#flint x gates

[flints-silver]

Black Sails Ship Tourney - Round 1

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic} - Ch. 11 (Part 1)

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Characters: Billy Bones, James Flint, Hal Gates, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Max/OC (friends), James Flint/OC (mentor) 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: 11/13 Summary: Though Constance had been at sea for several months now, she had never actually seen a whale before. Her first time experiencing them is unforgettable, for more reasons than the whales themselves.

Author's note: Following chapters will be another set of short snippets of pirate life, to give the sense of time passing, but we are now very, VERY close to the juicy parts!

Chapter xi. Part i.

“Whale ho!!”

The cry echoed from the crow's nest and got everyone's immediate attention, mine not the least. Along with the men, I rushed to the port side railing before it got too crowded and almost fell overboard leaning half way over, just for the opportunity to finally see them. Months I had been at sea, and no matter how many times I heard whales were a common sight, I still hadn't spotted a single one. I was beginning to think I was cursed or something.

But now... there they were.

Gray, enormous, yet graceful on the waves. The spray from their blow holes reached nearly ten meters high and created shimmering rainbows. And so close to the ship, too! I could make out the texture of their skin and the small, curved fin on their backs. I counted at least six of them and felt my breath lock up in my lungs. They were just... magnificent.

The men, likewise, leaned over or dangled from the rigging to have a better look, hands shielding their eyes from the sun. They had seen many of the leviathans before, they'd told me, but it never got old. There was something too special about those giants of the deep not to admire whenever they came to the surface. We couldn't hunt them, didn't have the means for it; anything built from whale bone was the product of a lucky harvest from a beached individual or two. We had absolutely no use for them, yet they always drew crowds.

“What kind are they?” Someone shouted to Sayeed in the crow's nest. Several heads, mine included, tilted back to see him peek through his spyglass.

“Fin whale!” He shouted. “Ashen ring on the back of the head! About twenty-six yards long!”

Right below us, one of them surfaced and twisted on her side so her triangle shaped flipper hung in the air for a moment, her white belly glowing in a vibrant blue. I smiled so wide my cheeks almost cracked. It was like she was saying hello!

At my right, Billy's imposing presence pushed forward and the men made space so he could see, too. Taking full advantage of his height, he leaned over just a bit to get a good look at the whale as she dove.

“Well?” He smiled at me. “Are they everything you were hoping for?”

I had to bite on my lip to keep myself from giggling. “Everything and more. They're wonderful. They don't even feel real, if that makes sense. Like...”

“Like they belong in a children's story along with the dragons and the fairies.”

He stole the words right out of my mouth. I grinned up at him. “Exactly.”

For almost ten minutes, they followed the ship as we cruised along, first staying on the port side, then going under and surging at the starboard side. Most of the crew had gone back to their chores after the initial enchantment had faded away; only I remained to soak up their sight. Who knew when I would get to see them again? I had to enjoy them while I could for as long as I could.

When the last one swam under the ship and came up at the opposite side to join the others, I ran over to follow her, ducking everything and everyone on the way with swift, sure feet. I hooked my hands on the rails and, again, almost fell overboard to watch her dark silhouette pass by and begin to swim away.

A crazy thought crossed my mind, then. Without thinking, or even hesitating, I unbuckled my belt, let my weapons drop on the deck and began undoing the buttons of my vest.

Billy, who had remained close by while distributing tasks and orders, stared at me with wide and worried eyes. "What are you doing?" "I have to go swim with them!" Was all I said before I tossed the vest and the scarf he'd gifted me aside and hopped on the railing.

Alarmed, Billy follow after me. "Swim with-- No! Are you nuts??"

"Probably!"

I ran along the rail beam like a cat, stopped at the main mast shroud and opened my arms, ready to dive. Oh, what thrill it must be! I wanted to see how they moved, how deep they could go, how would they react to me. I'd heard stories that they sang for each other and--

Two big, hard arms went around my waist, pulled me back and hooked under my knees. Part yelling, part laughing, I threw my hands around Billy's shoulders.

"Noooo! C'mon..."

"You are not diving in after those animals. You could drown, and then what?"

I smirked at that and batted my lashes at him. "And then you could be a hero once again and go in after me. I so enjoyed it the first time..."

My fingertips brushed along his jaw, and I was pleased to see his cheeks gain a deep red tint.

Fighting to remain serious before my reckless almost-jump, he set me down on the deck but kept his arms around me.

"You're staying right here with me and that's final. I'm not letting you go until they're gone."

I let my hands slide down his chest (very deliberately, might I add) before I turned toward the sea. "Fine. Spoil sport."

At least while he restrained me, I had an excuse to press my back against him, which was equally nice. Billy was warm and solid, a comfort now that the evening breeze began to blow cold on my exposed skin. His forearms settled around me, just below my clavicles, and kept me still without hurting.

Out there, the sea had turned into a fiery mantle of orange and turquoise. The clouds moved lazily through the sky in various shades of yellow, pink and violet. And the whales, now far in the distance, sprouted air and water one last time, then committed themselves to the deep, where they disappeared without a trace.

I soaked up the sun's dying heat and breathed the ocean's salty perfume, more content than any one person had any right to be.

"What a beautiful sunset, isn't it?" I murmured.

Behind me, Billy shifted a nudge and let out a drawn out breath, his body relaxed around mine. "Yeah... yes, it is."

We traded a smile, held each other's gaze for a moment, then turned back out to enjoy the view together.

Only then, did it occur to me that this was the closest we had ever been since he had rescued me in Nassau. I remembered the touch of his hand on mine fondly and recalling how he stroked my hair up on that mast to console me after saving my life got my heart to pick up speed, turned my legs to rubber.

Hadn't I wondered if he was a good hugger, that day? Well, now I knew: he was an excellent hugger.

The whales were long gone, but... I didn't want him to let go. Not yet. I brought my hands up and, after a second's hesitation, laid them on his forearms and buried my fingers into his skin, just slightly, a silent request for him to stay. I felt him tense up, then loosen again. He didn't say a word. Nor did he let go.

I wondered... Slowly, as if asking for permission, I turned my head to the side and let it rest on the crook of his neck, until I felt his jaw touch my temple. I was prepared to act and move out of his embrace should he express discomfort, or reject me outright. The last thing I wished for was to make unwanted advances toward him.

I heard his breathing stop and restart with a quiet sigh. From this position, I could feel his own heart thumping against my shoulder blade in quick bursts, almost as fast as mine. I waited, still as a stone, to see what he would do.

Then... I felt him pull his head away and couldn't hold back a gasp as he rested his cheek on my hair.

My eyelids fluttered closed as I gripped his arm a little harder, just enough for him to feel my relief and the joy he was giving me. In response, he gently swayed us back and forth and tightened his own hold on me, bringing me closer.

I was so happy, I wanted to weep. I had never felt something so intense for another person before. Basking in his embrace, I sucked in a shaky breath and held it in, overwhelmed by his warmth, his kindness, his affection. Had he let me, I would have stayed there with him forever and would need nothing more to consider my life full and well-spent. And, of course, someone had to go and ruin it.

A long, winding whistle broke the spell that bound me to Billy, waking us from our dream. Someone yelled "Woo-ee!" from the quarterdeck and in no time, a chorus of howls, cackles and kissing noises forced us to finally relinquish our hold on each other and separate. "Aw, don't stop on our account!" I heard Logan bark.

I turned to face him, smiled bitterly and showed him the finger. Our irritating audience, gathered all around the ship (rigging and sails included) laughed with gusto. "Good for you, Siren." Joshua quipped whilst passing us by. "Maybe you can help old Billy there relax and finally get that stick out of his arse!"

As I picked up my things from where I had left them, I glanced back at Billy, who was under threat of imminent combustion under their teasing. He pressed his lips into a hard line, the way he would do every time a crew member was acting up, and I had to smile despite myself. "All right, all right you idiots, you've had your fun!” Mr. Gates, who had been at the forefront of the crowd up on the highcastle, arguably the best spot to see everything, scolded the men with his fists on his hips. “Get back to work."

Never had I seen him look more like a stern father than in that instance, and it would have convinced me he was serious, were it not for the way he wagged his eyebrows at Billy when everyone had turned away, then winked at me.

With an exhasperated sigh, Billy rubbed a hand over his hair and cleared his throat.

"I should... probably..." "Yeah," I snorted. "You should." "Right." He sniffed once, nodded, and marched right past me, face still as red as before.

With a chuckle, I prepared to return to work myself, before Gates thought to chide me too. That was when I noticed someone else on the deck, someone I hadn't seen before, but from the way he skulked in the shadows beneath the forecastle, I had a feeling he had been there all along: Captain Flint.

He observed me with that intense stare of his, one I had grown somewhat accustomed to, but still unnerved me from time to time, especially when it was directed at me. I couldn't make out the meaning of his expression.

No... that wasn't true. I could, it's just that it was so hard to believe I was seeing it on that perpetually angry, worn out face, that I was thrown for a loop. He looked... haunted.

The corners of him mouth tilted down as the muscles on his face twitched, like he was fighting to contain whatever emotion battled within him from coming out. And his eyes... They were vague and faraway, his mind clearly somewhere else, though his gaze was focused on me. Wherever that was, it was somewhere unpleasant. I had never seen so much sadness in someone's eyes before.

Then, with the speed and intensity of a lightning bolt, it all disappeared behind the old mask of control and reserve. Without a word or even acknowledging me, he turned his back and disappeared inside.

But I had glimpsed the fathoms of darkness that resided within our captain, and it was sight I soon wouldn't forget.

[a-bit-of-writing]

Cloak

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Words: 1,591

Summary: You only meant to survive your night watch, not end up draped in Astarion’s cloak and scent.

part. 01 | part. 02

The cliffs above the Chionthar were pretty things by daylight — ragged ridges powdered in wild heather, gulls wheeling overhead — but after dusk they sharpened into bone‑white fangs. Wind tore off the river and scraped your cheeks raw, tugging at your sleeves like a petulant child begging to be let in.

You flexed your fingers — nothing. Half‑numb. Brilliant idea, volunteering for the late watch in nothing but a travel shirt and bravado. Gale had offered his spare cloak; you’d waved him off. Shadowheart had raised an eyebrow; you’d grinned. Pride was a stubborn parasite and now it gnawed your bones with every icy gust.

A twig snapped behind you. Leather boots, light tread — predator’s footfall. Only one person walked that quietly and still managed to announce himself with the sheer audacity of his presence.

“Honestly, darling,” Astarion drawled, voice a silk ribbon sliding round your throat, “if you wished to turn blue you could have asked me for pointers. I have centuries of experience.”

You exhaled a foggy plume. “I’m fine.”

He came into view, draped in a cloak the color of spiced wine, clasp of polished garnet winking at his throat. Moon‑silver hair spilled over the collar like frost over velvet. He looked entirely too warm, too princely, too amused.

“Liar,” he murmured, stepping close enough that his breath stirred the hair at your temple. “Your teeth are rattling a charming concerto.”

“I said—”

“And I said you’re shivering.” One arched brow. “Would you like my cloak?”

The offer landed like flint on tinder. You opened your mouth — habit formed around refusal — but the night stole the word and left only a shudder. Fine tremors climbed your arms. Astarion watched, ruby eyes bright with mischief and something startlingly soft.

“Here,” he sighed — half resignation, half relish — and reached for the clasp. Gold links whispered apart. As the cloak swung free, heat rushed out like the exhale of a hearth. Cedar, smoke, faint mulled wine: his scent, rich and dizzying.

He didn’t simply hand it over. Oh no — Astarion performed the act like ritual. One step forward, boots crunching frost; cloak lifted high, then draped across your shoulders in a slow, enveloping fall. He gathered the fabric at your throat, cool fingertips grazing the hollow just above your pulse. You felt it leap; he felt it too — his smile said everything.

“There,” he purred, smoothing collars with absurd delicacy. “A lovely splash of red to set off those cheeks.”

You tugged the cloak tighter. “Thank you.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, studying the way it swallowed your frame. “Marvelous. It hangs on you like sin.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Be wary — wearing a vampire’s garment might constitute a blood pact in certain, decidedly salacious circles.”

“Oh dear,” you deadpanned, exhaling warmth back into your stiff fingers. “Am I doomed?”

He hummed approval. “Doomed to — let me think — moonlit poetry recitals, perhaps a scandalous duet or two.” His grin glinted fang. “Surely you can bear the torment.”

You mustered a scoff, but the cloak’s heat seeped beneath your defiance, loosening the tight curl of your shoulders. Even the wind seemed reluctant to intrude through velvet this thick. You inhaled — cedarheart and something sweet, like the echo of summer berries on the tongue.

Astarion’s gaze followed the rise of your chest, satisfied. Then, casual as smoke, he settled onto the flattest rock beside your post — close, but not crowding. The river’s dark ribbon murmured below. Fireflies stitched gold thread between brambles.

After a beat he said, softer, “I never cared for that cloak.”

You glanced sideways. “No?”

“Cazador chose it.” A small shrug. “He enjoyed dressing us like decorative knives — beautiful, useful, always his.” For a moment the campfire in his eyes dimmed, revealing an undertow of old hurt. But then the mask slipped back into place, polished and bright. “Yet here we are — re‑appropriating luxury. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Very,” you whispered. “And it does suit you. Or did.”

He laughed, rich and low. “Are you angling to keep it?”

“Maybe I’m claiming it. Finders, keepers.”

“Heresy.” He slung an arm along the rock’s rim, posture indolent royalty. “If you intend to steal my wardrobe, I’ll need compensation.”

You arched a brow. “More secrets? Another blush tally?”

“Oh, I have grander schemes tonight.” He leaned in until moonlight caught in his lashes. “How about a favor to be named later? Something deliciously open‑ended.”

Your pulse skipped. “Dangerous.”

“Exhilarating,” he corrected. Then, unexpectedly gentle: “But if bargaining unsettles you, we’ll stick to simpler trades. A story, perhaps.” He lifted his chin, invitation in every line. “Gift me a memory.”

Cold forgotten, you searched for something worthy. “All right,” you said at last, voice soft. “When I was small, my mother would brew cinnamon milk on winter nights. She’d hum — terribly off‑key — while I sat by the hearth pretending to read. I’d memorize the tune, wrong notes and all, because it meant warmth was coming. I loved that.”

Astarion’s expression flickered — surprise, then a longing so fierce it scared you. “Cinnamon,” he echoed. “I remember cinnamon.” He looked away, throat working. “I’d- I’d snatch sweet rolls from palace apprentices and hide on the roof. Eat them alone so no one could shame me for sticky fingers.” Soft laugh, brittle as spun sugar. “Feelings taste different when you savor them in secret.”

He fell quiet, the confession hanging between you like frost‑glittering glass. Your hand twitched beneath the cloak — impulse to reach for his. Instead you said gently, “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

His eyes cut back, bright and wary. “Don’t I?”

“You offered me warmth with no demand.”

“Oh, I’ll demand something eventually,” he teased but the line lacked bite.

“You could have let me freeze,” you pressed. “Mocked me, walked away. You didn’t.” You lifted a corner of the cloak. “That choice is yours now. Every time.”

Astarion stared long enough that riverwind filled the silence with its hush. Then he chuckled, a sound that trembled at the edges. “Careful, sweet thing. Keep talking like that and I might start believing I have choices.”

“Maybe you should,” you echoed your earlier words, softer still.

He inhaled — sharp, startled — like the idea itself was a sudden ache in his ribs. For an instant vulnerability bared its throat. Then his grin returned, dazzling and defensive.

“Let’s test this newfound autonomy, shall we?” He stood, offered a dramatic bow, and extended a hand. “Come. The wind’s unrelenting, and I know a niche halfway down the cliff face — sheltered, private, excellent acoustics should I burst into impromptu sonnet.”

You laughed, taking his hand. His fingers were cool but steady, closing around yours with teasing ceremony. As you followed him along the narrow path, the cloak swirled your ankles, trailing his scent.

At a ledge half hidden by thorny broom, he paused, gesturing you ahead. A natural alcove cupped a sliver of embers from some forgotten traveler’s fire; still warm. He dusted the stone, sat, then tugged you down beside him. The space forced proximity — knees brushing, cloak draping over both. Twin warmths: velvet outside, his body heat inside.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. In the dim, his eyes burned garnet, softer than any flame.

A playful silence stretched. Then he cleared his throat theatrically. “Right. About that sonnet…”

“Oh gods, no,” you groaned.

“Too late. Inspiration strikes.” He pressed the back of his hand to his brow, reciting in a tragic stage whisper: “O crimson cloak upon a trembling frame, / Envy of dawn, ye put bright day to shame—”

You dissolved into laughter. It echoed off stone, mingling with his self‑satisfied chuckle.

When your mirth subsided, you found him watching you — smile gentled, eyes steady. “I like that sound,” he admitted quietly.

“What sound?”

“That laugh. It…does something foolish to me.” He glanced away, almost shy. “Makes monsters feel less monstrous.”

Your breath caught. Without thinking, you slid your hand across the small gap, resting it atop his. He stiffened — a reflex born of centuries — then eased beneath your touch, exhale feathering the cold air.

“Monsters don’t share cloaks,” you whispered.

“They do,” he said, lips quirking. “They just expect payment in flesh.” A pause. “I’m trying something new.”

“And how does it feel?”

He considered, thumb grazing your knuckles. “Terrifying,” he said. Then, softer: “Nice.”

You smiled into the dark. “Borrow the feeling as long as you need.”

“Dangerous invitation.” He curled his fingers, lacing them with yours. “I may never give it back.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep you, then.”

He laughed — a fragile, wondrous thing. “You drive a scandalously hard bargain, darling.” He squeezed your hand once, then let the silence rest — comfortable, living. Wind rattled faraway branches, but the alcove held only warmth.

Minutes — or hours — later, when your watch ended and you both rose to return to camp, Astarion reached to reclaim his cloak. His hands paused at your shoulders, clutching velvet as though reconsidering.

He released a hush of air, almost a sigh, and withdrew, leaving the cloak on you.

“Keep it till morning,” he said, eyes unreadable. “Consider it… interest on our deal.”

“What deal?”

“The one where I practice giving without taking.” He winked, stepping back into moonlight. “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late. You smiled, heart thudding. “Good night, Astarion.”

He hesitated, then with the softest smile you’d ever stolen from him, murmured, “Good night, warmth‑thief.”

He vanished into shadow, leaving you cloaked in crimson and something far rarer: the promise of choice.

[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.

[benjamikaela]

Ok what fucks me up though about episode X is for a while it really does seem like we can see through the Flint persona. Scheming with Silver below decks chatting to Dufresne about books talking about Gates?? Like yes we know he has an angle but all of that still feels so. genuine. Like the pressure is off him and he’s actually acting like himself for once. And then the battle comes and he slips right back into being the ruthless, calculating captain.

And this lighting/framing at the end is so genius. We get one last glimpse at this warmer, more “genuine” version of Flint before Dufresne confronts him in his motives and we watch him literally transform into this darker, colder more dangerous side of him that Dufresne is seeing.

This episode showcases the duality of Flint so well. Because I don’t think either version we see is a lie! Flint speaks of Gates with genuine affection and regret, he offers real advice to Dufresne. We see Flint suppress emotion often but we never see him affect something he doesn’t actually feel. So I know the emotion he showed to Dufresne was something he felt truly and sincerely, because he wouldn’t know how to fake it! And yet he uses those true, sincere emotions as a tool to serve a terrible purpose. It’s cunning and disturbing and so so tragic

“When exposed to extremes, I could not imagine what it is capable of. And of greater concern, I’m not sure you do either.”

[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.

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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.

[moghraidhs]

back on my terror/black sails soapbox (you should have realised you weren't going to hear the end of this) under the cut

jack/fitzjames. the two great pretenders. are they capable of being honest only with each other, or do they wear masks in private as well as in public? they're always pulling off something great by the skin of their teeth, and somehow it's never enough. will do amazing things to be seen.

sol/silver. it's a perpetual mystery to me how the most straightforward people become attracted to the biggest schemers (re: vane and eleanor), but perhaps it's nothing more simple than opposites attracting. sol fights to protect others and silver lies to protect himself, and yet they fall in love anyway. sol (grudgingly) admires how silver is ten steps ahead of everyone else and stands up for him, and silver gets to experience the mortifying ordeal of having someone actually care about him.

silna/madi. the definition of "some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them". madi is ready for her destiny while silna tries to escape it. they're both their fathers' daughters. very good at knowing what the other is thinking without needing to exchange words. quiet in all things: fear, grief, and loss - so when they love, that is quiet too, and just as unshakeable as they are.

blanky/gates. stories of the old days, of miles of ice and clear blue seas. bonding over good rum and foolish captains whom they genuinely care for. they're always there to back each other up, even when no one listens to them. will to live increases by 90% after meeting each other.

flint/ross. the fearsome pirate captain and the good-hearted idealist who cares more about his men than fame or money? they're a perfect match - even if they don't realise it at first. s1-s3 flint would fight his attraction all the way, because every time he looks at james he's reminded of thomas, and look how that ended. fortunately, james is just as stubborn as he is; once there's someone he loves he won't let go. they balance each other out well, and by s4 are definitely the sanest couple in nassau (mostly).

tommy/billy. it's about the implications. whatever happened to them in the past has made them what they are - the same and yet different. it made billy strong and serious (perhaps too much so) and loyal; it made tommy quiet and withdrawn and loyal. they don't talk about what happened, not even to each other, but they love just right in such a way that it doesn't really matter. basically "where you go, i go". they keep each other from falling.

sol/billy. loyal dog meets loyal dog. their shields are up, not to protect themselves, but those around them, and in so doing they leave themselves wide open and vulnerable. would and probably have killed for each other, and will do so again if necessary. combined anger and grief that is deadly when turned outwards. they have no secrets. a good hug would fix them both, i think.

tommy/vane. violent x soft, but with a twist. neither of them like uncertainties - when you grow up the way they have, you want to know where you're standing at all times. you also (in charles' case anyway) develop a soft spot for underdogs. tommy is loyal, he's good with a gun, and he does what he's told without asking questions. kind of likes it, to be honest. there are no games with these two, not ever. if charles ever allowed himself the luxury of vulnerability, its name would be tommy armitage.

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, an Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic.} Ch. 9

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Characters: Billy Bones, James Flint, Hal Gates, Muldoon, Dooley, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Max/OC (friends), James Flint/OC (mentor) 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: 9/13 Summary: While investigating a shipwreck in a small island, Constance observes as two crewmen free-dive in search of sunken treasure, staying under for several minutes at a time. To her, it's almost a miracle that they don't drown - and obviously, she wants to learn to do it, too.

Author's note: Here it is, finally. Chapter 9. Again, I apologize for the delay but my life has been chaotic and emotionally devastating, lately. One of my eldest cats passed away this morning after long, harrowing months fighting to keep her comfortable and happy through an irreversible illness, all while trying to meet deadlines for my Masters and making ends meet at home. Hopefully now, things will calm down and I can dedicate a little more time to posting. Cheers ✌

PS: Links to the songs included here in the replies!

Chapter ix.

At first, it was hard.

Everywhere I looked on the ship, I expected to see Jean coming out from a doorway, or down the stairs, or entering the galley hall for dinner. But he never did.

Some times, I would hear footsteps approach and turn around with delusional hope, only to see one of the other crew members walk past or come to relieve me from my watch. I knew perfectly well my friend was never coming back, yet it was as if my heart was struggling to catch up with what my mind had already accepted.

The most difficult part was when I went to bed and looked at the vacant hammock next to mine. More often than not, mere minutes after lying down, I had to get back up and go on the main deck for a smoke. When I truly wished to be alone, I would sneak onto the bowsprit and climb over the railing to sit on the beakhead, where I was hidden from sight. It was a dangerous place for one to sit; if I slipped and fell over board, the Walrus would run right over me and continue to plow the waves like nothing happened.

Still, there was no better way to disappear in a ship. Even the platforms up on the masts always had a rigger running back and forth while minding the sails and I had no wish to get in their way, either. When sleep finally gripped me and forced my eyelids to shut, I would go into the empty sickbay and sleep there. It took me nearly two weeks to get accustomed to my own hammock again.

Thankfully, my mates were very understanding of my grief and never said a word about my choice to crash away from them. Randall's cat, Betsy, sometimes would tuck herself next to me to keep me company and lend her soft fur to stroke until I fell asleep. It was my luck she was much more accessible than her owner.

Bjorn told me that what I truly needed was a distraction. While working, my mind would be too occupied to think about Jean or the void his death had left in my heart, but during the vacant hours, none of my usual entertainments worked anymore. Knot practicing was too easy for me now; my thoughts would often run away from me as my hands worked. I could barely focus on the maps I studied. The only thing that still proved an effective distraction was cleaning the guns and pistols, but only because if my attention faltered, I could hurt myself or someone else. Still, there were only so many times I could polish them before it turned ridiculous.

Logan suggested I drank a tankard or two of ale, just enough to become drowsy and forget everything, but I had seen what alcohol did to some of the men, both in high seas or ashore. I, for one, did not wish to become reliant on drinking to function until the drinking itself became the source of my utter lack of function.

Billy and I would train with the cutlasses and it helped for the most part. I even started improving; on one occasion, I almost managed to best him in combat, until he kicked my feet out from under me and held the tip of his blade to my throat.

“You're dead,” he would mock with that smartass smirk at the corner of his mouth, and I would narrow my eyes in return, slap the blade away and stand up again for another round, at least until he declared I'd had enough for the day and sent me off. One day I would get him. One day...

A full month passed before I could spend a day without remembering Jean. I felt so guilty for it, I almost vomited. If I didn't keep him in my memory, who would? These people were used to losing friends and moving on from their grief as quickly as possible, but this was all new to me. I had no idea how to do that.

I brought the subject up to Gates, seeking guidance. Out of all the advice and suggestions I had received, his was what really got through to me.

“We never truly move on from anyone we've lost,” he told me one evening at the forecastle while we watched the sun set together. “They always stay with us, every day of our lives. Some times, for whatever reason, they pop back into our minds or appear in a dream, but time soothes all wounds and turns any pain into comfort. You won't forget about Jean or the other friends you will eventually lose to this lifestyle. You couldn't even if you tried. But try to think of it this way: if it were you who died and left all your loved ones behind, would you want them to be sad and heartbroken forever, or blame themselves for not being able to save you?”

I didn't have to think hard on that question to know the answer. “No... No, I wouldn't. I would wish for them to find a way to live on without me. I would want them to still be happy.”

Gates smiled and winked at me. “Exactly. I'm of the same opinion. So is everyone who isn't a selfish, narcissistic bastard. And so was Jean. There was nothing you could have done to save his life, so don't you waste a single second weighting the “what ifs”. He wouldn't have wanted that for you. Live and keep him in your memory, and he will never truly die.”

That very same night, I pulled out Jean's pipe, had my smoke and wept for him for the last time in a long while. Then, I went down to my hammock, curled up facing the empty one neighboring mine, and slept soundly until dawn.

*** At last, one beautiful morning out at sea, we passed by a grouping of islets, scattered wide over turquoise waters. Some were barely a mile in length, no more than lines of sand, while others were large enough to host a whole patch of forest from which strange birds sang. It was on one of these larger islets where we came across an unusual sight: a shipwreck.

She was a decent sized schooner, beached on a sandbar. The stern of the ship was mostly underwater, so that the bowsprit rose in a near vertical angle that stretched far into the sky. The sails were in tatters as they blew gently in the wind, the wood long lost to rot. The foremast had snapped in two. The tip of it was partially buried in the sand.

From the quarterdeck, Captain Flint took a peek through his spyglass. Gates and Billy flanked him on either side and squinted at the sight, using their hands to shield their eyes from the intense sun. I happened to be close by, on the mizzen mast, so I was able to hear their exchange:

“Looks like she has wrecked no longer than a month or two,” Flint said without lowering the glass. “I see bodies on the beach. Longboats are gone, though.”

“What do you think?” Gates asked. “Marooned?”

Flint lowered the spyglass. “No, I don't think so. We are at least a week and a half from the nearest port. It would take triple that time to get there rowing. My guess is most of the crew decided to risk leaving on the longboats and hope to find a passing ship that would pick them up, while these men decided it would be best to stay and wait. It would seem those who sided with rowing were the cleverer group.”

“And they didn't come back for them?” Billy pointed out with bitterness in his voice.

“Or came back too late,” Flint countered. He stowed his glass away in his frock coat's pocket. “No matter. Drop anchor, but keep the sails at the ready, just in case. Gather a search party to see if we can find something useful and bring it aboard. Send Luca and O'Neill to investigate the ship.”

“Aye, captain.”

Gates and Billy descended from the quarterdeck to give the order, while Flint stayed behind.

Meanwhile, I refocused on helping the other riggers tuck the mizzen mast main sail. I was tying a lose knot that would allow its unfolding easily in an emergency when I caught Flint staring up at me. He tilted his head in a gesture to beckon me down.

I shuffled along the foot rope, then down the shroud. With a sense of pride, I verified I was getting rather quick moving along the yards or up and down the masts. In part, I owed it to Flint himself. If he hadn't encouraged me to face my new fear of heights after the careening incident from months ago, I would still be cowering on the deck. In those days, grateful as I was for his guidance and understanding, his acceptance of me, I would have done almost anything he asked me to. He had my full, unwavering loyalty.

At the bottom of the shrouds, I jumped off onto the deck and let my knees bend with the impact until I was almost on all fours, then hopped up straight and presented myself to Flint.

“Captain?”

“I want you to join the search party on the beach. It should be an educational experience for you. Comb the beach for valuables or clues for what might have happened here.” He paused when he saw the uneasy expression on my face. “Yes, that means search the corpses as well. Make sure to wash yourself thoroughly after. You don't want to catch the plague off of their decay.”

I had hoped he would tell me not to touch the corpses, but that would have to mean Flint had suddenly turned into a sensitive, compassionate man who gave a shit about people's discomfort about robbing the dead. That I knew of, he had not, and here was my proof.

I slowly exhaled through my nose and slumped my shoulders. “Yes, Captain.”

“Dismissed.” And he turned his back on me to look through the spyglass once more.

I started down the stairs to go get my gear and prepare to come ashore with the others, all the while doing my best not to hurl at the thought of touching a dead body.

The search party consisted of nine members, myself included: Billy, Thierry, Muldoon, Joshua, Joji and Dooley, plus three men named Morley, Luca and O'Neill.

The first, I remembered from my first day. He was sitting in the galley with another sailor who gave me the side-eye, but Morley was kind to me. Showed me where to find breakfast and chided his friend for being rude. The second was young, no older than twenty, with dark brown skin, vivid onyx eyes and a beautifully hooked nose. The last was an Irishman, one of the riggers, with a thick accent and even thicker black hair that hung in ringlets around his shoulders. Small shells decorated the inky waves.

Luca and O'Neill were both slim but broad of shoulders. Along with their usual gear, they also brought strange looking belts with what seemed to be rocks attacked to them. I had no idea what they were for, but had the feeling I would soon find out.

We arrived on the beach via longboat and hopped onto the pearl white sand. Since I was closest to the bow, I grabbed the rope and tied it off to a tree nearby with a clove hitch, plus an extra knot for safety. Billy lead our party toward the shipwreck.

The closer we got to her, the more impressive the sight got. The way the bowsprit stretched upwards gave the impression that the ship was imploring to the heavens to be saved from being swallowed by the sea. I was confronted with that strange sensation that her whole weight would suddenly tilt and fall on us, crushing us instantly; still, no matter how the wind blew on her ripped sails or the waves pounded at her hull, she didn't move an inch.

Billy stopped once we reached the ship's shadow and turned to us.

“Alright, tasks: Thierry, Muldoon and I, we take a lap around the island, see what we can see. Joshua, Morley and Constance, search the bodies. Joji and Dooley will climb aboard, though I don't expect you to find much. O'Neill and Luca, see if you can get into the hold. We report back here in ten minutes. Dismissed.”

We divided into teams and began our work, though I was intrigued by what he meant with “go into the hold.” It was almost completely submerged, there was no way they could get in there, was there...?

And then I saw those two remove their shoes and tops, letting them fall onto the sand along with all their weapons except for a single knife each, which they tied around their right ankles. Next, they wrapped their waists in those belts with the stones - and that was when I saw they were no stones at all. They were weights.

With a start, I watched them make their way to the water. I turned to Billy, who happened to be closest to me, and called out to him before he could leave with Thierry and Muldoon.

“Are they going to swim under the ship? With those belts weighting them down? What if they drown?”

Billy snorted, amused at my ignorance. “No, they're not going to drown. They're divers, and quite good ones at it. They know what they're doing.”

“But getting into that ship will take several minutes,” I insisted.

The idea of letting them go in there left me thoroughly anxious. They were already in the water, slathering their arms with to reduce the temperature shock before taking the plunge. I looked up to Billy, wide eyed, while he just grinned at me, totally at ease and unbothered.

“How will they not drown? No one can hold their breath that long!”

“Oh, they can't?” He reached into his pocket and searched around for a bit. He pulled out an object tethered by a silver chain and held it out for me.

Confused, I stretched out my hand, palm up, and saw what he had put in it: a time piece. With a furrowed brow, I tilted my head up, but he simply continued to give me that cryptic smile.

Billy tapped my shoulder. “Tell me how long they were down there when I get back. Don't get too distracted, though. I want those bodies thoroughly searched by then.”

And then he was gone with the others, leaving me astonished with that pocket watch in my hand. I turned just in time to see Luca and O'Neill dive beneath the waves and set the hands to twelve, giving the seconds a head start of about five seconds. Intrigued, I clasped the chain around my neck and set out to work.

There were a total of seven corpses littering the islet, all varying in distance from the shipwreck. Some were quite far from it; Morley even found one in the trees, bones and dry skin mostly taken over by plant growth and insects.

Cautiously, I approached one and fought the reflex to gag: it was a ghastly vision, a human shaped mound of rot, yet nothing like what a human should be. The skin was ashen and stretched over the outline of the bones underneath, the flesh and organs that once filled it long gone. Whatever hair this person once had, had mostly fallen off the skull in heaps half buried in the sand. And the stink...

I had smelled rotten food before and this was much worse. The smell was so abrasive it invaded my sinuses, positively assaulted my senses to the point I had to pinch my nose, though the thought of breathing it in through my mouth was just as repulsive. It was like I could taste the decay on my tongue, which reminded me of Flint's warning. I swallowed hard and turned away to try and mentally prepare for that ungodly task, to no avail. To distract myself, I checked the watch.

One minute and twenty-eight seconds. I looked out to the water, expecting to see either one or both divers come out, but there was no one there. Most astonishing was how unconcerned my companions seemed to be. Neither Morley nor Joshua even glanced up, too busy digging their hands through pockets or turning the cadavers over.

I looked down at the dried out mummy at my feet and grimaced before I knelt beside it.

The corpse was lying face down, skeletal hands outstretched as if the man had been crawling through the sand. Trembling from head to toe, I dug my fingers into an arm and under the torso, then pushed him over to flip him around.

"Sorry, mate," I muttered.

Without the weight of fat and muscle, the skeleton was easy to move. I felt pity for his fate, as I couldn't imagine what it must be like to be stranded on a beach like this with no food or water, waiting for rescue that would never come.

It made my heart heavy with guilt, desecrating his body like this, but if there was one vital lesson I had learned on a ship, it was this: waste not. We spent weeks or months at sea on limited supplies with no way to replenish them unless we made port or attacked another vessel. A shipwreck like this represented a rare opportunity to collect resources we could not overlook. And, to be completely fair and pragmatic... These people were dead. Nothing we would find on them would make a difference to them, but for us, it could prove life saving.

Still didn't make me feel any better for it, but this was one of those "brutal, harsh and ugly" parts of being a pirate that I had to accept and become insensitive to. All I could offer them was a quick prayer and ask the Good Lord to save some mercy for their souls, if He found them worthy of it.

And then I laid the cadaver on its back and saw his face.

"Fucking--!" I recoiled and fell on my arse.

There was a crab crawling out of the empty eye socket. It used its pincers like cutlery to pick what was left of the man's brains and bring them to its mouth. Another had tucked itself in the mouth and feasted on what little flesh still clung to the gums and the throat. But the worst of it all were the maggots: thousands, maybe millions of them, crawling and writhing around in the chest cavity.

I couldn't take it anymore. Twisting on my side, I retched and evacuated my entire breakfast onto the sand.

"You all right there, Constance??" I heard Joshua call out from a few yards away, worried but also entertained.

I spat the bile and carrots from my mouth and raised a hand in a thumbs up to indicate I was fine. When I recovered my breath, I sat back on my palms, let my head drop back and shut my eyes tight against the sun.

"There goes my breakfast," I joked. "Fucking crabs and maggots scared the shit out of me."

Joshua, who had approached to check on me, laughed.

"At least it wasn't snakes," Morley quipped up as he finished with a corpse and moved on to the next like this was nothing. I envied his composure. "Snakes are much worse. Joshua, remember what happened to the carpenter's mate, Tiago? The guy with a lisp, some three years ago?"

Joshua made a face of utter disgust. "How could I forget? He didn't even have time to yell "snake!" before it bit him right on the jaw." He pointed to his own, right next to his chin. "He was just lucky it wasn't a venomous snake. Still got a wicked looking scar from it."

I huffed a laugh and stood up. "At least it wasn't snakes."

Suddenly, I remembered Luca and O'Neill and turned to the shipwreck. Nothing. I consulted the watch once more: two minutes and forty-two seconds.

A chill ran down my spine. "Oy! It's been almost three minutes and they still haven't come up! What if they need help? They're gonna drown, shouldn't we do something??"

Morley and Joshua traded a look and snorted. I stared at them, distressed at their indifference. Our crew mates might die soon, if they weren't dead already! How could they be so nonchalant over this...?

"Don't worry about them, girl." Morley waved me off. "Get back to work."

My mouth opened and closed several times as I watched them continue to search the poor bastards spread out on the beach. "But..."

They ignored my pleas. Despite being told to focus on the task at hand, I just couldn't. I kept my eye on the watch, growing more and more anxious.

Three minutes and fifteen seconds. Three minutes and thirty-three seconds. Three minutes and forty-six seconds--

Luca's head finally burst through the surface.

I huffed out, not having realized I had been holding my own breath while waiting for them to give a sign of life. From my spot, I could see the diver was breathing laboriously, but very much alive. He floated there for a moment to recover, then swam to the beach and walked out of the sand like he had only gone for a dip. In his hand, he held a net full of shiny trinkets, which he dropped on the sand along with the weight belt.

I was stunned. Completely stupefied. Not long after, at four minutes and eight seconds, O'Neill also resurfaced, and like Luca, he took some time breathing deeply before coming to shore with his own satchel full of treasure.

Orders forgotten, I walked up to them, fully aware that my mouth was open in a round O to match my saucer sized eyes. Behind me, Joshua and Morley laughed at my figure, so much so that the former was writhing on the floor from how hard he chortled and the latter had to bend over with his hands on his knees.

Luca and O'Neill eyed them and me, totally at a loss to what was going on while they had been out. "Everything alright, here?" O'Neill asked me with a frown. "I should be the one asking you that!" I exclaimed, frightened, fascinated and amazed all at once. "You were down there for four minutes without breathing!""Aye, you were lucky to come back when you did," Morley told them once he calmed down. "Constance was just about ready to dive after you, thinking you were dead." "It's not funny!" I shrieked, which just made them laugh some more. Worse, O'Neill and Luca joined them, so that I was surrounded by a choir of ridicule. Bunch of assholes. "It's a little bit funny," Luca admitted.

"Regardless!" I waved a hand and pulled the subject back into focus. "How did you do that? How did you hold your breath for so long without dying?"

"With proper training and practice," O'Neill simply said. "It's possible to make yourself function with little air without blacking out. I knew a guy who could dive up to seven minutes."

"Seven minutes...?" I stared at him, unable to fathom going that long without breathing.

"Aye, didn't live much longer after that, mind. There are limits and he met his soon after establishing that record. Drowned somewhere off of Costa Rica, diving after a sunken Spanish galleon."

"How long does it take to learn this?" I immediately asked.

Since I was a child, I had always wandered what hid beneath the waves, only ever managing to glimpse through them without making sense of the broken up picture below the surface. But if it was possible to hold your breath even for just four minutes without perishing... Suddenly, that mysterious hidden world would become open to explore. It was too exciting a notion to pass up.

O'Neill snorted and crossed his arms. "A long time. It can take months, some times year to perfect the technique. Why, did you want to learn--?"

"Yes."

I stared at him deadpan, that single word spoken almost aggressively, giving him no space for argument or to say no. I wanted to learn. I wanted to be able to follow them into the depths of the ocean and reveal her secrets for myself. This was like a wild dream coming true, for me.

O'Neill returned my stare with a blank expression, taken aback by my eagerness. He looked to his partner, who mirrored his astonishment and shrugged. He then opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself short, considered the mad glint in my eyes, the hard line my mouth pressed into, my closed fists, and he seemed to change his mind about refusing me. Likely, he was thinking there was no argument he could make to convince me not to go through with this.

"Fine, we'll teach you," he finally said. "When do you want to start?"

A grin spread from ear to ear and nearly tore my cheeks open.

"Today!” I replied. “As soon as possible. Please."

Luca laughed quietly and shook his head. "You really are something else, Constance. Never change." And he returned to the water like he belonged there rather than on land.

"Come find us when the watch ends and we can start your training," O'Neill told me with a secret smile. "For now, you should get back to work, before Billy comes back and catches you slacking off."

Ah, right. Here I was wagging my tongue instead of grave robbing. Or corpse robbing, rather. The image of the crabs and maggots feasting on my first victim lingered in my brain and I wasn't eager for more of it. But, neither did I want to risk Mr. Gates' wrath if Billy reported I had neglected my duties. I groaned and turned around to continue searching the fallen sailors, hoping all content in my stomach had been successfully evacuated.

*** Later in the afternoon, little after midday, my watch ended, so I went looking for the divers.

We still hadn't left the islet; some of the more religious members of the crew insisted on giving the poor souls that perished on that spit of land a proper burial, which I agreed with. It was the least we could do after emptying their pockets and disturbing their eternal rest. So, we dug up a common grave, laid the rotted out cadavers in it and buried them, joining together in prayer so they may be received in the Kingdom of Heaven.

The endeavor took over an hour, by which time the morning was almost through, so Flint decided it would be a good idea to have our mess right there on the beach and let us rest for the day. Obviously, everyone was more than happy to take up such a generous offer, given how rare these kinds of attitudes were, coming from our captain. Food and rum was brought onto the islet and the crew took the opportunity to wash in the sea or take a nap in the shade. Folsom and a few other musician sailors brought their instruments and sat together near Randall's fire pit to sing a few shanties.

It was pleasant and I could use the rest myself, but I was too excited to learn how to dive to sit still. I found Luca and O'Neill sitting on a rock that was regularly hit by the waves, sharing a pipe and some biscuits between them while they waited for lunch. On the way over, I removed my shoes and left them on the sand before I climbed on the rock and sat with them.

"I don't have the appropriate clothes, but I'll manage," I told them.

O'Neill blew out a cloud of smoke and passed it to Luca. "Doesn't matter because you're not going in the water."

My grin sunk like a stone. "What? But I thought--"

"Before you can go in the water, first you must learn how to properly breathe and how to hold your breath," Luca explained. "If we let you go in right now, you will drown and Gates would tan our hides."

"And Billy, too," O'Neill commented in a barely audible murmur.

"All right..." I huffed and tried to mask my disappointment. "What do I do, then?"

Luca gave O'Neill the pipe and sat up straight. "First of all, you have to know how to inhale correctly. You breathe in through your nose, inflate you belly first, then your chest, for about five seconds. Like this."

He sucked in a slow breath and tapped his belly with his hands to draw my attention. He let it bloat, then filled in his chest, and held it all for a second or two before letting it out.

"See? The point of this exercise is to lower your heart rate and relax your mind, so that you get used to the experience of holding your breath without panicking. Try to think about things that are soothing for you while you do it. Go on."

I crossed my legs and did as he said, mimicking how he filled in his belly, then the chest. Five seconds later, I slowly let the air out through my mouth.

"Not quite so deep," he indicated. "Keep it small and light, natural. Pull back your shoulders so your lungs can stretch and your rib cage can open. This way you can pull in more air with half the effort. Try again and follow my count: one... two... three... four... five. Stop... And exhale. Like that."

I repeated the exercise and closed my eyes to help my mind stop focusing and wander. I didn't have to conjure anything to relax. The sound of the waves and the birds in the trees, Folsom's violin playing nearby and the men singing shanties, all of it worked fine.

"Can you feel your body loosen up? Your muscles decompressing? Your heart beating slowly?"

I could. Everything about me was so calm, I might have fallen asleep while sitting. It was nice. I nodded a reply, smiling lightly.

"This is the mental state you need to be in to dive."

"Of course, it's not so easy to stay in it while you're in the water," O'Neill added. "Out here, if you run out of air, you can just start breathing again. In the water, you have to swim all the way to the surface before you can take a breath, and therein lies the difference between life and death. Therefore, it's imperative that you know your own limitations."

Luca continued: "And the way to know them is to test how long you can hold your breath for. Pay attention, because this is important: when you start running out of air, you're going to feel your torso contracting. When you feel it, take a breath right away. Don't try to push through it, don't try to force it. The goal is not to blackout, it is to slowly build up your capacity to hold your breath longer. You start contracting, you breath. Understand?"

"I understand."

"Very well. In that case, take a big gulp of air, as much as you are able, this time, and hold it in.” He snapped his fingers. “Do you still have that time piece?"

I had forgotten to return it to Billy, so it still hung around my neck. I unclasped the chain and gave it to Luca, who set the hands to twelve.

"Ready?" He said.

Again, I nodded and squared my shoulders, like he told me.

"Take your breath."

My belly inflated, followed by my chest, as I pulled in as much air as I could into my lungs. When I stopped and held it in, Luca started the clock.

"Relax your mind," O'Neill reminded me. "Stay in that quiet mental headspace."

I focused my ear on the sounds all around me, especially the crash of the waves. I recalled the feeling of them caressing my feet and ankles at the beach back in Nassau, how it washed all my exhaustion away in a matter of minutes. I became as tranquil as pond water, as lazy as Betsy lying in front of the galley stove. I thought I had managed to hold out quite some time when I started noticing the feeling of contraction, like my lungs were trying to claw themselves open.

Following Luca's strict instructions, I stopped holding back and panted, surprised by how dizzy I felt.

"Slow down, don't pant like that. Breathe through your mouth and keep it at a steady rhythm."

I did so. Almost instantly, the dizziness passed. After recovering, I looked up at him. "How long was that?"

"Forty-eight seconds," he told me with a grin. "Not bad, for a first try."

I smiled back with pride. Nearly a full minute! Not bad at all.

"Now recover for three minutes and try again." O'Neill stood up from the rock and hopped into the shallow waves. "In the meantime, I'll go see if lunch is ready. See you in a few."

I repeated the exercise three more times, holding my breath for nearly a minute, taking three to recover, then holding again. By the third go, the dizziness had become too persistent, to the point I could hear my heart's beat drum in my ears. When I reported this to Luca, he decided to call it a day.

"It's no use insisting, it won't help you improve. In fact, it might be dangerous. You don't want to end up with brain injuries like Randall, do you?"

I shook my head, eyes as wide as dinner plates. "No, no, I do not."

"I didn't think so, either," he laughed. "What day is it today, Wednesday...? We'll try again on Saturday, then. Twice a week, we will do these sessions and you'll see improvements soon enough. When we arrive back in Nassau, if you feel capable, we'll try doing it in the water. Sound good?"

"Sounds fine," I agreed.

We too, stood up and started our way up the beach, toward the others. I picked up my shoes from the sand and smiled to my new mentor. "Thank you, Luca."

"Don't mention it.” He waved me off. “I never had a student before. Most people think O'Neill and I are insane for doing what we do."

"Until you emerge with handfuls of treasure, no doubt," I jested.

Luca chortled. "Very true! Why do you want to learn, then? Is it also for treasure?"

I shook my head. "No... That is more of a perk to me. I want to know what it's like, to be down there. I want to see the fish we eat swim around and explore their world a bit. I have always been so curious about it all. Had I known it was possible to do what you do, I might have tried it sooner."

"Maybe you were a mermaid in a past life," he suggested playfully.

"Maybe we both were," I countered. "It must have been a good life. Swimming around and not have to come up for air. I don't think I would ever return to land."

"Some times, I think so, too." Luca looked ahead and his eyes crinkled with a smile of pure joy and full of peace. "But if I did that, I would never see anyone again. This crew, it's my family. And O'Neill, as much as he is able to follow me underwater, is here, too. So no, I don't think I could completely give up my life at the surface. There is too much here for me to come back to."

My heart melted with warmth, hearing him talk. "That's a very sweet way to look at it."

As we approached the camp, my eyes found Gates barking orders, and Folsom with his violin, and Thierry, Bjorn, Joshua, Muldoon, Logan, Morley... I remembered how they all stood over me, that day I had almost died, worried for me and wishing to help with my recovery. My family.

The only member missing from it was Jean, but, like Gates said, I kept him in my heart so it would never feel like he was truly gone.

Lastly, I saw Billy sitting with Dooley somewhere to the side. The two conversed while he sharpened his knife on a whet stone. As I watched him laugh at something Dooley said, I was certain that I could never fully give up my life on land, either. Not if it meant leaving him behind.

That realization made me feel... strange. Maybe it was some leftover residue from losing Jean. Maybe it was because I owed Billy so much, including my life. What I knew for sure was that the thought of living in a world without him in it made my chest contract the same way as when I ran out of breath.

Flashbacks of him lying on his back while am ogre of a man prepared to plunge his sword into his chest shot needles of panic into my heart. I couldn't lose him, too.

"You know what, Luca?" I sighed. "I think you're right, actually."

I heard a clinking noise and turned to see him hold out the time piece I had borrowed from Billy. I took it back, said goodbye to Luca and walked toward Billy and Dooley.

They glanced up when they saw me approach. The two were sitting on a fallen log by the trees, protected from the bright sunlight currently burning my head and shoulders. I stood at Billy's side and sagged with relief in the cool shade.

"I wanted to return this." I held out the watch by the chain for him to take. "Sorry, I forgot, earlier."

"That's alright," Billy replied as he took it back and put it in his pocket again. "It's just a trinket I picked up, nothing more. You could have kept it for yourself and I probably wouldn't even notice."

"All the same, it's yours and I always return what's been borrowed to me." I sat down on the sand and closed my eyes to appreciated the breeze.

A hand tapped my shoulder and took a peek: Dooley was holding out a canteen full of fresh water to me. I gladly accepted it and drank my fill before giving it back and lying out with my hands behind my head. Hopefully, lunch wouldn't take much longer. I was starving.

In the evening, when the sun was setting and painted the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, I sat by the fire pit and looked out at the ocean, turned into a vast expanse of emerald and jade green.

The majority of the crew were already drunk and being merry; some were wrestling for fun, others played cards, many had already fallen asleep on the sand, including Logan. Even Gates had had a mug of rum. I could see from the red tint of his cheeks he was getting a little too tipsy. He was telling Flint a joke and it must have been a good one, because Flint was laughing. I had never seen Flint smile, let alone laugh. And of course, the shanties continued.

The only one who hadn't had a drink besides water was me. I hadn't yet acquired the taste of alcohol to have more than a few sips. Ale was tolerable enough, but still, I avoided it. Besides, I needed a clear head for what I was doing.

I was sewing a tear on one of my blouses. It was funny; before, it had been one of those feminine activities I had never enjoyed prior to becoming a pirate, but now that I had realized what a useful skill it was... I had to admit it was kind of fun, even relaxing. It was delicate and precise work that demanded my full attention, and while before I wasn't particularly gifted for it, I could see how fast I was improving.

I held out my white blouse and assessed my work. The needle work wasn't unnoticeable, but held fast, which was the objective. Smiling to myself, I tied the finishing knot and broke the thread with a tug.

"Hard at work?"

I looked up to grin at Billy. He held a tankard of ale in each hand and offered me one, which I gladly accepted with a soft “thank you”. Now that I was done mending, I supposed it was fine to have a sip.

"Aye, taking advantage of the last light to fix my clothes.” I held up the fixed hole for him to see as he sat next to me. “Just finished this one, in fact.”

"Not bad,” he nodded. “Maybe you could do mine, next."

He took a conspicuous swig from his drink while side-eyeing me suggestively.

I half shrugged. "Sure."

And examined the contents of my mug as if deep in thought. Then, after a long enough pause, I smirked and added: "For a price, of course."

"Ah, here we go." He laughed. "You really are a fast learner, aren't you?"

"When all my mentors are pirates, what else can you expect?"

He made a funny expression and tilted his head in a gesture of all right, fair. "Point taken. What do you want, then?"

I put my mended blouse aside and brought up my knees to rest my elbows on them. In truth, there was nothing I wanted in particular; I had already decided that, if he really asked, I would do him the favor as a friend. Teasing him was just for the fun of it. I took a drink and hummed a long, thoughtful note.

"Surprise me," I answered at last. "Use your imagination."

Now Billy was the one to smirk. He eased himself back so he was half lying on the sand, upper body propped up on one elbow. His biceps bulged so hard from the effort I could practically hear his rolled up sleeve straining.

"You're not going to ask me to take my clothes off, are you?" He asked.

I laughed compulsively and snatched a piece of my hair to twirl around my fingers. My face must have gone so red it would have been visible even from the Walrus. Embarrassing.

"Billy, I've seen you shirtless plenty of times already. Let's just say it looses its luster after a while."

That was a big, fat lie, and I knew it. Worse: he knew it, too.

His eyebrows arched up in fake surprise. "You don't say? So when I catch you staring at my chest whenever I go around semi-exposed, what's that?"

"I-- I don't STARE," I stumbled. My grin widened from knowing I had been caught, if only to disguise the fact it so shamed me that he was aware how attracted I was to him. I had to play it off as a joke, because if he even suspected about my more... profound feelings for him and rejected them, I wasn't sure I could handle that gracefully. "I'm just checking to make sure you're not injured or anything."

"Ahh, I see. Just looking out for my well being, then? Nothing to do with you wanting to appreciate my physique?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I didn't know you were the type to brag, Mr. Bosun."

Billy bit his bottom lip while his eyes crinkled at the corners from how much he smiled. Clearly, he had been pleased with my little pet name for him.

"Like I told you once,” he said. “I work hard to get this big and look this good. I'm allowed to be a little proud."

"Alright, I suppose that's fair. Still irritating, but fair."

His eyes travelled to my arms, which were exposed since I had opted for wearing only my cotton vest - it was too damn hot for a shirt. I realized my chest area was a tad too exposed, but this was the best half measure I could come up with and I could live with a few stares.

"You're gaining quite a bit muscle yourself," he commented.

I glanced down and tensed up, surprised to see how round the biceps got for it. Throughout the last few months, I had noticed my body shifting from soft and somewhat plumb to hard and chiseled, like it had been sculpted by a greco-roman artist. My thighs were especially thick, from the hours running around, standing up without rest or from climbing the rigging. I had never looked so unfeminine, and yet... I didn't hate it.

I smoothed a hand over my arm with a smile. "Yeah. Not as big as you, but not bad for a woman. I like it. Feels right."

Admittedly, a part of me worried I might become unattractive, always dressed like a man and gaining so much muscle. I particularly worried Billy might not enjoy the sight and hated myself for thinking like that. I had always sought validation for the person I was meant to be instead of the perfect picture everyone expected me to become, and now I regretted that my body showed my truest state of being? I couldn't have it both ways. The way I looked now made me feel confident in my own skin. If men couldn't appreciate that about me, then that was their problem, not mine. And that included Billy.

"I think you look great," he said in a warm, husky tone, eyes gentle and truthful as they bore into mine.

I shouldn't have felt as good as I did hearing those words, but my chest filled up with joy and relief nonetheless, which certainly showed on my stupid smile. "Really...?"

"Really."

We stared at each other then, and the way he did so made me lose my breath completely. I couldn't look away.

The sun was close to touching the horizon, so its last rays bathed us both in their warmth. Every part of his frame was painted gold: his dust blond hair shimmered in a pastel yellow color, his skin, sprinkled with sand, seemed to glow from within. And his eyes, my God, his eyes... They were the color of Nassau's shallows, a beautiful translucent blue that made me want to swim in them, drown in them. The breeze blew at his shirt, which burned like a bright white flame from the sun, almost blinding. More than an angel, he looked like some sea god from ancient myth, materialized out of the waves to seduce me.

He was both irresistible and thoroughly out of my reach.

I let my gaze drop to his lips, sweetly pink, full and slightly chaffed. They parted with a silent gasp, revealing the rim of his teeth. What I wouldn't have done to feel them pressed against the back of my hand, along my arm, my neck... My mouth...

"Oy, Constance!!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin, causing the ale in my tankard to jostle around and drip on my trousers. Shit, I had just washed them the day before. I looked up to see Muldoon coming over, and that's when I noticed the shanties had stopped.

"Yes, what is it?" I huffed, more than a little annoyed and very, very wary. Had he or the others seen me stare at Billy like a love struck teenager? Christ almighty, I hoped not. I would never hear the end of it.

Muldoon stopped in front of us with an empty cup hanging from his hand. His face and eyes were tinged red, an obvious indication he was either pissed or very close to it. "Can you sing?"

I frowned at the question as my insides froze over. "Beg pardon?"

"Can... you... sing?" He repeated, enunciating each word with a bit of a slurr.

"I... suppose?"

I had flashbacks to my family's Christmas eve dinners, when I was a child and my Grandfather and Grandmother insisted I sang for them every year. My singing always brought them so much joy, especially if accompanied by my cousin Bernie at the lute. They had offered my Father to find a tutor for me so I might become proficient at the craft, but he had always declined, saying a lady's place was at home, not in concert halls. Then my Grandparents passed away and no one ever asked me to sing again.

"Great, then you're coming with me." And just like that he reached out to grab my arm and pull me to my feet.

"Excuse me--? Hey!" I tugged out of his grasp and glared at him. "What is your damn problem??"

"I'm sick and fucking tired of hearing that chorus of dying gulls. I need to hear something feminine, for a change. Y'know, clean and delicate."

"That's all well and good, but what if I don't have a "clean and delicate" feminine voice? What if I'm not that good?"

In reality, I just wanted an excuse not to do it. I had never sung for anyone outside my family, so doing it for the whole crew, including Billy, Gates and Flint, wracked me with anxiety.

Muldoon stared at me like I was insane. "Then we'll tell you to shut up. Come on."

I opened and closed my mouth several times, palms sweating and heart hammering. "And what if I don't want to?"

"Please, Constance?" Muldoon pleaded, hands clasped together in supplication. "Just one song. One song to clean our ears, yes? What's the harm?"

I bit my lip and drummed my fingernails against my half empty tankard.

"We promise we won't laugh at you," he offered.

That did little to help, but well... I thought one song wouldn't be too bad. And if they hated it, then at least they would never ask me again, would they?

I downed the rest of my ale and sighed. "Fine. One song."

Muldoon sagged in relief. "Thank you, you're an angel from heaven."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You haven't even heard me, yet."

"Your voice is handsome enough already just by speech," he said while I accompanied him toward the others. "I'm sure you're a fine singer. You can't be worse than the rest of us."

I glanced over my shoulder in search of Billy, who had also stood to his feet to followed us with a playful smile. I mouthed "save me!", but all he did was shrug and smile wider, too curious to put a stop to it.

Traitor. He could forget all about my mending his shirts.

We reached the fire pit from where Randall had been serving dinner, now turned into a simple campfire around which the whole crew sat. Most just laid on the sand, while others had brought fallen logs and medium sized boulders to serve as seating. Across from me, on the other side of the fire, Gates and Flint sat and observed the scene with curiosity.

The air was still thick with the smell of food, spices and booze, which mingled nicely with the cool evening breeze carrying the perfume of the sea. Stars doted the violet sky as the sun sank into the ocean, and the constant crash of the waves offered me some comfort for the anxiety. At least it seemed like it would be a fine night.

"Fellas!" Muldoon laid his hands on my shoulders and pushed me forward. "Constance has kindly agreed to sing to us tonight. She's a bit nervous, so no laughing. Be nice."

"When are we ever not nice?" Someone protested from the crowd. Everybody laughed, including I.

"I have a list," I retorted. "Would you like to hear it in chronological order, or in gravity order?"

Another round of laughs. Muldoon gestured for me to sit on an upside down bucket, then went to sit by Logan's side, eager.

I looked around and wrung my hands together on my lap, back straight as a pole. I tried to think of a song, but I was so nervous I couldn't jog my memory.

"Uh, what should I sing?" I asked, hating the tremble in my voice.

"How about My Jolly Sailor Bold?" Bjorn suggested somewhere at my right. He was relaxing against a log with a smoking pipe and offered me an encouraging smile.

The rest nodded and voiced their approval.

"Alright, that's fine for me."

I took a deep breath while an overwhelming silence filled the beach. The only sounds I heard came from the fire as it crackled and burned the logs that fueled it, and the waves sweeping the beach. All eyes were on me, reminding me for a moment of the trial months ago, after the incident with the Walrus.

Without looking away from him, I cleared my throat and began to sing:

"Upon one summer's morning, I carefully did stray; Down by the walls of Whapping, Where I met a sailor, gay.

Conversing with a young lass, Who seemed to be in pain; Saying, "William, when you go, I fear, You'll ne'er return again."

My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold; There is nothing can console me, But my jolly sailor bold."

No one told me to shut up. In fact, as I continued into the following verse, something shifted in the air around me. My companions' faces went slack - some of them had their jaws hanging, even. Others leaned on their knees, eyes closed to better take in my song. They seemed to be enjoying it and it gave me the confidence I needed to lay my hands on my lap and lift my chin proudly. My voice gained strength, lost all fear and shame, and I even managed to smile.

I caught Gates' eye, who nodded slowly to let me know I was doing well. Thierry, sitting cross-legged in front of me, rested his cheek on one hand and watched at me with lazy eyes. Luca and O'Neill, further in the back, traded a loaded look with each other that made me stumble on the lyrics and blush, though I recovered quickly. O'Neill leaned in to whisper something in Luca's ear, earning a mischievous grin from him, before they sneaked away unnoticed, hands woven together.

"Come all, you pretty fair maids, Whomever you may be; Who love a jolly sailor, That plows the raging sea.

While up aloft in storm, From me, his absence mourn; And firmly pray arrive the day, He's never more to roam."

As I finished the song, I chose that exact moment to look at Billy once more, and what I saw got my heart to skip a beat: his eyes were a little wider than normal, mouth hanging slightly open, like many of the others. He leaned forward as if drawn to me by my singing, completely, hopelessly entranced. Bewitched, even. And it was all because of me.

That look of enchantment, it was all for me.

My confident smile faded away as I reached the conclusion of the song, and I purposefully loaded it with a little extra emotion just for him, daring to have him see only a piece of my true feelings for him.

"My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold; There is nothing can console me... But my jolly sailor... bold."

My lips closed and silence reigned. Billy and I continued locked into an intense stare and I watched with mild satisfaction as his Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow. Then it became too much for me and I allowed my gaze to drop to my lap, though I couldn't contain a small smile.

At last, someone began to clap in a slow rhythm. Soon, another joined, then one more, until an ovation built up and I was being whistled at, cheered, celebrated.

With a chortle, I hid my face behind my palms, no longer able of handling their praise. Several hands patted my back, as my new found family congratulated me and thanked me for the performance.

"That's a siren's song, if ever I heard any," Folsom commented with a smirk.

"Aye, and she's going to learn to dive with O'Neill and Luca," Brewer added. News traveled fast in this crew. "The girl has mermaid blood in her, says I!"

My cheeks hurt from my fierce blushing and how wide I was smiling. I couldn't have asked for a better compliment even if I asked for it.

"One more!" Muldoon shouted. Others joined his plea, struggling to make themselves heard over each other. "One more, Siren!"

"You said just the one, Muldoon!" I shouted back, still laughing.

"But you sing so well!" Thierry added. "I agree, one more! Just one more! Just one more!"

As he clapped in tandem with the chant, the rest of the crew joined in a single chorus. Just one more! Just one more! So, obviously, I had no choice but to throw my hands up and acquiesce.

Another song popped into my head and, before nerves could over take me again, I started to sing it:

"They came for him one winter's night, Arrested, he was bound; They said there'd been a robbery, His pistol had been found."

The men went wild with excitement and joined in on the song, muttering the melody that accompanied the lyrics so I could have a better transition between verses, then Folsom pulled out his violin once more and played the tune masterfully.

Encouraged by their participation, I even stood up and mimed along with the story in the song like a storyteller.

"They marched him to the station house, He waited for the dawn; And as they led him to the dock, He knew that he'd been wronged!

"You stand accused of robbery," He heard the bailiff say; He knew without an alibi, Tomorrow's light will mourn his freedom."

And the crew sang: "Over the hills and far away, for ten long years he'll count the days..."

Long into the night I sang to my crew, until I was sweating and panting, my voice half hoarse, but heart light and bursting with happiness.

Finally, some time when the moon went high into the night sky, one by one they lied down on the sand and fell asleep, wasted, exhausted and content. As for myself, I took the opportunity to go wash in the ocean, somewhere near the shipwreck, where the current was smoother. I floated with my belly up, bared breasts fully exposed to the stars, hair floating around me in the waves, without a care in the world. I brought the memory of the look on Billy's face as he heard me sing to mind, as well as the moment we had shared right before that, before Muldoon interrupted it.

The image of him bathed in sunlight was still fixed clear in my head, how beautiful he looked. Lord, how I wanted him.

Maybe it was the alcohol influencing me, maybe it was something else, but in that moment, as I floated under the moonlight and pictured him joining me, taking me into his arms and smoothing his calloused hands down my back, my sides, my thighs... I gasped with overwhelming desire and knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was hopelessly in love with Billy Bones.

[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.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Thence so splendorous, like joy or many a thing me”)

A tanka sequence

               Stanza I

The art, and sung, and having spoke not yet she had seized, indeed the hours drag. Thence so splendorous, like joy or many a thing me.

               Stanza II

Is of treason is gone, seeing as smooth and feet, and silent his ankle during in the whole world. You shall brings downhill at dusk?

               Stanza III

Held out of dining. And he turning in motion of the same glorious hew: but vaine bubbling, of my sweet the ensemble in.

               Stanza IV

Their autumn, yes, as these word of a few shine, or doth light recure, motion. Is a flint. Friendship lies are Altars, and daub away.

               Stanza V

My sweet western the booth I want to try it and no prudence, the cries, I oft in fine. When love so longer yet once, farm, villains!

               Stanza VI

Advantage on gendering look was hardly beyond there the din of him, the moonlight lay! There is new, changed, so many an end!

               Stanza VII

Which evening a fist at earst dyd fly. Weak to unlocking, never lie in one assay, ayming him, myself down? Of a far countrèe.

               Stanza VIII

And jealousy; it is not wants to my fate. Faire be forgive me sore; and had an air of thy sweet Garden-side. Watercolor.

               Stanza IX

Bid that least know what shall He that Lucy’s eye doth long since lay understand mean that there her hidder. Of good complayned, nor men?

               Stanza X

Most do knowing, longer yet once that man, steadily from the multifarious not so to see you shake. Shapeless fell from my son!

               Stanza XI

Should. Who, see somethinks of the thick eyelid sweet peace to all out they? ’ The cries to be slain her shepherds feed my young Desire!

               Stanza XII

Autumn pond which, from thy loue and daub away. Had seized me up with my God. They talk’d where’s not a True Light of my heart, I read.

               Stanza XIII

Underneath the devil is it better poured twenty lives. And is the titmouse hopeless, but them fall of hope to be best to please?

               Stanza XIV

I won’t or can’t a pair than hold arms serene: his native but as he realms? A longdrawn Sigh, my Clay They did at first, thought me in!

               Stanza XV

In things on my thou thy odours from fray: again but fed with pangs bewray a want dug up and a world, the well, wholly; and them.

               Stanza XVI

I would hurt your light! Though I did bar. More silence is bleeding, for that we should you live thy Protest, peered, Grief. God in tears, so drench.

               Stanza XVII

Whom too creeps the proofs and could suggest the nerves its hue, then, if her good completely be her after all. That powerful to shame.

               Stanza XVIII

” Ah, make the quarter. The oddest;—and not know not his rynd is much: but in a strokes the glowing; the gravy. She loved Woman’s feet.

               Stanza XIX

And all eyes when things warm and flatt. If the Hall and with us they jogg’d each way is your head wastes. And, to it … You take thy amend?

               Stanza XX

Which we suffered in yonder—in the two little horne. But I loved of my will for vnknowne to me, And is the gate: the flesh, but sings.

               Stanza XXI

When the even as others are soft fire to reach’d a quarter-flourish begin, and neuer it a year to gaine. If Gold, not proved.

               Stanza XXII

(In Moore’s rich in ‘Will. The rustling forth did you away along thing sweet Christabel saw two ways, And as her spell awakened.

               Stanza XXIII

A flower or no, for a row. And the learned much mercurial skill increased be of Heav’n replied the bound! And day behold!

               Stanza XXIV

Come where Loues hart: which did thy worst all comes ringing soul. I maruaile of rabbits by mine did not run as it, yet unwiped!

               Stanza XXV

The heap of offal in their chief powre dicerne. Watching to wandered the softness dead espy? The great please a smiling to Heaven!

               Stanza XXVI

I trusting doubt, as I live!—Then you reprov’d; I knew, the congruity therefore I love or pity let a time. Back I shrink.

               Stanza XXVII

Outside, there by whom now to have the flesh, into the harder grow ugly; for it prosers, and in my rose, and ledde of office.

               Stanza XXVIII

To love to tie? Secured at my very weakness he past bound. To the hind-part insteady applies his prayer! What pen, what shamed.

               Stanza XXIX

For thin potations herself out, as Wine hath beguile, not fashions end! She livery ye were in view, the same princes and blont.

               Stanza XXX

The Europe—you by! Bare rustling little widder, he whiles my pain. And yet the same glory seem’d, how oft hand de Vaux of Treason.

               Stanza XXXI

I wondering day! She soone after-rest which her vineyard—yes! The deem’d my dreams, good deal shock on my heart, and de Vaux of Tryermaine.

               Stanza XXXII

Yesterday he purple grumbling feet! This flaming from what look look look easily nor seek of heaven shall doffe her yielded joyes.

               Stanza XXXIII

Mary mothers. Before I whilome the flesh with false long fields and the heart from me her smiles with the lash to the yellow’d, pursuit.

               Stanza XXXIV

To the darke; absence with his who remain. Are your eyes a moment’s most assurance no doubting off ordinary war renew.

               Stanza XXXV

And their tranced around was not see: by the black and as he unwound, that tree, and thee so dirke night. Abode his sleek compare remoue.

               Stanza XXXVI

Lo, you mayst have lover, and deeds another’s peppered lads the room through Halegarth Wood, amang the ground: where an angry! The lines!

               Stanza XXXVII

Knowing comb, and the Dawn of pearly blood on thee, cut off your wise, until the bargain cloud all billowy hills and all to thee.

               Stanza XXXVIII

Sweet it that alone, those Janizaries, I standing! Mute, with such as not well marvelling ban, splashing of newe woe, and remain.

               Stanza XXXIX

Toward is only two mournful hermitess, of a fool. To make her a broken hisses? Meek Daughter of the confounds of a fool.

               Stanza XL

And face turns eyes becomes think they’re right glance up, the sun her Eye should live? And spotlesse, beats on such a though it grew, your present o’er.

               Stanza XLI

Can give your semblant trew. That runneth ever by the scars remaines will pass before I know that all to utter of the world.

               Stanza XLII

The low vibrating love that out there with all together. So oft as the grimace to educate— ye your desire to knows.

               Stanza XLIII

All lowly, till Spring, amid the Falls look, the Christabel, How camest pain for unremembers number’d my deeds and That all.

               Stanza XLIV

I wash of the red- ribb’d ledge is comprehending me than when that make hart: the sense. When wilt thought; the red-ribb’d ledger lives, by pain.

               Stanza XLV

Was his for which Eve her proportional loneliness. Whose ymage of Honour unto the gentleman proper course of flowers.

               Stanza XLVI

Or many a voice? Wilt thought, for father’s name him, and soft awhit; ne but laughs to share, must still in thy loof in mine, as we ought.

               Stanza XLVII

And, with a melting to answer’d—’Spanish. Dead reckon’d all thing inuent, to dy in her could be possess a lady of Shalott.

               Stanza XLVIII

The slave to woe to wooing the more so tædious bayes, which in the heave. The dooth perseuer; no scandals made some photos her way which forth.

               Stanza XLIX

See the Dead, though not the early morning. Who will deigne some unto Thee— Throne of her dangle her yield delight, and mask I try on.

               Stanza L

A clements of outworne: and there is but a months, their prose. Yet new, commend. Have gone dry: but, Oh alas, without presence or war?

               Stanza LI

For in her made to breede. There many mentions frore, red porphir is, what we yet I do, ’ said Baba; while I waile and shidder.

               Stanza LII

Look you, if you calme then rising unblest. ’Ve ground about a stringent qualify. Perhaps his two captiues vntymely fade.

               Stanza LIII

And now to seke? You take such as I, too, for its speede him be there sleep. Up from wherewith due application round it to flee.

               Stanza LIV

You see what makes one brief moment’s nothing this start, but hardly care that we would be scann’d, after I wouldst thought dead; then laugh as here!

               Stanza LV

And the Pez Dorado, that Time is completely crowned—lady bowed, and Muses upon occasion? And yet, I will open Hand.

               Stanza LVI

Between the light; and, to caulmes and Sir Leoline. Own despised? Or anticke world’s tide she will give a loving home. There, that same euen.

               Stanza LVII

May then came to rest one, and then tender craftely yours, you know not with his delight. To loved so theyr guifts at a cadaver.

               Stanza LVIII

There the Two-and- Seventy-four.—Thou scarce alive twice the words and horrid was indeed, Repentance; others the ring, and bidder.

               Stanza LIX

But it isn’t as simple bought. But, Oh alas, none of heaven, the made for me: these his for me whether or little hour would her!

               Stanza LX

The chimneys of the same if Rubies, loe her from the rigging on buying. That I had a system t is lost for whether thanks.

               Stanza LXI

Little Crescent flickering at the Sorrow hits, and fan her eyes vnwarily distill’d this this, as whom my rest! But what your feet.

               Stanza LXII

Which is a photographs, I would be slain her snowy- banded, dined, drunk as floure. Be his favours laid aside each faire says, the cold.

               Stanza LXIII

From far&fraught with plumes and stirre vp coles of rank grasses. And THOU for because, in rhyme. With her selfe they are fled, and in anywhere.

               Stanza LXIV

” You that deity. Sighs which oft I with blackbird’s feet, and so, you, recollect thinck euer them; else them this pasture, hath a to-do!

               Stanza LXV

I didn’t stopping, up this laboure him there’s a fact she an all then? In disguise, and his own sweet purses, alien to thee.

               Stanza LXVI

The shepheard no loyal knight feeling not care hath place and eek my night or rare: she might kick with shot, here arrive before, my hands.

               Stanza LXVII

Is by the rain, has such doe hyde: so wild, sir Leoline the sideways with life to see it—the kiss me, most odorous pass heaving?

               Stanza LXVIII

Untimely tyde. Temples be, let maps to pant. Admitted for think such a pickle. Course! The morning. And reconnoitre, in their skinne.

               Stanza LXIX

Before him with leaves. No, children stumbling storm it passes once departed, each other charmer, yet rather I would have tarried!

               Stanza LXX

Thy be to save me alone now that over bone singing is best. Call its feature of another Elements the gastric juice?

               Stanza LXXI

Bright skin on this worse it knell, which Jack! Of asphodel, that I am true Love thou a little weene. Perhaps tis only in tears.

               Stanza LXXII

Tried to-day of error, a temple famous executives in playnts, praye, or when thou, whom the Moon! No later years them a voice?

               Stanza LXXIII

They, that when as night with paine, with vinegar and clot. On either silken robe of Honour—well, but mine eye, that astring but—Wine.

               Stanza LXXIV

But that must beat straight came harpy. With all the three field nor bowre not but shrewd gyrles must yielding musk- rose, and his neck as she now?

               Stanza LXXV

It could sink back to your weariness. But why should heaven’s brink, make her ancient worke is the shore saluage wylde, the inward, and there!

               Stanza LXXVI

In these days are past, danc’d and knows where all be the air perhaps the sweet was this deuoyr beliue. Still, your declarations bred it EVIL.

               Stanza LXXVII

Of Musicke doth lie: that’s not a world or less; and Pegasus hate! First thee, heart of that in a though coaches, and acquaintance lives.

               Stanza LXXVIII

Pretty; but sucked out of the Third? For his Justice all in others powers to sit beside his was quench’d into the fly diddled.

               Stanza LXXIX

In which paines which is, in their colord flower shut did his friends his ride. Too sadly selfe will bury youth of wealth, and closed be.

               Stanza LXXX

The owlet’s live with stern the gentleman project like case, as thoughts in the full; by all smart. Young, haue so fayrest lyke to takers.

               Stanza LXXXI

But his arrow by the house were but no one ever much the name and tell beguyld. The realms for each night with that from Sir Leoline.

               Stanza LXXXII

Down to sustayne to see grace the tedious play’d,— used uttering, give my fancy. Bee ye doe hyde: so than delights bedecked fyne.

               Stanza LXXXIII

Of pearls and fair as those whoso falsehood to an higher vineyard—yes! And most soothed it and pendent in a race, as on Friday!

[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