#flint x gates

[flints-silver]

Black Sails Ship Tourney - Round 1

[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.

[illuminated-in-darkness]

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

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

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

[phenomenal1500]

Target #0001 | Charles Vane

Chapter 5: ~A Private Matter~

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

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

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

"Today."

~~~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Edward Teach."

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You came to kill me,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

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

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

“What is that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

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

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

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

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

X

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

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

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

[gorgiawrite]

BLACK SAILS, timeline study :

I.

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

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

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

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

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

Parrish's ship (x)

THE WALRUS'S SPEED

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

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

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

PARRISH'S SHIP SPEED

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

NASSAU - PORT ROYAL TRAVEL :

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

1 knot = 1 nautical mile / h

5 knots = 5 nautical miles / h

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

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

CROSS ATLANTIC TRAVEL

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

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

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

THE ISSUE :

When would have SILVER boarded the ship ?

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

How did FLINT track the ship ?

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

IF PARRISH WENT BACK TO ENGLAND :

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

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

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

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

IF PARRISH MADE SEVERAL STOPS IN THE COLONIES :

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

[lavender-nerd]

Before Her

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

Pairing: Azriel X Reader

Warnings: A bit agnsty and abuse

Word Count: 1.7K

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

(not 100% cannon)

Azriel age 11 pov:

Cold, so very cold.

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

Drip, drip, drip.

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

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

"Give me your hands" Radin commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clink. clink, clink, WOOSH.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Azriel?"

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

"My love? Are you okay?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[geekusfemme]

What if?

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

Full story on AO3 — Wattpad 100k+

Astarion x Female OC

Rating: Mature

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—♤—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I wasn't too aggressive?"

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

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

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

[blacksailspolls]

🏴‍☠️ BLACK SAILS EPISODE BRACKET

ROUND 1, GROUP 2

SUMMARY

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

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

[lupismaris]

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

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

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

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

[corvuserpens]

A Girl, An Ocean {A Black Sails fanfic} - Ch. 7 (Part 3)

Fandom: Black Sails Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: None Characters: Billy Bones, Hal Gates, James Flint, Jean DuBois, protagonist OC, supporting OCs Relationships: Billy Bones/OC, Hal Gates/OC (paternal), Max/OC (friends), Jean duBois/OC (bffs), 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: 7/13 Summary: Having had a near-death experience, Constance thought she had moved on from it without a scratch - but psychological wounds are much harder to heal than she had anticipated.

Author's note: I don't want to say it's PTSD, but it kind of is. What might surprise you is who will help Constance overcome her new fear.

Chapter vii. Part iii.

Leaving Nassau behind was harder than I had anticipated.

As the Walrus sailed out from the bay toward the lilac grey horizon, I looked back from my post at the fife rail and felt a longing grip my heart, this painful need to go back. We hadn't even moved two hundred yards from the island and I already missed it. Months would go by before we saw land again, and though I loved the sea and sailing, a piece of my soul remained behind, with the colorful streets and those insane islanders, their chaos, their utter freedom and shameless joy.

"Constance!" Folsom snapped me out of it with a smack on the back of my head. "Wake up. Tie those knots properly before the fucking sail tears."

"Sorry." I twisted the rope around the fife and tied it off securely, like he'd taught me, then moved to the next, checking each cable one by one to make sure they were all held fast. "All ropes are secured."

"Come along, then." He gestured for me to follow him to the main mast's larside shroud. "I need another set of hands to unfurl the t'gallants. For some goddamn reason, they didn't deploy as they should."

"Weren't you supposed to make sure that didn't happen, Master Rigger?" I teased while he started to climb.

"Fuck off, I did!... Rigging probably got stuck on something after replacement and I missed it. That's all."

"You better pray that neither Flint nor Gates noticed it." I grabbed onto the shroud, jumped on the rail and prepared to follow him.

I had climbed to the very top of the mast dozens, maybe hundreds of times since I had joined. It was a scary experience for the uninitiated, but one got used to not thinking about how high they were and how falling from such heights meant certain death. One learned to trust their own body to keep them safely held to ropes and the mast while suspended.

But as I began my ascent and casually looked down, my brain... froze.

Suddenly, all I could think about was the incident. The memory of hanging from the footrope, several feet in the air with nothing to keep me from falling and crushing my skull on the ground overwhelmed me to the point my hands wet sore from how tightly I squeezed the rat lines. I stared at the floorboards not ten meters from me and couldn't will my body to move.

Panic built up in my gut, spread through my limbs like fire on oil. Even if I fell in that moment, the worst that might happen was my knees would hurt; and yet, there I was, trembling like a leaf in the wind.

I couldn't understand what was going on. Why was I so scared all of a sudden? It was ridiculous!... But there was no denying that my breath had become shallow and agonizing. My whole body had gone numb. Cold sweat formed under my armpits and back. Not matter how I forced myself not to think about it, I couldn't shake away the abject fear I had felt that day and which seized me now.

"Constance!" Folsom shouted again. "The fuck's wrong with you? Hurry up!"

I leaned back my head to look up, mad with terror. He was pissed at me - until when he saw my face. Then his eyes went wide with realization.

The thought of climbing to the t'gallants became the most frightening thing I had ever imagined. They were so far high, and all it took was one slip. What if this time no one got to me? What if I fell before getting rescued? Shit, this was no good. A pirate who couldn't climb the masts was useless. They would vote me out of the crew before the day was through.

My panic doubled and robbed me of all reason. I glanced back down and I swear the deck was sinking away from me, making it appear that I was higher than I actually was. A tiny scream escaped my lips as I forced my eyes shut.

It's just an illusion caused by fear, I tried to convince myself. Just an illusion, it's not real.

"Oy, Billy!" I heard Folsom call out with urgency before he produced a sharp whistle. "Billy, Gates! Give me a hand here!"

Two pairs of boots pounded towards us as I felt the shroud quiver in my hands. By then, fear had sunk its claws in me completely. I wrapped one arm around the rat lines, the other around the frame, and held on like my life depended on it.

A hand settled on my shoulder, but I couldn't open my eyes or move an inch. I couldn't. I was totally convinced that if I did, I was dead.

"Constance, breathe," Folsom told me with shocking kindness, so uncharacteristic of him. "I know you're frightened, but you have to breathe."

"What happened?" Mr. Gates yelled up.

I yelped and held harder to the lines when the shroud shook violently.

"I don't know, we started climbing and she froze. Leftover residues from the incident, no doubt."

"Constance?" Billy's voice was right next to my ear. "I'm going to put my arm around your waist, is that alright?"

I couldn't bring myself to talk or even look at him, but I nodded to let him know I had heard him. His arm snaked around my side, pressed to my front and held my back against him.

"Now listen to me." His voice sounded calm, but there was an underlying tension there that somehow helped me focus. "We're going to climb down together and go back to the deck. It's only a couple of steps, yeah? No big deal."

I shook my head. "I don't... I don't think I can," I whimpered, hating the high pitch string that I hardly recognized as my own voice.

"Yes, you can. You willingly boarded a pirate ship and survived an unfair, brutal fist fight with a bloodthirsty bastard known as Cutthroat Fred. You're the bravest woman I know. You can get out of this, too."

I certainly didn't feel very brave, yet hearing Billy say I was gave the strength to at least suck in a breath and recover my senses a little. I had to find a way to force my limbs to move. The feeling of his big body all around me reminded me of his daring rescue and how he had gotten me down safely.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I became aware this was the second instance that he would be helping me descend from somewhere, which would have made me laugh if it weren't so pathetic and I wasn't so frightened. He would never let me fall, though. Not on that beach and not here, now.

I nodded a couple of times and slowly released my grip from the rat lines.

"That's it," he told me, his tone smooth as velvet and just as soothing. "I'm right here with you. Keep your eyes closed. Can you feel my right foot next to yours?"

I felt it, ankle with ankle. "Y-yes..."

"Follow my lead, then. Bring it down slowly, slowly..."

He guided my foot down to the next rat line, always keeping his hand on my midriff so I would know he was right there. Step by step, we descended from the shroud until my toes felt the wood of the railing. Only then did I dare open my eyes.

Jean and Mr. Gates were already there, hands stretched out to help me. Half the crew had assembled to see what was going on, their eyes following my every move from everywhere on the ship, whether it was from the deck, the high and forecastle or the masts. I could feel the weight of their judgement. Again? This girl is such a wimp. She's not cut out for this. She doesn't belong here.

None of my past accomplishments mattered. None of my sacrifices or efforts mattered. Twice now I found myself in a situation where I needed saving like some helpless damsel, all within weeks. They would see me as weak, not good enough to remain in the crew, and that was all that mattered in their opinion.

With my head hung low so that my hair concealed my shame, I accepted the help offered to me and dropped on the deck. Pride compelled me to let go as soon as my feet landed on the floorboards, but I underestimated how out of wits the panic had left me and had to set a hand on the railing to stay upright. Jean and Gates rushed to my aid and I recoiled.

"I'm fine," I snapped quietly.

A heavy silence hovered on the ship. Somehow, it was far worse than if the men had mocked and scorned me for my shortcomings. I didn't know what the hell had come over me... but the damage was done.

Tears stung my eyes as a different kind of panic gripped my throat. I could feel a sob surging up from my lungs. God, maybe I really was as weak as they thought. Why did I have to be such a girl...?

"Constance..." Jean's soft voice pierced the silence like a gunshot. "Are you al--"

I shoved away from the railing and marched past him toward the hatch by the helm. The men opened a path to let me pass and I couldn't look a single one of them in the eye. Heartbroken and utterly humiliated, I ran downstairs to the gun deck, opened the door to the empty sickbay and slammed it shut just as the tears began to spill. Then, I slid down against the door, hugged my knees and cried into my arms.

*** It was well past three bells in the afternoon watch when someone knocked on the door, looking for me. I didn't speak up in hopes that whoever it was would assume there was no one in the sickbay and leave to go search elsewhere.

I hadn't moved from my spot against the door except to stretch out my legs. After I had calmed down, I felt embarrassed by my behavior up there. If I had made a joke about it all, wrote it off as leftover frights from my brush with death, like Folsom said, I could have at least made it seem like it was a one-time thing and nothing more. Running away was as good as a declaration that I was indeed deeply affected from the incident and wasn't strong enough to just push through it.

Now, I didn't have the guts to face them. I didn't even have the guts to let Jean, or de Groot, or Billy see me crying and vulnerable. Yet, I knew I couldn't hole up in the sickbay forever. I didn't know what to do.

Another knock on the door, this time more insistent. I wiped my cheeks and remained quiet.

That was when the most unlikely of voices spoke up from the other side.

"I know you're in there," said Captain Flint. "We've searched the entirety of the ship and found no sign of you. You have nowhere left to hide. Would you kindly open the door, please?"

Billy I could deny. Even Gates I could deny. Flint I couldn't.

Fearful and out of alternatives, I pushed up to my feet, dried my eyes as best as I could and I opened the sickbay door.

Flint's intense gaze found mine. His face was unreadable, except for the strictness of his tensed brow. I couldn't handle staring at him for more than a couple of seconds, so I dropped my chin and looked at my feet, arms crossed tight over my chest.

"Captain," I croaked.

"Let us talk in my cabin," he told me. "Come."

He started to walk away and I followed reluctantly. Thank heavens we didn't pass by anyone on the way to the captain's quarters. When we got there, he held the door open for me, then shut it with an ominous sound that seemed to spell my doom.

"Sit." He commanded while taking his seat behind the desk. I occupied the chair across from him, always keeping my eyes down and my arms crossed.

The sound of porcelain scrapping on wood and the flowery perfume of herbal tea made me look up with curiosity; Flint had pushed a plate of biscuits and a steaming cup in my direction. I glanced at him briefly and grabbed a biscuit out of politeness to give it a tiny bite. I was not hungry at all. The crumbs were like sand on my sticky tongue.

"Are you alright?" He asked. The impression that question gave me coming out of Flint's mouth was that he was also doing it out of courtesy, not because of any particular concern for my welfare.

"Fine, sir." Was my automatic reply. I wished he would go straight to the point and tell me I was out, that they were turning around as we spoke to drop me off on Nassau before leaving for good. Dragging out the issue was an unnecessary torture.

"Have some tea, Miss Tilly," he offered. "It will help."

I twisted my mouth in a bitter grimace but obeyed. I blew out the cloud of steam and took a sip. It was good tea; my guess was he had put some sugar in it, for the flavor was delicately balanced. This didn't surprise me. I had seen the books on the shelf and the commodities in the cabin, and it was enough to tell me our captain had sophisticated tastes. I drank some more, but unfortunately even excellent tea wasn't enough to lift my spirits.

"Is it good?" He asked. "I took the liberty to add a sugar cube, but if you prefer it straight--"

"All due respect, captain--" I interrupted as I put the cup and biscuit back. "I'm not the sort of person who enjoys walking on eggshells and ignore a problem. I know what you are about to tell me and if it's all the same to you, I would rather get past that as quickly as possible. If it would not offend." I added, hunched in submission.

Flint hummed, leaned back on his chair with his fingers crossed over his belt. "And what is it that you think that I am about to tell you?"

I swallowed hard and pouted. "That you are going to expel me from the crew and leave me in town. The men think I'm too weak and useless to remain and will pressure you into letting me go or vote me out in case you don't. I understand. It's... it's alright."

I used my sleeve to dry the fresh tears from my eyes. Fuck, I really was pathetic. What had I been thinking, joining a pirate crew? I really must have been insane.

A moment of silence passed while Flint poured himself a cup from a handpainted porcelain kettle and added a cube before stirring. For such a rough looking man, his movements were surprisingly delicate and dextrous, the kind of practiced mannerisms I had seen from men of high society. Was he high born, perhaps? I had a hard time believing that, for some reason. How could a lord consider leaving the comforts and influence of high society to become a pirate captain?

But then I remembered where I had come from and hit myself mentally for my own stupidity. How, indeed.

Still... My reasoning was that, no matter how high born I was, I was still limited in what I could do and that's what led me to rebel and run away. Men, especially powerful ones, had all the freedom. They could do whatever they wanted and no one would bat an eye or raise a question. The higher up they were, the more true this was. He must have done something truly terrible or suffered some great loss to fall from grace.

Flint blew on his tea and took a sip before he spoke again. "Miss Tilly, do you remember what you told me the first time we met?"

I shrugged my shoulders with a snuff. "I don't know... some bullshit about wanting something different out of my life instead of what society had planned for me."

"I believe your precise words were that you didn't choose that. This was your choice, dangerous and ludicrous as it seemed. Do you know how many women have the kind of courage you had, abandoning everything they know for the unknown, risking potential death for the chance of something better?"

"It wasn't worth it, was it?" I mumbled. "You're sending me off anyway, aren't you?"

"We have plenty of useless men aboard this ship. You know this and so do I. Do you see me sending them away?"

I rolled my eyes and finally looked at him regardless of swollen and red they were.

"You know it's different for me, sir. It's always different for me. Women aren't supposed to be on ships, remember? It's bad luck. And after today, after what happened on that beach, I've proven them right. Cutthroat Fred wasn't the only one who thought so and he had friends who shared those views. They're no doubt spreading the word that I shouldn't be allowed to stay, and the rest will listen and join their side. They could all be useless dimwits, but nothing bands men together quite like ganging up on a woman."

"You give them so little credit, not to mention yourself." Flint leaned over the desk and pinned me with a harsh look that made me shudder.

"Those men out there have eyes, you know? They can see what a hard-working, dedicated person you are. They saw the way you fought against Cutthroat Fred, and more importantly than that, they saw how little you cared about your own injuries or how much you were hurting when you refused to stay in bed after two days and insisted on going back to work with the rest of them. And let's not forget you too have friends among the crew. You proved to them you are merciful and will hold no grudges after the trial, when you had every reason to. You proved to them that you were worthy of their loyalty. Do you truly think that counts for nothing?"

I thought it didn't. Flint himself had warned me I had to pull my own weight and defend myself. I had failed in both. What reason did they have to argue for my staying?

"After you stormed out of the deck, do you know what the men did? They turned to Gates and fought for you. They defended you. Jean, de Groot, Bjorn, Folsom, Thierry... the list goes on. They feared Gates would advise me to cut you lose and interceded on your behalf."

I stared at him, perplexed. They had... they had argued in my favor? No, certainly not. It must be a mistake. "But... they saw me freeze on the shrouds. They saw how scared I was. If I can't even climb the masts, what good am I on a ship?"

"My dear, the majority of those men can't even swim." A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "What the fuck makes you think they would care that you're afraid of heights? Climbing the masts and tending the sails is what the riggers are for. You're a deckhand. There are plenty of other jobs you can do on the ship, all of them equally important. You've already demonstrated you can do any of them, so why are you so upset about not being able to climb the masts?"

I opened my mouth to counter-argue, but... found no compelling point. So I closed it again and fiddled with the strap of my leather bracelet.

When he put it that way... It did help lift some of the weight in my chest. "So... So you're not sending me away, sir?"

"Of course I'm not sending you away. You're not the kind of sailor to be wasted over something so small. Now, do me a favor and finish your tea so we can move on to our next order of business: what happened on that deck. Care to tell me what went through your head?"

I took back the cup of tea and explained as succinctly as I could in between sips. Flint listened without a word. his eyes to the side in deep thought. By the time I finished my recap, I felt infinitely better. Flint didn't judge me or reproach me for my lack of courage. He only listened.

He scratched at his beard and returned his gaze to mine. "This isn't the first time I've heard of someone suddenly developing an irrational fear after a traumatic event. It's quite common among soldiers, in fact. And you're far from being the first pirate to be afraid of heights. Quite a few of our crew are, too."

That was certainly a relief, though it still bothered me. "Is there no way to combat it, sir?"

I didn't like the idea of letting fear dictate what I could or couldn't do. I had never allowed it to influence me before and I wasn't about to start now, not if there was a chance I could beat it.

"There is," he nodded. "You confront it. Understand that, once fear sinks its claws into you, it will never disappear. From this day forward, it is highly likely you will always be afraid to climb the masts and man the sails or the rigging. It will always tuck itself in the darkest corners of your mind, ready to strike when you least expect it. But if you invite out, accept it as something that's part of you and you allow yourself to become familiar with it, then it will never have the power to dominate you."

He made it sound so easy. Yet, at the same time, he seemed to be speaking from experience, which striked me as ridiculous. What could Captain James Flint possibly be afraid of? I had to remind myself he was just as human as I was, and therefore prone to the same weaknesses as the rest of us, not matter what shape it took.

I ate a biscuit while pondering his advice. Confronting my fear sounded reasonable. It also sounded like the scariest thing a person could put themselves through. How do you submit to fear without letting it overcome you? I had so easily been subjected to it on the shrouds.

"How do I know I won't be taken with panic, again?" I inquired in a whisper. "How do I put a leash on it if I can't even hold it back?"

"The reason it was so easy to give in to panic out there was because you weren't expecting it," he explained. "It caught you off guard. Now you know it will be there the next time you try. You know what to expect, so I believe you will be strong enough to overcome it. Being afraid isn't exactly a novelty to you, is it?”

That got me to snort. “No, it's not, sir.”

“But I will tell you a secret: fear is what keeps you alive. Panic will kill you, but fear is the thing that fuels your strength and prepares you for what you must face. Being afraid paves the way for courage. You need to be afraid in order to be brave. Otherwise, you are simply insane."

What he said made sense. Before I had boarded the Walrus, I had been afraid. Not of what might happen to me, but of what awaited me had I not escaped the HMS Delilah. It was that fear which had compelled me to act. It had been fear that had made me fight Cutthroat Fred and refuse to surrender. It had been fear that had driven me into the brothel and trust in Max to help me with my bleeding. And now, the fear of succumbing to fear itself would be what inspired me to try and climb the shroud again, and again, and again, until I wasn't afraid anymore.

I finished my tea and stood up. "Thank you for the tea and biscuits, Captain. And for your counsel. With your permission, I would like to go up to the deck and put your theory to the test, now."

Flint also stood up and walked around the desk to open the door for me. "After you."

We returned to the main deck together. Nassau had disappeared from view and the winds blew into the sails, making them billow and carry us west at about five or six knots. Every man was at their post, running back and forth on the deck or taking a quick break to smoke or have something to eat.

My presence went unnoticed, but not Flint's. The second he put a foot on deck, heads turned to greet their captain. When they saw me walking with him, they quickly spread the word until all attention was on me, which certainly added some pressure to my endeavor. Unavoidable in a ship, I supposed.

I stopped at the foremast on the port side and looked up, doing my best to ignore my audience and focus on what I was about to do instead. I could hear murmurs all around me as a few of the men approached to take a better look. From the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Gates and Mr. de Groot come over to stand next to Flint. I also noticed Bjorn's barrel shaped torso, as well as Billy's towering figure.

No one spoke to me as I grasped the shroud with one hand and jumped onto the railing. Instantly, my heart rate sped up and my stomach tensed up. My vision began to swim and distort, again making it seem as if the floor was sinking away from me.

I searched for Flint's face and found him staring back, hands behind his back, eyes squinted from the sun. It was barely perceptible, but I swear he nodded at me for encouragement.

Holding onto the rat lines with both hands, I closed my eyes. Fear stirred and uncoiled like a sleeping dragon in my gut, ready to burn me from the inside out. But this time, I looked it straight in the eyes and thought: no. I won't let you defeat me. Be gone.

And to my utter surprise... it worked. With slow, deep breaths, one after the other, I willed that beast into submission. My eyes cracked open and observed that everything was normal. The deck floor was only a hop away. The panic and dizziness that had threatened to take over moments before subsided into a manageable discomfort. I didn't wait for it to gain strength again; I started to climb.

I kept my focus on my prize - to reach the main sail platform - and refused to look down. One hand over the other, step by step, I worked my way slower than usual, but with confidence. Before I knew it, I reached the platform and took a seat on it with my feet dangling out. I closed my eyes with a sigh, took a deep breath and glanced down. It was still scary how high it was, and it still made me my head slosh around with a primal fear, but seeing the smiling faces of my crewmen filled my soul with relief. I held out a hand with a thumb up and chuckled when they clapped for me.

After a minute or two of rest, I looked up to the top sail platform. Would I be brave enough to get there? Or should I leave it for another day?

Two riggers were up there, looking down at me expectantly. I recognized one as an Irishman named O'Neill; the other, I didn't know his name, though I remembered seeing his face around the ship, as he was one of the few Mughals on the crew. He waved a hand over, beckoning me up.

Alright, why not?

One more breath and I stood on the platform, hands on the mast for some added support against the stronger gusts of wind. I shuffled over to the next shroud and hung from it, doing exactly as I had done on the previous: eyes on the prize and don't look down. When I began the ascent, far below me I heard my crew mates cheering me on.

"You're doing great, Constance!" Jean shouted.

"Almost there, girl, almost there!" Dooley barked.

"Don't overdo yourself, you've gone far enough already," Billy advised.

"She can do it, I'll bet ten pieces on it!" Muldoon laughed.

And so the bets were made. Some thought I wouldn't go past the top sail; others said I would go to the very top, reaching the t'gallants. A few bet that I would choke on the descent. Either way, I tuned them out and concentrated on O'Neill and the other rigger. I was halfway up when they reached out their hands, offering me aid up.

"Just a little more," the Mughal man said.

I though I really should learn his name, so I called: "Oi! What's your name?"

The man chuckled. "Sayeed. Nice to officially meet you, Constance."

"Aw, not fair. You already know my name!" I got to the platform and held onto Sayeed's hand to let him pull me up and sit by his side.

"You're the only woman aboard," O'Neill pointed out. "Everybody knows your name."

I paused, then shrugged one shoulder. "Alright, I'll give you that." Then I let my gaze roam the horizon and saw deep blue sea stretch out to the ends of the earth, and had to smile. It was so beautiful up there. Well worth the risk and the fear.

I turned to Sayeed and had this feeling his name was familiar. Sayeed... Sayeed... Where had I heard it before...?

The smell of the curry I'd had while I was sick jogged my memory. “Oh, you're Sayeed! You made me curry when I was sick!”

“That was I, yes,” he confirmed with a satisfied grin. “Billy told me you enjoyed it. I'm glad.”

“Enjoyed it? I was in bloody heaven for it. Never thought I would eat curry in Nassau. It was exactly what I needed to get better. Thank you so much, Sayeed.”

"You're very welcome. And whenever you're in the mood for it, just let me know, aye?”

“Don't say that,” I snorted. “I might feel tempted to ask you all the time.”

He laughed warmly at that and we sat together a little while longer. Behind me, O'Neill adjusted the rigging, then leaned on the mast with his arms crossed, enjoying the view, too. Unfortunately, none of us could sit there forever. We had work to do.

“Ready to go up to the t'gallants?" Sayeed teased.

I glanced up and grimaced. It was so close, but... when I looked back down, I felt a shudder run up and down my body. I could hardly make out the faces of the men below. The gales up on the top sail were much stronger than on the platform below, whipping my hair and clothes about. My stomach did a flip and I had to focus again on the horizon until my quickened breath calmed down.

"I think I'm good for now, actually."

O'Neill gave my back a gentle pat. "No shame in that. Another time."

I swallowed hard and looked at the shroud next to my foot, so perilously narrow. "Now, would you mind keeping a hand on my coat while I get back on the lines...? Just in case?"

O'Neill snorted and took a firm grasp on my shoulder. "No problem."

It wasn't like they were actively helping me. If I fell, I doubt they would be able to hold me up and save me. Even so, just the feeling of their hands on me as I carefully positioned myself to climb down was like a balm that kept my head under control so I could focus on my feet and hands. Now I had to look down to see where I was going, so I tried to keep my eyes either on my feet or on the platform below, never letting them go past them.

At last, I stepped on the platform and let out a heavy huff of relief. I could hear the others cheering me on again, but it was not over yet.

"One step at a time," I chanted quietly to myself. The panic was always in my gut, like Flint had told me, the dragon fully awake and prowling around, keeping a close watch for a moment of weakness so it could pounce. But I was keeping it under watch, too. Whenever I felt in danger of losing control, I would stop, take a few more breaths while pinning my eyes on the horizon, then proceed. My progress was slow, I was aware of that, but in this instance, it didn't matter how long it took, only that I maintained it to the end.

After having been much higher up, when I waved down at the others, I didn't feel as queasy. This really wasn't so bad; I could still die or break something if I fell, yet for some reason... the dragon of fear seemed to have given up and curled into a ball again to sleep until the next opportunity. I got on the main sail shroud and practically slid down.

When I jumped on deck, I was received with pats on the back and a hug from Jean and Bjorn. I felt so proud and accomplished from the way they reacted, even though all I did was just climb up and down the mast, nothing more.

Mr. Gates came forth and also pulled me into a quick hug, laughing from deep within his gut, truly satisfied. "You really are a force to reckon with, aren't you?"

Blushing fiercely, I ducked my head and chuckled while tucking my hair behind an ear. "It's all thanks to you. All of you."

I turned in a circle to take in all the faces I knew, all my friends and all the men whom, although I didn't know as well, I also trusted with my life. I had discovered I was brave by myself, but every one of them had taught me valuable lessons in comradery, guided me through this life and set an example for me to follow. I wouldn't have had the courage to try what I just had so soon after finding out how much it terrified, if it weren't for their faith in me.

“Captain Flint told me what you did for me after I left this morning,” I told them. “And... I want you all to know how touched I am by it. How grateful. And not just today - every time I was in trouble or going through a low point, you have been there for me again and again, and I hope from the bottom of my heart I may one day pay you all back with interest. Thank you, everyone. Truly. I couldn't ask for a better crew than this, or a better band of brothers."

"Aw, shucks, Constance." Muldoon wiped an invisible tear from his eye. "You're giving us all the weepies, here! We have a reputation to uphold!"

We all laughed loud and good, even the riggers hanging from the shrouds above us.

"Forgive me." I held my hands up in mock defeat, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt. "I promise this was a one time thing only. I also got a reputation to maintain, goddammit."

"Fuckin' right, you do!" Folsom yelled somewhere from the back. "Quit being a sensitive tart, it's contagious! I can feel my eyes sting and everything, already."

"Or maybe you were just born a pussy, Folsom!" O'Neill shouted from the mast, getting another bout of laughs from the rest of the crew.

"I suppose you would know how to recognize them, wouldn't you, ya queer bastard?" Folsom retorted as he pushed his way through the crowd to climb towards the other. "Have you fixed those t'gallants already, you shit whipper? You'd better, or Luca will have to look for someone else to keep him warm at night after I cut off your balls!"

"Alright, everyone back to work!" Gates barked. "Enough distractions, we have a ship to steer and manage and you're not getting paid to laze about all fucking day."

The men scurried back to their posts, with some of them patting my shoulders and back as they passed me by. Before I found some useful employment though, I made my way to Flint and tilted down my head.

"Captain? I just wanted to thank you personally. For giving me the strength I needed and... And for taking a chance on me, weeks ago."

Flint observed me from the top of his nose with a half smile, then he also tilted down his scruffy chin so we were at eye level with each other. "No need. I'm sure you will prove yourself quite the asset in the future, with a little more guidance."

"I hope so, sir." I told him sincerely.

He kicked his head to the right and clicked his tongue. "Go on. I hear they were needing an extra pair of hands below cleaning up the guns."

"Aye, sir." I rushed past him to the hatch and made my way below decks, feeling satisfied, competent and proud of myself and my achievements. In that moment, I felt as if I could take on anything and anyone, that nothing would bring me down or break my spirit.

Little did I know that, a week from then, I would face my most harrowing trial yet... and it would leave a scar in my heart that would never heal.

[sir-gwaine-of-camelot]

Masterlist of my writing (AO3)

Hey everyone! I write for a variety of fandoms, and thought I'd make a masterlist to help promote some of my work! If you like any of my stuff, let me know! I love reading comments, even though I'm bad at responding to them.

THE QUARRY:

If I Seem Dangerous, Would You Be Scared? (Dylan/Ryan) INCOMPLETE WIP

X-MEN:

We Fear That Which We Cannot Understand (Charles Xavier & Darwin)

Dialed Up To Eleven (Charles Xavier/Eric Lehnsherr)

Silk and Lace (In Black and Red) Can Drive a Man Right Off His Head (Charles Xavier/Eric Lehnsherr) INCOMPLETE WIP

DOCTOR WHO:

Would You Like To Stay For Dinner? (Would You Like To Stay Forever?) (Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones/Jack Harkness) INCOMPLETE WIP

BALDUR'S GATE 3:

Their First Night of Many (Astarion/Gale, Bloodweave)

A Quiet Evening (Astarion/Gale, Bloodweave)

You Need Not Face The Darkness Alone (Astarion & Gale, pre-slash)

DUMBGEONS AND DRAGONS (PODCAST):

Together, We Can Weather The Storm (Thia Amastacia/Flint Firebeard/Nulara Moonbrook)

The End of the End, and the Beginning of a Beginning (Thia Amastacia/Flint Firebeard/Nulara Moonbrook)

BBC MERLIN:

Just Another Monday (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot)

Secret Keeper (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot)

Guilt and Ghosts (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot) INCOMPLETE

Nightmares (Merlin/Lancelot/Gwaine, Merwaincelot)

Death of an Immortal (Merlin/Lancelot, Mercelot) Temporary Character Death

Camping (Gwaine & Everyone (except Arthur), Platonic, pre-slash)

LORD OF THE RINGS:

The King's Bathhouse (Éomer/Faramir, Éomer/Faramir/Aragorn)

Comfort In The Dark (Éomer/Faramir)

HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON:

To Dance Beneath The Stars (Bruno Madrigal/Hiccup Haddock, slash or platonic, crossover)

ENCANTO:

To Dance Beneath The Stars (Bruno Madrigal/Hiccup Haddock, slash or platonic, crossover)

If The Sky Comes Falling Down (Bruno Madrigal & Mirabel Madrigal, platonic) INCOMPLETE

FANTASTIC BEASTS:

Pure of Heart (Newt Scamander & his creatures)

CRIMINAL MINDS:

Career Day (Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid) INCOMPLETE

Would You Be My Safe Space? (Spencer Reid & Jason Gideon, Spencer Reid & Penelope Garcia, platonic, wingfic) COMPLETE, but the first in an INCOMPLETE series

MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE:

Injured...Yet Again (Peter Parker & Tony Stark & Pepper Potts)

Studying The (Actual) Civil War Sucks (Peter Parker & Tony Stark)

Under Open Skies (Perhaps We Can Heal) (Clint Barton/James "Bucky" Barnes) INCOMPLETE

ORIGINAL WORKS:

Mirror Image (poetry)

[alexwatchesshows]

Black Sails X review (S2E2)

Spoilers for up to and including E10.

"Strange pairs, Lieutenant, they can achieve the most unexpected things."- Thomas Hamilton

Billy's back! I mean, he's being tortured, but he is still technically back. Unfortunately, because my brain only ever wants to cause me pain, my first thought was of what he's going to go through when he finds out Gates is dead.

We go from that awful biblical torture, to Thomas Hamilton reading the Bible (I want to say Genesis, but I truly know so little about it), and I'll get to the flashbacks later but the way the camera pans over to Flint as Thomas reads "it is not good that he is alone" just breaks my heart.

Anyway, first to Nassau, where shit's getting real. Ned Low's quartermaster is mad at him because he did massively fuck up with the blood on the crates and all that, but Low's violent, vulgar humour and whatever the hell that personality is has somehow won over his men. It's a bit like the season 1 Flint/Gates dynamic, in that Low has convinced his men to go along with his bullshit under the promise of some kind of passive payout, while painting the logical quartermaster as some kind of villains for pointing out flaws in the plan. In this situation, however, the captain seems to be completely irredemable and his plan for massive riches is to endanger and exploit a teenage girl. It's a much harder sell for the audience than attacking an empire. Missing the support of his crew, Meeks seeks support from Eleanor, who is less than happy about her reputation as someone who "(deposes) captains", given what it did to her the last time she did it. I mean, as it was with Vane, it would probably be a good idea to get rid of Low, just on the basis of him being kind of evil and also a massive dickhead, but, again, looking at where Vane is now, I can see why she wouldn't want to risk it. Speaking of Vane, he has somehow been talked into attending the consortium meetings, even if all he does during them is smoke and look general detached from everything. Baby steps, I guess.

Vane's attendence is the only thing that's going well for Eleanor and the consortium, though. The whole shipping plan that was presented as the solution to everything last season is barely working, and, even worse for Eleanor, it's her family name that's the problem. Vane's reputation is proving useful, but, as he (at least feels that he) holds all the power, it's down to him to decide whether Eleanor and her consortium can coninue to hold any power in Nassau, which is not ideal, because he's unreliable at best. Still, he's not entirely wrong when he refers to Eleanor as "a tyrant too weak to enforce her own tyranny". It's a harsh interpretation, sure, but it's not necessarily fully incorrect. Maybe it's this accusation of weakness that pushes her to take a harder stance with Ned Low. That was probably a bad place to start, though, because that man does not care about anything and angering him only results in further violence. Like, a lot of violence.

This level of violence is probably what causes Eleanor to relent and go to Vane for help. She knows that she can't appeal to him with her power, as he's already expressed his disdain for her "tyranny", so she appeals to his "concern" for her. Honestly, these two just keep making each other worse, but maybe if Ned Low's downfall can be brought about as a result of their dysfunctional relationship, maybe it's worth it. And then there's the "prize" Eleanor mentions. Poor Abigail Ashe.

And while violent shit is going down at Eleanor's bar thing, soft, romantic shit is going down at the brothel. I love this plotline so much-- the way it shows Anne slowly coming to terms with her sexuality and processing what it means for her and Jack is just so well-done in all its complexity and,,, emotion. Oh god I love them all so much. This is also possibly the first relationship in the show that is portrayed in a genuinely romantic way, and it's a sapphic relationship, which is one of the many reasons I love this show. It would also have been so easy to just take this whole Anne/Max/Jack dynamic and just put Jack in the role of jealous boyfriend and portray Anne and Max's relationship as just cheating, but my beloved Black Sails had better plans than that. Instead, we show Anne's internal conflict between her feelings for Jack and what she feels she owes him and her feelings for Max-- ones she probably hasn't let herself acknowledge before. Similarly, we all know by now that Jack isn't the kind of person to cause a massive scene and confront the other two, nor does he necessarily even want to. Instead, he just turns up to talk about his business plans. I mean, those are some good ideas, but there's a time and a place. They could also have had Jack go down the route of just completely ignoring the relationship, diminishing the importance/significance of sapphic relationships, but instead we get his wonderful reaction: "Darling, I can understand why you wouldn't want to tell me about this, but please know that all I have ever wanted is for you to be happy. Come to bed when you're through." Just everything about it, from the tenderness of the darling, to the acknowledgement of the conflict Anne must be feeling, and the way his love for her just radiates off him. I don't think I've ever loved Jack (or Anne for that matter) as much as in this moment.

Now to the Walrus crew (technically not on the Walrus but I can't be asked to differentiate at this point). Our unlikely couple are finally getting their shit together and making each other worse. Silver is still asserting that he does not want to be a pirate, and is simply sticking with the crew for the sake of Flint's get rich quick scheme. Flint is so committed to being a pirate that he's going to take down the british empire... somehow. These two are obviously going to work so well together. Both of them are using manipulation as their tactic of choice, but on different levels. Flint knows what he wants and goes directly for leadership. He starts with a slightly misguided attempt at small talk about books with Dufresne (he's so me fr), then turns the conversation into a confession, as if he believes that he can convince Dufresne that he's really really sorry and then Dufresne will just let him be captain again. Don't get me wrong, I do believe Flint when he says the guilt is killing him, but I just don't thing D is the best audience for this. Flint also knows this, as he (maybe) goes for a different tactic. It's never made explicit whether Flint meant to deceive or advise Dufresne. I'm sure his intentions weren't purely to help Dufresne, but he might have genuinely been advising Dufresne for the reasons he believed-- that if Dufresne had successfully taken a prize, his position would have been much more secure. I think it's much like the scene with Billy, neither we nor, possibly, Flint, know what his intentions were. Either way, Dufresne goes ahead with Flint's idea, one that De Groot approves of from a sailing perspective, which really says something about Flint's talent not just as a leader of men, but as a sailor. It really makes you think about what would have happened had he not had to leave London for whatever those reasons were.

As Dufresne's mission to capture a merchant ship goes on, it becomes harder to believe that Flint has the crew's best interests at heart. He narrates the whole thing to Silver and clearly knows what Dufresne should be doing, but makes no effor to advise him on this. As a result, the attack quickly goes downhill. Dufresne also runs into another problem-- aside from his lack of experience-- which is that he doesn't have Flint's notoriety and nor does he have the charisma to make up for it. It's probably this that tips the merchant captain off and gives him the confidence to call for his crew to resist. Then Dufresne's lack of experience also comes through as he doesn't know how to handle the crew in such a situation. Controlling a crew under fortunate circumstances is one thing, but, as we've seen with Flint, retaining their loyalty under hardship and chaos is something else entirely. Dufresne took control of the Walrus crew after a patch of difficulty under Flint, then found fortune under his time as leader but, as soon as he has to deal with something like this, he crumbles. As Mr Logan points out "no one is in fucking charge" on the ship-- Dufresne is too stubborn to give up on a mission that the rest of the crew have lost faith in, De Groot, voice of wisdom though he may be, doesn't hold much authority as a leader, and Flint is still disgraced. Ultimately, Flint is essentially decided as the best option, helped by his willingness to immediately order an effective retreat. Then he heads off to the captain's quarters with all the confidence in the world. The vote hasn't even happened yet, but he knows how to lead well enough to know exactly what he's just done.

At the end of the day, he's still nice to Dufresne, reassuring him that the vote was close-- Flint isn't the type to gloat, at least not in such an over way, and Dufresne could still be a powerful ally. And, most importantly, Flint has a new jacket.

Silver, meanwhile, is taking a different approach to winning back his position on the crew. Honestly, this showcases what I love about S1/2 Silver: he's scrappy. He's not necessarily inherently a team player, but he knows how to work with and against people to ensure his own survival, and, unlike (sorry) Flint, he does it in such an entertaining way that he also ensures that he's well-liked. Flint, god bless his autistic heart, has absolutely no idea what the hell Silver is playing at, and Silver gives him some kind of story about his past. Now, given Silver's track record of lying his ass off, we have no idea whether or not this is true, but, regardless, it's the only insight we've got into his life pre-merchant vessel. Honestly, it doesn't tell us a whole lot that we don't know-- well-off men were rarely conscripted onto merchant vessels as crew members-- but it still fleshes out the sense of powerlessness and potential tragedy in Silver's past. Either way, as the days go by, Silver's ploy of playing the men off against each other starts yielding some results, and, as Flint-- who he has formed an uneasy alliance with-- comes back into power, his survival becomes almost guaranteed.

And now we get more London flashabcks, i.e. backstory of Flint's previous unlikely partnership. In this partnership, however, Flint/McGraw is the realist, and Thomas is the dreamer. He's the one who tells McGraw that, in approaching Nassau, he should forget the pirates. Sure, he's not necessarily wrong in framing piracy as a symptom of a wider issue, but very few men, let alone members of the nobility, would have had the optimism and insight to take that approach. McGraw still tries to point out the flaws in the rest of the plan, listing the extensive resources that would be needed to establish stability on Nassau, and still Thomas is unfazed. I'm not sure whether he's being incredily smart or incredibly stupid about this, but honestly I support him.

Then we get a little insight into the other side of McGraw's life-- his relationships within the navy. It's clear that Admiral Hennesy holds him in some regard, and sees his potential (honestly, he's giving father-figure vibes in this scene, not necessarily good ones though), but, because of his class status, his peers don't hold him in that level of regard. This is yet another problem with the empire/civilisation that we haven't explored much yet, but classism is clearly a massive problem in both James' life and British society as a whole. Then, as the taunting continues, we see what we recognise as Flint's kind of passion and violence arise in McGraw, and a fight breaks out. Hell, he even looks more like the man we know as Flint as he gets roughed up and even gets some blood on him (a key aspect of Flint's appearance). I don't blame him for reacting, but Hennesy isn't wrong when he expresses about "the thing that arises in (James) when passions are aroused [where] ... good sense escaped [him]", and what it could become when "exposed to extremes", which we have already seen with Gates, and which I can't help but think is going to make some kind of comeback in episodes to come.

[hunterisnearme]

Silly Warframe x TTCC crossover stuffs I have brewing in my mind since I now have accidentally opened the gates of both my interests and seeing that people actually unironically enjoy the rambles, here is the list of all managers that I associate them with Waframes and what Zariman Focus they'd major in. (Spoiler free! Just saying which warframe they'd use as operators/drifters)

LET'S GO!

Derrick Man | William Boar

William in my honest opinion would be a Lavos. Lavos in itself is a mish-mash of defense and support, given that William gives off the vibe of someone who would use his body as protection while using potions (or oil in this case) to boost his team mates. William's focus, however, is Naramon. Tactic and whimsical, despite how stern he is as a person.

L.A.A | Alton S. Crow

Alton aka Mr. BIG STEPPY is going to HAVE to be Rhino. While he's a twig, 100% would go for the build of a Rhino JUST BECAUSE of how strong and powerful his steps are. I'm sure if you bonk his Rhino enough his true body will flop out and you can just kick the guy around like a nerd. (I say this with affection.)

An Unairu by heart. He'll assume the best of himself and believe you have what it takes to take down his economy build.

P.R.R | Winston Byrd

Nyx by the automatic. Mind games? Absolutely. There is no way you wouldn't put him in the position as the psychological warfare. Unpredictable, cunning, and uncertain, Winston would definitely use his mind game at the max. (Maybe he's gotten thrown out of existence due to the void overtaking his sanity from the get-go too, honestly. Maybe that's why he's a little looney.) Madurai is what he would be, though with a twist. While most Madurai are known to be brawns over brains, he actually uses that exact brain to demolish his enemies from inside-out.

Duck Shuffler | Buck Ruffler

Zephyr! Mostly because Zephyr is a bird-related Warframe. He'd be the kind of person to swoop from the heavens and raise the stakes of piercing down his enemies with either the beak or talon. He's all about being unpredictable, and of course risking a lot to gain far too little. Another Madurai, simply because he's going in head on!

Deep Diver | Mary Anna

Hydroid, of course! Just like the Warframe itself, she's all about being in the deep-levels of things. Of course, this was a match made in heaven, especially given that they both would enjoy the aquatic life in things such as Neptune's water ecosystem! A vazarin as well, given Mary's need to learn her opponents and as well understand the weak points of an enemy.

Gatekeeper | Holly Grayelle

Styanax, the embodiment of protection and being the knight of everyone's story. Although a different time frame, I'm certain she'd still pick this Warframe simply because of the fact that it represents a true warrior. In her eyes, she believes she is no different. An Unairu for the fact she doesn't step down her place.

Mouthpiece | Belle Dama

Trinity! A supporter, but also a hefty fighter. She can help aid her allies while absolutely DEMOLISHING her enemies. She is wise, given her more in-depth experience in combat than most of the others. And Vazarin, for sure!

Firestarter | Flint Bonpyre

Ember, specifically. He, of course, is far more passive in this team comparing to most. Though at the same time, if it comes to the safety of those he care for, then he will absolutely smite his enemies in the burning hell fires to make sure no one gets killed. (Even if it means he himself gets into the crossfire.)

Naramon, mostly because he's anxious at times but still very much studies what he can against his enemies.

Treekiller | Spruce Campbell

Closest I can say is a Vauban. I would've said Loki, or Oberon, but he is NOT a nature fella. And plus, he can come up with useful tools all while using up materials when necessary. Perhaps he may be on good terms with the Grineer for his hatred of nature? Steel Meridian is definitely buddy-buddy with Spruce. Another Madurai!

Bellringer | Benjamin Biggs

I'd like to think maaaybe a Banshee? It's a mish-mash, honestly between either a Banshee for him always being a loud speaker on gossip, or Ash to "go rogue" and eavesdropping on people. I can confirm though that he is Zenurik!

Featherbedder | Tawney C. Esta

Surprisingly, I see Tawney as a stone-hard Atlas. I'm not sure about them yet, honestly! But I'm sitting on the fence of Atlas, mostly because of the leer that Atlas possesses. A petrifying gaze of Tawney is possible enough, and they have the guts of an Unairu!

Prethinker | Brian [REDACTED]

Xaku! Xaku is the possession of multiple Warframes alike, thinking in one mind much like how Brian does with his jockeys. With the abilities of a mind hive, Brian is a Zenurik!

Rainmaker | Misty Monsoon

You would think I'd pick Yareli for Misty because of the water abilities, but I see her as a Wisp! Yareli is more of an attack-goer, but Wisp suits best in Misty's supportive and skittish behavior. Vazarin by the automatic!

Witch Hunter | Prester Virgil

Harrow! Even if he is meant to sacrifice his own defense for the sake of others, Prester would do it for the sake of defeating the greater evil in which he seeks as filth. Another violent and hostile Madurai, if you ask me.

Multislacker | Cathal

Grendel is what I see as best-choice for someone like Cathal. I'm certain Cathal also happens to be the type of Operator that prefers to work best at his own pod, hidden away while his Grendel is out and about consuming his enemies. He is an Unairu.

Major Player | Dave BruBot

OCTAVIA! It's obvious that as a Warframe of music, of COURSE Dave would aim for one as such. Just even hearing smooth jazz in the dark hallways has never felt so much more dangerous when it comes to the skill of Dave's combat. Dave gives me a more Zenurik vibe.

Plutocrat | Cosmo Kuiper + The Satellites

A man as cold Cosmo, you're destined to see him with a Frost at hand! His strong wield of ice within his hands is what brings him the best strength. And not all, but he has a Railjack that has The Satellites as his crewmen that manage around the ship. While they do not possess their own Warframes, they are useful in defense and attack as Corpus crewmates. Cosmo is a Vazarin!

Chainsaw Consultant | Chip Revvington

Chroma is as versatile and hostile as Chip himself can be. A Warframe difficult to adjust to, but Chip tries his best in order for him to maintain his own inner rage as a Tenno. An Unairu, if you squint real hard despite the Madurai elements.

Pacesetter | Graham Ness Payser

WE ALL know this because of the fact I have been drawing him nonstop in this AU, but he's a GAUSS CERTIFIED USER! A Madurai as well! And of course, because he's also got them Sellbot elements, he half-works with the Corpus.

[svenerd]

Spiele-Vorschau - Oktober 2024

In der Monatsvorschau liefert euch unser Redakteur Christian Fritz Schneider einen Ausblick auf die kommenden Spiele, die im September 2024 für PC, PlayStation, Xbox und Switch veröffentlicht werden. 00:00 - Throne and Liberty 01:01 - KILL KNIGHT 01:34 - Vestiges: Fallen Tribes 02:03 - Wizard of Legend 2 02:34 - SpongeBob SquarePants: The Patrick Star Game 03:56 - Diplomacy is not an Option 04:25 - Until Dawn (Remake) 04:54 - SWORD ART ONLINE Fractured Daydream 05:16 - Anima Flux 05:43 - Global Farmer 06:08 - Rebots 06:45 - Silent Hill 2 (Remake) 07:13 - Dead Season 07:43 - Diablo IV: Vessel of Hatred 08:17 - Heavy Cargo - The Truck Simulator 08:46 - Sky Oceans: Wings for Hire 09:14 - Guild Saga: Vanished Worlds 09:43 - DRAGON BALL: Sparking! ZERO 10:14 - Europa 10:43 - Undisputed 11:07 - Starship Troopers: Extermination 11:45 - RPG Maker WITH 12:14 - Transformers: Galactic Trials 12:37 - Metaphor: ReFantazio 13:16 - Nikoderiko: The Magical World 13:40 - Neva 14:09 - New World: Aeternum 14:45 - Drova - Forsaken Kin 15:26 - MechWarrior 5: Clans 16:16 - Citadelum 16:50 - Super Mario Party Jamboree 17:18 - A Quiet Place: The Road Ahead 17:48 - Blazing Strike 18:16 - Call to Arms - Gates of Hell: Airborne 18:50 - Arizona Sunshine Remake 19:23 - Unknown 9: Awakening 19:57 - Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Mutants Unleashed 20:28 - RetroRealms: Ash vs Evil Dead / Halloween 20:55 - Hot Wheels Monster Trucks: Stunt Mayhem 21:18 - Worshippers of Cthulhu 21:50 - Railroad Corporation 2 22:26 - Factorio: Space Age / 2.0 22:55 - Streets of Rogue 2 23:29 - Lynked: Banner of the Spark 23:58 - No More Room in Hell 2 24:32 - Awaken - Astral Blade 24:59 - ZERO Sievert 25:37 - Age of History 3 26:20 - Flint: Treasure of Oblivion 26:55 - Die Schlümpfe - Abenteuer im Traumland 27:18 - Romance of the Three Kingdoms 8 Remake 27:49 - Romancing SaGa 2: Revenge of the Seven 28:23 - Shin chan: Shiro and the Coal Town 28:47 - Prim 29:27 - Call of Duty: Black Ops 6 29:56 - Sonic X Shadow Generations 30:24 - Ys X: Nordics 30:55 - Fruitbus 31:27 - Reel Fishing: Days of Summer 31:57 - Keep Keepers 32:26 - Blood Bar Tycoon 32:58 - Life is Strange: Double Exposure 33:34 - Post Trauma 24:01 - Clock Tower: Rewind 34:35 - Wanderer: The Fragments of Fate 35:05 - Dragon Age: The Veilguard 35:40 - Shadows of the Damned: Hella Remastered 36:09 - 36:39 - Blasphemous 2: Mea Culpa 37:12 - Alan Wake 2: The Lake House 37:50 - Neue Spiele-Ports mit Horizon Zero Dawn Remastered, Yakuza Kiwami, Broken Sword - Shadow of the Templars: Reforged und mehr Read the full article

[libidomechanica]

Untitled Composition # 11248

A rispetto sequence

               I

Their Taxes double majesty. Let it not your best friends, when love’s yoke is only given as dots now in the bride and grey and full

time wakes up each got him with crooked Counsel held him; till the Devil is still, her brow. Saw Seames of Woman is but walks by night.

               II

And the sea alone bent over the wheel of thy King. Two name my garden when I have a noose about my Leave a future Truth the

best: kind Husbandry. Mad mourners of a mate for Empire borne away along her throat a boatswain swore he lover and a Wife.

               III

And whilst her neglected child ephemeral: but it eats the flint, are already looks beguiles: she is no chapel on thee, as

thy pearls upon our western Skies. The Chaplain robed in white as wax and provident. And wild winds the joint is free; so, when the cellar.

               IV

Descend into the best may do their secret deed. When I thoughtful bard to his belief,—seeing that lid, full many wish impart. And

that beauty lack, slander’d with prise of the Three per Cents; whose choice that flaps and flits around that: But there is a pond where the pumies latched.

               V

His grief is gentlemen kirkward shame: for three cherubs drawn his Garment, crying still. When the world let’s prove the turmoil of expiring

like slaves to spangle the Sheikh replies to weep, and cures not meet otherwise. Existed but happely I hym spyde, when clear to all.

               VI

To everyone I love the skies. Like little tent of blood should take place that one times but they seem near. Generative earth the earth receive;

let eares, but Sanherins may be distill’d: make sweet flattering wind began to dream milk burned in mine with more and staring eyes.

               VII

Say over London stallion-hoofed falls on the story, first, prepare, and you had a mother an’ mother’s soul? So, like the shore, against

its painted surface but the front gate, pulling songs, the shape of Terror was lying still. Then forgo; who banishment to grow older.

               VIII

And rashly judge a Cause. Though I and Thou be stilled with the best. Not the three children and sculk’d behind the sky above poor of her Front,

an ample fields against the alien pen hath the underground, and we gazed up their thou away, mid-dream. And Horror stalked before.

               IX

Therefore I love me from bough of cherries pluck’d fresh younglings shoot, and Dye. False foul with the best region. Like thee another He, another

Ben, whose Youth your eyes when resum’d their Power and sunglasses in small, thus to speake in Ohio called and bruise its sad in sweet?

               X

Now their mere Sense a Miracles Mens faith in my arms like figures, a garden when I came home, the music come to yet so well set

forth within the world for to lie here. The true or false, are necessary Gold, shall lie unstrung, and sorrow-laden, a long, asleep.

               XI

Tho’ father an’ mother. As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe is Treasons: he is gone down, as endless wealthy western friends—as thus;

mine eyes, by Loue direct Hebrew Ballad in your moment. Hearts from your children dear, let us play, champ and clatterer neuer lieth.

               XII

Fore-bemoaned moan, which, let’s prove those crimson stair we went round there in a glade of man. In comeliness; when I’m sitting of Leonardo

or Michelangelo that God’s own predicament with Roses blows; a Foot for Thee to a table she rode with laughter.

               XIII

And I lose my poor soul, were every prison of Man ever should taint each side bowing popularly Mad? Wars and yet to-day I

sought; with lullaby, as women do, whereto the Spring, not dare to breed another scarcely can discrie, while his Son, for he knew.