never once did he complain or even wince. It was as if he wasn't registering the abuse his palms were enduring.

At some point, when the last of the sunlight peeked through the hatches on the ceiling and the hold grew dark, Thierry and two more men came down to join us. I didn't look to see who they were, since Bjorn was still dishing out commands, one after the other.

"Man, you're working her out good, aren't you?" Thierry chuckled. "We can hear her panting all the way upstairs."

"Halt!" Lars pulled back his hands and held them up in surrender. "That's enough for today."

As soon as he called it, I leaned over my knees and let my head hang for a moment, the French braid I'd tied my hair into slipping over one shoulder until it hovered inches from the floor. My entire upper body was in agony, yet... I felt strong and satisfied. I had hardly missed a beat for the last two minutes as my reflexes developed.

With my breath mostly recovered, I finally looked up to see who accompanied Thierry. I recognized them: the bald man with tattoos on his neck and his friend with a full beard. I remembered them from standing behind me at the line for dinner.

"We haven't been introduced yet," said the first as he extended his hand forward. "Muldoon. This is Logan."

I smoothed my hand down my pant leg before shaking theirs. "Constance."

"We saw you with Folsom, yesterday." Logan grinned and wagged his eyebrows. "I don't think anyone has ever gotten so angry so soon after meeting him. I mean, the man is an asshole alright, but novices are usually too afraid of him to do anything about it."

"If I was afraid of pirates, I never would have set foot in this ship." I put a healthy dose of defiance into that statement. Might as well leave the warning now so they couldn't say I didn't prepare them, later. "I'm not letting anyone treat me like a second rate citizen. Especially now that I can punch."

"And can she punch, Bjorn?" Muldoon inquired. "I mean, if you're gonna stir up shit then you better follow up your sharp words with a strong wallop."

Bjorn crossed his meaty arms and shrugged. "She has the technique. Time and hard labor will take care of the rest."

Muldoon smirked. "Sounds like you're packing a pretty feeble wallop. Guess little women don't have much reason to know how to hit, don't they?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. Was he just teasing me, or was there a challenge behind those words? I glanced at the others to assess their reaction. Thierry was smiling, like always, but his eyes shot between Muldoon and me in a manner that struck me as nervous, especially when coupled with the beads of sweat on his forehead. Bjorn stared at Muldoon with a scary intensity, as if trying to get him to stop with his mind alone. And Logan, he observed me like a very interesting looking painting. Or like he was waiting for something to happen. Something vicious and bloody. Eager. Excited.

I pinned my eyes back on Muldoon and let a moment pass. His smirk faltered a notch.

"I don't know, Muldoon.” I shrugged as I took a calculated step forward. “Ladies may not throw punches on a regular basis, but we do have a pretty biting slap."

"Oh yeah?" He snorted, traded a jocular look with Logan, turned back to me. "With those delicate, manicured hands? How bad can it be--?"

My open palm flew through the air like a bull whip, hitting him square in the face with a smack so loud, it echoed throughout the hold. Muldoon stumbled to the side, hand to his cheek as the others shouted "ohhhhh!" in unison, then laughed. Thank goodness for that; I thought I would get into trouble.

As I waved out the tension from my hand, Muldoon stared at me in shock. When he removed his hand, I saw a bright red mark shaped like my palm blooming on his face.

"Bloody hell, girl!!" He complained. "What was that for?"

I faltered, felt my skin prickle with anxiety. Oh my God, was he actually offended? Had I misinterpreted the whole thing and acted too hastily? I felt sick to my stomach. Stupid, dumb , idiot! My hands flew to my mouth as I got closer, worried I'd seriously hurt him. "Shit, Muldoon. I'm so sorry. I--"

"He was asking for it!" It was Logan who intervened by laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't say you're sorry. In this ship, you talk shit, you get hit. That's how it goes around here. He just wasn't expecting YOU to catch on so quick."

"Damn right I didn't. Fuck, that hurt." Muldoon massaged his cheek, yet soon enough he was laughing as well. "Guess next time I'll know better."

I let out a discreet sigh of relief. One thing was to defend yourself; another was to react disproportionately to a verbal jab. I offered my hand as a gesture of reconciliation, same as I had done with Folsom. "I still apologize. I got a little too excited from Bjorn's lessons and didn't think it through. Forgive me?"

Muldoon accepted my apology and shook. "All's well. But..."

He squeezed my fingers so hard that my knuckles popped, shooting arrows of agony up my arm. My body jerked from the pain as I pulled my hand out of his vicious grip with a hiss. "Fuck!!"

"Ohhh, what a dirty mouth we've got!" he chortled, and so did the others. Then he passed an arm around my shoulders and gave them a friendly shake. "Now we're even."

Through gritted teeth, my hand cradled to my chest, I glared at him for an instant before I too broke into laughter. "Alright, if you say so."

I was so going to kick that clown's ass one day. One day...

*** Over the course of the following weeks, my lessons continued. I improved faster than even I had anticipated. Folsom took me up the shrouds and showed me how the sails worked. De Groot continued to mentor me in the ways of navigation and taught me how to use the different instruments. Bjorn advanced the fighting to all out brawl, teaching me grips and how to knock down an opponent by using his strength against him. Jean, Muldoon, Logan and Thierry would often participate and spar with me so I could get a feel for different body types and combat styles. Despite my initial fear, these lessons became a source of fun for me. Not only that, my confidence grew practically overnight thanks to them. I walked a little straighter, felt more relaxed while moving about, looked people in the eyes more often. I was still being hazed, but at least I never sat alone during meals anymore.

I was introduced to Mr. Beauclerc, whom I was told was the best marksman aboard and knew everything about guns. Obviously, he was put into charge of teaching me how to properly hold, load and clean a flintlock. He was a man of few words, but knew how to transmit information succinctly and effectively. Quite clearly, too: once, I saw him shoot a seagull out of the air at fifteen yards on a bright sunny day. That was enough to make me feel glad we were on the same crew. He promised to teach me target practice when we arrived in Nassau, a month from then.

For swordplay, I was paired up with Billy Bones. Before we began our first lesson, he confessed that he wasn't much of a swordsman, but everyone else told me that the only crewman he couldn't best in combat was Joji.

He was a silent man from the far east with long black hair, who strutted around the Walrus like a ghost, enigmatic and so quiet I had almost run into him an embarrassing amount of times. He had a strange looking sword, unlike any I had seen: it was long and sublimely curved, with the tip squared off instead of ending in a point. I had seen him practice with it on deck, footsteps light and precise, each fluid movement carefully measured. I also noticed the others kept a wide berth from him whenever he practiced.

"I saw him cut a man in half with a single stroke once," Thierry told me with this haunted look on his face. "I ain't getting nowhere near Joji or his blade unless it's sheathed."

Billy might not be better than Joji, but he was good enough for me, thank you very much. He taught me how to use the cutlass, how to keep it close to the body and jab, or slash, or use it to block an attack. We sparred a few times a week, though I soon realized I wasn't very good at it. Or maybe Billy was too talented for me. Or maybe if I stopped staring at his big arms and paid attention I might actually learn. Thankfully, he hadn't noticed the reasons for my ineptitude. Yet.

And then, one night, the crew gathered up during off duty hours for a friendly batch of hand-to-hand combat. The hatches on the weather deck had been removed, exposing the upper deck to the starry sky so that more seating and viewing points were made available. Rum was being passed around in mugs, as well as money, while the men made their wagers on their favored fighters. Meanwhile, a group composed mostly of the biggest, burliest sailors towered over poor Mr. Dufresne whilst he noted down their names on a piece of paper and set up the first combats. Bjorn was among them, of course. He had insisted I come watch to learn more, so I found a spot somewhere against the wall and sat with Jean on one side, Muldoon on the other.

“So, this is a sort of tradition?” I asked, straining to make myself heard amidst all the noise filling the gundeck.

“More or less,” Jean replied. “We do this at least once every voyage; mostly for entertainment, but it's also a way to settle grievances among members and establish a pecking order. If a novice is looking for recognition or respect, he might try participating and see how far he can get.”

It seemed so barbaric and disorderly. And yet, no one was making an effort to conceal it.They were as blatant about it as they were with their drinking or their gambling. “And the captain allows this?”

“Why wouldn't he allow it? Think it through: you have a large assemblage of hardy men who sail for months at a time in a confined space and little to entertain. What would be better in the long term: restricting their fun, not to mention a very effective way for them to work out the long hours of labor and frustration of high sea life, or letting them run rampant with it under his supervision, with established rules so no one is seriously hurt or accidentally killed?”

He pointed up at the open hatch. There, among the men settling down in the best spots for viewing the spectacle, Flint stood stoic, a judge over a tribune, a parson over his parish.

Or a ringleader, I thought.

“How violent does it normally get?” I pondered, unable to keep the weariness from my tone. Though I had been ready to shoot anyone who dared come too close back at the Delilah, or stab any wily attackers on my first night, the idea of seeing blood made me queasy. Jesus, what if I fainted in front of everyone? I would never hear the end of it.

Jean's side eye and dark grin did nothing to put me at ease. He neglected to offer me an answer. Instead, he grabbed one of the many tankards of rum doing the rounds, took a swig, and offered it to me. I accepted it, but hesitated to drink. I gave the liquid a sniff. The smell was acrid and strong, but not unpleasant. Still, I scrunched my nose at the thought of how many scurvy-ailed mouths might have been there and passed it to Muldoon.

Moments later, Billy Bones stepped into the makeshift arena and cleared it of any wobbly-legged stragglers. With a blush, I saw he wasn't wearing his shirt again. Once the men who wouldn't be participating in the fights were sitting out of the way, he stood at full height, every mound of muscle carved out in the lantern light, his skin glowing like it was coated in gold. He did one final sweep to make certain we were ready and said:

“Alright, settle down! Settle down. We have new faces aboard, so here are the rules of combat on the Walrus: bare hands only. No shirts, no shoes, no metal of any kind. Only two men get to fight at the time. Anyone can participate and anyone can be challenged. No exceptions. Whoever is challenged cannot refuse the fight unless he is gravelly injured. Victory is achieved when one opponent gets their lights knocked out or taps three times to quit. Does everybody understand these rules?”

A round of "aye!" shook the hull of the Walrus, so loud I felt it in my bones.

"Tonight, we have ten fights for your entertainment. That's ten slots open for one night only, so if you want to participate or have scores to settle, this is your chance. Otherwise, you will have to wait for the next time we set sail. Agreed?"

Another round of cheers, louder than the last, no doubt fueled in part by the free flowing of alcohol. Billy allowed himself a mischievous smile as he took in his audience, then nodded. I wondered if he would fight and surprised myself when I realized the idea made my insides simmer with warmth. I bet he's a magnificent fighter.

A slow, rhythmic thumping rattled the boards, like drums. In mere seconds it grew louder, stronger, faster. I realized it was the stomping of many feet, and it rose in intensity as more and more boots joined. Soon, the entire crew was stomping, then chanting together. The whole deck was filled with that deafening sound. Billy prowled around the ring, waving his arms to encourage them to go louder as he too lent his voice to that tribal call. Even I couldn't help getting caught in their sway, chanting along as I clapped my hands on my thighs, a cheek-splitting grin on my face. As the chants reached their peak, they turned into an all out roar, given strength by hundreds of voices, a deep static that I was sure would render me irreparably deaf. Had another ship passed us by that night, her crew might have thought it was the Walrus herself producing that ungodly howl, not mere men.

After settling down into an applause, Billy took back the center stage, hands spread out in a silent command to quiet down. A sheen of sweat covered his skin, mingling with the dirt from the day's labor, making my mouth go dry. I had to look away, fearing that the unhinged behavior from the others was starting to affect me a little too much.

"First match. Let's hear it for Little Pablo, if you please!"

Somewhere at my right, a short man with light brown skin and a blue scarf over his thicket of curls stood. He walked over to Billy's side, pulling out his vest, shirt and shoes along the way. All he kept on his person were his trousers, the blue bandana and a few leather adornments. The crew clapped, hooted and whistled their encouragement.

Billy smacked a hand on his shoulder. "And who will you be challenging tonight, Pablo?"

The man pointed somewhere by the wall opposite to me."Dick McAllistair."

The men stomped and shouted as if calling on the challenged to rise up.

"Dick! Get the fuck over here," Billy demanded.

This man was much taller than Bobby, though not as much as Billy, and he had intense blue eyes that bore into his opponent from beneath sun-bleached brows. He removed all that was required removing and entered the ring.

"Gentlemen, shake hands," our boatswain said. They obeyed without ever taking their eyes off of each other. There was no outright hate between them, but definitely some tension that desperately needed to be resolved. "Three steps back, now."

The two men did so and raised their fists, getting into position.

"Ready? Fight!"

I watched as Pablo and Dick circled 'round each other under the immense noise of constant shouting, trying to ignore the ball of anxiety knotted in my stomach. Dick threw the first punch; Pablo blocked and parried right away, hitting him on the ribs with a 'thwack!', but Dick barely reacted. Instead, he launched a barrage of quick jabs, most of them hitting Pablo on the shoulders and arms, which he used to protect his head. He held on like that without trying to counter, letting Dick tire himself out, but lost some ground during the relentless assault. He back away with Dick constantly on top of him, until the fight was occurring practically on my lap.

They were so close, in fact, that when Dick finally slowed down enough for Pablo to take the opportunity to return the favor with a well-placed punch to the face, I could see the torrent of blood that flew out of Dick's nose. Thank God it was too loud in the deck for anyone to hear me yelp my shock. Even so, my hands came up to my mouth both to muffle it and hopefully stop myself from throwing up.

Dick staggered back and pressed his palm to his bleeding nose. The red gushed out uncontrollably through his fingers, dripping down his chin and onto his chest, yet all he did was swat it out of his hand and continue the fight. There was an added intensity on his face, anger and resentment, but also a hint of hurt. That threw me off a bit. Both Billy and Jean had said these matches were an opportunity to settle scores and resolve grudges. In this instance, as I studied the expressions on both men's faces, there was no doubt they had beef with each other. Neither of them fought out of pleasure. There was something going on between them that they hadn't been able to resolve with words, so this was the only solution left. As the fight progressed into a grapple, I turned to Jean and spoke into his ear:

"What's the reasoning behind their match? They seem so angry with each other."

Jean leaned into me so I could hear his reply. "A few days before we boarded your ship, Pablo and Dick were up on the foremast sails doing some repairs when Pablo slipped and got caught in the rigging. Dick helped him climb back onto the yard, but the sail got torn while they were at it. Dick berated Pablo for being such a klutz, said he'd added onto the pile of work they already had. Pablo took it to heart, there was an argument, but they never resolved it. Pirates and sailors, as a general rule, aren't very good at talking about their feelings. I think Dick was hoping Pablo had forgotten about it, but when he challenged him..."

I returned my attention to the fight. Dick's nose had stopped bleeding, but the lower half of his face was dark as they went back and forth. Pablo had a small gash on his cheek and all over his arms, black and purple bruises were splaying up from Dick's punching. I thought the fight might go on a while, since they were evenly matched in both strength and speed, but just then, Pablo punched Dick on the throat and followed it by kicking a leg behind the other's knee to make him fall.

As soon as he was on his back, hands clutched around his neck with a panicked look, Pablo was on him. He used Dick's disorientation to flip him on his stomach and lifted his arm behind him, holding it at an unnatural angle. Dick choked out a breathless protest, his face contorted in agony, and still he tried to somehow gain the upper hand. Pablo's grip allowed for no escape, however. Every time Dick moved, he would wrench his arm a little more, until Dick was bellowing from the pain. At last, he could take it no more and smacked his hand on the floor three times to signal he was quitting.

Before Billy could step up to break the fight, Pablo let go and got off of Dick, staggering back to give him space.

"Fight's done!" Billy announced. He took Pablo's wrist into his hand and raised his arm. "The winner is Little Pablo!"

The men roared into applause. Coins (or pieces of eight, as they called them) were passed from hand to hand as wagers received or conceded the amount agreed upon. On the ring, I watched with fascination as Pablo approached Dick, still crumpled on the floor, tapped him on the arm and offered his hand. Despite the defeat and their argument, Dick accepted it and let the other help him up. The two stood close, exchanged a few words I couldn't understand, then laughed and embraced as brothers. Just like that, the tension between them was gone. They walked out of the arena together and sat side-by-side to watch the next match.

I turned to Jean. "I see what you meant earlier. About this being an effective method to settle grievances. They're back to being friends already."

"Told you. Nothing like a good fist fight to work out pent-up frustration." He smirked at me. "So? Was it too violent for you?"

I scrunched up my nose in distaste. "It wasn't too bad, I suppose... I still think words are a less painful way to work through spats. And there are other forms of entertainment besides this barbarism."

"All true, all true," he nodded. "But none as satisfying."

I rolled my eyes. "Sure, Jean."

The next match was far more intense than the first. One of the men apparently had insulted the other's wife, who waited for him to return in Nassau, and received a broken rib as a reward for it. The sound of his bones snapping before he tapped out would haunt my nightmares later. He was sent to the sick bay after Dr. Howell examined him on the spot.

The ones that followed weren't so bad. A lot of punching and slapping, many bruises but little blood. During Bjorn's match, his opponent accidentally slipped when the ship tipped over the waves and twisted his ankle, so Billy called it a draw and ended the fight early, much to my mentor's disappointment. On the ninth fight, a man was brought down by a punch and hit his head on the deck floor, knocking him out. He had to be dragged out of the ring by a couple of friends to also be examined by Howell. After he declared he was in no mortal peril, we finally got to the last match.

"Final match, people! Last chance to air out your grievances. Who wants the opportunity to conclude the night in style?"

"I do."

The voice, rough as gravel, sounded directly from across me. I recognized its owner: the pirate with yellow teeth, a scraggly beard over a chin too small and oily black hair, who had granted me the opportunity to sneak aboard by picking a fight with one of the Delilah's sailors. The one who'd said he liked it when women fought back. I felt a chill running down my spine at the sight of him.

A long, ominous hum accompanied his entrance, rather than cheers. For some reason, I had the impression that this sailor didn't fight often, but when he did, he made sure to make a violent spectacle of it.

"Cutthroat Fred," Billy announced. This time, however, there was something off about his tone. He was no longer smiling; instead, he stared disapprovingly at the man whilst he pulled his dark grey shirt over his head, revealing a lattice work of tattoos that covered his whole torso and arms, down to the knuckles. He walked up to Billy and returned his glare with one of his own, silently daring him to say something about him wanting to fight. But if Billy was in discord, he kept it to himself.

"Who will you challenge?" he practically growled, like he already knew the answer.

Cutthroat Fred's cold stare roamed the crowd amidst a tense silence. Everyone was holding their breath in anticipation. He held us all in suspense as he searched... searched... Until his eyes found mine and stopped.

My heart plunged into my bowels.

He grinned like a wolf who had found its way into the sheep pen. "Constance Tilly."

The gundeck exploded into protests.

Several of the crew got up and yelled profanities at him. Others argued it was fair and applauded him for daring to challenge me. Whatever the case, his eyes didn't leave mine. As for me, I was paralyzed with terror. I searched for Jean, hoping he would tell me it's alright, that he couldn't actually challenge me because I had just joined the crew, because I couldn't fight, for literally any other reason, but all he did was stare at me, eyes wide and jaw slack.

No. No, this couldn't be happening. Ohhhhh, shit.

"All of you, shut the fuck up!" Billy bellowed.

The men went quiet and sat back down, though a few continued to grumble their displeasure. Mr. Gates materialized at Billy's side and they conversed in hushed whispers, trying to decide what to do. Once in a while, our gazes would meet. I saw deep concern in his eyes. Still, for a brief moment I was relieved to see him there, thinking he would get me out of this mess. I felt my entire body shake as I tried to somehow get my thoughts through to him telepathically. Please get me out of this, please don't make me fight, please.

At last, Gates stepped into the ring and addressed Cutthroat Fred. "Constance is too new to the crew to fight. She doesn't have enough experience. Choose someone else."

More than half of the crowd pronounced their agreement, but a large enough group countered by boo'ing. Cutthroat Fred took a step forward, teeth bared in anger.

"Rules say anyone can be challenged, no exceptions,” he argued. “And whoever's challenged can't say no. We've had novices with barely a week of admission get challenged and told to fight. She has been here at least three weeks. Or does she get special privileges for being a lady?"

Gates' mouth clamped shut as the men resumed shouting at each other. I was relieved to see so many of them thought I shouldn't fight, like Bjorn, Logan and even Muldoon. But what my would-be opponent said was true: if they didn't permit the fight, it would set up a precedent, and not only would the integrity of the crew become severely chaffed, I would be put into danger as well. It would breed resentment toward me and the animosity would escalate.

My shoulders slumped as the inevitable became clear: I had no choice but to fight.

"Captain!" Billy looked up to where Flint presided over the events. "The final word is yours. What is your judgement?"

Perhaps as a last ditch attempt to spare me, he thought he could appeal to Flint's authority to put a stop to this. I appreciated the gesture, though I knew it to be hopeless. As he looked over the men, he studied the situation in his head with a stony expression, weakly illuminated by the lanterns below. His eyes met mine and held firm. I swallowed a lump in my throat and remembered his warning once again: if I found myself in trouble, not Gates, nor Billy, not even he could help me. This was one of those instances.

"Cutthroat Fred makes a compelling argument. The rules are the rules, and they must be honored. She has to fight."

Now, the men murmured among themselves. Billy and Gates turned to me with a mix of pity and trepidation on their faces, utterly defeated. Jean gave my arm a squeeze to get me out of my daze, but mentally, I was already preparing myself. I glanced over my shoulder to Bjorn; he had his eyes trained on me, brows furrowed over them, yet there wasn't a hint of fear for me in that stare. He gave me a swift nod that said, you can do this. Remember what I taught you.

My body jerked awake as I sucked in a deep breath and balled my hands into fists on my lap. Swiftly, determined to be brave, I pulled out my shoes, stood up to my feet and emptied out my pockets, leaving my trusty kitchen life behind for the first time since I had arrived on the Walrus. My cross, I passed over my head and gave it to Jean.

“Will you keep this safe for me?” I pleaded in a quiet voice. I only allowed myself this small measure of vulnerability because it was such an important object to me, for it's spiritual value, but chiefly for being a memento from my sister. I don't know what I would do if I lost it.

Jean accepted it and held it in his palm like it was the most fragile thing he had ever been entrusted with. He nodded firmly to let me know he understood what that little cross meant to me, then put it away in the breast pocket of his vest.

With shoulders squared and my jaw set tight, I pushed my way forward through the crowd, doing my best to conceal how scared I truly was. In the ring, I pulled back my hair and tied it into a braid, locking eyes with Cutthroat Fred. I tried not to think about how he had received that nickname. Instead, I stood in front of him and willed my expression into a scowl, one I had been trying to perfect during my training.

Cutthroat Fred smirked and licked his ugly teeth like he could taste victory already. I knew I didn't stand a chance in real combat. I didn't have the strength, the reflexes or the experience to win. But there was one thing I did have on my side that I could inflict if I was smart: pain. He might defeat me and leave me a bloody pulp on the ground, but he wouldn't come out of this match without hurting, too.

Billy came up to us, his hands figuratively tied. He glared at Cutthroat Fred one last time, then offered me a more sympathetic grimace. His eyes fell to my shirt, but before I could speak up against ditching it, he snapped back to my opponent. "Can we at least allow her to keep her shirt on?"

Cutthroat Fred bristled. "Doesn't make a lick of difference to me."

"Very well, then. Shake hands."

I grasped his hand and shook. I felt him squeeze his fingers a little too tight, like Muldoon had done, but I didn't let a single sound escape my lips no matter how much it hurt. I gripped his own hand as much as I could, but all that got me was a gruff of a laugh.

"Take three steps," Billy commanded, particularly at Fred, as a warning.

We each took our three steps backwards and got into position. I tried to recall all my lessons and formed a strategy in my mind. It was the only thing I had going for me. Smarts and a little luck. God, my legs felt so numb. My heart pumped so hard and loud I almost didn't hear Billy telling us to go.

"Ready? Fight!"

Again, the deck was filled with the uproar of men shouting encouragement, some of it at me, some of it at Fred. I stood my ground and let him circle me, turning on my heels to keep him within my sights at all times. He mock-attacked with his right fist, probing for weaknesses, and I reacted by hopping back and swatting his hand. My legs might have been numb, but they kept me standing, and as soon as I was aware of that, the numbness washed away, my body going rigid in anticipation. I huffed, then shuffled to the right to gain more space.

Cutthroat Fred didn't make any other attemps for a while. His focus was squarely on my person, just waiting for my concentration to break. I began to wonder if maybe I should try a jab, yet all my instincts screamed against it. That was just what he wanted; to pressure me into attacking without thinking, to rush into it. As much as it rattled my nerves, I had to hold back and wait.

Another mock-attack, but this time I didn't push away. I swatted his hand once more - that's when the real attack came. With the speed of a kicking horse, his punch landed on my mouth and knocked me backwards with a grunt.

The crowd roared to life. I tasted blood on my tongue. Thank goodness, my position was firm enough that I didn't fall. Just as Bjorn had showed me.

Stunned, struggling to clear my vision, I straightened up just in time for the second punch. I have no idea how, but I managed to block it with my arm. Unfortunately, with his superior strength, he was still able to throw me off balance and stumble, a lapse he used to his advantage to kick me on the back of the knee. I hit the ground with a bang, a small scream of surprise escaping my lips, but I didn't stay down for long. The fall hadn't hurt much, so I rolled back on my feet and resumed my position, fists up, feet apart.

Across from me, Cutthroat Fred began to advance, but before he could get too close, I rushed him and threw my first punch, which he dodged and returned with a swift blow to my stomach. I fell once more, knees hitting the floorboards, fighting for breath that wouldn't come. My lungs convulsed, desperate to work, as if my whole front had been glued to my back. Panicked, I hunched over and shut my eyes, feeling them water as my throat constricted. I had to get a hold of myself. It would pass, it would pass. I just had to remain awake and it would pass.

Slowly, my lungs opened again. I gasped for precious air. My stomach throbbed where he had hit me, but now a new emotion erupted in my gut, overpowering the panic, the fear, even the pain: rage.

That, I allowed to possess me. I looked up from my lap to see Fred standing there with his arms wide open to the crowd. He was gloating to his friends. This was all just a joke to him. Making me hurt, making me suffer, humiliating me - it was all a game. The rage got me to stand. The rage made me to forget I was hurting, that I was a woman and this was my first real fight. I spat the blood from my mouth and marched up to Cutthroat fucking Fred.

"Oy!!" I roared from deep within me, momentarily willing the whole world into silence.

Cutthroat Fred turned around just in time to greet my knuckles. Right in the goddamn teeth. It felt like my hand had shattered into a million pieces, but at least I had the satisfaction of seeing him stumble on all fours. Didn't quite fall, but close enough.

Again, our audience erupted into howls as Cutthroat Fred stood up straight, one hand to his mouth. He stared at it, his palm a bright red color, before pinning me with a glare of pure hatred. Suddenly, there was no amusement in his eyes. Now, he was completely serious in his intent to fuck me up.

I prepared for the abuse that would come, with no intention to surrender.

He ran forward with a snarl, too fast for me to react. I raised a knee to at least try to hit his face, but missed. He grabbed me around the waist and pushed me, as well as himself, onto the floor.

In came a barrage of punches, one after the other. My nose burst with agony. I choked in my own blood. I was certain my right eye had gone. Fading in and out of consciousness, I tried to cover my face with my arms, to little avail.

In a desperate attempt to get him to stop, I planted my feet on the planks and shoved my hips up, as hard as I could. Cutthroat Fred lost his balance and was forced to halt his savage assault to steady himself, which gave me the opportunity to wrap my arms around him and wrestle. I couldn't see anything; all I felt was my face pulsing, the blood filling my mouth, getting into my lungs, and Fred squirming around me. By some miracle, I got us to roll around so I was on top. I didn't pause to think. Instead of fists, I clawed my hands and thrashed them around, hoping to hit something, anything at all. I felt flesh under my nails, felt blood on my fingers, heard Cutthroat Fred hiss and yelp from the sharp pain I was inflicting. I was out of control, enveloped in a wild frenzy that urged me to claw, to bite, to fight. I screamed my lungs out, only dimly aware of the hysteria in my voice.

My left hand reached back, hand tensed into an oar shape, and shot it down at high speed, hitting Fred across his cheek with that same smacking noise I'd gotten out of Muldoon weeks ago. The crowd was ravenous around us, punching the air, slamming the floor, bellowing for more.

But my arms were getting tired. I could barely feel my face. Though only one of my eyes was working, it drank up the image of my opponent on the ground under me, soaked with blood, arms and hands covered in gashes from my fingernails, eyes rolling back in his skull. There was no denying I was slowing, however.

With a hell of a kick, Fred pushed me off, breaking my mind out of the frenzy. Adrenaline ran vicious in my veins, yet I was too weak to fight much longer. I couldn't breathe through my nose; every time I tried, more blood rushed into my throat, making me cough and wheeze. I twisted onto my belly and started to crawl away, to at least get some distance, just enough to recover and get back on my feet. I didn't get very far. In a flash, Cutthroat Fred was on me, his body a crushing weight on my back. He slid one arm around my neck and began to squeeze. Panic took full hold of me as I began to thrash in vain, fingers clawing at his arms, but no matter what I did, he wouldn't let go.

"Yield, little missy," he hissed into my ear. "Yield now, and it's all over. But after that? After that, I'm really going to have fun with you."

Some leftover rage blessed me with enough clarity to think, no. No way, asshole. Not in this lifetime.

I gritted my teeth and sank my nails deeper into his arm. Black spots swam in my vision. My body began to wither, exhausted and ready to give in. Still, I fought. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of their sockets. I couldn't breathe. I was beginning to float away, far away from this horror. Still, I fought. I fought until I couldn't anymore, until my vitality faded away, until my consciousness dove into the unknown, into the dark waters of death.

Then, there were angry voices shouting over each other. Even through the haze I was sinking into, I could still make out some of what they were saying.

"Fred, back off! Let her go!"

"Billy, he's gonna kill her!"

"Let her go!!"

Far way, I heard a faint thump by my ear, and suddenly the pressure on my neck relented. I gagged, wheezed, brought my hands to my throat, feeling like a fish out of water. Many hands touched me, but they were gentle as they lifted me into a sitting position. I reached out blindingly and grasped someone's hand while coughing blood onto the floor, fighting to remain awake. I had no idea what was going on; all I knew was that it was over.

"Constance!" A blurry face appeared in front of me. "Constance, can you hear me?"

I recognized the mop of straw colored hair and the thick French accent. My somewhat good eye resisted, but I forced it to open and to focus so I could see his features. I couldn't find my words, but even if I did, my mouth was too swollen to speak. Even so, I tried my best.

"Jean..." I babbled. The soft J didn't come out right, more like a spitting noise than an actual letter, and more blood sputtered out of my nose. I'd never been in so much pain in my life.

"Dr. Howell is here to take a look at you, alright?" He gave my fingers a gentle squeeze and shuffled aside to make way for our surgeon. He was a somewhat young man, though the deep expression lines around his nose and eyes added years to his face. With careful, experienced hands, he held my jaw and tilted my head up to assess the damage. Despite my best efforts to breathe normally, I kept coughing up the blood that poured into my mouth from my nose, spattering a large part of it on poor Dr. Howell.

"I'm sorry," I choked.

"Don't worry about it, Miss. I'm used to it." And he really meant it. Red droplets smudged his forehead and cheeks, rolled down the bridge of his nose, yet he didn't even flinch.

Whilst he examined me, I heard scuffling somewhere nearby, the sound of many feet stomping the floor, of men screaming and skin clashing with skin. As the struggle moved away from my position, so did the ruckus, then all I heard was Mr. Gates' bellow: "Lock him up in the brig! Billy, go with them and bring me back the key when you're done."

With two fingers, Howell touched my nose. The second he applied the slightest pressure, pain shot up into my forehead and I kick my head back with a groan.

"Aye, that's a broken nose," he muttered. Next, he pried my lips open. My heart stopped for a moment, then kicked back into action, my hand involuntarily tightening on Jean's. Oh God, my teeth. What if I had lost teeth? Jesus Christ alive, I didn't want to end up looking like Folsom, no offense to him. I was too vain for that.

Dr. Howell must have divinated my thoughts from the way I began to shake. "Still have all your teeth, however. Your pretty smile is fine," he jested.

I ran my tongue over them even so, just to make sure. Thank the heavens. Only one more detail worried me, in that case: the fact I couldn't see out of my right eye. "What about my eye? Is it still there...?"

If I lost my eye, my vanity could survive it. But if life aboard a pirate ship was difficult, it would become even more so with one eye less. And then I would only have a spare. If by some stroke of rotten luck I lost that one too, I would be blind. What would become of me, then...? I dared not imagine it.

Howell prodded my brow up with one thumb and my lower lid with the other. It hurt, but it was bearable, especially compared to the pain of my broken nose. Light poured into my eye, filling me with relief. "It's intact," the surgeon confirmed. "Just swollen and bloodshot. It won't compromise your vision long term."

I sagged with a long breath. All things considered, I was lucky. I was still alive and somewhat in one piece. And I didn't surrender. It might have killed me, but that was not an option for me. Not after what Fred had whispered in my ear. Lastly, Howell examined my arms, torso and legs for broken bones, and found them all intact. My skin was no doubt peppered with bruises, but those I could live with. Again, he focused on my face. "How is your head?" I closed my eyes for a minute. "Swimming. Hurts a little." "Do you feel faint?" "Not anymore... Just tired." "That's good. Still, let's wait one more hour before letting you go to sleep, yes?"

I nodded slowly. From the corner of my good eye, I saw Gates leaning over his knees to take a better look at me. I must have looked gorgeous, judging by the wince he made. "Jesus... He did a number on you, didn't he?" I made an attempt at a smile and hissed when it pulled at a cut on my lip. "What? Don't I look gorgeous?"

Laughter rolled around the deck. The sound of it helped soothe my frayed nerves. I had survived my first fight and had drawn blood. I'd say I was successful, whether I won or not. I searched the men surrounding me until I found Bjorn. He smirked and nodded his approval, letting me know I had done good. My heart swelled with pride and my smile widened, even if it made the cut on my lip tear further open and gush more blood.

"Alright, let's see what we can do about that nose," Howell said. He glanced up somewhere behind me. "Billy, mind holding her down?" My smile vanished. Holding me down? Why? I swerved my head around from the anxiety that came back full force. My breath became shallow and I held onto Jean's hand with a vice-like grip.

"It's alright, don't worry," he hushed me, while Billy's imposing presence loomed over my much smaller frame. I looked at him over my shoulder, hardly able to make out his features. However, he didn't touch me. Rather, he knelt and gave me a reassuring look, eyebrows arching as if asking for my permission before laying a hand on my mistreated body.

"I'm going to hold you down so you won't jerk while Dr. Howell sets your nose straight," he explained, voice low, soothing, like the purr of a cat. I stared at him with fright, processing his words at a snail's pace thanks to the panic grasping my heart. "You can hurt yourself and make it worse if you move, do you understand? It's gonna be quick. And Jean will be right here at your side the whole time. We all will."

My eyes traveled through the men standing over our ensemble: Thierry, Bjorn, Mr. Gates, Folsom, Muldoon, Logan... Shit, even Flint was there, somewhere at the back. They were all there to offer moral support, so I would know I wouldn't go through this alone. Jean's thumb rubbed the skin on the back of my hand, offering me comfort.

My guts turned to steel. I hadn't backed away from a brawl with a man named Cutthroat Fred and I wasn't going to back away from this. Not with all of them watching. I wouldn't cry like a child after all that. No chance in hell.

I nodded once and gritted my teeth one last time. Jean released my hand while Billy snaked his arms around me, making me cross mine to my chest so he could hold my wrists. He pressed me firmly to his front, enough that I couldn't get away even if I wanted to, but not so much that I couldn't breathe. Under different circumstances, I might have appreciated the chance to be so close to a handsome man like him. As it were, all I could think about was how much the next few minutes were going to suck.

Dr. Howell held my jaw in one hand and pinched the bridge of my nose with the other. I shut my eyes tight and held my breath, trying to focus on Billy's grip and the sound of his breath on my ear.

"On three," Howell said. "One, two--"

SNAP. Son of a bitch never made it to three.

"Fuck!!" I shrieked. My body convulsed violently, but Billy's hold was relentless. I kicked my feet, only half aware enough to avoid hitting our surgeon. My arms and torso struggled against the trap that was Billy's body, until the pain began to subside and settle into an uncomfortable pulsing. Taking slow, heavy breaths, I went lax and let myself slouch, eyes brimming with tears that rolled down my cheeks from the crawling sensation inside my nose. Blood dripped copiously from the tip, staining Billy's arms as he released me, though he put his hands on my shoulders to keep me upright, in case I fainted.

It was over. It was finally over.

I felt a hand clamp down on my shoulder, then another pat my back, and one more pressing the crown of my head.

"Good girl," I heard Mr. Gates say. "You did great, Constance."

"Aye, hell of a fight." Bjorn's added. "Better than I expected."

"Thank you," I huffed. Something was pressed into my hand and I glanced at it to see what it was. Jean's pipe. I grinned at him and he winked right back. It was already lit up and billowing, but the smell was different. Not sweet, but grassy, almost bitter.

"This is something a little stronger than tobacco, so you only get one puff," he warned me. "It will help with the pain."

I brought it to my lips and pulled the smoke in. Almost instantly, my body relaxed. My brain fogged up to the point my vision blurred. As soon as I removed the pipe from my mouth, Jean took it back. The hurt was no more than a distant memory. I felt as if I was floating on a cloud, hovering over the floor, weightless.

"Wow..." I giggled. Around me the men cackled at my reaction, but I didn't matter. I was feeling so good, nothing could bother me.

"Let's get you on your feet, then." Dr. Howell stood up and Jean followed his example. They both offered me a hand and pulled me up until I was upright, if somewhat wobbly. They held me steady for a moment, to let me find my footing, then let go.

“Take her to the sick bay with the others and clean her up,” Howell ordered. “I'll be there shortly. Keep her awake until I arrive. I mean it. Don't let her fall asleep under any circumstances.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Jean took me by the arm and guided me to the bow, always keeping a hand on me as we walked. Just as well, because I was so out of it from whatever he had given me, every tilt the ship made in the waves made me side step out of control, and I was in enough suffering already. He kept me from knocking on literally everything and everyone we passed on the way, even though once in a while I almost knocked the both of us down. Wouldn't that have been embarrassing?

In the sick bay, there other three sailors who'd gotten hurt fighting occupied the few cots and hammocks available. Jean set me on the last spot, but wouldn't allow me to lie on my back. Instead, he propped me on a few stiff pillows against the back wall. It was very uncomfortable. There was no danger of me falling asleep in that position. Next, he went to fetch a clean cloth and a bowl of water, which he set up by my cot before taking a seat and rolling up his sleeves. Under candle light, he did his best to wash the blood out of my face, neck and hands, slowly unveiling the full extent of my injuries. He tried not to show it, but I could tell by how his eye twitched and the corners of his mouth pulled further and further down that they didn't look good.

“I suppose it's best I avoid any mirrors for a couple of days, hmm?” I quipped, hoping to put a smile back on his face and smooth over my own anxiety over my looks. I was successful in the first, at least.

“Oui. Only for a couple of days. So you don't scare yourself into an early grave.”

“It would be too ironic, wouldn't it? To survive Cutthroat Fred only to die from shattered pride.”

“Indeed.” He dabbed under my nose, soaking up the blood that had dried there. It was still tender, but he was very, very careful, and the cold water was a relief against my boiling skin. “It's all superficial. Give it a week or so and all that will remain is bruising. Maybe a slightly crooked nose.”

“No scars? Damn. And here I was hoping to get a memento to serve as preempt to a great story.”

Jean chuckled as he rinsed the blood off the cloth, staining the water a sickly pink color. “It's too early to tell.” There was a pause when he stood up from the cot to throw away the water and find me a clean shirt to borrow. When he returned, a shadow had settled over his features, which made his brow furrow and hazed his eyes with some deep thought. He handed me the shirt and used a blanket to serve as a dressing screen, keeping his back to me so I could have some privacy to change.

I knew there was something he wanted to say and I was very curious to hear what it was, but I didn't ask. He would tell me when he was ready, or not at all. Instead, I traded my bloodied shirt for a muted light gray blouse, whose sleeves covered up my hands and the hem fell to my knees. It also left my cleavage uncomfortably exposed, so I had to cross my arms over it to keep it closed. It would do for the night, but I would have to find a better replacement in the morning, while my original shirt wasn't washed.

“I'm decent,” I announced. Jean turned, covered my legs with the blanket he used as a screen and sat by my side once more, face still tense in deliberation. I held out my hand, palm up. “My cross, if you please?”

“Oh, that's right.” He fished into his pocket and gently pulled out the thin chain, beaded with jasper stones. He let it rest on my open palm and watched as I pulled it back on and held the silver icon in my fingers.

“My eldest sister gave this to me when I turned sixteen,” I told him with a smile. “She said it was so I would be protected, given that I had a worrying tendency to get into trouble.”

“Your sister sounds like a very wise lady,” he snorted. I shoved his arm in retaliation, but that only got him to laugh louder. Not long after, however, he went back to frowning. After a short while, he met my gaze.

“Why did you let it go on for so long?” He inquired. “You could have tapped out and given up. He would be forced to stop the fight and you wouldn't have gotten this hurt. So why didn't you?”

My fingers tightened their hold on the crucifix as my gaze dropped onto my lap. Yield now, and I let go. But after that? After that, I'm really going to have fun with you. It was like I could still hear that whisper, right in my ear. It sank into my flesh, infecting me with that man's depravity. A violent shudder ran up and down my body, reminiscent of my first night on the Walrus - the abject fear of the unexpected attack that coiled in my center, ready to bite down on my heart once more. Like it had never left, only lied dormant.

After I got a hold of it, I forced my undamaged eye to meet Jean's and tried to grin with a confidence I didn't feel. “And give him the satisfaction of beating me into submission? Of letting him humiliate me? That's why he challenged me in the first place. Had I tapped out, it would have been worse in the long run, trust me. This way, he knows I can put up a fight and can give as good as I can take. I may never win, but neither will he be laughing by the end of it. Nor anyone else, for that matter.”

“So it was all for show?” Anger colored his cheeks red, and his teeth ground so hard the muscles of his jaw started twitching. “You risked getting yourself killed or permanently injured to make a point? Are you actually mad?”

“I thought we had already established that I am,” I snapped back, unable to keep my own irritation from seeping into my tone. “Or else I wouldn't be here in the first place. What would you have done, if it was you?”

“I would have tapped out as soon as I realized that all I was going to gain from that fight was a lot of pain. I would have been humiliated, but at least my face wouldn't be swollen like a sponge.”

“Right. It's so easy to say that when you're a man, isn't it?”

Jean grunted and rolled his eyes. “This has nothing to do with the fact you're a woman.”

“It has everything to do with the fact I'm a woman,” I countered. However, before I let my emotions have the run of the conversation and made me say something I would later regret, I took a deep breath and calmed myself. I needed him to understand, and he would refuse if he felt he was being attacked.

“Fred didn't target me for being new. He targeted me for being a woman. The only woman in the crew. Remember what he said when Gates tried to impede me from fighting? He said, “does she get special privileges for being a lady?” That's why I had to fight. When I first came aboard, captain Flint told me there would be situations where I would have to defend myself without help, because if he or Gates intervened for my benefit, it would be seen as preferential treatment and it would breed resentment, maybe even mutiny. The day I snapped at Folsom was one of those situations. This fight was another. And there will be others in the future, mark my words. And they will always arise because I'm a woman and my presence threatens them.”

I made a pause to let my words sink in before continuing. “In their minds, a ship is no place for my gender. That's what they have been taught all their lives, and my being here as an equal member of this crew completely throws those beliefs upside down. It scares them. To them, it's the same as being told God doesn't exist. It puts everything they thought they knew into question. I understand that fear, but I cannot allow it to be turned on me. I can't afford it. If I do, they will eat me alive.”

Again I paused, an hesitation during which I bit my lip and considered not revealing this next part, but how else would I make him understand how dangerous my situation was? So, filling myself with courage, I spoke up. “Do you know what Fred told me as he choked the life out of me? He incited me to tap out so he would let go, but made it explicitly clear he... planned to have his way with me, later. What was I supposed to do, then? Shadow Gates or Billy for the rest of my life so he wouldn't come close? Avoid going into storage or the gunroom or anywhere else where no one would be able to hear my screams? I didn't tap out because as much as I was hurting at that moment, as scared as I was to die or become disabled, it would be a better outcome than to live constantly looking over my shoulder. I need them to know I can fuck them up just as good because then, it will become my armor. And... I needed to know I had it in me, as well. That I was strong enough to hold my own.”

Jean listened without interruption, his expression going from frustrated, to incredulous, to enraged, and, finally, to something close to understanding. He nodded lightly as he turned my words over, no longer looking at me but rather at the floor, hands wringing together.

“As a male novice,” I added. “You were likely scared of being beaten down or made into a joke by the veterans, and those fears are valid. I had them as well - plus the terror of being abused in ways only a woman knows to fear. That threat will haunt me every day I spend in this world. It will bear weight into every decision I make. Please, don't judge me too harshly without at least taking that into consideration.”

“I had no idea,” he admitted in this somber tone. I smiled despite the heavy tone of our conversation and reached out to touch his arm.

“I know you didn't. You are a good man, as well as a smart one. You know the world isn't kind on women, but because you yourself could never conceive to apply that kind of violence on someone else, you never considered that was a genuine preoccupation of mine. It's alright.”

When he finally looked back at me, there was something different about him. A new weight to his shoulders. I realized it was maturity. He looked older, wiser even, for having listened to me, for making the effort to try to see my side of things. God bless him, he really was a good friend. I'd never had a truer one in my life.

He sat up straight and took my hand in both of his. “I will try my best to always take your perspective into consideration, going forward,” he swore. Then, a small, sad smile pulled at his mouth. “And I hope you know I would never let them hurt you like that if I could avoid it.”

“You won't always be around to stop them,” I pointed out. “Just as Gates won't always be there. You're not my body-guard, Jean. Nor would I insult the both of us by asking you to be. But I do appreciate the knowledge that at least one member of this crew has my back.”

“Not just one,” he retorted, but left it at that. Oh, I knew there were others who I might count on to help me stay safe if needed, but the way he put it, it sounded like there were many more than those I was thinking of.

Which reminded me...

“Who got Fred to let me go?” I asked. All I remembered was hearing someone shout at him to release me, but my vision was blacking out by then. I hadn't seen the face of my savior.

Jean blushed and shrunk into himself, scratching nervously at his hair.

My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “It was you?”

“Well, don't sound so surprised!” He laughed. When I continued to stare at him, mouth agape, his grin fell to give way to a frown. “Billy was already rushing to separate you, but I was closer. I couldn't stand the sight of his arm around your neck, the way you thrashed helplessly against him. The rotten smile on his fucking face. Before I knew it, my boot was in his mouth.”

A smile twitched at my cheeks and grew, grew, grew, until the wound on my bottom lip split open yet again with a sharp prick. I sucked on the blood oozing from it and leaned forward so I could press them to his face, leaving a red smudge behind. There was nothing romantic about the gesture, at least not on my part, but he had stood up to defend me and that demanded a reward. The way Jean snorted and squirmed away made me think of a brother trying not to show how glad he was to be praised by his sister after a good deed. There was no shame from either of us in that little display of affection. I think we were well past that, either way.

“That was very sweet and heroic of you. Thank you, Jean duBois.”

He shrugged it off with a meek smile. “It's what friends are for, right?”

I nodded and swore to myself in that moment that, should the need arise, I too would defend him with my life. Whatever the situation was, regardless of the consequences. He deserved no less from me.

I didn't get much sleep that night. Every other hour, either Jean or Howell would wake me up to give me water, ask me some banal questions and overall to make sure I hadn't suffered any brain injuries. Then they would let me go back under to repeat it all over again, far too soon. When the sun rose at the final time I was roused, I decided to just stay up, as I couldn't take getting interrupted from my much needed rest anymore. Plus, I was hurting too much, anyway. Jean let me have another puff of his special smoke, which helped, then brought me breakfast. While we ate, I asked for news. Cutthroat Fred had been locked up in the brig and there was an intense argument going on between his friends, Flint and Gates, about what punishment to apply to this sort of offense. Everyone knew how Fred despised having me aboard, so there was no doubt that what had happened the previous night had been a cruel attempt to subjugate me, perhaps even incapacitate me enough that I would be useless to the crew. There was nothing friendly about our spar; he had meant me real harm and they all saw I had fought for my life, figuratively but also quite literally. He should have let me go the minute it was clear I was passing out and he didn't, so he broke the rules. Some among the crew were accusing him of attempted murder.

However, Fred's supporters argued that the fight had been fair and since I was still alive, there was no foul, therefore punishment for Fred would be unfair. Jean assured me they were a minority, no more than half a dozen of them, but one among them, Mr. Singleton, was particularly outspoken and called for a council to decide Fred's fate. I was enraged to think even a single member of the crew believed that rat of a man had the right to do what he did. It made me want to pick up something heavy and bash him in the head with it.

I had seen my reflection in a mirror - half of my face was an angry purple, blue and black mask, and my right eye was swollen shut. My nose had been reset, but I noted it was slightly crooked. The underside of my good eye was also bruised red and tender. My lip was split open and the faintest movement caused a sharp jolt of pain that made it bleed all over again. The only man who was worse off than me was the one with the broken rib and had to stay in bed for a week. None of the others who had fought looked half as bad as I did. Besides, he had threatened me with further violence if I yielded, effectively trapping me between possible death during that match or further suffering in the future. He had to pay for that. He had to.

So later that morning, when the crew assembled on deck for the council, I insisted on being there. I let Jean help me out of bed, put on my bloodied trousers and we made our way up. When we were halfway up the stairs, I let go of Jean's arm to climb the rest of the way on my own. When I emerged, I wanted to show that I might be beaten up, but remained strong and unbroken. I held my head high, straightened my back and stepped onto the upper deck. Again, the hatches had been removed to make room so everyone could have a clear view of what was going on. The bright sunlight shone down into the gundeck, which looked even more like an amphitheater than before. The whole crew was there. Those closest to me turned when they heard my shoes on the floorboards. Some of them winced at the sight of me, others remained impassive. They parted to let me through and I calmly marched forward, looking straight ahead, with Jean covering my rear. As I passed, I felt a few hands tapping my arm and murmuring words of support. I let their admiration warm my heart and steel my nerves. Whatever happened next, I would endure it with dignity.

On the other side of the crowd, I saw Flint, Gates, De Groot and Billy at the exact midpoint of the ship. They looked up as I arrived, like they were waiting for me. Cutthroat Fred was there too, hands clapped in irons and face covered in red, ugly gashes from my fingernails. With satisfaction, I saw he also had a bruise of his the corner of his mouth from Jean's kick. I smirked at him and he snarled in response. Serves you right, asswipe.

I went to stand with Bjorn at the front row and smiled when I felt his giant hand on my shoulder. Jean remained at my side, glaring at Fred. "Right, then." Mr. Gates stepped forth to address the crew. "Mr. Singleton called for this council to decide what should be done about Cutthroat Fred after the... exciting events from last night. As we were all there to witness and gossip tends to spread fast on this ship, I trust no one needs a reminder?" No one spoke up.

A tall, bald man covered in gnarly scars broke off from the crowd to join him in the circle. I remembered him, too. The bastard mocking my curtsy, that first day. I'd never spoken to him. He was one of those men who gave me the creeps whenever I happened to catch him looking at me.

Singleton took in the crew with a wide look and, with a deep, raspy voice, said: "The fights we hold on this ship are meant mainly for entertainment, as we know, but also to settle scores and clear up the air among angry mates. What we saw last night was no different from any other instance. There was no bad blood between Fred and Constance Tilly. In fact, they hardly ever interacted until yesterday. He challenged her into a fight as nothing more than a joke, simply hazing a new recruit like so many of us have previously done. Was he a little too rough with her? Perhaps, I will concede that--" "He beat her into a pulp when she was already on the ground!" Someone shouted down from the weather deck. "Look at her face!"

"Aye, and he almost choked her to death!" I heard Folsom roar across from me, behind Singleton. He had taken a step forward and shook an angry fist at him. "He had her fucking pinned down and just kept going even after she was clearly done! He wanted her dead!" A choir of protests agreed with him. They stomped their feet, threw insults at Singleton and Fred, accused them of falsehood, disloyalty and even betrayal. It was endearing, seeing them all in an uproar over me when weeks ago I had been their number one target for jokes, pranks and all kinds of hazing. I certainly hadn't expected them to defend me like this.

Singleton searched the sea of faces until he found mine, and shot me a nasty glare, with narrowed eyes and a sneer that exposed his teeth in a growl, made all the more sinister by the scars that twisted his features. I tilted down my chin and stared right back from under tensed eyebrows, feeling the hairs at the back of my neck stand on alert. Want a piece of me too, motherfucker? I thought. Come and get it, if you dare.

"Settle down, settle down!" Gates interrupted, hands thrown out in a placating gesture. Slowly, the men went quiet, until there was silence once more. Then, he turned to Singleton. "Go on." He tore his eyes away from mine and began to walk around the deck with slow steps. "I would like to ask you all something. Are your knickers all in a twist truly because of Fred going overboard? Or are you all so revolted because it was done on a female crew member?" Just as those words came out of his mouth, he stopped right in front of me and loomed over me. "If it had been Jean duBois, or Will Robbins, or Mr. Dufresne, would you be so against it? We have all seen some grueling matches before. Hell, Duffy is in the sick bay right now with a broken rib. Why does she get to have special treatment?"

I wanted to yell at him that I had never wanted special treatment. Didn't ask for it and didn't need it. I wanted to scream that even if I did, Fred had no right to brutalize me the way he had. We stared at each other in silence for nearly a minute, and I fought between the urge to defend myself and my instinct telling me to be quiet. Why? Why should I be quiet? To avoid further animosity? To spare myself from embarrassment, should their minds be changed after being swayed by Singleton's words? Because he wasn't worth it? Just as I opened my mouth to give him a piece of my mind, he turned and continued walking. "This life is hard and violent, always has been for all of us. It's not for the faint of heart or the weak minded. And if this girl cannot stand and take a beating in a friendly match, then what the fuck is she doing here? What's it going to be like during a plunder? Or when we have to defend ourselves from the navy? Will she fight like one of us, or cower and whimper at the first slap? We're all equal here, supposedly. Which means she has to be a capable fighter and endure the same violence the rest of us are subjected to, or get out. In which case, Fred did nothing wrong and he should be freed. That's all I have to say."

With that, he returned to his original spot and merged with the crowd. There were no further protests. In fact, there was not a peep from anyone - because as much as I despised both Cutthroat Fred and Singleton, and as pissed as the others might be at the former's behavior or at the latter for defending him, there was truth to that speech and that put the crew in a very uncomfortable position. I looked around with dread weighting my chest and saw doubt spreading across the very same men who were clamoring against him minutes ago. Were they so easily convinced? Did they now believe Singleton had a point and Fred should go free to torment me some more?

My eyes wandered to the chained man and my guts froze when I realized he was looking right at me, his yellowed teeth bared in a wide grin. If he was freed and cleared of the accusations against him, what was going to happen next? Mr. Gates spoke up once more. "Anyone else have anything to add? Anyone at all?" "I do."

I turned around to stare at Bjorn as he moved past me. He took the center of the ring, gave Cutthroat Fred a glare, then made his address. "What Mr. Singleton said is true. We are all equal here. We share in everything on this ship: food, drink, profit, violence. None of us get special treatment, no exceptions. You won't hear me say we should cut Constance some slack for being a woman, or new, or any other reason. I think last night she made it clear she can, in fact, take a beating, and not only that, she can put up a hell of a fight and she won't hesitate to stand up for herself." A few stomps of agreement.

"However. When was the last time anyone got out of a friendly match looking like that?" He pointed at me. "Does that look like someone who got out of a friendly match?" "More like she got in a brawl with a fucking bear," someone said, and others agreed.

"Exactly," Bjorn nodded. "Now, yes, Duffy is in sick bay with a broken rib and bedridden for a week. But he insulted Trelawney's wife, so he kind of had it coming anyway." He paused to let the men have a quick laugh. "To anyone's knowledge, Constance did nothing to incur Fred's wrath. Like Mr. Singleton himself said, they barely interacted. So why the fuck did he feel the need to leave her in that sorry state? I'll tell you why. Those of us who have known him longer know that Cutthroat Fred is a cruel, petty, woman-hating mongrel who takes pleasure in causing pain, no matter the reasons. He enjoys making recruits go through hell, the younger the better. He was banned indefinitely from Noonan's brothel because he likes to torture his girls. And of course, we all know about how he was expelled from his last crew because he murdered the cook over a badly boiled egg.” He spoke to Fred directly, then. “That's how you got the nickname, didn't you? You sliced that man's gullet open with the bread knife." We all stared at Fred, whose nostrils flared up in rage, hands balled into tight fists. He looked about ready to wrap his fingers around Bjorn's' neck.

Just like that, all the doubt descending over the crew was dispelled by resentment and distrust. I had no idea if what Bjorn had said was true, but from their reaction, I was inclined to believe so. It washed me with a wave of equal parts terror and pride: I had fought with a man as dangerous and evil as that, and survived. I had survived a sadistic murderer. Jesus fucking Christ, how close had I been to actually dying?

"So I say, yes. Yes, Cutthroat Fred deserves judgement and he most definitely deserves punishment. He challenged Constance Tilly to a friendly match and went deliberately overboard in an attempt to end her life. He was unnecessarily cruel toward her for no reason, other than because he couldn't stand the thought of having a woman on the crew. The only reason she still draws breath is because she is a tough fighter and Jean intervened in time. She did not deserve to have her face battered like dough. She works as hard as any one of us, she is dedicated to her tasks, and lets not forget she wanted this bad enough to sneak aboard the ship in a pink frilly dress, so."

Another round of laughs, which I joined. Bjorn raised his hands in a shrug. "You know what I think. Now it's your turn. Mr. Gates? I'm done for today." "Thank you, Bjorn." Gates took back the center stage while my friend came toward me to stand at my left side. I gave him a big smile and mouthed a 'thank you'. In response, he winked with a grin of his own and gave my shoulder a gentle shove.

"Anyone else? No? Very well. All those in favor of condemning Cutthroat Fred for attempted murder of a crew member?"

I raised my hand. So did Jean and Bjorn. So did many in the crowd, almost all of them. Then Billy raised his arm, and De Groot, and Gates. At last, even Flint voted in favor. At his side, Cutthroat Fred nearly foamed at the mouth, panting like a rabid dog. "All those in favor of clearing him of all charges?" As Jean had told me, at least half a dozen hands went up, including Singleton's, yet they looked pitiful compared to the sea of arms calling for condemnation. They never stood a chance. My heart felt light as a feather and I was finally able to breathe easy. I would never have to deal with Cutthroat Fred ever again. I was safe. For now. "The ayes have it," Mr. Gates declared. He turned to the convict. "Cutthroat Fred, you are hereby found guilty of trying to kill one of your own brothers – a sister in this case - and on behalf of the crew and captain Flint, I pass judgement: to be left in a deserted island with no food, no water, only a pistol and a single bullet. You have disgraced us all and it seems fitting that you should die alone and abandoned, without a single friend in the world to aid you."

There were no cheers to accompany the sentence. Instead, the men began their stomping again, while Billy, De Groot, Bjorn and one other big sailor I didn't know grabbed Fred by the arms and took him away. Before they disappeared below decks, Fred locked eyes with me and something in him snapped: he struggled against his guards and fought to free himself, cuffed hands reaching out for me as he roared a blind rage, teeth bared and a mad glint in his eyes. "I'll kill you, you cunt!!" He shrieked while he was dragged down with Billy's arm around his neck. "You better pray I die, you hear me?! You better pray I die on that island because if I live, I'll fucking kill you!"

My breath came out in shallow puffs. Jean had moved to stand in front of me with his pistol drawn out and as I came out of the initial shock, I noticed the wall of men that had formed around me. They had all assembled to shield me the moment Fred had moved to attack, and they didn't stand down until we couldn't hear his howls anymore. Even so... I was terrified. Knowing there was someone out in the world who had it in for you was scary. The scariest thing I had ever had to face. And what was worse... Fred wasn't the only one. I peeked from between the many heads surrounding me to look at Mr. Singleton and the others who had voted to free Fred. They were staring right back at me and they didn't seem pleased. I would have to watch my back, from now on. The impression was that my problems were only beginning. *** Days later, we arrived at a conglomerate of islands that were little more than sandbars with scruffy vegetation on top. Mr. De Groot had told me they were far enough away from the usual trading routes that it would be near impossible for Fred to escape or be rescued. He had one of two choices: either let dehydration and starvation take him, or end his own misery. From the Walrus, I watched as Flint, Gates and Billy boarded a launch with a tied up and gagged Cutthroat Fred in tow. They rowed him toward a patch of land made out of rock and sand, denying him even the luxury of shade, and through a spyglass, I saw them drag him onto the beach and cut his ropes at gunpoint. Flint then presented him with his one loaded pistol. Fred spat at his feet, so he threw the pistol onto the sand and turned his back on him to return to the launch.

Gates and Billy followed, always keeping their own barrels trained on Fred. They too boarded the launch and started to row away. Perhaps finally realizing how dire his situation was, Fred made a run to the water and began to swim to the launch. He managed to hook one hand on the ledge before Flint promptly smashed his fingers with the handle of his pistol. I could hear Fred's cry all the way from the ship. Around me, the crew cackled with amusement and cheered as Fred swam back to the beach, holding his broken hand to his chest. I didn't. Despite everything... I couldn't help to feel some pity for him. Not enough to make me want to plead mercy, but still.

The launch was almost upon us when I felt a familiar sinister presence creep behind me. Cautiously, I lowered the spyglass and glanced over my shoulder at Singleton. "The fuck do you want?" I asked. My words might have been snappy and my tone firm, but on the inside I felt as powerless and scared as a rabbit did when the eagle descended upon her. We were surrounded by our crew mates and it was broad day light, yet none of that comforted me or made my heart stop pounding painfully in my rib cage.

"You might have gotten away this time," he growled low enough so only I could hear. "But your luck will run out, eventually. You don't belong here and I will make sure everyone knows it. You will be begging to leave by the time I'm through with you." In a flash, I spun around, pulled out my knife and held the tip to his stomach, deep enough to make him wince, though he didn't move. I stared into his eyes and got in his face, so close our noses almost touched.

"Go ahead," I spat back. "Make your move. Do your worst. I'll be waiting. But know this: when you finally have the balls to face me, I won't hesitate. That is a promise." Singleton smirked, then snatched my wrist, twisted it in a sharp angle that made me cry out and drop the knife.

"Pitiful creature," he laughed. "Pretending to be a pirate, thinking you can stand up to me. I could bash your skull into the railing right now and I wouldn't even break a sweat--"

His breath hitched in his throat when I shoved my entire fist into his dick. Immediately, he let go of my arm and bent over, face bright red, both hands on his crotch. I could have left it at that, but I wanted to make a statement. I reared up my leg, kicked him on the shoulder and watched as he dropped on his back like a sack of potatoes. Lastly, I picked my knife from the floor and pressed a knee to his neck.

"I told you, I won't hesitate. And just so we're clear on exactly what will happen if you ever come near me again, Mr. Singleton..." I removed my knee and brought my knife to his throat, pressing the blade to his skin hard enough to draw blood. "This is to remind you I am a pirate and you would do well to never forget it. Don't ever speak to me again. I don't want to see your face anymore than I'm already forced to. Are we clear?"

His glare was almost sharp enough to kill. He wanted me gone. He might want me dead, even. Still, when you had a blade to your jugular, no argument could save your life. He nodded slowly. I removed my knife from his neck and stood up, wiping the blood on my pant leg. He rushed to his feet as well, breathing heavily, then noted the audience our little spat had garnered. No one intervened, no one said anything. They just stared at him as if daring him to attack me. Singleton compressed his jaw tight, realizing he was outnumbered and outmatched. The silent threat was clear: touch a single hair on her head, and you're done for.

Having no choice but to accept defeat, he grunted in frustration and left. As for the rest of the crew, they didn't address me or even acknowledge me, either; one by one, they returned to their posts and pretended nothing happened while the captain, quartermaster and boatswain were out.

With a frail sigh, I tucked my trusty kitchen knife into my pocket and grabbed onto the railing to stop my hands from shaking. My teeth chattered as my skin broke into a cold sweat. Hopefully, my show of force and the crew's backup would be enough to deter Singleton and anyone with half a mind to harm me from doing anything. I watched Flint and the others climb aboard, then give the order to get us underway, toward Nassau. It was time to go home.

I took one long breath through the nose, filling my belly and chest with air, then let it out through my mouth. Little by little, my nerves calmed and the anxiety exited my body, returning feeling to my numb limbs. I should join the others and get to work. "Hey." I looked to my right. Mr. Gates was at my side and peered into my eyes with concern. "Heard there was an altercation with Singleton. Everything alright?" I nodded with closed eyes and hung my head. "We reached an understanding. All's well." "Did he hurt you?" I snorted. "You should ask him that." Gates' eyebrows shot up as he stood straight. "All right, then. In that case, why are you standing about here? Those sails won't man themselves, missy."

"Yes, Mr. Gates." I pushed away of the rail to run toward the fifes and join my mates. As we tugged on the rigging and tied it off, I got a glimpse of the islet where Cutthroat Fred would likely meet his maker and realized whatever pity I had felt for him was gone. My struggle with Singleton had served as a reminder that for as long as men like that existed, my safety was never a sure thing. They didn't deserve my pity. Nor my mercy, for that matter. After all, they had none reserved for me.

I wasn't entirely used to violence quite yet. It was still a very recent notion for me, and it made me uncomfortable, but at least I wasn't scared of it anymore. My face would heal and it was clear now I was more than capable of defending myself. And as I remembered the wounds I had inflicted on Fred, and Singleton's face when I got him on the ground, under my blade... A half smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. Maybe some justified, well directed violence wasn't so bad. I could learn to like it.

[sir-gwaine-of-camelot]

Masterlist of my writing (AO3)

Hey everyone! I write for a variety of fandoms, and thought I'd make a masterlist to help promote some of my work! If you like any of my stuff, let me know! I love reading comments, even though I'm bad at responding to them.

THE QUARRY:

If I Seem Dangerous, Would You Be Scared? (Dylan/Ryan) INCOMPLETE WIP

X-MEN:

We Fear That Which We Cannot Understand (Charles Xavier & Darwin)

Dialed Up To Eleven (Charles Xavier/Eric Lehnsherr)

Silk and Lace (In Black and Red) Can Drive a Man Right Off His Head (Charles Xavier/Eric Lehnsherr) INCOMPLETE WIP

DOCTOR WHO:

Would You Like To Stay For Dinner? (Would You Like To Stay Forever?) (Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones/Jack Harkness) INCOMPLETE WIP

BALDUR'S GATE 3:

Their First Night of Many (Astarion/Gale, Bloodweave)

A Quiet Evening (Astarion/Gale, Bloodweave)

You Need Not Face The Darkness Alone (Astarion & Gale, pre-slash)

DUMBGEONS AND DRAGONS (PODCAST):

Together, We Can Weather The Storm (Thia Amastacia/Flint Firebeard/Nulara Moonbrook)

The End of the End, and the Beginning of a Beginning (Thia Amastacia/Flint Firebeard/Nulara Moonbrook)

BBC MERLIN:

Just Another Monday (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot)

Secret Keeper (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot)

Guilt and Ghosts (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot) INCOMPLETE

Nightmares (Merlin/Lancelot/Gwaine, Merwaincelot)

Death of an Immortal (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot) Temporary Character Death

Camping (Gwaine & Everyone (except Arthur), Platonic, pre-slash)

LORD OF THE RINGS:

The King's Bathhouse (Éomer/Faramir, Éomer/Faramir/Aragorn)

Comfort In The Dark (Éomer/Faramir)

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON:

To Dance Beneath The Stars (Bruno Madrigal/Hiccup Haddock, slash or platonic, crossover)

ENCANTO:

To Dance Beneath The Stars (Bruno Madrigal/Hiccup Haddock, slash or platonic, crossover)

If The Sky Comes Falling Down (Bruno Madrigal & Mirabel Madrigal, platonic) INCOMPLETE

FANTASTIC BEASTS:

Pure of Heart (Newt Scamander & his creatures)

CRIMINAL MINDS:

Career Day (Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid) INCOMPLETE

Would You Be My Safe Space? (Spencer Reid & Jason Gideon, Spencer Reid & Penelope Garcia, platonic, wingfic) COMPLETE, but the first in an INCOMPLETE series

MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE:

Injured...Yet Again (Peter Parker & Tony Stark & Pepper Potts)

Studying The (Actual) Civil War Sucks (Peter Parker & Tony Stark)

Under Open Skies (Perhaps We Can Heal) (Clint Barton/James "Bucky" Barnes) INCOMPLETE

ORIGINAL WORKS:

Mirror Image (poetry)

[alexwatchesshows]

Black Sails X review (S2E2)

Spoilers for up to and including E10.

"Strange pairs, Lieutenant, they can achieve the most unexpected things."- Thomas Hamilton

Billy's back! I mean, he's being tortured, but he is still technically back. Unfortunately, because my brain only ever wants to cause me pain, my first thought was of what he's going to go through when he finds out Gates is dead.

We go from that awful biblical torture, to Thomas Hamilton reading the Bible (I want to say Genesis, but I truly know so little about it), and I'll get to the flashbacks later but the way the camera pans over to Flint as Thomas reads "it is not good that he is alone" just breaks my heart.

Anyway, first to Nassau, where shit's getting real. Ned Low's quartermaster is mad at him because he did massively fuck up with the blood on the crates and all that, but Low's violent, vulgar humour and whatever the hell that personality is has somehow won over his men. It's a bit like the season 1 Flint/Gates dynamic, in that Low has convinced his men to go along with his bullshit under the promise of some kind of passive payout, while painting the logical quartermaster as some kind of villains for pointing out flaws in the plan. In this situation, however, the captain seems to be completely irredemable and his plan for massive riches is to endanger and exploit a teenage girl. It's a much harder sell for the audience than attacking an empire. Missing the support of his crew, Meeks seeks support from Eleanor, who is less than happy about her reputation as someone who "(deposes) captains", given what it did to her the last time she did it. I mean, as it was with Vane, it would probably be a good idea to get rid of Low, just on the basis of him being kind of evil and also a massive dickhead, but, again, looking at where Vane is now, I can see why she wouldn't want to risk it. Speaking of Vane, he has somehow been talked into attending the consortium meetings, even if all he does during them is smoke and look general detached from everything. Baby steps, I guess.

Vane's attendence is the only thing that's going well for Eleanor and the consortium, though. The whole shipping plan that was presented as the solution to everything last season is barely working, and, even worse for Eleanor, it's her family name that's the problem. Vane's reputation is proving useful, but, as he (at least feels that he) holds all the power, it's down to him to decide whether Eleanor and her consortium can coninue to hold any power in Nassau, which is not ideal, because he's unreliable at best. Still, he's not entirely wrong when he refers to Eleanor as "a tyrant too weak to enforce her own tyranny". It's a harsh interpretation, sure, but it's not necessarily fully incorrect. Maybe it's this accusation of weakness that pushes her to take a harder stance with Ned Low. That was probably a bad place to start, though, because that man does not care about anything and angering him only results in further violence. Like, a lot of violence.

This level of violence is probably what causes Eleanor to relent and go to Vane for help. She knows that she can't appeal to him with her power, as he's already expressed his disdain for her "tyranny", so she appeals to his "concern" for her. Honestly, these two just keep making each other worse, but maybe if Ned Low's downfall can be brought about as a result of their dysfunctional relationship, maybe it's worth it. And then there's the "prize" Eleanor mentions. Poor Abigail Ashe.

And while violent shit is going down at Eleanor's bar thing, soft, romantic shit is going down at the brothel. I love this plotline so much-- the way it shows Anne slowly coming to terms with her sexuality and processing what it means for her and Jack is just so well-done in all its complexity and,,, emotion. Oh god I love them all so much. This is also possibly the first relationship in the show that is portrayed in a genuinely romantic way, and it's a sapphic relationship, which is one of the many reasons I love this show. It would also have been so easy to just take this whole Anne/Max/Jack dynamic and just put Jack in the role of jealous boyfriend and portray Anne and Max's relationship as just cheating, but my beloved Black Sails had better plans than that. Instead, we show Anne's internal conflict between her feelings for Jack and what she feels she owes him and her feelings for Max-- ones she probably hasn't let herself acknowledge before. Similarly, we all know by now that Jack isn't the kind of person to cause a massive scene and confront the other two, nor does he necessarily even want to. Instead, he just turns up to talk about his business plans. I mean, those are some good ideas, but there's a time and a place. They could also have had Jack go down the route of just completely ignoring the relationship, diminishing the importance/significance of sapphic relationships, but instead we get his wonderful reaction: "Darling, I can understand why you wouldn't want to tell me about this, but please know that all I have ever wanted is for you to be happy. Come to bed when you're through." Just everything about it, from the tenderness of the darling, to the acknowledgement of the conflict Anne must be feeling, and the way his love for her just radiates off him. I don't think I've ever loved Jack (or Anne for that matter) as much as in this moment.

Now to the Walrus crew (technically not on the Walrus but I can't be asked to differentiate at this point). Our unlikely couple are finally getting their shit together and making each other worse. Silver is still asserting that he does not want to be a pirate, and is simply sticking with the crew for the sake of Flint's get rich quick scheme. Flint is so committed to being a pirate that he's going to take down the british empire... somehow. These two are obviously going to work so well together. Both of them are using manipulation as their tactic of choice, but on different levels. Flint knows what he wants and goes directly for leadership. He starts with a slightly misguided attempt at small talk about books with Dufresne (he's so me fr), then turns the conversation into a confession, as if he believes that he can convince Dufresne that he's really really sorry and then Dufresne will just let him be captain again. Don't get me wrong, I do believe Flint when he says the guilt is killing him, but I just don't thing D is the best audience for this. Flint also knows this, as he (maybe) goes for a different tactic. It's never made explicit whether Flint meant to deceive or advise Dufresne. I'm sure his intentions weren't purely to help Dufresne, but he might have genuinely been advising Dufresne for the reasons he believed-- that if Dufresne had successfully taken a prize, his position would have been much more secure. I think it's much like the scene with Billy, neither we nor, possibly, Flint, know what his intentions were. Either way, Dufresne goes ahead with Flint's idea, one that De Groot approves of from a sailing perspective, which really says something about Flint's talent not just as a leader of men, but as a sailor. It really makes you think about what would have happened had he not had to leave London for whatever those reasons were.

As Dufresne's mission to capture a merchant ship goes on, it becomes harder to believe that Flint has the crew's best interests at heart. He narrates the whole thing to Silver and clearly knows what Dufresne should be doing, but makes no effor to advise him on this. As a result, the attack quickly goes downhill. Dufresne also runs into another problem-- aside from his lack of experience-- which is that he doesn't have Flint's notoriety and nor does he have the charisma to make up for it. It's probably this that tips the merchant captain off and gives him the confidence to call for his crew to resist. Then Dufresne's lack of experience also comes through as he doesn't know how to handle the crew in such a situation. Controlling a crew under fortunate circumstances is one thing, but, as we've seen with Flint, retaining their loyalty under hardship and chaos is something else entirely. Dufresne took control of the Walrus crew after a patch of difficulty under Flint, then found fortune under his time as leader but, as soon as he has to deal with something like this, he crumbles. As Mr Logan points out "no one is in fucking charge" on the ship-- Dufresne is too stubborn to give up on a mission that the rest of the crew have lost faith in, De Groot, voice of wisdom though he may be, doesn't hold much authority as a leader, and Flint is still disgraced. Ultimately, Flint is essentially decided as the best option, helped by his willingness to immediately order an effective retreat. Then he heads off to the captain's quarters with all the confidence in the world. The vote hasn't even happened yet, but he knows how to lead well enough to know exactly what he's just done.

At the end of the day, he's still nice to Dufresne, reassuring him that the vote was close-- Flint isn't the type to gloat, at least not in such an over way, and Dufresne could still be a powerful ally. And, most importantly, Flint has a new jacket.

Silver, meanwhile, is taking a different approach to winning back his position on the crew. Honestly, this showcases what I love about S1/2 Silver: he's scrappy. He's not necessarily inherently a team player, but he knows how to work with and against people to ensure his own survival, and, unlike (sorry) Flint, he does it in such an entertaining way that he also ensures that he's well-liked. Flint, god bless his autistic heart, has absolutely no idea what the hell Silver is playing at, and Silver gives him some kind of story about his past. Now, given Silver's track record of lying his ass off, we have no idea whether or not this is true, but, regardless, it's the only insight we've got into his life pre-merchant vessel. Honestly, it doesn't tell us a whole lot that we don't know-- well-off men were rarely conscripted onto merchant vessels as crew members-- but it still fleshes out the sense of powerlessness and potential tragedy in Silver's past. Either way, as the days go by, Silver's ploy of playing the men off against each other starts yielding some results, and, as Flint-- who he has formed an uneasy alliance with-- comes back into power, his survival becomes almost guaranteed.

And now we get more London flashabcks, i.e. backstory of Flint's previous unlikely partnership. In this partnership, however, Flint/McGraw is the realist, and Thomas is the dreamer. He's the one who tells McGraw that, in approaching Nassau, he should forget the pirates. Sure, he's not necessarily wrong in framing piracy as a symptom of a wider issue, but very few men, let alone members of the nobility, would have had the optimism and insight to take that approach. McGraw still tries to point out the flaws in the rest of the plan, listing the extensive resources that would be needed to establish stability on Nassau, and still Thomas is unfazed. I'm not sure whether he's being incredily smart or incredibly stupid about this, but honestly I support him.

Then we get a little insight into the other side of McGraw's life-- his relationships within the navy. It's clear that Admiral Hennesy holds him in some regard, and sees his potential (honestly, he's giving father-figure vibes in this scene, not necessarily good ones though), but, because of his class status, his peers don't hold him in that level of regard. This is yet another problem with the empire/civilisation that we haven't explored much yet, but classism is clearly a massive problem in both James' life and British society as a whole. Then, as the taunting continues, we see what we recognise as Flint's kind of passion and violence arise in McGraw, and a fight breaks out. Hell, he even looks more like the man we know as Flint as he gets roughed up and even gets some blood on him (a key aspect of Flint's appearance). I don't blame him for reacting, but Hennesy isn't wrong when he expresses about "the thing that arises in (James) when passions are aroused [where] ... good sense escaped [him]", and what it could become when "exposed to extremes", which we have already seen with Gates, and which I can't help but think is going to make some kind of comeback in episodes to come.

[hunterisnearme]

Silly Warframe x TTCC crossover stuffs I have brewing in my mind since I now have accidentally opened the gates of both my interests and seeing that people actually unironically enjoy the rambles, here is the list of all managers that I associate them with Waframes and what Zariman Focus they'd major in. (Spoiler free! Just saying which warframe they'd use as operators/drifters)

LET'S GO!

Derrick Man | William Boar

William in my honest opinion would be a Lavos. Lavos in itself is a mish-mash of defense and support, given that William gives off the vibe of someone who would use his body as protection while using potions (or oil in this case) to boost his team mates. William's focus, however, is Naramon. Tactic and whimsical, despite how stern he is as a person.

L.A.A | Alton S. Crow

Alton aka Mr. BIG STEPPY is going to HAVE to be Rhino. While he's a twig, 100% would go for the build of a Rhino JUST BECAUSE of how strong and powerful his steps are. I'm sure if you bonk his Rhino enough his true body will flop out and you can just kick the guy around like a nerd. (I say this with affection.)

An Unairu by heart. He'll assume the best of himself and believe you have what it takes to take down his economy build.

P.R.R | Winston Byrd

Nyx by the automatic. Mind games? Absolutely. There is no way you wouldn't put him in the position as the psychological warfare. Unpredictable, cunning, and uncertain, Winston would definitely use his mind game at the max. (Maybe he's gotten thrown out of existence due to the void overtaking his sanity from the get-go too, honestly. Maybe that's why he's a little looney.) Madurai is what he would be, though with a twist. While most Madurai are known to be brawns over brains, he actually uses that exact brain to demolish his enemies from inside-out.

Duck Shuffler | Buck Ruffler

Zephyr! Mostly because Zephyr is a bird-related Warframe. He'd be the kind of person to swoop from the heavens and raise the stakes of piercing down his enemies with either the beak or talon. He's all about being unpredictable, and of course risking a lot to gain far too little. Another Madurai, simply because he's going in head on!

Deep Diver | Mary Anna

Hydroid, of course! Just like the Warframe itself, she's all about being in the deep-levels of things. Of course, this was a match made in heaven, especially given that they both would enjoy the aquatic life in things such as Neptune's water ecosystem! A vazarin as well, given Mary's need to learn her opponents and as well understand the weak points of an enemy.

Gatekeeper | Holly Grayelle

Styanax, the embodiment of protection and being the knight of everyone's story. Although a different time frame, I'm certain she'd still pick this Warframe simply because of the fact that it represents a true warrior. In her eyes, she believes she is no different. An Unairu for the fact she doesn't step down her place.

Mouthpiece | Belle Dama

Trinity! A supporter, but also a hefty fighter. She can help aid her allies while absolutely DEMOLISHING her enemies. She is wise, given her more in-depth experience in combat than most of the others. And Vazarin, for sure!

Firestarter | Flint Bonpyre

Ember, specifically. He, of course, is far more passive in this team comparing to most. Though at the same time, if it comes to the safety of those he care for, then he will absolutely smite his enemies in the burning hell fires to make sure no one gets killed. (Even if it means he himself gets into the crossfire.)

Naramon, mostly because he's anxious at times but still very much studies what he can against his enemies.

Treekiller | Spruce Campbell

Closest I can say is a Vauban. I would've said Loki, or Oberon, but he is NOT a nature fella. And plus, he can come up with useful tools all while using up materials when necessary. Perhaps he may be on good terms with the Grineer for his hatred of nature? Steel Meridian is definitely buddy-buddy with Spruce. Another Madurai!

Bellringer | Benjamin Biggs

I'd like to think maaaybe a Banshee? It's a mish-mash, honestly between either a Banshee for him always being a loud speaker on gossip, or Ash to "go rogue" and eavesdropping on people. I can confirm though that he is Zenurik!

Featherbedder | Tawney C. Esta

Surprisingly, I see Tawney as a stone-hard Atlas. I'm not sure about them yet, honestly! But I'm sitting on the fence of Atlas, mostly because of the leer that Atlas possesses. A petrifying gaze of Tawney is possible enough, and they have the guts of an Unairu!

Prethinker | Brian [REDACTED]

Xaku! Xaku is the possession of multiple Warframes alike, thinking in one mind much like how Brian does with his jockeys. With the abilities of a mind hive, Brian is a Zenurik!

Rainmaker | Misty Monsoon

You would think I'd pick Yareli for Misty because of the water abilities, but I see her as a Wisp! Yareli is more of an attack-goer, but Wisp suits best in Misty's supportive and skittish behavior. Vazarin by the automatic!

Witch Hunter | Prester Virgil

Harrow! Even if he is meant to sacrifice his own defense for the sake of others, Prester would do it for the sake of defeating the greater evil in which he seeks as filth. Another violent and hostile Madurai, if you ask me.

Multislacker | Cathal

Grendel is what I see as best-choice for someone like Cathal. I'm certain Cathal also happens to be the type of Operator that prefers to work best at his own pod, hidden away while his Grendel is out and about consuming his enemies. He is an Unairu.

Major Player | Dave BruBot

OCTAVIA! It's obvious that as a Warframe of music, of COURSE Dave would aim for one as such. Just even hearing smooth jazz in the dark hallways has never felt so much more dangerous when it comes to the skill of Dave's combat. Dave gives me a more Zenurik vibe.

Plutocrat | Cosmo Kuiper + The Satellites

A man as cold Cosmo, you're destined to see him with a Frost at hand! His strong wield of ice within his hands is what brings him the best strength. And not all, but he has a Railjack that has The Satellites as his crewmen that manage around the ship. While they do not possess their own Warframes, they are useful in defense and attack as Corpus crewmates. Cosmo is a Vazarin!

Chainsaw Consultant | Chip Revvington

Chroma is as versatile and hostile as Chip himself can be. A Warframe difficult to adjust to, but Chip tries his best in order for him to maintain his own inner rage as a Tenno. An Unairu, if you squint real hard despite the Madurai elements.

Pacesetter | Graham Ness Payser

WE ALL know this because of the fact I have been drawing him nonstop in this AU, but he's a GAUSS CERTIFIED USER! A Madurai as well! And of course, because he's also got them Sellbot elements, he half-works with the Corpus.

[svenerd]

Spiele-Vorschau - Oktober 2024

In der Monatsvorschau liefert euch unser Redakteur Christian Fritz Schneider einen Ausblick auf die kommenden Spiele, die im September 2024 für PC, PlayStation, Xbox und Switch veröffentlicht werden. 00:00 - Throne and Liberty 01:01 - KILL KNIGHT 01:34 - Vestiges: Fallen Tribes 02:03 - Wizard of Legend 2 02:34 - SpongeBob SquarePants: The Patrick Star Game 03:56 - Diplomacy is not an Option 04:25 - Until Dawn (Remake) 04:54 - SWORD ART ONLINE Fractured Daydream 05:16 - Anima Flux 05:43 - Global Farmer 06:08 - Rebots 06:45 - Silent Hill 2 (Remake) 07:13 - Dead Season 07:43 - Diablo IV: Vessel of Hatred 08:17 - Heavy Cargo - The Truck Simulator 08:46 - Sky Oceans: Wings for Hire 09:14 - Guild Saga: Vanished Worlds 09:43 - DRAGON BALL: Sparking! ZERO 10:14 - Europa 10:43 - Undisputed 11:07 - Starship Troopers: Extermination 11:45 - RPG Maker WITH 12:14 - Transformers: Galactic Trials 12:37 - Metaphor: ReFantazio 13:16 - Nikoderiko: The Magical World 13:40 - Neva 14:09 - New World: Aeternum 14:45 - Drova - Forsaken Kin 15:26 - MechWarrior 5: Clans 16:16 - Citadelum 16:50 - Super Mario Party Jamboree 17:18 - A Quiet Place: The Road Ahead 17:48 - Blazing Strike 18:16 - Call to Arms - Gates of Hell: Airborne 18:50 - Arizona Sunshine Remake 19:23 - Unknown 9: Awakening 19:57 - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutants Unleashed 20:28 - RetroRealms: Ash vs Evil Dead / Halloween 20:55 - Hot Wheels Monster Trucks: Stunt Mayhem 21:18 - Worshippers of Cthulhu 21:50 - Railroad Corporation 2 22:26 - Factorio: Space Age / 2.0 22:55 - Streets of Rogue 2 23:29 - Lynked: Banner of the Spark 23:58 - No More Room in Hell 2 24:32 - Awaken - Astral Blade 24:59 - ZERO Sievert 25:37 - Age of History 3 26:20 - Flint: Treasure of Oblivion 26:55 - Die Schlümpfe - Abenteuer im Traumland 27:18 - Romance of the Three Kingdoms 8 Remake 27:49 - Romancing SaGa 2: Revenge of the Seven 28:23 - Shin chan: Shiro and the Coal Town 28:47 - Prim 29:27 - Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 29:56 - Sonic X Shadow Generations 30:24 - Ys X: Nordics 30:55 - Fruitbus 31:27 - Reel Fishing: Days of Summer 31:57 - Keep Keepers 32:26 - Blood Bar Tycoon 32:58 - Life is Strange: Double Exposure 33:34 - Post Trauma 24:01 - Clock Tower: Rewind 34:35 - Wanderer: The Fragments of Fate 35:05 - Dragon Age: The Veilguard 35:40 - Shadows of the Damned: Hella Remastered 36:09 - 36:39 - Blasphemous 2: Mea Culpa 37:12 - Alan Wake 2: The Lake House 37:50 - Neue Spiele-Ports mit Horizon Zero Dawn Remastered, Yakuza Kiwami, Broken Sword - Shadow of the Templars: Reforged und mehr Read the full article

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 11248

A rispetto sequence

               I

Their Taxes double majesty. Let it not your best friends, when love’s yoke is only given as dots now in the bride and grey and full

time wakes up each got him with crooked Counsel held him; till the Devil is still, her brow. Saw Seames of Woman is but walks by night.

               II

And the sea alone bent over the wheel of thy King. Two name my garden when I have a noose about my Leave a future Truth the

best: kind Husbandry. Mad mourners of a mate for Empire borne away along her throat a boatswain swore he lover and a Wife.

               III

And whilst her neglected child ephemeral: but it eats the flint, are already looks beguiles: she is no chapel on thee, as

thy pearls upon our western Skies. The Chaplain robed in white as wax and provident. And wild winds the joint is free; so, when the cellar.

               IV

Descend into the best may do their secret deed. When I thoughtful bard to his belief,—seeing that lid, full many wish impart. And

that beauty lack, slander’d with prise of the Three per Cents; whose choice that flaps and flits around that: But there is a pond where the pumies latched.

               V

His grief is gentlemen kirkward shame: for three cherubs drawn his Garment, crying still. When the world let’s prove the turmoil of expiring

like slaves to spangle the Sheikh replies to weep, and cures not meet otherwise. Existed but happely I hym spyde, when clear to all.

               VI

To everyone I love the skies. Like little tent of blood should take place that one times but they seem near. Generative earth the earth receive;

let eares, but Sanherins may be distill’d: make sweet flattering wind began to dream milk burned in mine with more and staring eyes.

               VII

Say over London stallion-hoofed falls on the story, first, prepare, and you had a mother an’ mother’s soul? So, like the shore, against

its painted surface but the front gate, pulling songs, the shape of Terror was lying still. Then forgo; who banishment to grow older.

               VIII

And rashly judge a Cause. Though I and Thou be stilled with the best. Not the three children and sculk’d behind the sky above poor of her Front,

an ample fields against the alien pen hath the underground, and we gazed up their thou away, mid-dream. And Horror stalked before.

               IX

Therefore I love me from bough of cherries pluck’d fresh younglings shoot, and Dye. False foul with the best region. Like thee another He, another

Ben, whose Youth your eyes when resum’d their Power and sunglasses in small, thus to speake in Ohio called and bruise its sad in sweet?

               X

Now their mere Sense a Miracles Mens faith in my arms like figures, a garden when I came home, the music come to yet so well set

forth within the world for to lie here. The true or false, are necessary Gold, shall lie unstrung, and sorrow-laden, a long, asleep.

               XI

Tho’ father an’ mother. As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe is Treasons: he is gone down, as endless wealthy western friends—as thus;

mine eyes, by Loue direct Hebrew Ballad in your moment. Hearts from your children dear, let us play, champ and clatterer neuer lieth.

               XII

Fore-bemoaned moan, which, let’s prove those crimson stair we went round there in a glade of man. In comeliness; when I’m sitting of Leonardo

or Michelangelo that God’s own predicament with Roses blows; a Foot for Thee to a table she rode with laughter.

               XIII

And I lose my poor soul, were every prison of Man ever should taint each side bowing popularly Mad? Wars and yet to-day I

sought; with lullaby, as women do, whereto the Spring, not dare to breed another scarcely can discrie, while his Son, for he knew.