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In retrospect, this whole unfortunate situation was his father's fault.


It was his father who had insisted that he be involved in the family business, insisted that his only son be the one to inherit the eventual trading company, that he learn the routes and life of a high seas tradesman instead of simply choosing one of his much more qualified sisters to hoist the responsibility on. He had no interest in the family business, lucrative and comfortable as it may be. Instead of being where he was now, he could be back in their home, comfortably curled in some unused corner of their sprawling estate reading some new book his father had purchased to only fill out the hand carved shelves of the home library they owned only out of a sense of upper class obligation. But no. Here he was in the bowels of some droll trade ship, trapped with a man who considered himself important enough to be called captain and seemed to believe that Lazarus was both frail nobility in need of protection as well as a powerful young lord whose favor could improve his own status rather considerably. A horrid combination, Lazarus thinks idly as he considers the board in front of him.

Pale slim fingers grasp the top of one of his carved ivory pieces after a moment's thought and move it. He knows there's a counter here, but he has faith that the captain is of an intelligence that such a gamble will remain unnoticed. Such is the life he's found himself leading for the past few months; he'd found out rather quickly that he would have to spend most of it entertaining himself.

The man across from him in his fine wool coat and even finer shirt studies the board. Lazarus takes the time to glance around the quarters he's found himself in more and more lately. It's all neat, organized with the meticulous nature of a former navy man like the captain. A table pushed against the wall is covered in maps, trade routes are tacked to the wall above it. A fine rug underneath them rests on top of polished wooden floors. The table they play on now is smaller than the other but more intricately carved and forced a closeness and camaraderie that Lazarus feels is a rather unsubtle ploy to garner favor and force a familiarity that he had thus far refused to cede. Bookshelves line that wall that have the same feeling as the ones his father had stuffed in their family home: more for show than any practical purpose. He had grabbed one of the bound leatherbacks once when he was at his most bored one evening a week ago; it had come out with enough dust that he had sneezed in the then hazy air.


"I suppose that's game yet again." The captain eventually concedes. His voice draws him out of his thoughts and back towards the chessboard in front of him.

He eyes where he would have countered his own move. Where he had hoped in some small part of himself that the man would pose some sort of challenge, however small. "Suppose so."  


"Would you care for another game then? Perhaps this time you'll go easy on this old man." Lazarus has to resist the urge to snort. He hated it, hated the way others would play down to him. They set him on a shiny pedestal under glass and admire from afar while also quietly patronizing him, treating him as something sheltered that must continue to be protected from the 'harsh reality of the world'. His father no doubt had a hand in 'warning' this one. There's a flash of hot, irrational anger that burns quickfire across his skin and he has to curl his sword calloused hands into tight fists to keep from lashing out. 'Play the part of the graceful nobleman,' he reminds himself as a fake smile settles on his face. 'There will be hell to pay if you slip.'


"No, no, I think I may retire for the night. We can continue this another day, if that's agreeable with you."

"Oh perfectly, perfectly agreeable." The captain nods, already gathering the pieces. "You know, the way you play, one would think it were all you've done your whole life." He laughs to himself; Lazarus would gut him then and there if given the chance and the freedom from repercussions.

"Oh, well." He laughs politely instead. "Not many opportunities for adventure tucked away in my father's house learning the family trade. Chess is a welcome distraction."

"As is a chance to experience it firsthand, I'd imagine."

Lazarus would agree with him were he not kept here for most of the journey. Safe!  He could spit on the word. "Mmm, certainly."

The captain considers him as he snaps the expensive case full of pieces closed. "Well, I'll leave you to your repose. Much to do in the morning."


"As always." He turns towards the door, his expression loose the moment the captain can no longer see him. There's a shuffle of sound though before he can reach it and head for his own very fine quarters, enough of a commotion that it makes him pause and step back just soon enough that he's not hit by the heavy wooden door when it’s slammed open.


"Jesus lad, knock!"


"Sorry captain, I just," the young crewman is panting, breathing hard and eyes wide enough that it warrants a bit of alarm. "We've spotted pirates."

That shouldn't thrill him as much as it does, but he can't ignore the slow curl of excitement that seeps through his limbs. Suppose that's what four months of substandard chess matches will do to a man. "Pirates?" Lazarus repeats.


"Flag son, which flag?" The captain ignores his question.


The crewman swallows heavily. This close, Lazarus can see the fear that settles cold in his eyes. "That's the trouble sir. It's the Rot."



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Bright green eyes ringed in pitch dark kohl study the long form of the ship nearest them from the deck of his own. The evening is cool and damp in the way that a night at sea always is, but there's  something more to this one. A thrill of anticipation he can feel ripple through the crew at the thought of a new ship to plunder, to ravage, to sink. They crave violence and he, as a good captain, sees no reason not to give them what they desire. Especially when there's so enticing a target cutting quietly through the soft waves.

"A McKay ship, sir." Mae'rel, his second, stands at his side with one hand hung loose at her side and another wrapped around the short, well sharpened  curved blade she calls her own. Her hair is shorn short for utility's purpose. Less to grab, she had told him once. He'd laughed, short and low,  and she'd smirked back at him, the both of them sharing a quiet joke.

His own lengthy curls are tied back into a thick mess of braids and beads, done by Mae'rel whenever the blood would get too caked in. The ends of them disappear beneath a long cloak of dark feathers that shimmer iridescent in the open moonlight above. 'A McKay ship', he thinks with an appreciative sigh. Large ships, valuable goods, expensive goods, and often employed with enough well trained crew that a fight is at least interesting. "You spoil me sometimes, you know."


"Trick of chance this night." She hums. "Lady fate is treating you, not I."


"Regardless." His low voice thrums in the space between them. The tip of an accent marks his words, adds a rhythm that she suspects came from an empire both warmer and drier than the one he rules over now.  Her eyes track one of his scarred, calloused hands as it wraps tighter around the massive battleaxe set against the deck. She'd had to bring it to him on occasion, knew the terrifying strength her captain kept coiled just to heft that thing like she used her own sword. "The banquet is set. We are honored guests. It would be rude to refuse the meal."


"My mother always did insist on proper manners."


"Well, we had better not disappoint."



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He had been told to stay. Of all of the horrible, nonsensical decisions this captain had made, this one! This one had him fuming. He was a swordsman for god's sake, and had tried to object that he could have been of use but no, the captain had insisted he stay down in his quarters where he would be 'safe'.


This time around he has no one watching. He spits.


"For the lord's sake." He strains his ear for any sounds beyond the thick wood of the door. It’s a frenzy, or at least sounds like one. The patter of feet beats overhead and outside in the hall in a horrid staccato din that he knows he needs to be a part of. Blue eyes scan the room; his sword, his sword, he had set it somewhere when he had first come in for tonight’s obligatory chess match and exchanged niceties. That dunce must have moved it at some point when he had gotten up for a drink. A quick scan and there it was, tucked away between the other table and a bookshelf. Slim calloused hands grab the thing and he makes for the door, slamming it open with the force of a man scorned for too many months. He must look quite dumb, standing akimbo at the open door to the captains quarters in the midst of what he can conservatively call chaos, but that is what he does.

It is a mess of movement punctuated with quick flashes of metal against metal. Pirates move through the not insignificant crew like hunting dogs scenting an injured rabbit. He can feel the air shift to his right; his foot pivots on learned instinct as he raises his own well polished blade to block the downward blow of a slim pirate and the razor edge of their blade. Another quick backstep, and the pirate finds him too much of a hassle to pursue. They dip into the captain’s quarters behind him. Lazarus lets them. There’s no love lost there.

The movements that follow are quicksilver. His feet carry him through the hallway and the crowd towards the deck, his hands parry, block, slash at anyone he doesn’t recognize. The sound of steel on steel is louder here than it had been in practice with his tutor, possibly heighted by the threat of death he faces. Wild, he moves as he vents his frustrations in a flurry of quick strikes and swathes of blood torn from flesh. That is, until a commotion breaks him from the violent haze he’s fallen into. Ginger hair quickly fading white is forced back by the speed at which his head whips around towards the sudden noise. Sword at the ready, eyes burning bright, stance low and prepared he stands, but there is nothing that truly prepares him for the figure of the man across the deck from him.

He’s a sight. Something terrible and glorious all at once, he moves like a storm; slow rolling as he pushes back attackers with the long reach of an axe, flashing like lightning when he pulls back and over to cleave a man’s head in twain. Thick globs of wet matter splatter against the deck in front of him and all he can do is stare at the mess. That had been a person not a moment earlier.

He finds himself caught in the gaze of that man now as he pauses in the middle of the battle around him with his axe still held tight in those two large hands. Broad statured, dark skinned, what hair isn’t tied back or caught in the great feathered cape that flares behind him seems to float in the air as if caught underwater. ‘A strange trick of the light,’ he thinks for just a moment  before his heart thuds heavy in his chest. The dread he feels is palpable, almost a solid taste in his throat.


The man is coming his way.


He readies his blade just as the one swinging down at him in the same way as a moment before is upon him. The impact shakes him to his core and it's with a heavy, surprised shout that he shifts the weight and twists out of the way so that his head remains preferably intact. Wood shatters as the axe follows through to splinter the floor beneath him. His wide eyes follow the impact. There’s a thought that rings through his mind like a bell tolling out a hymn over a funeral: ‘I am outmatched here’. Sword a heavy, cold weight in his hand, he readies the only other weapon he has.


“Now, now, let’s not be terribly hasty here.”

The gaze he receives in return is curious, even if tempered in blood. “Hasty?” The man repeats back in a rough voice.

“Yes, hasty. I believe you to be a man of honor,” he starts, even if he believes it to be a lie. “And I am a man terribly bored on this ship” Less of a lie. “And if I am to die, as I am wont to believe here, why not make it a little interesting?

“You wish to make your death… interesting.” the words come out in a dark purr as the man across from him starts to circle him like some wild cat. Lazarus mimics, not willing to be any closer than he already is.

“Is it so wrong to crave a little excitement in one’s life?”

“And what might you have in mind for this… excitement?”


“A duel. Something more… thrilling than the cold slaughter that I'm sure is on your mind. ” he answers easily. The chill laugh that the man lets out is discouraging, but not a no.

He huffs a long sigh. “Fine. A final request, let it never be said I wasn’t generous. A duel it is.” With that, he holds out the hand with the axe in it and lets the weapon drop onto the deck. It hits hard, shuddering the wood underneath them as the axe head buries itself into the hardwood simply by grace of weight and gravity. One smooth motion, and the sword that had been tucked away at his side is in the man’s hand. It’s a long blade, longer than Lazarus’s own, dark and sharp edged.

It’s intimidating, but swords are familiar territory. He wastes no time surging forward in a way he’s done a thousand times before during his lessons back home. Sparks flare as they meet blade to blade, a tiny cascade of fireworks here in the dark space of the ocean night that carves light across both their faces. He has a brief moment to watch what looks like pleased surprise break over the face of this dread berserker before the sneer is back once more. The captain's sword pivots and presses, forcing him to twist his own to deflect and break the strike. God, he had never played against such raw strength anywhere on land. There's something in it that pulls at the corners of his lips; his father had always called him wrong and he certainly must be, the way his nerves light and sing at this unknown, dangerous thrill.


"And victory then?" He pushes his luck as their blades cross yet again. He dances through the strike, feet and touch light enough that the bite of the larger blade never truly finds purchase. "If I win, that is. I am assuming you'll be happy enough with my death."

It earns him a rough huff of what might be half a laugh. "A death is hardly ever truly a happy occasion, but yours I might find at least a sense of satisfaction in."

"Oh, perhaps you're simply not experiencing it in the right way. Perhaps," he flourishes his sword in a way that might be cocky had he not been holding up rather well in this fight, all things considered. There's a high he's riding like a cresting wave, the adrenaline spurring him on in what might not have been the most intelligent course of action. "You're thinking too grand in scale. A little death might be more pleasurable."

Lazarus thinks for a moment that might have been too far, but when next he comes close enough to read the man's face, he finds a real laugh dancing in those eyes. It stops him briefly with one disastrously suicidal thought before his brain catches up once more: 'he's lovely.'


"Truly? What are they teaching the nobility now?"

"Oh, they simply stuff us full of wool and send us on our way. If you cut me open, I bleed cotton."


"Daresay I've been trying." The answer lacks a roughness that was present earlier. If Lazarus had to guess, it almost sounds as if he's… enjoying himself? His feet step back in a quick, hindbrain pattern to skirt out the way of his swing, the raven feathered cape moving in a smooth arc to follow the motion.


"Do try a bit harder then, love."

"And deprive myself of a little fun? It's so rare to find a foe with a tongue as sharp as their blade."

"Perhaps you'd prefer a duel of a different weapon then."


The answer back is low, laced in enough heat that the chill of the night seems a distant memory. "Perhaps I would." Their blades meet once more and Lazarus finds himself in that heat, sparks tracing the length of the steel in his hand, realizing that he hopes this man means what he's implied. The distraction of it pulls his grip, takes him from the battle for a second too long.

He just barely steps up out of the way as the captain shifts from below to bring his sword up in a vicious upward strike that would have bisected him legs to chest were he any closer. As it is, the tip of the blade merely catches one side of his face as it cleaves through the open air, deadly sharp. Lazarus stumbles, catching himself in as close to a ready stance as he can, but the blow has shaken him.

He stands there watching as the man looks at his own blade, seeming to consider something before he moves, surging barefooted over floorboards with that dark sword in hand. It's all Lazarus can do to raise his sword in time. His muscles are burning under the onslaught of pure punishing force forcing him back, his feet nearly trip over themselves in his hurry to stay out of reach, his wrist nearly snaps when he turns the blade just so to angle it away from himself but even then, he knows.

He knows his mistake the moment he makes it, hoping against hope that this man is like the captain; dull in the way that will allow him to correct and take advantage of the risk he’s laid for himself. One bare foot shifts on the deck and oh, no. The hard elbow of the larger man slams into his own arm, hitting a nerve and forcing the sword out of his hand. Another lightning twist of movement has his hands restrained and then the man is pushing them both further and further backwards.  

The slim line of his back crashes against the polished wood of the cabin wall, his thin wrists caught above him in the bruising, dark handed grip of the pirate captain. The fine sword gifted to him by his father lays strewn across the blood spattered deck somewhere behind the both of them but he can't find it in himself to care about the preposterous finery of the discarded thing or even the tenuous edge his own life seems to be on. He's caught in the green in front of him, in the spattering of dark freckles and marks across dark skin, in the cuts and long healed scars that carve into the man's lips. The fighting behind them fades to the blood and static in his ears. It's so loud here in the quiet shared breaths between them, with the captain pressed almost flush to keep him from struggling. And yet, there's nothing keeping his mouth from moving.

"I'm not entirely sure what victory you had in mind, but…" his eyes catch again on those scar crossed lips, what little he can see here in the moonlit dark behind the fine curtain of dark feathers. He wonders what they feel like, if he could trace the dips and grooves where a blade had once bit a little too close. "I'm quite certain this counts as one, at least in my books."

"In your books, maybe." The man quietly rumbles back. This close, Lazarus can feel the bass of it against his own chest. "In my books?" The hand not holding his wrists drops the sword in a clatter to the deck and for one fleeting moment, Lazarus has the cold chilling fear that what he had seen was all in his head. That here was where he would die, strangled to death by this man seemingly birthed by maelstroms and just as deadly.

A moment later though, and he no longer has to just wonder what those lips would feel like. The hand under his chin he had thought lethal coaxes him closer, draws him in to taste for himself. The captain crowds him, presses him back with a knee and the hand still wrapped tight around his wrists. His own tongue swipes the seam of the pair pressed to his, asking for permission that is easily and enthusiastically granted. The duality of the man is staggering; he's lost in the wet heat of the mouth of a man who had tried to gut him sternum to pelvis moments prior, as well as one who apparently  knew how to do horrendously filthy things with his tongue. There's nothing about his nobleborn status that holds the other man back from moving a hand from his chin to his hip, nothing about a title that keeps him from roughly pulling him further up a broad thigh. Nothing that could persuade Lazarus from stopping him either, were it not for the sharp bark of a woman yelling for the captain.


"Captain!" She calls. "Samael!" She says again when he doesn't immediately answer. "What are we doing with them?"


The captain, Samael now, breaks their kiss reluctantly. His gaze lingers on those too bright blues underneath him with their pupils blown wide and for the first time that night, the smile he offers isn’t tempered by a sharp edge of violence. There’s intent, there’s a terrible hunger, but of a kind that makes Lazarus want to lean in rather than away.  "That," he murmurs in the space just between the two of them. "Is a victory."

‘A victory,’ Lazarus thinks. His eyes cast over the shoulder of the man in front of him as the word and the question that inevitably follows sinks in. He sees the captain there, huddled with what crew had managed to survive till now. The look in his eyes is a strange one; disgust muddles with fear in a strangely bitter cocktail that settles deeper into his face the longer Lazarus stares at him. He can feel the white hot flares of deeply settled rage burn and bubble to the surface. Hours of droll chess games, forced pleasantries, a disregard for his opinions. If he were to leave now with them as he had intended were he to win, what would be waiting for him there? He thinks of his home, large and mostly empty, set on a field of rolling green. His quiet spot in the corner of his library would be waiting for him, as would the books his father would order just to fill space. The light would filter in just so as to land softly on the pages in front of him as he read for hours. He thinks of his sisters, each of them their own variety of insufferable save one, each of them coming in at some point to either bother him or chide him into working with his father. He thinks of his mother, the poor thing, hiding bottles in her embroidery. He thinks of his arranged marriage to a woman he couldn’t love, thinks of a business he has no intention of heading. Thinks of his father.


“Burn the ship.” He answers quietly. His eyes flick back to Samael. “Take me with you.”


Something in the other man’s eyes snaps softly at the sentiment. He had been expecting pity, possibly even a refusal, but the look behind those eyes is a heady mixture of painfully obvious want, desire, and an earned respect so hot it brands him behind his ribs and at his core. Returning home now would be an impossible thing to imagine, let alone do. Relief is something he’s rarely experienced, and yet here he feels it as keenly as if a wave had washed over the side of the ship: heavy, cold, sucking the breath from him in one roaring rush. Whatever it is that’s been forged between them, he hasn’t the courage to name, but it’s enough for Samael to loosen his hold on his wrists and turn his back long enough to respond to the woman who had asked earlier.


"Burn the ship." He shouts to her. "Take what you please, burn the rest."

"And you, Captain? What of your cut?"

"Just bring back my weapons. I trust you'll see that the rest is evenly distributed."


There's a laugh in the woman's voice as she replies back. "Aye, captain." Lower then, as she walks close enough, “I haven’t the time tomorrow to comb back your braids, do go easy.”

“Know your place.” He grumbles back, but there’s no bite to it. She walks away laughing; behind her, a slow staggered set of torches catch flame. They dot the ship as makeshift sconces now. Soon, they’ll know the polished wood of the deck better than Lazarus ever will. There’s a brief shine of metal that catches his eye - there on the deck, the sword his father gifted him. It lays puddled in blood and caught in a board, as elegant against the dark wood as it was in his hand.

“It is a fine sword.” Samael remarks beside him. Lazarus hums his agreement, eyes still stuck on the thing. “Though I must say, it loses most of its appeal when not in the hand of a competent swordsman. Come,” his hand settles at the small of Lazarus’s back as he leads him back towards his own ship. “Let’s get you settled.”



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Thousands of miles away, the news finally reaches his former home. The ship had been found sunken and burned, charred bits still floating lazily on the smooth surface of the ocean. There had been no body of the presumed late McKay heir, and so the news had gone out and a substantial reward had been posted by the family. A few months after that, a large seabird finds itself curiously far inland with a piece of parchment tied to its leg and found by the youngest McKay daughter. The secret contained inside is burned in the fire after being looked over by pale blue eyes, and the reply arrives a short while later to a ship currently in the middle of the Atlantic. Large wings flip open and catch the air beneath it to stop on a balcony just outside a large window on the back end of the ship. A squawk; Natef knows how best to bring one of them to her so that she can finish her job,


Behind the glass, Lazarus groans. “Please, it’s your bird, love. You answer it.”

“It's your message, habibi.” The arm around him tightens to pull him closer under the thick pile of blankets and furs on their bed. “I would think you would wish to see it before I.”

“This early? It could be the death of my father and I would still let you read that happy news first.” Sam snorts behind him.

“One could only hope.” he sighs as he rises, the sheets pooling around his bare waist. “I spoil you too much, you know this?”

Laz tugs the blankets tighter around himself. “Mmmm, it has come to my attention, yes. I’ll make a note of it later.”

“Brat.” Sam snorts. One quick kiss to the man’s forehead later, and he's padding barefoot to the window to open it for Natef. He murmurs something soft for her in his native language (“Ahh, and what do you have for me?”) as she waddles into the softly lit room and offers her foot with the response tied to it.

“Dearest brother,” Sam starts as he unrolls the paper. “‘How dare you become married in a location I am unable to visit.’” he pauses, looking thoughtful. “ Are we married, though? I don’t believe I can marry myself.”

“If you figure we aren’t, we can always find someone when we next stop. If that’s something you wish.”

Sam settles back on the bed with the note in his hand. “I do wish, thank you. Is that something you wish?”

He grabs the letter from his husband-to-be. “Of course I do. What’s a victory without a prize, hm?”

Sam huffs out a laugh as he leans back.  "A formality."


"No sentimentality in you." Blue eyes don't leave the page as he reads over his favorite sister's words. She's worried, obviously, but happy for his happiness. She had always known of his misery, been the one he had gone to to vent his grievances. She tells him of her own engagement to a man their father no doubt disapproves of but who she'll get away with marrying because she is the youngest and therefore the most expendable. He's very proud. "Lazarus Winsor Kassab. It has a rhythm to it." He murmurs, more to himself.

Whatever internal monologue he had had is stilled by the dark hand in a gentle grasp around his wrist. It's a soft echo of when they had first met and enough to pry his eyes away from the paper covered in Emi's graceful, looping scrawl. Sam is there, the expression in his eyes too open and vulnerable for a man he's seen tear other men in half.


"You would take my name?"


Of course, he wants to say. Drape the answer in layers of wit and parry like he would with a sword. He could say he has no love for his old name, no love for his family save one so it makes sense for him to drop the only link to them he has left. Could say the last name of the Rot would inspire fear, inspire respect, make it known that he was one to be wary of in this new life. Instead of any of this, he grabs the hand holding his and presses it to his lips.


"Of course." The truth comes tumbling out. "It's yours."



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Sam gifts him a ship named the Blackbird and a crew years later as part of what he had called an anniversary gift. The Blackbird is a sleek vessel, one of the faster ships Lazarus had the privilege of sailing on. She's all dark wood with accents in a stained dark navy and black, outfitted in elegant, wrought iron hardware. At the front of her, a large carved bird flies in place of a woman, and the flag at her top bears the familiar mark of the Rot. He's part of this pirate empire now, officially a captain under the steady hand of Samael.


("Is this how you recruit all your captains?" He had laughed the night before under the warm body pressed against his, both of them nude save for the pair of matching golden bands Sam had forged all those years ago. "Seduce them?"

"Only ever the one." He had answered before leaning in to busy both their mouths with better things. )


The ship wasn't the end of the gifts, however. Though, he had a suspicion the little baby storm petrel Sam had placed in his now sea tanned hands after presenting the ship was honestly more a gift to himself with how hard he'd laughed at Laz's confused look towards the dark ball of feathers and fluff. He had blinked at the tiny thing all curled in his hands and peeping as though the whole world had offended it. Laz decides he likes her immediately.

"To stay in touch, ya hayati. She'll be like Natef."

It occurs to Lazarus then that he has no idea how long albatrosses live, nor how old Natef is. The infernal bird watches him from where she's settled on the railing outside, offering a loud squawk when their eyes meet. Her wingspan is easily twice his height with a body made for cutting through open ocean storms. The bird in his hands is… not that.

"Of course, to stay in touch." He nods as he eyes the little black ball of fuzz in his hands, head rolling through a list of names. As much as he loved Sam, he had no trust in his ability to name things.


("Her name is essentially marshmallow, Samael. Meringue!" He'd said after he'd explained it once.

"No one here speaks it. As far as they know, she's very intimidating. I've told them it means Gale Wind.")


"Zephyr," he decides. One finger comes up to stroke the tiny things head and it chirps high and pitiful. He fixes his husband with a deadpan expression. "They'll match."

Sam laughs.



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He gains a reputation apart from his husband soon enough. A figure on the sharp form of the Blackbird, the ship itself cutting through the waves with the same precision as a sharp blade through flesh. Those who came close enough to view him under moonlight caught glimpses of storm weathered skin and eyes blue as the brightest lightning before the quick bite of steel finally took them. Ships would be left burning in his wake, left as empty charred carcasses warning of a new power on the high seas. He'd move through them, body alight and lit by the fire licking up the deck, slicing into bodies that had no idea what hit them even as they bled out into the ashes beneath them.

This, he would think as he breathed in the hot humid air of a vessel on fire, this was freedom. He'd been gifted it, earned it through blood and steel. Sharp eyes watch over the violence with a clinical, detached care as the hand around his sword tightened, poking at bodies to test if they were truly gone. Nothing was left behind; rumors had already begun to spread of the Blackbird and his potential involvement, some even trying to link his sudden appearance to the lost McKay heir from years ago.

Best to just silence any potential leaks, he thinks. His sword pulls from a now still corpse, blade coated in a slick patina of thick red blood and various organs. A flick of his wrist, and the larger chunks fall to the deck of the ship.  


"That's the last of it, captain. Everything is on board, I'd give this ship only a few minutes 'fore she snaps."


He nods, turning from the burning carnage now behind him. His dark navy coat catches a breeze, flaring behind him as crisp leather booted steps carry him across the blood slick boards. A high shrill whistle echoes over the still open water and a moment later, a dark storm petrel lights on his shoulder as he walks towards where the rope to his own ship waits.


"Let's be off then."


With one hand hand fisted in the rope held over the side while the other stays loosely braced against the dark wood of his ship, he watches as they pull away from the ship now snapped in two. The halves are still burning as they sink low beneath the waves, the company symbol on the side slowly battered by waves.


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The ship they’ve been tasked with this time is nothing entirely special. It’s large, larger than the Blackbird, but they have the advantage of both speed, savagery, and the cover of night. All of which they know how to use to their advantage. Lazarus stands at the front with his second in command, appraising the long line of the ship against the steady shine of both the moon and the water below. It’s not a McKay ship, there’s no need to raze the thing to the ground, but they will be leaving with most of whatever the freighter carries as cargo. He means it to be quick and painless as he plans to meet with Sam soon enough back in the cove. Any dalliance here means less time together for the first time in about a year. He’s not chancing it.

“I need what they have on this ship. Collateral is granted, though not in excess. You have an hour before we leave, do I make myself clear?” His voice is low in the clear night air.  Beside him, the first mate nods. He knows the limits here, the routine. Lazarus trusts him to know exactly what he needs done and then some.


“Clear, sir. I’ll ready the men.” The man has the gall to wink at him then. “We’ll get you back in plenty of time.”


He’d have rolled his eyes had the man not turned by then to ready the crew. Energy snaps across the deck of the ship below him, his crew slowly rousing themselves to readiness, their weapons flashing in the low moonlight. Closer now, what lamps they had shudder and fade out. Blanketed in total darkness, they pull up alongside the large freighter and with a smooth motion from Lazarus still at the helm, the crew moves as one across ropes and up to the open wooden deck opposite them.

His figure at the helm of their ship cuts a severe figure. A light breeze catches the edges of his thick coat, tousles his now bone white hair as it rolls past. Bright eyes flash in the dark, like a storm rolling in. He can taste it almost in the air, the anticipation, the violent tension waiting to snap as his men climb to the top. Even now, years later, it still thrums electric in his blood.

In the cool, wet dark where no one might see him, he allows a small turn of his lips. An offering to lady fate for smiling on him so kindly all that time ago.


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Below deck, the door to the bunk room slams open, throwing all the sleepers in their hammocks awake. They grumble at the newcomer for only a moment before the sounds of battle filter down through the planks above them. One head pops up from a hammock higher up, wide eyes and willowy body looking tense as someone's shouts filter down to them.


“Pirates.” the panicked crew member says to the half awake room. Then, quieter, as if the name alone is enough to bring one of them to the room. “Blackbird.”

Father had always said having a woman on board was asking for rotten luck.

Granted, he wasn’t a sailor, not that she knew, at least. Of course, what she knew was that he crossed the channel to Mother, fathered two children, and made his way back to God knows where. A lawyer by profession, and yet a jack of all trades in the sense that he had strange skills that the girl questioned as the years went on. But no, not a sailor. Yet, their close proximity to the docks of La Rochelle, the shipments coming in from the farthest reaches of the world, allowed her father to gleam the tastiest tidbits of superstition. According to the weathered men with their clay pipes and sun stained skin, many things would bring about bad luck on the sea- re-naming a vessel was one of them, whistling was another, throwing fishing nets had to have some certain ritual to it. But, the worst one could do was agreed upon. To bring a woman would surely invite malice onto the ship. Supposedly, she remembered ruefully, the mere appearance of the opposite sex was enough to distract sailors and incite the wrath of the sea itself. These stories had not been lost on her before, and now, rocking in a holey hammock to the swell around them, she remembered them still. And while no misfortune had befallen her or the rest of the crew, she felt as if it were merely accumulating, soon to crash down them like the mightiest wave in a maelstrom.

Of course, the crew had been none the wiser. If she had known that she had no reason to worry all those years ago, had known the true stupidity of her crewmates, perhaps she would have been able to rise above her current station. No, she reasoned, her body tightening up slightly around herself, her hammock mate’s back shifting with his ragged breath, it was better she did not call attention to herself. Which she hasn’t, over her past couple of years of work. She grimaced at the thought of when she was first picked up, her hair newly shorn, her chest tightly bound. How air seemed trapped in a cage between her ribs as she ran deck to deck, while the bo’sun bellowed above. And yet, it was better than the alternative. It was either that or a marriage that would leave her soul unfulfilled and her mind under-utilized. Amongst the trouble her father left her family, the most egregious thing he left her was a mind that had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He had told her, taught her, everything he knew before he up and left. Lessons about watching and listening, picking pieces of conversation, and stringing it together. To pull language into her keen ear and make it make sense, to use a pen as ferociously as a dagger. Her father had gotten her into helping out various vendors from every corner of the world, learning their tongue, and insisting to read their books in their language. He had done the worst he could do for their current time- inspired a young lady to become rabid for something that would not be attainable at her class and station. It was truly a tragedy, and a horrid waste if she had just gone to marry a carpenter or a fisherman. Her mind would rot like a vegetable, her hands darning socks until her thoughts melted to gruel. Such a future was unacceptable.

And so. In an act that could only be called brilliant buffoonery, Noelle Carole Marie Scott was turned to Nathaniel Dupree. She had done her thorough research years prior, watching those sailor boys swagger their hips to the nearest open bosom and flowing tap. She heard how they spoke, how loose their lips were with words as they wrapped their tongues around them. The dank smell that followed them. She had plucked a mud-stained shirt and dusty breeches from some poor woman’s laundry, using some needle and thread to bring them in just so, to emphasize just how rectangular her body was. Once she had bound herself to the point of pain and stuffed a stocking down her front, she made her way to the docks, pacing herself to her new walk.

They assumed she was so much younger due to her thin frame and slight features, she knew this now. This was before she grew a foot or two, unto the willowy form she found herself in now, she had all the looks of a young master of twelve. She had been quite nervous to be sniffed out by the bo’sun, a man with gristle and scars across his cheek. A solid block of a man, one made of muscle and experienced that was packed like bricks. The man who had looked at her with such scrutiny when they did their drills, bellowing for them to go faster, to get their legs moving if they want hope to fill their bellies. Running deck to deck, tying knots, climbing the rigging, there was not an inch of the ship that they had become acquainted with. In fact, she had taken a chance to find nooks and crannies and shortcuts, putting her ahead of the other boys. They would be trying to pass the burly crewmen, while she had escaped between wood planks, hopping between platforms. Each time she passed, she got faster and faster.

Then came the questions.

“Who can read an’ write?”

Noelle remembers only feeling her head nod as her consciousness left for a moment, the other boys in their group of two dozen turning to her. One or two others raised their hands, as the bo’sun looked over them, before continuing.

“French and English?”

She kept her gaze even as she nodded again, and the man rounded back on her. She could not only smell his stench but feel it permeate the air, almost rendering it unbreathable. The breath in her chest stayed as she waited, only to realize that he had been waiting for her to elaborate, explain where she received this knowledge.

“J'écris seulement un peu d'anglais, monsieur” She lied in a soft murmur, finally casting her eyes at the floor. A large lie, considering that her father not only taught her his native tongue, but also insisted from a young age she read books of their original translations, and listen to the men at the market speak in their own languages. This lead to quick absorption of speech, the ability to write and read many, and speak a few more than she let the bo’sun on. It was important not to draw too much attention.

The next questions were regular- health, aptitude, family history, etc. Of course, she had the sense that most of the boys lied, but she also had the sinking suspicion that the bo’sun could tell by their shaky hands and stammers. But, eventually, questions were dropped, and they were asked to line up, tallest to shortest. Noelle, once again, found herself smack in the middle, praying that her seemingly slightly above average cleverness was enough to bring her in. They picked five of the pack of boys, Captain Dunlap coming over to hand select them directly after a couple of whispers from the bo’sun. Noelle knew she had been chosen, read his lips, saw him move his mouth to her chosen name, feeling his eyes shift. Relief washed over her, which quickly stiffened up to something much more fierce.

5 chosen, 20 went away. Once the captain went back to his duties, the bo’sun announced with that cold, dead gaze that they would live in tandem until they rose ranks- work together, eat together, sleep together, bathe together. Trust one another like no other, become a band of brothers. Noelle, years later, still tightened up in her hammock, remembering the feeling of ringing in her head, a herald to mistrust that she still listened to. Because, looking at the others, she knew it would only end poorly one day.

First, after her, called was Mullard. English boy, a big mass of one too. He was barrel-chested, and the sun had brought out an angry red pallor that, honestly, made him seem more hog-ish than he intended. He made the bold decision to shave himself bald at the age of 15, when he had been brought on board, only to tattoo some cockamamie chicken at the back of his neck. Noelle suspected that before his current employment, he was an apprentice to a butcher. Years later, this would be confirmed in a rumor that he had been disgracefully discharged from his position, how the boy would maim and mutilate those animals that came in for slaughter to where they were no longer useable. That bloodlust was now quenched by beating down on the smaller boys if he could catch them. He was dense not only in body, mind you, and a couple of boys escaped his pink, fleshy fist by piloting his brain.

Namely, Richardson. Also English, he had the air about him that reeked of wealth, smug as they come when they have that origin. Had the type of visage that made Noelle believe that, up until recent employment, Richardson used to solve all the world’s problems, but, alas, he found himself among the bilge rats and cabin boys. However, he was the one with the surprising intellect, usually using it to direct Mullard’s blows. Swarmy thing he was too, this Richardson. Tan skin without blemish, kissed golden by the sun, hair that was thick and yellow when the light caught it. Toned muscles grew after the years and a smile that hid malice.

To complete the trifecta was Le Furet, and the only other fellow Frenchman, Noelle reminded herself with a grimace. The name fit, a weasly little boy with greasy chestnut hair that was grimier than Cook’s, and sallow skin that seemed to sink, even though he was the ripe old age of sixteen. His stench followed him, but he likened himself to espionage, giving Richardson tidbits of what he had heard from the fellow crew, so the man in charge could be at the right place at the right time. Le Furet was the reason the poor girl had to check every plank of wood for a spy hole whenever she had to take a piss.

Rounding out the hires was poor Jenkins. Skin dark as coal and small as a lamb, Noelle endeared herself to the young boy. He was the youngest, maybe about 11, and he was putting on a brave face, even then. But she knew he was missing his mama, missing her hard. Noelle did her best to comfort, landed herself a bunk with the poor thing, and quickly found out the poor boy’s parents had passed a week prior and it was this or begging in the streets. They had made a life for themselves on the docks that Noelle had found herself wandering since her father’s departure. They had figured out a trade with some of the sailors, began to sell things at the market. And although Jenkins’ French was far superior to the other boys, the kid was from somewhere else entirely. Spain, perhaps, but she found he didn’t quite remember it right. Noelle had endeared herself to the wee ones, but she often found herself staring at the boy and missing her sister terribly. She had to be a little younger than Jenkins, but Joy would have been sure not to let those bullies go after her. Noelle wondered what hijinks her sister was getting into, and her heart sank as she began to wonder what her mother and sister thought had happened to her. She had left a note, of course, but. It had been years.

No time for that now.

Now, Jenkins was rising on his 14th but still huddled next to the girl in the hammock. Noelle adjusted once more, trying not to wake the sorry lad, but her leg had fallen asleep so long ago that she needed to circulate it. And with her, the boy shifted his weight so the small of his back now hit her knee on her impossibly thin, bird-like legs. It had been an ordinary voyage thus far- finding themselves across the ocean weren’t too bad on her nerves now. The first time they took off, she had convinced herself that they were gonna find out her little secret and toss her to the fish, but after time passed, she realized that these men were just as stupid as the rest. For their current journey, the honorable Captain Dunlap had them shipping some sort of goods to the Americas, and they were days in at this point. She should get some sleep, they had an early morning of chores. Just as she closed her eyes for a wink, the door nearly flew off its hinges. Scuffs of metal and distant shouting filled the room. The energy shifted as everyone, Noelle included, began to look to the racket.

“Pirates.”

Interest piqued. In all her years, she had never experienced a true capture. Sure, they had been close, even fired at some, but they never got on board. However, the distant shouting and clattering was enough evidence to make her poke her head out. It was exciting, to say the least, but she never knew her fellow crewmen to back down from challenges. Hell, she saw many scuffles from the pent up aggression those types of men had for whatever reason. Perhaps this will be an easy battle, one to distract Richardson and his thugs for long enough to satiate their taste for violence. She found herself thinking, maybe she could just hide in her hammock until it was over, she could hear everything from here anyways. Get a little lie in the next morning too-

“Blackbird.”

Well.

“Merde.” She mumbled as she tumbled out of bed with the others, bare feet slapping the wood as the others followed. Blackbird was a bad sign, they all knew it. Wasn’t like the bandits they’ve scared off before, oh no, the Blackbird was a part of a much larger fleet that burned any ship they didn’t collect. Noelle pulled her bag from the hammock, some old leather satchel she had a good sense of bringing when she left home. She began to stuff her hand in, finally grabbing her sash and set of daggers- a find from Haiti that she pocketed when the idiotic shopkeep wasn’t looking. Beautiful pieces, they were, with mother of pearl butt, smooth stone for the handle. Perfectly balanced, as such a dagger should be. She clutched one tight, thinking about her next move, before reaching into the bag once more, before feeling the cool of a glass vial. She pulls it out quickly, the little bottle containing some viscous black goo, put on a loop of string. Another thing of her own concoction from some vile ingredients she found in the kitchen, as well as a concentrate of octopus ink. She quickly threw the loop over her neck, tucking the glass into her shirt, knowing that, if she would have to fight her way out, it would give a nasty sting with a slash from her daggers, but she hoped it would not come to that.

She hadn’t seen Jenkins move from the hammock, but she heard the clatter as he began to dig through his own things. And, without a doubt otherwise, he pulled a chain of beads from his pocket. Noelle, nor her family, had never been religious in the sense that she had seen the boy kneel and pray. In the morning, before meals, before bed, and especially Sundays, he clutched that little rosary and would murmur so soft the prayers that Noelle had heard from the Vicor at Mass. But, at this time, she felt her lips purse, as she knew that their window for action was growing smaller with each second. Especially, with the thud of weight she heard behind them, Richardson’s gang were right behind them.

“St. Elmo, pray f’us. St. Christ'pher, pray f’us. Glory be ta’the Father, the Son, an’ the Holy Spiri’, may the-”

“Fat lotta luck that’s gonna do, Jenkins.” Richardson sneered, kicking over the smaller boy. The two behind him, the big one and the smaller, gave buffonish laughs, waiting for their leader to sic them on the poor child. “Blackbird’s charred every boat she come ‘cross. Ain’t no prayin’ that’ll get yous outta this mess, boy. Only better hope that the cap takes you on and don’ leave ya f’dust. ‘Course, don’ know why he’d take one like you.”

But Jenkins grip on his rosary tightened, his head bowed in fervent prayer. He continued on those Glory be’s, right until Richardson gave a grunt, and Mullard stomped forward. It was slow, but powerful, as he picked the boy up from the back of his shirt, and lifted him far off the ground. Jenkins let out a yelp, but it was swallowed by the chaos around them. Noelle knew this, Richardson knew this- no one was going to worry about the scrawny runt of the crew when everything was about to be up in flames in a matter of minutes. Jenkins began to whine as the big man shook him, the prayer beads falling and scattering on the floor. With another THUNK, Jenkins was thrown to the side, while the boys began their way through the door laughing.

“Stay outta our way, toad. We got somethin’ to prove to them pirates’

And they were gone. Noelle used the time to swiftly step around the post. The poor boy was sniveling on the ground, trying to collect those beads that had snapped and rolled all underneath them. She helped him corral them back into his hands, quickly, before placing her hands on his arms, grasping tightly, looking at him straight on.

“Jenkins, listen to me. Listen, there aren’t too many options of what’ll happen to us cabin boys. We either get captured, brought on, stowaway or go down with the ship. There isn’t too much time, but- Look at me!”

Her hands traveled down, meeting his much smaller, darker hands. They were shaking something terrible, the thick beads threatening to spill again. Long nimble fingers curled to stead them, trapping the rosary bites, and looking up at the boy’s face. Wide brown eyes meet one another as she nods curtly.

“I don’t like the sound of capture. Or dyin’. And they aren’t like to let us on when you got those brutes causing a ruckus. The best bet is, for now, to pack up some bare necessities and hideaway in cargo. You’re small, we’re both clever, too clever for anyone on board, right?”

The boy, still looking a little shocked, shook his head slowly, his lips moving in words that had no sound. Noelle took this a moment to squeeze his hands, willing every bit of strength into his tiny body. “You will go to the kitchens. Sneak some food. I will grab us some water, some rum, we will meet at the Quarter Deck as soon as your able, alright? I am not leaving without you, Mateo Jenkins, I will drag you off this ship, so help me, I swear! Give me fifteen minutes, grab what you can. And here-”

She carefully, but firmly, took his hands and dropped the strings and beads in her satchel. His eyes fell from her face, and followed the motion, letting them run through his fingers, before withdrawing. Noelle placed her hands back on the ground as she pulled herself up, offering a hand to the much younger boy

“Let me carry those for a bit, boy.”
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She had stepped over so many bodies.

Somewhere unconscious, some were unmistakably dead. The amount of blood soaking through the floor made her gag when she hurried down to the storeroom, almost slipping over herself in it, spilling into it. She recognized most of the men- the quartermaster, the cooks, even the bo’sun. He was surrounded by blood, his stomach spilled over like a fish who had been gutted. She wasn’t sure it was him- he had been quite the fierce man, always quick with a lashing of whip or tongue. Noelle remembered him once telling her that he had a wife back in France, that she would be waiting for him, waiting to hear he had been true. And while the rest of the men flew the coop to find comfort and a poke at the shore, he would stay steadfast and head to the post, to send a letter. She wondered if his wife would ever know what had happened, that her husband had stayed loyal, and met death and the end of a pirate’s sword. Would she wait to hear the word, only to find out the ship had simply vanished?

Noelle stayed at the spot, giving a soft murmur of prayer from some long-forgotten time, before sweeping her hands over his eyes, closing them once and for all. It was a kindness she could afford- despite his gruffness, despite his cruelty at times, he had hired her. And he had kept the boys off her back some of the time. And he certainly did not deserve this end.

After that, she quickly made herself up ladders and stairs, the bottles of rum jostling in her bag. She stayed clear of most of the fighting. At one time, she had been grabbed but did not look to see if it were her fellow crew or one of the nasty invaders. She did, however, deliver a swift kick and stomp, before speeding away, up towards the Quarter Deck. In what was mere minutes, she found herself at the meetup spot, clutching her chest to catch her breath, before looking at the carnage below.

If a man did not have a weapon, he was on the ground dead. Cannons shot, the ship rumbling beneath her now- it was strange, it must have started just then because she swore she had not heard it before. Planks were laid between vessels, while men scurried over, or swinging by ropes. She figured the walking over should be fine, amongst the chaos, no one would notice. Lord, and then they would go deep into the bowels, behind crates, until they made land. It might take days, weeks, but it was a risk they needed to take. With the bo’sun dead, the other boys gone feral, and the captain nowhere to be seen, there was no hope here. Her luck had run up, into a glorious climax that she was sure someone would sing about one day.

“Nathanial! I found all sorts of things for us, here open you-”

There was a bloodcurdling scream, one her ears pinpointed in the chaos due to the speaker. She hadn’t seen the action- the slaughter had been quick, poor Jenkins slumping to the floor with a sword in his back, the tomatoes and salted meats spilling from his hands and bouncing overboard. He hit the wood, and, behind him, Noelle could swear she saw a flash of yellow in the moonlight. But she had no time to speculate, as she rushed forward, bringing out her own dagger in case of another strike. She clutched the young child in her lap, pulling him to her as his breath rattling from his lungs.


Noelle placed her hand where he had been struck, gathering the excess from his shirt that was too big for him, and pressing it to the wound. The sword still stuck, but she would not remove it, no that, would be foolish and he would surely bleed out beneath her. Instead, she pressed and winced as he cried even louder, before she murmured softly in that flowery language, they both knew. “It’ll be alright, you see, Jenkins, it must be. You need to keep breathing, you need to keep hold of me, we’ll get you help, just gotta keep-”

Her voice stopped as she felt footprints draw closer. Her head snapped up, freehand reaching for her dagger, ready to strick, ready to grab the vial around her neck and make it painful for whoever did this to the innocent dying in her lap. But the knife clattered to the floor as she found herself before the Captain. But it wasn’t Dunlap. No, this man was slight, this man had puffs of hair white as snow, this man had eyes the color of lightning. Noelle felt her stomach tighten in fear, as she wisely hit the planks beneath her, clutching the much smaller boy to her side. She huddled around Jenkins, looking up at the man, with fire in his eyes, trying to soften hers as much as possible.

This was their only hope now.

“He's dying, sir! Do what you will to the others, but don't let le petit die.”

He had stood sentinel from his spot on the upper deck, watching as his men worked their way through the ship with trained, calculated efficiency. ‘Just what he had wanted,’ he thinks to himself. No dalliances, no complications, only the quick, surgical precision he had hoped they would see fit to deliver day after day. His crew was rather… adequate, as he had told Sam time after time in his letters when the man had asked him how the crew had fared and was treating him. ‘High praise,’ Sam had written back, and it truly was. It had taken him a long while to warm even slightly to the rag tag group, some more than most, and yet here they were, shuffling back on deck with what he wanted and then some. Crates of all kinds moved across planks set between the two of their ships with an easy efficiency, as well as a few extra acquisitions that had him raising a brow.

Three young men trailed behind one of his crew members: one large and wide, hair shorn short and looking about at his crew like he were sizing each of them up; one of them rail thin and looking more wet than even a ship on the high seas should allow; and one of them bright, put together, hair the color of sunflowers and a way of holding himself that hit something kept low inside Lazarus himself. It rubbed uncomfortably at old wounds; he recognized that stance as belonging to someone used to both money and others to throw it at. Here was the leader of the other two and were he of a mind to do  anything other than set off towards where he knew his husband would be, he would be down and sorting them into a role that would have them watched constantly. As it were, however....

Footsteps louder than they would be in any other situation climb the stairs behind him. “Ship is clear if you like, sir.” His second, Molly, falls into step once more at his side. A man in his mid-thirties, Molly had been the name he’d given Sam when they first pulled him aboard and he hadn’t given anything different since.


(Lazarus had asked once two bottles of wine into a case; the look Molly had given the ceiling had been a bitter kind of wistful. “Ah,” he’d hummed as lithe fingers swirled the glass of wine in his hand. “Took it from my sister, may she rest in peace.” He’d held a hand up in the middle of Lazarus’s condolences and laughed without an ounce of humor. “Oh she’s not dead save to me. Married a bastard of a navy man, she did. I’ll do more with her name than she ever will.”)


Indigo shirt half open and wide enough to expose his collarbones only to be covered by a large, patchwork scarf, Molly’s always cut a strange silhouette for a pirate. Deep chestnut brown waves stick in slick lines down the darkly tanned line of his neck. He makes a half hearted attempt to brush them out of the way, but Lazarus knows that he’ll be found later styling them once more in the very particular way he likes. It’s half the reason he enjoys Molly’s company so much; he appreciates a little vanity in a companion. Something drips slowly from the curved blade of the sword in his hand to the deck. Lazarus has heard it from his own sword often enough to know what it is, enough that it hardly warrants comment. There are other items to discuss, more pressing issues.


“Mmm. And what of the three you’ve brought?”


“Not me sir, others brought them aboard. They were…” he sighs, the earrings hung from his ears chiming with the dip of his head. Good then, Lazarus thinks. He sees it too. “Persistent. I know traditionally we frown upon, well.” he palms the sword at his side. “You know, to kids. But…” He shrugs.


“Well, sort them. I trust you know where.”


“‘Course, Captain.” He nods. “And you? Feeling a bit of a walkabout?” When Lazarus nods, Molly continues. “Fancy company? I know you’re wanting to head out as soon as possible.”


Lazarus considers it. He normally prefers such time to himself just to ensure for himself that there truly is no one left alive on these ships, and yet. It truly would save precious minutes. Supposing he trusts Molly enough, it’s a solid option.


He finally nods. “Fine. Any delays though, and I’m leaving you.”


“You wouldn’t.” Molly laughs, smile bright even in the lowlight of torchlight and the stars above them.


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Together they walk side by side down the stairs and towards the planks between the ships. He can feel the eyes of the new boys on them even as the crew parts easily around them. Molly busies himself with sharing a few orders here and there, tossing out last minute instructions for the cargo being loaded in while Lazarus merely sets his eyes forward towards the ship about to catch flame. Another in their long line of conquests, another for the papers to speculate on, another fire to fuel the rumors. He sighs as they step onto the blood-soaked deck empty of any living soul.

It’s a mess, as it always is. Cold eyes take in the sight around him with his usual indifference; these were sailors who knew the risk in traveling their seas, they had a goal same as his crew. What occurred was merely… a clash of ideals. Blue eyes hardly blink as his sword cuts across the throat of a body still burbling prayers to some god. He moves from body to body, silencing the ones that still choked on their own blood or hadn’t yet wheezed out their last breath. An act of mercy, he thinks. Better to die quick by steel than slow in the kindling of their former ship. Despite the size of the ship and the rush that he’s in, it’s the same walk it usually is save for the far off humming of his first mate that he can hear over the soft slapping of waves against the still whole sides of the ship.  Entirely usual that is, until he spots them.

A boy caught in the fire lit glare of his own too bright eyes. Tall, willowy, too thin for what he had assumed to be a prosperous trading vessel and almost certainly older than his weight and wide eyes would have him assume, he had seemed primed to attack until catching sight of him. Pity, he liked a bit of spirit. Curled as he was now, he was almost too pitiful to put out of his misery. One hand tightens around the handle of his sword as he thinks over whether or not to bring him aboard.


“He's dying, sir! Do what you will to the others, but don't let le petit die.”


That stops him. French and English, his mind idly supplies before truly cutting back to the heart of the plea. He looks again, and the boy isn’t just huddled on the floor; he’s wrapped around a younger boy who can’t be much older than maybe early teens. He’s so small, Lazarus thinks as he looks down at the two of them. There’s red soaking through the white cotton of his overly large shirt. Quite an alarming bit of red. Curse this, he thinks with a frustrated grimace. Curse everything that soured this stop so quickly. He’s going to be late to meet his husband and these children are the unfortunate cause of it.


“Molly!” he barks, the command echoing like gunfire across the empty expanse of the ship. Molly is in view almost immediately, gaze furrowed in confusion. It widens only slightly when he catches sight of the two figures huddled at his captain’s feet before steeling into the hardened obedience that had earned him the position he was in in the first place.  “Get me Tobias.”


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Tobias finishes setting down the most recent crate in their hold. ‘Really,’ he thought as one large hand wiped sweaty curls back from his face. ‘They e’en need all this stuff?’ It was certainly a lot, but he could hardly complain as long as the job kept him out of the boarding party. Not that they would waste him in combat anyway, big as he was. He didn’t look the part of a medical man: broad shouldered and tall in stature like his father, thick arms that could rival even the more senior sailors on crew, curly hair that lay in a frizzy halo around his head, grey eyes sharp as the captain’s own sword, and only a baggy pair of pants held in place by a sash at his waist. The sun had carved freckles across both his face and shoulders, trailed them down a broad, bare chest. He looked more built for rigging and lifting than doctoring, yet there was a reason he was transferred here to one of the Rot’s ships. Kaz had been going on about retiring for long enough that the council had finally started to look for a replacement and as one of the few in their ranks with any interest in the medical field, he had been plunked here in the heart of the Atlantic where trade was just as plentiful as the amount of wounded he had to patch up.

They just wouldn’t stop fighting, he thinks as he huffs to himself. All of them, all the time. Deep gashes, broken bones, blood loss, concussions; he had seen a little bit of everything in his time here on the Blackbird. Thought that this stop would have gone without use of his services, from the way he hadn’t been hassled while organizing cargo. And yet….


“Tobias!” Molly’s voice rings out topside. There’s a strange, urgent edge to it that he’s come to recognize. That edge has him chucking the latest crate to the floor with little caution, has him climbing up to the deck and calling back towards the first mate.


“Molly? Who need me?”


Molly’s head twists towards him with an almost relieved smile as his hand motions him closer and towards the gangplanks. “Tobias, sorry to interrupt. We’ve got use of you if you don’t terribly mind.”

“Don’t see that I got much’a choice.” He grumbles back, eyes tracking the planks warily. Molly knows him, has a hand on his arm the entire way and only lets off the moment they’re on the other ship. Not that the man could really do much, Tobi’s got more than twice on the first mate weight wise, but it’s grounding enough to get him across.


Molly pats his arm soothingly. “Oh you always have a choice, lad. It’s just that one of the options gets you overboard.” It’s enough to startle an amused snort out of Tobi.


“‘Spose so. Now where they…” his sharp grey eyes cast over the expanse of the deck before he catches the sharp form of the captain. He’s standing same as he always does, posture ramrod stiff, elegant as a fancy board, but them two forms down at his feet… Tobi breaks from Molly’s grip to close the gap between him and what he now realizes are three people including his captain. Heavy knees hit the deck with a hard thud just in front of the two of them, eyes already assessing.


One older, whipcord build, ain’t seem hurt save for the look in his eyes. The little one though… He turns back towards his captain, murder in his eyes.


“If I hear you the one that did this…” The threat boils low in his throat. “Sam’ll be havin’ t’plan one hell of a day with both yer funeral an’ my hangin’ fer treason.”


“They were here when I found them, Tobias. My blade is clean.” Lazarus offers in a low tone both conciliatory and chiding. Were it anyone else on ship in any other circumstance, he wouldn’t have let it go by as easily as it had. “I don’t like it much more than you do.”

“Well there ain’t much I can do here,” he says softer even as he shoves the willowy boy’s hands out of the way to bandage the wound as best he can for the moment with the shirt already stained red with blood. “I’m gonna need’em both back on ship. Molly,” he huffs loudly. Already, he’s gingerly gathering the dark skinned boy into his large arms, careful not to agitate the wound anymore than it already is. “Clear a path. Anyone get in my way, I ain’t responsible fer what happens, y’hear?”


“Crystal.”


“Right.” He huffs, then softer to the boy in his arms. “C’mon, you. I ain’t e’en get a name yet, you ain’t leavin’ so easy.”

Cold droplets fell to her forehead when the infamous Pirate Captain lorded above her. She had heard rumors of the fabled man, of who he was years prior. It had been all through the docks as gossip, spreading like the fire that had caught the ship and the others after it. Her grip tightened around the bundled up cotton, holding it to the wound as thick blood gushed through the fibers and onto her hands. Her stained fingertips pressed, pressed, pressed into the gushing gash, while the boy twitched beneath her, as her eyes stayed steady on the Captain, watching his fingers twitch to the butt of his handle, the thought dancing across his wisened face. But, ultimately, she stayed huddled to the boy, holding him in place and tightly to her lap. The pirate barked for someone, and another one of his brood appeared from the steps. Noelle stiffened and covered the boy more, hoping, desperately praying that if she were to die, she went quickly. The man in question was strange for a pirate- gone were dark colors, reds, and blacks one would associate with the type, but a deep, passionate purple. And a scarf seemed to be cobbled together by whatever fabric had been nearby. It was quite flamboyant, something that Noelle would see at those ports in the Caribbean, all brightly colored and many textured. It was completely decadent and utterly tasteless, she thought bitterly as she sat with the dying boy in her arms.

More talking, telling the man to grab someone, a Tobias. She began to wildly speculate to who this man would be, what her fate would hold. The fighting had stilled, the ones left struggling to breathe were no longer sputtering. Shouts had also stilled and the sound of clashing swords was only accompanied by far-off laughs. The night was quiet, besides the slapping of the sea and the sound of rain. A thunderclap slammed in the distance, signaling a nearby storm that would hit soon. They wouldn’t have much time to start the ship aflame. She stayed still, murmuring something between languages to the boy beneath her, little affirmations, telling him to keep breathing, damnit, stay wake, keep his eyes open, he won’t be any use dead. She didn’t stop when she heard more footsteps approach, even with how heavy they were. If this truly is the end, if the rumors of the Blackbird proved true, she found herself back in the fear of being lost at sea. She had spent years of her suddenly short life worrying, probably lost a decade from the very worry, for a secret that, if this were truly the end, did not matter. They would gut her like the bo’sun, a life left unfulfilled and surrounded by people who didn’t truly understand. Her mother would wait staunch at her window, like the bo’sun’s widow. Her sister would wait for her return, one she had idly thought that would come after earning enough for a living, and she would never come to see her face. Her eyes pricked with long denied tears, tears that weren’t allowed to fall for years, while she bowed her head down to meet the boy’s forehead. Lips brush his tightly coiled hair in a brotherly kiss, the tears thankfully lost in the rain. Jenkin’s didn’t need to know in his final moments that she was cryin’ like a babe.

There is talking, words as sharp as a blade piercing the air, about who would have done such a thing. Noelle turned her head to follow the conversation, the captain claiming that they were found this way, that he wasn’t pleased with what they found. There is a thunk as knees hit the ground beside her and she finally looks up to see the man that they have called.


“Well there ain’t much I can do here”

Firm hands push her from the boy's back. She lets out a sound, some curse in some language she had picked up before as she whipped her head up to meet the gaze of the man. They start with course fingers, up bare freckled arms that were as thick as tree branches, up to a bare chest. The man was only wearing a sash and pants and Noelle found herself staring at the broad muscle across his chest. Perhaps days later, she would find time to stare at his form and memorize the form of this absolute bear of a man She would find patterns in his scars and freckles, follow each strand of hair in those braids. But, for now, she was worried about what this man’s intentions were with her young friend. A sound escapes her lips as those palms bundle and tighten the shirt, holding it to the wound while the boy coughs and shakes, weakly. Noelle brings her fingers to her face to wipe away the rain and tears, without thinking and stains her cheek with red as she watches her boy be brought into the arms of this absolute bête. She stands with the man, looking at the fearsome captain in those intense blues, a blue that was brighter than any ocean she had ever seen. The larger man said they were both going onto the ship- and she was not going to let the boy out of her sight.

The man hefted the boy, cradled him close in his arms. Jenkins was truly childlike, as his legs were curled and crumpled into a tight, compact swaddle. She heard some soft murmurs to the boy, and her insides twisted as she looked between the captain, the medic, and the strange man in the scarf. More talking, more damn talking, before la bête finally began to move forward, the silly man in the bright colors clearing the way. Noelle didn’t even bother looking at the captain before pursuing behind. He did say he needed both of them on the ship, who was she to disobey orders.

“Jenkins. His name is Jenkins. And mine is Dupree.” She speaks loudly but her voice shakes as the French fell out, fully aware that the strange accent from the man was decidedly NOT French. She quickly shook her head and repeated

“He is Jenkins, sir. And you can call me Dupree. Nathaniel Dupree.” She quickly followed, walking swiftly to match his pace. Her accent was thick to his ears, just as thick as his was to hers. “Sir, I must ask you allow me with him.”

“He is Jenkins, sir. And you can call me Dupree. Nathaniel Dupree.” She quickly followed, walking swiftly to match his pace. Her accent was thick to his ears, just as thick as his was to hers. “Sir, I must ask you allow me with him.”


That willowy boy was sticking to his side like some unfortunate burr he might have picked up once from higher in the mountains. All bones that one were, all bones and language that don’t quite sit right in his head until he repeats it again in an accent too soft but words more familiar. He wants to follow him with what he now knows is a Jenkins in his arms. That’s not gonna do.

“No sir.” He grumbles. His heavy footfalls ring out across the deck of the ship as he crosses it, bare feet against slick wood. Molly leads the lot of them over the planks between ships with almost feather light steps, his voice breaking above the chatter on their own to part a line for him. There’s no hand on his arm this time around, but there is a sense of purpose burning low in the back of his mind as well as a boy bundled in his arms; the sea beneath him hardly seems to matter. The sapling of a man at his side sticks to him in spite of what he's said though and he groans as he realizes this one is going to be a tough one to shake.

“I ain’t needin’ any distractions in my way.” The words come out in a near growl. Bad as his ears are, he can just barely hear the soft footfalls and quiet clanking of metal from the captain behind him. There’s a soft fluttering of fabric from a coat arm raised and he can feel the rising heat behind him as the order signalled is carried out. He huffs at the man at his side. “You jus’ gonna fret an’ titter ‘till I see fit t’throw you out.”

The bright mess that is the first mate holds open the door that leads lower and motions to them with a bit more flourish than is probably necessary considering the task Tobi is about to do. “Anything else?”

“Nah, Molly, jus’ keep ‘em all away a bit. This one gonna take a hot minute.” He clicks his tongue and gives the boy, Dupree, a sideways glance before heading deeper below deck. Molly gives Dupree a once over, dark amber eyes flicking over his gangly form. There’s no words from him, only a quiet acknowledgement before he moves smoothly away back across the deck. He knows the look there, sees it in some of the men when one they're close to finds themselves in Tobias's quarters. It's a determination, a burning resolve that crests higher the longer they’re kept apart.


'Apologies', he thinks towards Tobi now lower beneath. 'The rest I can keep, but that one stays with you.' Good for it too, he already has enough on his plate as it is.


His voice rings out clear above the others as it directs the crew away from the burning carnage of the other vessel and towards their eventual destination to meet with the rest of the Rot. Bodies part around him more from his own seamless familiarity with the rhythm of this ship than any sort of overabundance of respect. The men know him, have seen him two sheets to the wind with his fingers strumming a well tuned guitar and voice crooning purposefully bad shanties as often as they've seen him tear through enemy combatants. Molly spares a laugh as he leans forward onto the polished wood of the ship railing. There's one long moment he spends there with the noise of the ship behind him and the sea spread out in front, one moment he spends watching the bright flames lick across the form of the boat fading in the distance. Thunder rolls in the distance; the sound washing over him in the same way a coming breeze does, raking through his scarf and hair with the gentle ease of a lover.


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"What did I tell you. I ain’t need some stick thin sailor boy gettin’ his hands all up in my things." Tobi sighs as footsteps follow him into his quarters. They're not entirely his; his room is attached to this one. The low ceilinged wooden room they're in now has two beds pressed against a far wall with shelves full of vials and jars tucked above them. Various dried plants hang in different little bundles around the room, placed so that he doesn't brush against them on a day to day basis. A cabinet off to the side yet within reach holds various tools of his trade, each of them maintained fastidiously by him each night. The low table that takes up the center of the room is covered in a cloth that might once have been white, but now carries reminders of the many bodies that have laid upon it. He sets the boy there briefly, steadies him with a hand before reaching back to the chair behind him for a bottle he had left there earlier in the day.

"Here," he offers the boy once he pops the thing open with his teeth. "Drink." Jenkins manages maybe a swallow before painfully coughing the rest back up. 'Its fine,' he thinks as he throws back a swig of his own. 'Kid that size ain't need much t'dull the senses anyway.' The bottle is set back where it had been, and another jug is picked up along with a bowl. He pours out the clean water and runs his hands through in a quick rinse before setting one broad hand on the handle of the large knife stuck in the kid.

“Y’wanna stay?” He nods at the boy standing still near the door. Sharp grey eyes size him up, find him at least acceptable enough for the task at hand. “Get me them bandages. Needle an’ thread shoul’ be on a shelf above.” he nods past the lad towards a wicker basket full of strips of white cotton. He don’t have time to worry about kicking this stupid shit out, can worry about that later. Right now his focus is on the boy in front of him, the poor kid’s eyes clouded over with equal parts hard liquor and burning pain.


“Ain’t gonna lie,” he rumbles deep and low where only the boy can hear him. His grip tightens. “Yer gonna wish y’took more a’ my moonshine.”


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Lazarus hears the scream above on the deck.


He’s flicking blood from his blade as it filters through the floorboards beneath him, sharp and pained. ‘He’s really got to do something about that particular room’, he thinks idly as he raises the blade to the light of a nearby lantern. Still slick, still needs more of a polish than the sea air and a couple of meaningful flicks will give it. The firelight reflects off it in flickering patterns, illuminates a long line of his face before he moves it back down to his side once more. With any luck, he won’t be needing it for the rest of their current journey.

‘Though,’ he thinks with a grimace. ‘Luck hadn’t necessarily been on their side as of late, what with the stop and the children they had to cart on board. The mess that will be,’ he sighs to himself. The sharp line of him leans against the upper railing, silhouetted by lantern light and the shadowed moon. Lithe fingers grip the bottle of rum Molly had seen fit to leave him that night and raise it to his lips. He can almost taste the salt of the waves plashing against the sides of the ship as they carve through the waves and feel the far off thunder roll through his chest as he drinks.

‘Pity it's just the rum,’ he hums. One of the few drawbacks to sailing; never a fine vintage red.

As she entered the room and the man started whinging at her once more, Noelle couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Were boys really this stupid all the time, even in crisis? There was no scenario where she would leave this innocent with a complete stranger, especially when the attacker could still be at large. Noelle hated that she did not see who had done it, that the motion was too fast for even her quick eyes. It could have been one of the bodies left on the ship before it inevitably went up in flames, one of the bastards left choking on their blood before her presumably new captain slipped them a kindness in death. Of course, she had seen familiar faces on board when she followed Tobias down the deck and into a chamber. And those familiar faces were far from friendly, she realized when she saw the glint of something awful in Richardson’s eye.

Of course, it could have been one of the pirates, but Noelle had a sinking suspicion that if that were the case, that captain and his first mate would slice him to bits, only after L'ours strangled the breath out of them. It was a sign of good fortune that the pirates that they had found, ones that had such infamous rumors following them, drew the line at child-killing. Noelle hoped their perception was low like the sailors she had found herself originally. Perhaps she could pass herself off as a willowy, freakishly tall young boy and be spared herself. A bit morbid, but it was where she was now. Needed to leech any technicality she could prescribe to.

Tobias took her past the crowds, where she heard cheering for the senseless slaughter and violence. Off-key songs of many languages filtered as the large man carried her friend down the stairs, as they begin to move forward once again. She shuddered at what she lost- her captain,  the bo’sun who had hired her, years of work, and tightly clutched anxieties. It all settled strangely in her body, among the worry of the boy that she had in her arms only minutes ago. She began adjusting the bag that she had around her shoulders, grateful for her sense to grab it before she left- who knows what the future held for her and these supplies might be good bartering tools. The bottles she took klinked with her careful and quick feet hurry after the man into a small room. He moved quickly, and Noelle had nary a moment to really notice her surroundings.

Well, the room was small for the ship but larger than any medbay there had been on her last ship. And with so much more supplies- dried plants hang and gave the room a soft, comforting scent. Other than those adornments, there was a cabinet, some tools, a jug, and the table. She noticed the stains on that cloth that had been draped over it. She wondered how many men met their maker staring up at the ceiling above. Her breath seemed stuck in her lungs as Tobias carefully placed the boy down, quickly grabbing a bottle of what she could only assume was very strong alcohol. And it was no surprise, Jenkins sputtered soon after it touched his lips. While rum was commonplace even on their old vessel, the boy never partook. Just didn’t suit his fancy yet, he hadn’t had a chance to develop a taste. Noelle listened as the man spoke something in that gruff accent before picking up the jug and washing his hands. She rushed quickly to the side of the table, carefully wiping the sweat off of the boy's brow, shushing him gently as he gave another whimper, brown eyes glazing over. Her hands went to her satchel, gripping it and tossing it aside. She didn't need anything weighing her down.

“Y’wanna stay? Get me them bandages. Needle an’ thread shoul’ be on a shelf above”

She moved swiftly, turning from him to grab what he asked for. Eyes spotted them quickly in the basket, as she grabbed and made her way back over, only to be met with a scream.

➳➳➳➳➳┄┄※┄┄➳➳➳➳➳

There had been so much blood.

Noelle sat staunch next to the cot, her dark eyes watching the boy next to her, her hands working with a wet rag to try and wring the red stains on her palms. She had forced herself in the room without thinking of the implication- sure, she had a very general sense of what to do in such situations. She had been on a merchant ship filled with rowdy and randy men, first aid had to be applied. Hell, she was familiar with stitches due to one accident with a knife, a pair of broken glasses, and a manatee.

But.

There had been so much blood. How could a boy that small could bleed, and bleed, and BLEED and still be awake to feel the horror of it? Jenkins had screamed, screamed louder still through the leather strap they shoved in his mouth to bite on. He finally passed out once they started the stitches, which Noelle did dutifully under the watchful eye of the bear of a man they had called Tobias. And, she had offered to do the stitches, hoping that her familiar hands would soothe the boy somehow. But, although her stitches were even, although her hands stayed steady, L’ours kept a close eye. The ordeal seemed to affect him in some way unexpectedly. If she were forced to guess, the man was some combination tired and broken from having to fix this kid. Noelle knew the feeling all too well by this hour.

“There.” Noelle huffed, staring at the faded red on her palm. Tobias continued to inspect the result of her nimble fingers and steady hands as she countered and crossed to sit by the boy's face. His brow furrowed as he slept, tightened in the distress he must be feeling. Noelle murmured something that was more for her than the other conscious one in the room ‘It’s alright, little one, it’ll be..’. She falters, Noelle falters. She had some medical knowledge, yes, but she had never seen such a brutal wound before. Her eyes flick up to meet the man’s across the boy between them.

“What… what do you think, la bête? He lost so much…” She lifted her self to lean back in her chair, careful to watch him as she reached down to the satchel sh had cast aside in the chaos. Her hands began to fidget through her bag as she finds the thick wooden beads that had split what felt like days before. She tutted as she tugged on the rope, realizing it had begun to fray and unravel, rendering it almost useless for merely a mending. Well, she had to fix it, she must. The boy would be asking for it, his parents had gifted it before they had left the mortal coil. With her own tired eyes, she looked at the large man once more.

“Do you have any cord?” Her voice was soft, much like before. Once she cleared her throat and continued, it grew with strength. Hands tightened around the fraying rope as she forced herself to look in the man's grey eyes. ” Jenkins.. This was his. I’d like to fix before he wakes up, he’ll be wanting his prayers. He’ll be needing them…”

Experience only carried one so far. Tobias had been a part of many crews in his reluctant career on the sea, this only being the most recent. He’d seen many injuries, cared for wounds he knew in his heart were mortal, lost several on the table he’d had a meal with only hours earlier. He supposed there was really no getting used to the eventual pain his profession would always cause, but this? A child stabbed straight through? Lord, just thinking about it set to simmer the rage he’d let settle earlier. It had been hard to swallow down that heat, that molten churning in his gut that someone had deliberately caused this pain to one so young. Hell, the kid looked as though he had just hit teens, still clinging to baby fat in his cheeks and eyes wide with a certain kind of innocence.

The men on this ship hadn’t done it, he was sure of it. At least, he hoped he was sure of it. Rot had rules, and this happened to be one of the harder ones: no harm to a child. If they found any in a raid, they were taken back to the cove and sorted there. To have someone purposely throw a sword in this one’s back…

He sighs. They’d sort it when the child woke. Jenkins, this wiry shit he’d been stuck with had called him Jenkins. Forced himself down where he wasn’t needed against Tobi’s warning’s, though he supposed it had been half Molly’s fault as well with how the man had let Dupree follow behind. He had at least made himself useful in stitching up the young boy; Tobi had watched graceful hands sew stitches across the freshly cleaned and cared for wound with a forced steadiness he had to respect. Distrusted at first, but the more he had watched the rail of a man the more he had found himself able to drift through other tasks. Gathering the soiled rags and tossing them in a tub, tossing a good amount of vinegar and soap in with the mound of fabric, giving them a cursory scrub before letting the whole thing sit; it was a kind of monotony that soothed the angry ache in his chest for the moment.

There’s movement though from the table. Tobi glances over briefly to see Dupree’s hands balled at his sides and eyes asking the question his mouth seems too tired to provide. A long breath escapes Tobi as he pushes a wet hand back through his hair and approaches.


They’re both tired.


Tobi inspects the final product of his grim craftsmanship. It’s passable, so it’s with a nod that shakes the curls on his head that he dismisses the young man to return back to his own tasks. ‘Shaken’ Tobi thinks idly as his grey eyes lift to inspect the man briefly as he hunches in the chair he’s chosen to settle in. Suppose it's fair, probably hadn’t started the day thinking it would end as a makeshift nurse on a different ship. A voice, much softer than his own deep rumble, shakes him out of whatever musings Tobi had been sinking in elbows deep in vinegar, soap, water, and blood stained rags.


“What… what do you think, la bête? He lost so much…”


Tobi huffs and turns back towards his work. Insults, really? He doesn’t speak much of anything outside of what his Ma and Pa had taught him, but it’s too early in their knowing each other for any sort of nickname. “Can’t say for certain.” The answer is grumbled low and a little annoyed. “I’d prefer he pull through, but ain’t know for certain for a couple hours yet. Stable for now, at least.” With that at least, the man falls quiet. Tobi takes it as an opportunity to snag the bottle he’d grabbed earlier and take a long swig of the sharp smelling contents inside.


But there’s only a momentary reprieve. Cord, he’s asking for cord now. Grey eyes look back over the small body of Jenkins towards the man sunk in the chair, something loosely gripped in his hands. Prayers, he said. He wasn’t the type, but there were certainly men aboard that shared the same sort of sentiment. He’d seen a few die with the same sort of beaded string in their hands. Hands still wet with blood and soap come from the basin as he straightens and sighs.


“Yeah, gimmie a minute.”


With that, he turns towards the side door tucked away behind him and hidden partially by a draped curtain of various dried herbs. One thick arm brushes them aside as the other pushes the heavy wood open to expose a room attached. A bed, draped and laden with furs and blankets more common up north hangs from thick ropes attached to the ceiling and sways gently with the rocking of the ship. More herbs and plants hang in here, though not all carry some medicinal purpose; some, he just prefers the smell of. A few books sit carefully tied into shelves. Most appear handwritten, and more than a few have small papers stuffed between the cover and pages. There’s a window set into the wall, large enough to have most of the moonlight filter in. Grey eyes spare a brief glance outside; he can feel the soft patter of rain where it’s started to fall, and can see the far off flash of lightning in the distance.

He knows he has a cord in here somewhere, he thinks as he roots through a fabric filled basket. Far from the bandages in the other room, these scraps appear purposefully patterned, though not yet put together as a finished product. Calloused hands dig past the half finished quilt, past the tin of thread and needles, and towards the bottom where he knows something like that would settle. His fingers reach, search, and finally settle on a prize. One long length of cord, fine enough for Dupree’s purposes. He holds it out as he returns.


“Here. Fine enough?”


The cord is dropped into Dupree’s hand. He doesn’t wait long for a reply before crossing the room and settling back into his routine of washing both the rags and the anger from his chest with soap and moonshine.


‘Aw, fuck it.’ he thinks after a moment of watching the bony bastard in the corner try his hand at repairing the strand of beads with those same long, graceful fingers.


“Dupree, right?” he asks after a moment. “What you doin’ out here? Ain’t seem the type.” In his defense, he really doesn’t. Too bony, too thin for hard labor. Hands are calloused but look much more suited to sewing than sailing. He’s seen thin sorts; hell, captain were a thin sort. But Lazarus had enough teeth and storm behind his eyes to make anyone regret pointing it out. Dupree just seemed… stubborn. Like he’s gotten on that original ship simply by refusing to leave.

Noelle’s fingers kept at the cord and beads, fashioning them best she could- the beads were clumsy and homemade, the string was a touch fine, she worried it would snap once again. The boy never left his bunk without them, always did prayers when they broke bread, clutched them close when they went to port. Of course, with Jenkins in his current state, there wasn’t much to worry. The boy would be lucky to leave his bed if he didn’t-

Stop.

She firmly tied the final knot, halting her thoughts as quickly as they came. It only made the pit in her stomach grow and her hands shake, and it would not happen. Noelle refused to let that happen, to let that even be in the realm of possibility. Jenkins was going to be just fine- he just needed some rest, that’s all. After all, her stitches had been straight, and the large doctor she found herself in company with had done well enough. Mateo Jenkins was going to be just fine and would be walking around deck in a couple of days time.

However.

‘Teo would need some supplies to keep his time enjoyable down here. She wondered if they kept any paper or charcoal around- drawing was something the boy did as easily as she wrote. And, if she could find a book. Jenkins always enjoyed it when she read. Unfortunately, she had already completed the bible cover to cover with the child a handful of times. Perhaps they could find some other text somewhere around this ship. It certainly held enough surprises- like this secret room with an actual window, all draped in fur and flower and herbs. She wouldn’t mind staying in a room like this, all tucked out of the way? Perhaps she could reason with l'ours to allow her to stay for the night, at least to stay by her friend.

Speaking of. The man had finally turned to her and spoke without malice. Well, not too much malice. He wasn’t barking at her to go away or telling her to make herself useful, he looked at her with genuine curiosity, even if the question was rather rude, in her opinion. She was here because she found herself under the employ of a merchant ship, she might not have been buckets of strength, proudly bearing her thick, freckled chest like others. She might not have pulled rigging with arms as thick as anything, or stowed crates with rippling muscles. But she had her skills!

“Needed a job.” She sighs, placing the beads ever so gently in Jenkin’s hands, curling the fingers around the first bead above the clumsy clay cross “Like all of us, I suppose. Needed a job, needed one quick. I got on board, they tested us. And they found my skills useful, so they asked me to stay. It is a story that we all find ourselves in, no?”

Her voice lilts at the end, her accent peeking through. It was French, yes, but French that had been half taught by a Englishman. It was a wash of words trying to connect together, but only meeting between pauses. She sighs and meets his eyes, careful to speak slow. “Unless you are talking about being on a vessel owned by the Rot. Because if you wonder that, Je me demande si tu es lent, la bête. Non, I take that back. I must admit, you are quite clever with your instruments. And I am grateful, as is poor ol’ Jenkins.”

“Ain’t speak none a’ that fancy whatever.” Tobi waves a tired hand in front of him as though he could physically swat them away. “If you’re gonna insult me, at least have the courtesy t’let me in on exactly how my honor bein’ slighted.” All sorts of sharp this one was; sharp in form, all bones and words that cut like knives if you let them come too close. Tobi sighs as the calluses on his hands attempt to rub out one of the more stubborn stains in the wash basin. He did just help patch up a friend that had been run through with a sword, he was due a little leniency with how he was speaking.


Still though.


“I know how you got here, an’ technically this ship Cap’s before it the Rot’s. Jus’ one a many under the employ. Forgive a man for tryin’ to bring the conversation round from the big fuckin’ mess in the room.” His eyes spare poor Jenkins a glance before turning back towards the now murky wash water. Steady hands lift the fabrics from it to slop sodden on a close by side table before he lifts the large basin with one tired roll of his shoulders. A few steps, some careful maneuvering, and a couple wet splashes across the dark wooden floor, he hefts the now dark water out of the window in his own room. It blends with the now steady pattering of rain outside.

He finds himself there in that soft moment, looking out at the stormy grey of the clouds overhead and savoring the soft smell of rain. Just a moment to collect his thoughts and gather the temper that threatened to wash over his words like the waves crashing just short of violent against the hull of the ship. Lord, the way that damn willow branch of a man was talking slow now, talking down like Tobi were someone much more stupid than the man who had just pulled a child from death’s door with just his skill and whatever supplies they had on hand. Felt bad. Felt real bad the way that man was talking down to him, made the anger he still had simmering in his chest rise. Could reach back in his throat and taste the cloying bitterness of it.


He spits as he shuts the window.


Soft footsteps carry him back to the room where he sets the bucket back down on the floor and shoves the wet linens back into them. In a moment he’ll set them outside the door for someone to take for laundering, but for now? Now he just needs a moment to be still. Be still and drink. The chair he ends up settling in isn’t the most comfortable (more often than not he uses as just another resting place for various supplies, but tonight the seat is free of any sort of debris) but tonight it’s enough and carries the deciding factor of being close to the bottle of moonshine he had set aside earlier. One hand reaches for it as he reclines, brings it to his lips to summon a bit of idle conversation while he waits for the will to move again.

“In the interests of remaining on civil enough terms an’ jus’ cause i’m too damn tired, i’m just gonna brush by some of that last bit. See, other less civil sorts would’ve been offended maybe, but me?” He tips the hand holding the moonshine, tone of his voice placid and smooth like a bowstring strung. “Nah.” He brings the glass to his lips, grey eyes open and meeting hers over the rim of the bottle before closing as he tips the drink back. “Nah, ma taught me better than snipe at a stranger ‘fore i knew them. So why ain’t you tell me a bit ‘bout yourself? See, I’ll start since you apparently ain’t know how.”


“Tobias Rudolf Maynard, sir. Medic of the Blackbird, studyin’ to replace old Kaz in a few years when the bastard finally calls it quits. Found myself here through reluctant fault of my own when I decided medicine were a worthy pursuit and the quickest way a’ doin’ so was on a ship where every dumbass congregates eventually.”


He motions in front of him in a ‘now you’ motion before talking another long sip from the half gone bottle in his hand.

His voice was so smooth. She had often before been told her accent was throaty, a little difficult to understand, but with his? Why, she was unsure that it was English coming from his lips, and she had an ear for such things! She listened as the man accused her of insulting him- which, in all fairness, she had, but she immediately took it back! She felt the words rise in her throat and taste on her tongue with a bitter afterbite. She almost pulled her lips back and let off another string of those ‘fancy whatevers’ and really let him have it. She had just sat through the near end of the boy next to her, her closest friend, and he had the nerve to tell her how to speak to him.

She held onto the viscous thoughts, pushed them back down her throat. No use in making enemies now, especially that she had no one in her corner now. She watched as he took that bucket that he had been making so much work with, and headed towards his window. Really, she mused with a smirk, it would be quite nice to have a bigger friend. One that she could hide behind if Richardson had made it on, one that was strong enough to lift her without a moment's notice. One that had his own private room she could escape to and get some privacy to do whatever she needed to without the scrutinizing eyes of others. She had never had someone like that to be by her side, it was always just she and Jenkins since they escaped to the sea. Had to rely on their wits. But among pirates, it would be wise and clever to have someone with strength behind her. So, while his back was turn, she let out a soft sigh and began to speak again.

“I’m sorry.” She said simply, sighing and sitting back, flicking her brown eyes to his speckled shoulders as he faced the sea. Really, they were quite large. Perhaps the largest she had ever seen! She shook the thought from her head, admonishing herself for allowing distraction “The French- it slips out. I’ll do my best to keep it in, as to not create confusion, no?”

Brown eyes followed the man to his makeshift seat, and she felt slightly embarrassed. For a moment, she shifts, about to stand, but l’ours had already settled himself with a bottle of something that had been used to disinfect while Jenkins were still aware. She listened to him speak carefully, her ears catching the words and slurred phrases a little better this time. She offers a nod, and places her hands in her lap, before responding. It was interesting, she decided, that a man such as he had decided to go into medicine. Why, he had the makings of a fine sailor, all that muscle on him. She supposed that’s why he asked.

“Nathaniel Dupree.I…. I am from La Rochelle, lived near the harbor. When it became clear that there would be no opportunities for me on land, I took to the water.” She said these words carefully, and any keen observer could see that she was uncomfortable with the focus of the conversation only on her. She shifted in her seat slightly, her hands fiddling together in her lap- no one had ever really spoke to her like this, asked her about something far more personal than telling her that they needed a piss. She felt red rush to her cheeks, hot embarrassment becoming more obvious as she opened her mouth again.

“The bo’sun knew I could speak French and English. I became more valuable when he learned that I could read and write in both. It became a convenience for them, with the shipments, making sure they weren’t cheated. I still made my way around the ship, tied the knots, helped with the rigging. Mon dieu, you’d think it would have shown on me, non, monsieur? But, alas, it is not meant to be. C'est la vie-”

Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, offering a sheepish smile “That is life, Monsieur Maynard.”

His name on her lips sounded strange, but it was not terrible she decided. Her lilt and gentle push off of the name made it flowery, almost graceful. She found that she even liked it, and hoped that perhaps, he would like it as well. Not that she cared truly, she thought with a huff.