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Chapter Text

Soft afternoon sunlight pooled in Marianne’s reflection as she unfastened then refastened glittering hairpins for the umpteenth time. After all, today was her wedding day; why shouldn’t everything be perfect? Not to mention, being the eldest daughter of the great Lord Dagda of Summerland meant she was held to certain expectations. Add His Majesty’s Naval Captain as your groom, and anything short of perfection was simply not an option. She was about to throw the damned things just before her sister finally spoke up. Apparently, years of primping expertise awarded her the time to peek over at the frustrated bride-to-be. 

"Your sections are too big," Dawn offered over her shoulder, catching Marianne's glower. "If they’re too thick, nothing’ll stay down right, and it’s going to stick out funny. You’ll look like a crested pheasant." Effortlessly, she slid another pin into place. The stone adorning it as blue as the waves and perfectly clear sky just outside their window. Blue like her eyes, which were just as deceivingly deep as that very ocean. As her advice seemed to get lost in the grumbling, Dawn flitted over to her sister to rescue her hair from getting ripped out any further. Calloused, yet delicate, hands were swatted away as she hummed while she worked; any stubborn curls ushered into quick submission. Short work was made of the unruly auburn mess atop her head as the not-that-bad-honestly sections of bangs fell to brush the tip of her nose. The teasing continued still even after removing the bejeweled metal and shaking out the smaller tangles. 

"You’ll need to be able to do this on your own eventually. As much as I love this bonding time, it’s not like we’ll be sharing a hairbrush anytime soon." The crinkle in her eyes did little to hide the trace of sadness in her voice.

"Don’t remind me. Today’s supposed to be the happiest day of a girl’s life. I mean, why wouldn’t it be? I should think myself lucky, really, but..." Marianne’s lip trembled with what was much too close to a confession as she busied herself with a loose thread in her skirts. The elegant lace reminded her more of a straight jacket than a wedding dress but unforgiving all the same. The hands in her hair faltered before resuming their path of preening and smoothing. Thankfully, Dawn wouldn’t let her continue. 

"It’s not the end of the world, love, just your wedding. It’s a big change. Marriage is scary, but that’s the fun part! Don’t tell me you aren’t even a little excited. The king appointed the captain himself, even. That doesn’t just happen!" The final pin was secured. This one had a stormy-looking agate with swirling silvers that looked a little too familiar; the brink of a typhoon. Inescapable and threatening to sweep her asunder. "Plus, Roland’s absolutely gorgeous."

"You aren’t wrong," she resolved, collecting herself rather quickly; her thoughts interrupted. Finally, she met her own gaze in the mirror. A startled breath escaped her as she stared at her reflection in awe. What was once a suitable home for the local rat population now framed her face beautifully. The darkness in her hair and eyes was complemented by the light neutrals of the stones. Dawn’s dextrous and knowing hands somehow at least made her look the part of a bride, regardless of how her heart felt. Intricate braids twisted around each other and settled in a crown across her temple, as well as wrapped around the tight bun she had tied earlier that morning. Pride (and maybe a little arrogance) seeped from behind as Dawn admired her handiwork. 

"That’s about all I can do," she sighed with mock annoyance that could only come from a childhood of practice.

"It’s perfect," Marianne breathed, meeting her sister’s eyes in the mirror.

"I know."  A heavy knock sounded at the door making them both jump. 

"Ladies, it’s almost time!" One of the women in charge of keeping track of Marianne pleaded. No one could afford to lose the bride on her wedding day, and it was no secret this particular ceremony would be a difficult one. Just about everyone in the village remembered young Mari, the tough girl who fought in the dirt and gave all her sister’s bullies split lips one year. Dagda shipped her off to finishing school that Fall, but the fight never left her—not entirely. Bite and cunning couldn’t be broken from her, but spirit sure could. Dagda was satisfied, but Dawn still saw the lingering glances and pink knuckles when their father wasn’t looking. She even managed to secure a standing appointment with the local swordsmith for lessons. As long as her skirts were intact and there were no visible bruises, she could get away with whatever she wished. Dagda was considered a touch too stuffy by more than just the girls anyway. 

"I guess that’s my cue," Marianne sighed, defeated, and began to smooth out any lingering wrinkles in the dress. As pretty as it was, their father wanted something more ornate for the occasion but quickly acquiesced thanks to the younger girl’s administrations. He had managed to pull some strings and get the royal seamstress to create something so unbelievably gaudy that even the princesses from their bedtime stories years ago would cringe. 

"She clearly doesn’t want to get married," Dawn persisted on her sister’s behalf. "If you make her wear that too, she’ll hate you forever!" Dagda paid the poor woman almost double the agreed price for a simple gown that took a whole day and night of repinning and stitching for it to be completed on time. It was honestly easy money since the hard work of building the bulk of the dress was already done, but Dagda insisted on using the hefty sum as an apology as well as covering up any further embarrassment. 

"How do I look?" She asked, peering through stiffly curled lashes. 

"Absolutely stunning! But more importantly, how do you feel?" Dawn countered. 

"Like a crested pheasant."

The morning bells tolled in the cathedral as what appeared to be the whole town (and maybe the next one over as well) filed into the wooden pews. Regardless of circumstance, Dawn was positively buzzing with excitement. Everyone from peasantry to nobility crammed shoulder to shoulder with whispers of "I never thought I’d see the day." Since she was given the freedom to meddle in her sister’s appearance, Dawn had progressed to licking her thumbs and smearing around the various pigments that weighed much too heavy on her face. Purple stippled her eyelids, while her cheeks and lips sported hints of reds and pinks. She might as well have been painted. 

"Dawn, please, " she exasperated but it was far too late for that. Once she started, there was no stopping her until she was satisfied. 

"I’m almost done, I swear! Just needs one more little—" she swiped her thumb along the crease just under her left eye where loose pigment fallout had mixed with nervous sweat and accumulated. It was actually rather disgusting. "There. I’m done." The sudden brightness of piano accompaniment signaled the punctuality of her pestering as she scrambled to clutch her bridesmaid bouquet to her chest before kissing her sister on the cheek and stepping out into the aisle. Marianne watched her go and couldn’t help but feel more out of place than she already did. This should be Dawn's wedding, not hers. She’s the romantic, not rough and disobedient Marianne. With how she’d been reeling all morning, one would think it actually was Dawn’s wedding instead. Especially since she was practically bouncing off the walls after the proposal. But no, it was her marrying Roland, Captain of His Majesty’s Navy, in only a few moments. Any girl would kill, or at least horrifically maim, to be in her position. Why did it feel like she was being led to her execution? The piano lulled to transition into the bridal chorus, meaning it was officially too late to run back home and hide underneath the covers. As much as everything felt like a bad dream, she had to hold her chin high as she too stepped out into the aisle. 

Beautiful silken tapestries hung from the ceiling and tapered off just above the window panes to bathe the altar in natural light. Roland beamed at her with unfiltered adoration as she approached. The white petals that littered the floor silently yielded to her as she caught her sister's elation next to the open space she would take. She and Roland shared similar dispositions, and as she finished the procession, she considered if it really was too late to turn back. She could turn around right now and run back up the way she came and never look back. But this isn’t like her fairy tales. True love doesn’t always win, and unfortunately, this was a nightmare from which she would never wake up. No matter how many toothy grins he flashed her way or decoration he wore, Marianne knew she would never love him as long as she lived. He reached for her hand just as the music slowed and dissolved, leaving them all in impregnated silence. 

"Dearly met," the reverend began, "storybooks have told of a love so true it transcends our very idea of reality. So true, we would rather soon hurl our bodies into flame than summon betrayal and dismay upon our love. The very air we breathe comes forth from their lips, and you know deep within your heart of hearts you cannot live even a moment away from each other's side. For existence without this love is not an existence at all. I have seen this love in the eyes of our young Marianne and Roland." The rings were passed down from both sides to meet at the two of them. "These rings are a symbol of their commitment and devotion. Just as the circle of power remains endless and unbroken, so shall their love. Now I ask you Roland, third son of Arthur, do you swear before the Great Maker that you promise to honor, cherish, and protect Marianne, forsaking all others, and holding only unto her from now through eternity?" Roland’s gaze deepened with need as he slipped the ring onto her finger. 

"I do." 

The ring was surprisingly modest. After the glamorous, hulking mass of gemstones and semi-precious metals he proposed with, she was rather thankful for his unexpected foresight. The reverend turned to her. 

"And you Marianne, first daughter of Dagda, do you swear before the Great Maker that you promise to honor, cherish, and protect Roland, forsaking all others, and holding only unto him from now through eternity?" Her vision swam as she tried to will herself to speak. After today she would no longer sneak away in the night to master her lunges and parries. No longer would Dawn crawl into her bed in the dark, early hours and press her frigid toes to her back. Long nights of endless, girlish laughter that had her sides burning for hours were now replaced with empty obedience to a stranger. Over her shoulder, Dagda gave a curt, barely-there nod, either out of encouragement or desperation. I guess this is it, she thought, gifting Roland his golden band in kind. 

"I do." 

Marianne floated through her reception like a ghost, if twice as pale. Congratulations and well wishes for their future were unfortunately more abundant than the champagne. Luckily, Roland was mentally conscious enough to save face and mingle for the both of them. It was almost as if her psyche had entered self-preservation and completely severed itself from the rest of her body. Dream-like, she studied the piece of cake on her plate. Her feelings were never considered in matters regarding her husband, but she at least hoped the dessert would be good. Anyone who spent any given length of time with the girls would know their distaste for chocolate was genetic, but low and behold, the bittersweet ganache was somehow the most insulting part of the affair. 

The savory luncheon mostly consisted of dry, underseasoned poultry of some kind. She had managed to choke down a few bites before giving up. The watery greens didn’t help matters either. The one source of joy she wanted to carve out for herself was a piece of moist cake, but that too was unpalatable. As far as she could tell, she was alone in her revolt as the guests around her happily chatted and munched away at the confection. Even turning her attention to her husband, she found a dot of chocolate flecking the corner of his mouth. That’s what finally snapped the last thread of self-indulgent pity. She was wearing a dress she didn’t want, married to a man she didn’t know, eating cake she didn’t like, and there was nothing she could do about it. From the moment she was born, her life was decided for her. The firstborn daughter had the responsibility of upholding the family’s status and reputation. Even her childhood was drowned in feminine gentility. Sit like a lady. Don’t muss your hair. Your stockings are torn, you stupid girl. She had never once been free to exist as she was but had always lived for someone else. 

As a teen, she had stolen a silver dagger from her father in an act of rebellion. If he had noticed it missing, she would have given it back but it was like it never existed to him. Rather quickly, it became her most prized possession, and it wasn’t long before she taught herself everything there was to know about sharpening, polishing, concealing, and the like. They became inseparable, and no one—not even Dawn—knew of her secret obsession. If it wasn’t strapped to her leg under layers of skirts, it was hidden in her pillowcase. Even as she sat torturing her uneaten meal, that dagger sat sheathed in its leather scabbard under her dress. The leather’s been worn soft over the years and it’s become an almost physical extension of herself by now. I’m going to use this dagger, she thought. Tonight, on the way to the honeymoon, I’m going to use this dagger on myself. I cannot be damned to this life. I cannot be damned to be away from my sister and I cannot share a bed with a man I do not love as long as I am living. At this vow she authentically believed, there was an immense release in her shoulders as what felt like a surge of energy traveled down her spine and through her entire body before disappearing entirely, taking all stress along with it. For the first time since the proposal, her mind was not a squirming, jumbled mess of anxiety and fear. For once, tonight was a mystery. Only she knew that the fate of her marriage was doomed from the start, and absolutely nothing from this point onward was a guarantee. Today, she decided, would be her last day on Earth, and she was going to do whatever the hell she wanted. 

Immediately, Marianne leapt from her place at the table, and along with the help of an extra (okay, maybe a few extra) flutes of champagne, she sauntered over to where Dawn was also picking at the frosting. Her stumble to the table was quite spectacular as she tripped over her own feet and caught herself on the tablecloth, nearly ripping it clean off. Dawn steadied the very drunk bride and attempted to pull her to a seat. But she was far too quick and yanked her sister up to her feet to parade her around the dance floor.  

"You are so very intoxicated, love," she said between fits of tipsy giggles of her own and tried her best not to step on anyone’s feet. Neither of them recognized the song, but the band was terribly skilled at whatever that stringed instrument was called, and their voices harmonized in chords that brought out the timbre of each singer. It was a galloping piece about first love in the fields. Or was it about riding a horse in the fields, rather? Neither paid attention to the lyrics and instead focused on not breaking too many toes. Together they spun and bounded and for a second they were girls again, kicking up dirt and chasing the maids with toads they had found in the creek bed. There were no more vows of promise. No itching lace or sparkling diamonds. Just two sisters so incredibly afraid of what’s to come. They both knew the night would eventually come to an end, and they would have no choice but to go their separate ways. Dawn would comb out her silken yellow waves before heading to bed, and Marianne was to depart on her honeymoon. Roland had so generously donated his crew to the cause, and they were to vacation at sea following the reception. Dawn couldn’t know her plans for the consummation that would not come. And Marianne was much too selfish to grieve along with her sister. 

She always tended to scare away potential suitors in her past, but because of Dawn's flirty nature, she was no stranger to boys sneaking in and out of their shared bedroom. While caustic to the men in her life, she never had a fear of sex. It was just a form of release that took hold of her for moments before reclaiming her lucidity and pulling her garments back in place. Unwanted advances were to be mediated by her friend strapped to her thigh, of course. Roland was different. Roland was certainty and that frightened her. She was not to turn away her husband in their marital bed, and everyone knew it. She would fight. She would bleed. Two things in which she once participated with stark enthusiasm. They’ll depart the shore, but she will not live to see the sunrise. She would not let death elude her. 

Her feet were leaded as she marched to the shore arm in arm with Roland while Dagda and Dawn meandered behind them. Though still in her wedding dress, she knew well that her luggage was packed and loaded that morning. Luckily, she had the insight to tightly wrap one of her shortswords in a thick, woolen blanket and stacked multiple layers of clothing on top to disguise the shape. Hopefully, the crew was paid well enough to not rifle through her things, but anyone bold enough should see the mundane fabric and give up before reaching the bottom. She shouldn’t need it, but it felt strange to be away from all of her blades, especially since she was expected to return after several months at sea, if not longer. Choosing to only pack the one was a kindness to whoever carried her trunks. 

The moon glowed brightly above waves that licked the shore as they all stood on the dock. Since everything had been packed and prepared for hours, the only thing left was to say her goodbyes. Dagda was first to act, offering her a simple hug. He pulled back to look at her as if seeing her for the first time. A mix of sorrow and regret hung between them as they stood. Grief pulled at Marianne's heart as she averted his eyes and turned to her sister. Dawn was absolutely a mess. She hadn’t stopped crying since after their dance and the tear tracks showed clearly on her cheeks. Her makeup was ruined where it smudged and dripped, then transferred to Marianne's neck, where her face was buried in a sob. They held each other tightly as tears mixed together with whatever pigmentation was left on their faces. She mothered her sister's cries and embraced her for what she knew was the last time, unbeknownst to everyone else on the docks. Ultimately, she had to pull away and kiss her stained face and forehead creased from heartache. 

"Don’t worry." She pulled a golden strand away from her face. "We’ll see each other again." At Dawn’s meek nod, Marianne finally ascended the creaking ramp and boarded. The ship itself wasn’t quite as fantastic as she expected, but it wasn't unimpressive in the slightest. Towering masts with sails like clouds spanned above as she stood silently waiting for departure. Now all that was left was to wait for Roland to take her to bed. She would excuse herself to the quarters, barricade the door, and carry out her freedom. Roland joined her on the main deck and gave the instruction to hoist the sails and withdraw from the port. The lights of the town grew smaller and smaller until they blinked out entirely, and for the first time in her life, Marianne was completely removed from everything she had ever known. She sat on one of the supply crates and busied herself with her prepared needlepoint for what felt like hours until someone finally spoke.

"Sir, we’re just out of range!" The Quartermaster called down from the crow’s nest as her home dipped below the horizon along with the setting sun. Roland stood beside her and brought a hand to gently stroke her curls, which have been removed from its prison of countless bands and pins. Craning her neck to look up at him revealed that his needing look from the alter had returned to his features. 

"You’re absolutely sure?" Roland affirmed. His pupils dilated with something utterly sinister that made gooseflesh dance down her arms. Never once did he look away from her. The silence, however brief, was supposedly enough confirmation that going back to land was becoming increasingly difficult as the current and sails pulled them further out to sea. Swiftly, his petting stopped, and he seized a fistful of her hair before she was harshly jerked to the molding floorboards. Pain and confusion bestrewed her face as her knees scrambled to break her fall with a loud smack against the wood. His teeth gleamed in the full moonlight as he sneered. "Set a course for Timber Reef," he called to his crew. "We should still have enough time to reach it before the week's end." He crouched down to shift his weight to the balls of his feet and angled her face upwards to meet his. "As for you, my pretty little bride, " he spit, "you’re about to make me a very, very wealthy man." She managed to choke out a gasp through her fear as he stood suddenly, wrenching her up with him by the tight handful as he stamped to his quarters. Finally summoning her voice, she hurled terrified shrieks to the rest of the ship while she desperately clawed at his arm. Her darting eyes caught the crew not reacting in the slightest to her screams as they continued whatever work they were assigned for the voyage. Remembering her dagger, she moved to reach under the layers of lace and tule to retrieve her saving grace,  but the Captain was much quicker. She was roughly shoved to the floor as soon as they crossed the threshold, and Roland’s boot crashed down hard on her ribs sending a whip-crack of snapping bone echoing through the tiny room. The telltale sound of a lock clicking into place nearly didn’t register as she wrapped around herself in an attempt to shield her body from further attack. 

"Rol-" she started before receiving another kick to her side and crying out. 

"You have no idea how long I have been waiting for this: Dagda’s little whore of a daughter and her dowry in my back pocket. Now thanks to you, my dear, I don’t have to settle for selling streetwalkers and their little ones to filthy, stinking pirates who stick their little pricks into anything with a pulse. Sometimes not even that, actually." Somewhere in the back of her throat was the bitter richness of iron as she sputtered and tried to bring a shaking hand to her skirts. Before it could finish its journey, her wrist was caught in cool metal as Roland locked a tight shackle around it. The chilling poison of utter terror flooded her veins. Swinging her free arm to try to at least defend herself proved futile as that wrist was too caught and bound. She kicked out, but her legs, weighed down by the pretty layers, couldn’t land a strike against her attacker. The cuffs were attached to a rusting chain that was firmly bolted to the wall, further solidifying the danger she was in. She briefly wished she could share a bed with a stranger instead. Anything other than a villain. From where she was sitting against the wall, she saw the faintest glint of polished silver next to his desk in the far corner of the room.

"You went through my things," she managed through the pain; drivel pooling in her mouth. He followed her stare before barking out a laugh and palming the hilt.

"Of course, my love! This piece is a thing of beauty. I’m hurt to think you would hide such savagery from your husband," cooed the man, admiring her shortsword in the dim candlelight. "I knew you were a handful years ago, but I didn’t think you escalated your violence to blades. At least you looked like a lady tonight. Didn’t put up a fight at all." Heavy boots thumped against the wood as he approached her broken form. "You were awfully sweet tonight, thank you for that. I wouldn't have been able to do it without your help. Now, I believe I should be rewarded for gifting you such a nice wedding, darling." With that, he leaned down to kiss her but was met with a mouthful of saliva and blood as she spit in his face with all the strength she could find. Flinching, he composed himself, wiped the mess with the heel of his hand, and once again gathered her hair to force his tongue past her lips. The cake still lingered on his breath, which gave her the spirit to clamp down her teeth and bite hard. The howl he let out was deeply satisfying as he stumbled back against the desk, knocking over the candle and snuffing out its light.

"Stupid girl. I’ll be rid of you soon, don’t you worry," he grumbled mostly to himself. "And don't look so down! The king promoted me, you know. You're in good hands." A mocking "for eternity" was tossed back as he brought his hand to his bleeding mouth. He shuffled his feet to exit the room and shut the door tightly behind him, leaving Marianne in total and complete darkness. 

Chapter Text

The white noise of waves and creaking of the ship were all that could be heard in the night. Still bound by iron chains, Marianne struggled against the pain. While she was familiar with the ache and bruising that came from training, this was a different pain entirely.   Her slumped frame quivered; trembling with her labored breathing and fighting a battle against consciousness. She gulped down air in shallow gasps sending spasming pain shooting through her chest.  Escaping in dreams, however temporary, was her only chance to settle her anguish. As much as she’d like to dream of warm beds and mouth-watering pastries, violent visions plagued her even in rest. Her subconscious took her stress and weaponized it against her tenfold, trapping her with a surrealist production of her abduction and violation at the hands of pirates who have never known a sliver of tenderness.

Their roughness replaced any humanity they may have had as they took from Marianne that which was not readily given. The nightmare grew even more wicked as it regressed to color and sensation turning away from lucidity. This was the kind of dream that would leave her confused after she woke, not remembering anything other than a painful grip of demanding hands and being shredded to pieces by a wild beast. Sleep managed to both suffocate and elude her as her physical pain kept her in a fugue- her mind slept but her body did not. 

The hours passed in similar fashion as a life she almost had danced in her eyelids. Pretty Dawn, smiling and laughing. Her father finally replaced that permanent scowl with something vaguely paternal. His voice was warm and kind as he spoke a garbled conjunction of words that only made sense in dreaming and for a moment she truly did feel safe. Thankful for the glimpse of comfort that took far too long to reach her. 

After Roland left her, she steeled herself a moment of agony. Not only were her plans of self-destruction so far gone but her means to escape were still strapped to her thigh with no way to reach it. She would need the knife to pick at the lock as if she had any idea how to even start.  Even then she couldn’t reach it while still chained and there was no possible way Roland would let her roam the room without supervision. She was well and truly trapped. How cruel for the Great Maker to grant her salvation just out of reach? But she couldn’t blame the Maker now, could she? Was she not the one who agreed to vows of commitment? Was it not her very own two feet that carried her down the aisle? Her father may have signed her away but she didn’t put up a fight just as Roland said - she was compliant in her own ruin. And now thanks to her stubborn wallowing she was beaten, bound, and destined for torture for the rest of her life-however short that may be.  

At some point in the night, Roland shuffled her into what looked like a surplus storage closet. It was bare now, but at one point potatoes wrapped in itchy sacks of burlap and other goods could have been stacked high. All that was left was the dank aura of mildew and grime of vegetables that were born from the dirt.  Given different circumstances, her fingertips would just barely brush the walls on either side if she stretched hard enough. It really was a closet of a room. Shoddy-built oak shelves stained a tawny brown stretched from floor to ceiling spanning the length of it on all sides. The only light she was allowed was a thin wish of daylight seeping from the crack under the door to alert her of the morning until it was thrust open. The door wobbled in its frame; bouncing against the wall with a boom.  Marianne squinted in the sudden bright light assaulting her through the open door she saw the captain silhouetted before her. The clang of metal at her feet pulled her from the last of her sleep; shoulders throbbing from being forced into their position for so long. 

“Good morning, beauty!” He sang procuring a stale lump of bread spotted with green mold and plopped it straight into what looked like a kind of porridge steaming in the tarnished bowl before her.  “This is the closest you’re going to get to fine dining at sea. We ate the last of the jam yesterday,” he grinned shark-like, moving to uncuff one of her restraints. Her muscles screamed as all tension was released in her right arm. She stretched and stared at him in shock at the sudden hospitality given their positions. 

“What,” he asked incredulously. You don’t expect me to spoon-feed you like a babe, do you? Besides,” he opens his arms wide in a show of arrogance, opening the front of his coat just enough to display a flintlock pistol poking out of his breeches. “You won’t be going anywhere, buttercup.” Her one free arm takes the bowl and scrunches her legs up to make a makeshift table with her knees while subtly shifting the fabric just so in order to cover up any sign of her somehow still concealed weapon. Maybe the maker wasn’t so cruel. 

 The mushy grains were so overcooked she had to use the bread as a spoon to pull at the mess that settled to the sides if she had any hope to eat. It was so ungodly thick that she had to practically fight to force it down her throat. As bland and unpleasant the gruel was, it sat heavy in her stomach and would keep her hunger at bay for quite some time. Since she had no clue as to when another meal would be given, it was greedily slurped down under Roland’s watchful eye. It wasn’t long before the bowl was scraped clean and not even a crumb remained on her lips. The fullness of her belly made itself known in the slight stretch of fabric enveloping it. Such gowns were not meant to be worn during heavy, carb-filled meals. Then again such gowns weren’t meant to be worn by prisoners on a ship either. If only she had known her fate, maybe she would’ve planned to wear something more comfortable. What was once an expensive gown with tatted lace and threaded sashes was now a tattered mess stained with her blood that sloughed off her jutting shoulders. Definitely not fit for a captain's bride. Roland took the cleaned bowl away from her and moved to place it to the side somewhere with a low whistle. 

“You were hungry. I guess that’s expected since you picked at your dinner last night. Was the pheasant not to your liking?”

She stared at him. 

“No matter. You’re feeling much better after a meal, yeah? I could have let you starve but I do have some mercy left whether you believe it or not.” The metal once again rattled against wood as it was unceremoniously tossed to the nearby shelves.  Crouching, he peered directly into her eyes. “Aren’t I so kind, Marianne? Don't you like to be fed?” His hand gently braced her leg just shy of the hem of her dress and stroked soothing semi-circles on her bare skin. As much as he was a shark, he luckily couldn’t smell the fear radiating off her in waves as she said a silent prayer to keep her scabbard hidden still.  “Don’t you want to be fed, again?” His words were sugar-sweet dripping from his tongue along with his poorly hidden drooling when one fear was replaced by another. Her free arm rushed out to preserve her space before he had the chance to take it but he was much too quick once again. 

She cried out both from the agony of her injury that would not be ignored as well as the sudden roughness to her partially bound frame as Roland’s grip changed to something much less gentle. The hand on her knee reached for her throat. Tendons stretched uncomfortably; chin roughly jutting upwards and exposing the vulnerable underside. Her only defense was caught tightly in his much larger hand that pushed her carpals together uncomfortably toeing the border of pain. Her breaths still came in shaking gasps that seemed to motivate him even more as he leaned down like an animal surveying its prey and licked a thin, hot stripe dipping just below her chin. Disgusted, she fought on. 

 She’d like to think if she were anywhere else with anyone but this man, things could be different. If her ache was quieter, she would have had the venom in her to fight just a little harder. She thought she would have learned that lesson by now, but no. Instead, she threw one useless leg out in a half-attempt to subdue him with not much else. She could do nothing but writhe and scream and cry out to no one who would listen much less care enough to help. No one to burst through the doors, slay the villain, and hold Marianne tight until everything was alright again. Besides, It was only a matter of time before her scabbard was discovered and he would take that much more from her as well. Her tears flew freely now while her cacophony of no’s and stop’s echoed through her slapdash cell bouncing along all corners of the room to scream back into her own face. 

The pressure at her neck vanished and she recognized the clinging of his belt. He struggled with one hand to remove it quickly enough as not to become impatient but became increasingly frustrated with each passing second. Of all the virtues Roland had, patience was not one of them. Her prayers were miraculously answered with his pants half shrugged as he returned his calloused fingers to slide under the length of her skirt where it settled just below her hip opposite of her treasure. Nails dug into flesh just before the demand for blood. Their eyes met and for a brief moment, she wondered if Roland would have been a sweet lover. If they were married and honeymooned and he wasn’t this cruel wretch of a man,  maybe in another life they would learn to love each other. If she would bear the grandsons her father wanted and live the life she was supposed to live would she be well and truly happy? Is the slow death of living the gentle life carefully created for her unequivocally better than the one she stumbled into? Is this death more merciful than another? Even now as he palms himself she looks on, horrified, and wonders if there was ever even a choice. 

Roland ignored the light rap of knuckles at the door that broke Marianne from her thoughts. She would have had the knife buried deep into his neck by now if he wasn’t pressing his lips to her wrist in mimicry of the intimacy he thought he was owed. The beads of sweat that fell from a limp strand of hair splattered directly onto her nose as she grimaced. He hadn’t the shame to halt his administrations from his crew. Another more urgent knock was pounded at the door followed by an uncertain “Captain?”

“What?” Roland grunted to the space between them, stalling his movement to question whoever dared to interrupt his conquest just before the claim.

“There’s another ship, sir. It’s approaching quickly.” 

“Let it pass. No one’s stupid enough to hijack a high naval ship,” he scoffed turning back to resume his pawing.  

“That’s just it, sir, this is no ordinary ship. The flag-“ His voice took on a childlike quality from behind the door as anxiety seeped further through the grainy wood. Roland’s grip on her tightened. 

“Spit it out, mate!”

“Sir, it’s the Ouroboros.” At that Roland stilled completely and finally, it was his turn to be afraid. 

“It’s just fairy tales, Smith, nothing more.” His voice was steady when reassuring his crew but by going by how many times he fumbled to pin Marianne’s wrist back in her restraint and pull up his trousers it was obvious it was for his own benefit. 

Roland swiftly joined Smith, the squat and balding man whose cheeks were dusted pink by the beginnings of a sun blister. He held the spyglass out for his captain as words sputtered out in hurried staccato. 

“I noticed her about an hour ago but she was heading westward. She only just turned around but the wind is on her side.” 

Through the narrow window of the spyglass, Roland could make out a monstrous craft with filthy sails and protruding cannons like a thousand eyes staring back at him. Sure enough just above the highest sail, was that stark grey and white ouroboros flag he’s only seen in rough sketches by drunken sailors who swore on their luck and claimed to be sole survivors. If it hadn't seen them yet, surely it was about to. 

Roland grew up hearing stories of the terrible Pirate Captain Butcher Crowley who decimated every ship and town he craved. He slunk around from place to place in the night moving silently. Stalking his prize who wouldn’t realize their danger until it was too late. His hands were tucked in every nobleman’s pocket on his plight to make the world just as slimy as he was; coiling around them tighter and tighter until they had no escape from the poison he had ready. The Snake, they called him. The man who would devour himself if it meant getting what he wanted and nothing less. As the legend goes, one of his rampages involved slaughtering a new family. A child just barely entering boyhood was forced to watch the slow torture of both of his parents. He meant to end the boy too, but something in him begged to take the child along. The most ruthless man who ever lived, now a father training his newfound son to take his place as the serpent of the sea. They say their dinner was still warm when they left.

 Roland knew the stories well from his time spent in boot camp. Naval privates gathered around the glowing embers of the late fire telling the rookies a tale or twelve to scare them into doing their extra chores. The bit of hazing stuck with a select few of the platoon that planted admiration into their hearts rather than pure fear. Those rookies would deviate from oath and duty to slyly take advantage of status for personal gain and become Captain Roland and his seemingly perfect crew. 

It wasn’t long before the daunting ship was close enough to drop a tender of men his way and who was Roland to deny such a visit? There were maybe only a handful of men on the meager boat. No matter which legendary devil was about to board his ship, Roland was the man with military expertise and the resources to squash out any agitators. Of course, this didn’t stop his crew from fidgeting. Inviting a barbarian such as him onto any ship was comparable to suicide, after all. A length of rope was dropped to welcome the assumedly small portion of the crew. One of the men was obviously the captain. Not even considering how he was sopping in luxuries, he addressed his crew in a way that was nothing but effortless. The respect they had for their leader was damn near infallible which made the men squirm even more.  

Roland gawked at the mountain of a man stepping over the rail. His long frock was of red leather and various furs that looked only slightly out of place in the crisp Spring morning air. While a guest aboard a fellow captain's ship, he still held an undeniable air of authority with a presence that commanded both obedience and fear-something Roland still struggled to achieve with his own crew. Mingling with the exotic furs on his frock was unkempt greying hair and beard, both wild in their nature. A hooked nose gave way to a sneer that caused permanent fine lines to appear on his face from the years of overuse. Roland wasn’t a small man by any account, but this captain absolutely dwarfed him. His frame was hidden by the frock, but there was no doubt the lean muscle underneath would put his crew, who looked a moment from hurling themselves overboard, to absolute shame. 

“Captain Crowley, I presume!” He greeted warmly, finally breaking the tense silence. “Welcome aboard my vessel, how might I assist you?” Roland finally addressed his guest that any noncorrupt ranking official would understand as much too eager. An animalistic growl, not unlike that of an awoken lion,  rumbled from deep within his chest as he spoke words that tumbled from his lips like gravel. 

“You know my flag and you know my name, sir,” He stepped toward the Naval Captain with leathers flitting at his ankles; heavy boots thudding on the deck in front of him. 

“I-I do,” Roland stammered. 

“Yet you so readily welcomed me to your ship?” The few members of his crew snickered behind him. 

“Well, of course! What child didn’t hear the tales of the horrible Butcher Crowley of the sunken aisles? A man of your reputation and status is always welcome aboard my vessel, sir, you can’t blame me for being a little curious.” Sheepishly, he raked a hand through his hair. “But I suspect you aren’t quite him, are you?” The hint of smarmy arrogance was impossible to ignore. The stories of Butcher Crowley were as old as sin itself. There was no way, maker-willing, that the man in front of him was that very same terror. 

“No,” the man chuckled, “I am not Butcher Crowley.” He extended a hand to Roland who grasped it firmly. “You have the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Bogart Crowley.” 

“So it is true then? The Snake did take a son all those years ago?” 

“Oh yes, all the myths are true. Small boy born of the brutality of pirates who took it upon themselves to shape him into the thing of nightmares, it’s all true.” The quiet tittling of murmurs wormed their way through the ship. 

“Where is your father now?”

He sucks in his teeth to think. “Oh, some twenty-odd years dead I suppose.”

“Dead?” 

“Quite dead, yes.” He leans in so only Roland can hear the raspy tone in his smile. “I killed him myself, Captain.” At that, Roland let out a startled gasp that couldn’t be stifled no matter how hard he tried which sent Crowley reeling back and thunderously guffawing along with his crew. The sheepish Roland earned himself a harsh clap on the shoulder as reward for being the butt of the joke that slithered along the nape of the man’s neck to rest on the other side.  

“So tell me, Sir,” he began low in his ear. “You’re flyin’ that fancy Naval flag. You make a habit out of letting men like me aboard the property of his majesty without a proper go ‘round?” Thick with ichor, his voice remained that dark tone as he spoke. Storm-silver eyes pierced with a ferocity unknown to Roland. And yet oddly serene.

“I think we’re in the same business, you and I. It don’t make sense to fight nothing we don’t need to, now.”

“And what is my business?”

Roland shot a look. “Oh come on, surely you can’t make me say it. We’re all just having some good fun, aren’t we boys!” He shouted over his shoulder to his crew who cheered praises to their Captain before returning to their work. 

“Good fun?” Bogart sneered. “And what can you call good fun? How much blood did you give to the waters in the name of good fun?” His cordial tone left in an instant leaving a chill down Roland’s spine. 

“Sir, I’ll be honest, I’m just doing my best to try and line my pockets. So be it if a few people get hurt. That’s just the game we play and I just so happen to use some kingdom-provided cushion to help me get what I need.” Slinking out of the hold, he turned to face the man. “Even now, I’m on one last job before I change my name and live my life as I please with enough fortune to last me a few lifetimes. It’s been real sweet up to this point and I’m planning on quittin’ while I’m ahead, I won’t lie to you.” 

“Tell me about this job,” he perked before quickly adding, “ I might be of some help to your mission.”  Roland’s fear dissipated as soon as it appeared.

“Now Captain Crowley, don’t tell me someone as famous as yourself is interested in a man’s odd jobs,” he crooned, eyes crinkling at his tease. Bogart dismissively waved as if he could will away the thought. 

“Simply curious,” the corner of his mouth lifted in counterfeit amusement, “sir.” 

Roland couldn’t help the quirk of his lips. 

“As much as I would love assistance from you of any kind, this is something I have to handle myself. But I will do a bit of boasting if you’ll let me,” he drawled, steering the man toward Marianne's dingy prison and fishing for his keys. 

Her door opened to the setting sun which threw brilliant pinks and purples across the room. Expecting Rolland, she almost didn’t bother looking up if it weren’t for the stoney voice that addressed him. 

“So here's your wee trophy, eh?”  Her eyes rose to meet the man whose shoulders would barely clear the doorway. Striking features of the weathered man greeted her as she bore utter fire into him. Who else would this stranger be except for the man who plans to deliver her to yet another prison? While Roland loomed above her hungrily, the stranger held something almost resembling empathy in his gaze. Suppose he didn’t share the sentiment with his companion. The look was gone the moment Roland spoke. 

“This is her. My, and soon to be some rich fuck’s, pain in the ass,” he spit. 

“There’s plenty of those,” Bogart mused, surveying the room. 

“Alistor Jones. Might you be familiar with the pompous jackass stomping around the reef harassing tradesmen?”

“I might,” he sniffed. 

“Then you know his aptitude for collecting pretty things.” At this, he bristled and took in the sight of the girl, silently reminding her of their unfinished morning.

“When is Jones expecting her?” Bogart's eyes, which maybe once could have been soft, drove up and down her body in ways that bubbled woe into her core. Roland’s brute force of cruelty was nothing to this man’s calculated violence. Not a doubt in the stars would grant her the grace of a swift death at his hands. 

“Oh, only a few more days I would say. We’ve only just left Summerland, but Timber Reef isn’t too far. He’s paid me half already; don’t want to waste more time than I already have.” 

The stranger approached her and crouched to meet her at her level, seeming to search her face for what exactly she had no clue. He thoughtfully stared and she couldn’t help but feel a bit squeamish. 

“So you’re Dag’s little one, aren’t you?” He barely whispered. Of course, Roland would gloat about his triumph in deceit and conniving that would grant him the winnings of having the daughter of Lord Dagda captive on his ship. However, she was shocked at the informality of a nickname, especially one for her stuffy father.  That partnered with the slip of his tone revealing a slight accent that wasn’t present before. Something that vaguely suggested he hailed from the mountain villages, or at least stayed there for a time, which only added to her confusion. Tentatively, she peered up at the man. Roland didn’t seem to notice so she made no effort to respond. Just stared in contempt and hatred for the odd stranger. 

“Aye, I suppose I can take her off your hands.” He stood and redirected his attention behind him. “She seems like too much trouble for you anyways.”

 “That would be much appreciated, Crowley, but what about the other half of my payment? Am I supposed to track down Jones myself?” Marianne could easily tell the show in his voice from bluff, but he struggled to hide his uneasiness. “Until I receive it in full, that girl remains my property. I am her husband after all.”  

“Oh calm your wits, Captain, er.” He paused in thought. “Forgive me. I don’t believe I caught your name, sir.”

“No, no, my apologies. Captain Roland of His Majesty’s Naval Order, sir. Much obliged and all,” he saluted, straightening his posture. 

“Then Captain Roland you have my word I will deliver the girl right properly according to your agreement. As for payment, I should think of it as a loan to Jones from my own pocket.” He reached into his coat to retrieve a small sack that jingled as it moved.  The fabric splayed from the heft of the coins which sounded like quite the sum. Roland did a little nervous chuckle. 

“Well, our agreement was worth about five and a quarter ounces of gold, so I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more than your word.” 

“I’m more than certain this should be plenty,” Bogart feigned aloofness and handed over the entire load sending Roland’s brows upwards in shock. Riffling through the hunks of metal, he sought to find the words but came up empty. Simply handing over the key to Marianne’s confines was answer enough for the both of them. 

The iron sat heavy in his hand but was much more delicate than he expected. The skeleton key was nothing special yet the intricate curves of detail on the bow showed a great care that was otherwise not evident on this particular ship. Knees groaned in complaint when he fully crouched to free her from the restraints above her.

“Easy, Crowley. She’s a wild one,” warned Roland from behind only to be ignored. 

From where he stood before, his hands were hidden from Marianne but she all but ogled the large palms enveloping her own as he unlocked her cuffs. She would have liked to be embarrassed by how easily both of her wrists neatly fit in only one of his hands, but she lost the mind to fluster somewhere in the night before. She supposed she could have freed her hands if she tried, but then what? Roland had already overpowered her embarrassingly easy and now there was another man twice his size. It might as well be three against one. Swiftly, and with a surprising amount of consideration, he wound her wrists tightly in a scrap of linen. It was tight enough that she wouldn’t be able to wriggle free. The soft, thin fabric wouldn’t rub her raw as the iron had. Mercifully, he bound her hands in front rather than behind which her aching shoulders were thankful for. He stood and tugged Marianne to her feet with him. There was nothing rough about his movements like with Roland as he manipulated her with blatant disregard. Rather than force her around like a wild hog, he carted her through like he was moving furniture from one room to the next. It almost made her feel even smaller than she already did. At least with aggression, there was something to fight back. It was supposed to hurt. It was supposed to be hard on you. This was just suffering from inactivity. She was at least something to be gained with Roland, but with this stranger she was nothing. Even Roland abandoned his acquisition for pennies. If it was in fact about the money, he could have robbed her father blind. He now had the access that their marriage granted. No, this is about pride. Reputation. About who had the best monster stories to drink to. This was all a game to Roland. To the world around him, it was life or death.

Pins and needles settled into her naked feet as she was paraded through the ship both from finally stretching and the frigidness of the coarsen wood below her. Jeers and whistles sounded from somewhere toward the stern. If Dawn were in her position, she would have spun around and hurled as many insults as words she knew at the men who mocked her. She was always quick to anger but would forget it when her attention was elsewhere. The moment after her fit of fury was spent, she was right back to her bubbly self. Water under the bridge, they say.  Marianne however? She preferred a hushed anger. Her retribution opportunistic. Like Dawn, she would not let simple boyish insults influence her. Angry as she may be, her will in herself was stronger than their words could ever hope to be. Unlike Dawn, she would not forget them. She wanted her bridges burned. 

Approaching the rail, she anticipated being lowered and boarded; hopefully to never see her husband again. What actually occurred was the new man picking her up in both arms and tossing her over his shoulder as if she were weightless. At the last minute, she clenched her thighs together to force the scabbard to stay in place, trying not to squeak at the abrupt manhandling. If he felt it while lifting her, he made no indication. She thanked the stars for another pinch of luck she was certain would run out fairly soon as the two captains bid their farewells. Lurching as the ropes lowered them both down toward the smaller boat, allowed her to sit without assistance. One of his crewmen rowed them to a vessel not nearly as cheerful as the navy liner. 

The trip to the much larger craft was spent mostly in silence if not for the splashing of the oars. This permitted the time to study her new handler in full. He was a haggard man who looked as if his life had been longer than he felt.  Wild hair and beard befit a pirate naturally, but what struck her were his eyes. Since she entered the boat, those eyes never left her. Piercing and calculated, he watched every twitch and breath she let escape in discomfort. Managing to see straight through the resilience, he finally spoke. 

“Are ye hurt?” The hoarse bite from the naval ship was lifted from his voice as he prompted. Clearing his throat, he continued. “I think we both know he's an abhorrent child of a man." 

A particularly rough splash filled the silence for her.

He faintly whispered as if to give a semblance of privacy, "I know he put his hands on you.” If this man was anyone other than the one leading her to slaughter, she’d be inclined to trust his concern. However, Roland taught her the true meaning of trust and betrayal and every part of her instinct was screaming to keep quiet. 

“I know yer scared. But I can’t help if you won’t let me.” She wanted to tell him; desperately wanted to beg for the help he was offering and put an end to her suffering. But there was simply no way on earth or any of the realms unknown that she would let herself be deceived again. Once more, he hoisted her over his shoulder and they were pulled aboard his ship when they arrived. Whisperings of the crew alerted her that her presence on the vessel was not what they expected. But in her defense, this “Ship of Legends” was not what she expected either.

Roland’s ship was beyond dingy for someone in his newfound position. At a time, it could have been considered great but it was not in the care of anyone who valued cleanliness of any sort. It almost reminded Marianne of the time her father told the girls about his first week away from home when he went to study at the university. A young lord was expected to be educated and he made sure his parents sent him off as soon he was eligible. It had nothing to do with the chancellor's daughter, of course. Now a bachelor, he was fit to live as he pleased; no longer having the responsibility of chores and no parents to clean up after him. He only lasted a month before discovering a family of rats living in the pantry and finally becoming sick of his own filth. The rats were what reminded her of Roland. 

After her feet gained purchase on the wood, she realized Bogart’s ship was not as it appeared on the outside. The dirt and grime that plastered the sails only served as a ruse to mark the well-oiled machine that was his crew. About twice the size of Rolands crew, the men were each busy individually mopping or scrubbing something. No hand was empty and void of task.   Much to her surprise, there appeared to be some women in his employ as well since they too were choring along their shipmates. The wood of the deck was practically gleaming and free from any rot. Even the sails were accompanied by drying laundry and hammocks with no salt staining to be seen. Was this monster of a man wasting fresh water on laundry? Well, it wasn't like he couldn't afford it. 

A wave of palpable tension rippled through the ship that Marianne did not quite understand. They all seemed to be waiting. For what exactly, she wasn't sure. Finally, the silence was broken by an extremely muscular woman patching holes in a pile of what looked like extra sails. She sat on a crate as she worked.

“Change of plans, Sir?” She grunted, barely glancing up from her stitching. 

“No, Steph. Nothing’s changed.” He raised his voice to address the rest of his crew. The seamless slip back into that mountainous dialect was so natural, Marianne wondered how she didn’t realize how ridiculous he had sounded before. “And that goes for the rest of you. This changes nothing.” An “Aye, Captain!” chimed through the group and she couldn’t help but take the slightest offense at being referred to as a “this.” She was still regarded as a member of the nobility. A rebellious and disgraceful daughter of a lord was still undoubtedly such. Yet that uncertain feeling in her gut wouldn’t settle. Despite the hand that gripped the nape of her neck restricting her, and the man that had enough funds to render Roland speechless, she couldn’t help but feel something was lurking just on the horizon. It was written in the sullen faces of the crew that would not meet her eyes. It finally clicked in her mind that everyone was stationary in their chores, almost in waiting. Almost as if strategically placed. They were waiting for something. He nudged her forward to a short set of stairs leading to the upper level of the deck where she learned that something was a command . Supporting the two of them on the railing, he shouted a gruff “Now!” to the lower deck, breaking the spell.

Those who were cleaning upturned their brooms and mops and wrought them against the planks in a series of dull, but loud, thumping. Instantly, every cannon fired; aimed right at the Naval vessel. Every single one landed their target in a brilliant burst of smoke and carnage since the gun deck appeared to be on standby as well; waiting for the thuds from above. This was their plan all along, she thought. From the moment he stepped off his own ship, he planned on sinking Roland’s. Or how long before then? This was calculated from the very beginning. It was personal. The hull took shot after debilitating shot as it rocked. The ringing in her ears masked the screams of dying men that dove into the churn-if their limbs could still carry them. She was suddenly thankful she was no longer on that ship. Even if they managed to avoid all fire and swim away, it was still early Spring. The frigid waters would finish what their onslaught started. As much as Marianne tried, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the horrors that unfolded before her. It wasn’t long before several confident cheers hollered through the crew, but Bogart's expression never faltered. 

“Again!” He demanded. And again the stomp and boom followed, sending another round of iron hurtling out; flinging bodies and splintered wood alike in all directions. 

“Captain?” Anxiously questioned from the crow's nest.

Bogart opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by the entire ship lurching sideways as though the waves themselves wanted to drag them into the depths as well. He released Marianne on reflex searching for something to stabilize himself. Marianne was not as lucky as her hands, still bound, were unable to catch her fall. She tried her best to turn and fall on her hip rather than her face but another of Roland’s canons fired into the hull causing her to land flat on her back instead. Her skull remained intact, but the wind was knocked out of her with an awkward “oof!”  Her hips twisted to bring her to her belly. Elbows uncomfortably akimbo wiggled as fast as they could to secure a hiding place. She grit her teeth at her body’s protesting the agitation of her bruises as she crawled only to be halted by a knee firmly pressed to the small of her back. Damn! A beam crashed into the deck somewhere to her right causing them both to flinch and her fear turned to bitterness. Here she was simply trying to survive, but her captor wouldn't grant her even that. He already had her trapped. Did he really want to deliver a broken toy? 

“Come about, men! Bulkhead!” The instruction was barely audible over the crashing of waves and war. “Run ‘em through proper this time!” The sails shifted above them and the whole ship turned to arrange them perpendicular to the crumbling vessel. “Again!”

This next and final shot struck the ship from bow to stern not unlike how one would slice clean through a skinned buck. The sheer number of cannons left no room for stragglers as every inch of wood and canvas was stripped of their base functionality. Their devastating aim obliterated the craft that had once belonged to Captain Roland of His Majesty’s Naval Force as smoldering rubbish and viscera littered the waters. Only remaining was the carcass of the frame as if it was picked clean by vultures. He finally accepted his crew's celebration of their victory, but that scowl remained. 

“They shouldn’t have gotten a hit in,” he muttered above her. “Far too close. And now this girl,” he continued his thoughts aloud with disregard to Marianne’s struggling beneath his knee. Her shouting mingled with the ones from the deck, neither seemed to claim his attention. Scooching her hips up as hard as she could muster proved effective in throwing off his balance until he addressed her directly. 

“Honestly, do you mind? I heard you were wild. I didn’t think he meant plain difficult.” 

She gaped at his brazenness, torn between keeping her mouth shut or meeting his snark with her own. Unfortunately it resulted in her opening and closing her mouth like a beached grouper. Before each of them could hurl another childish remark, the celebratory cheers turned exclamatory-all gathered at the rail pointing toward the slaughter. Sighing, Bogart removed his hold and manhandled Marianne to be sitting upright, leaning against the beams. 

“Now, you sit here 'til I get back, little girl. I only need one thing at a time to be worryin’ about,” he commanded, turning to saunter off to the stairs. 

She leaned sideways to try to bring herself to her feet and follow before he clapped a hand to her shoulder and shoved her to the ground once more. “Now what did I just say, girl!”

The adrenaline of the battle still surged through her, giving her the strength for defiance. 

“And why should I listen? You think you have some power here just because you bought me?” 

A flicker of shock illuminated his face and disappeared just as quickly.

“That was my husband you just killed, by the way. I don’t think my family would appreciate that too much. Or the rest of the damned Navy for that matter. They’ll be coming after me, you know!” If the ride to the main vessel was any indication of how willing this man was to hurt pathetic things, she’ll take whatever chance she could to get in that last word. Or at least get some answers. 

“Oh, I'm all too familiar with Captain Roland,” he sneered, towering above her. “I never knew he would become this low of a man, though.” 

He watched as his crew dragged Roland's soggy body over the rail they somehow managed to fish out of the wreckage. Apparently he was the source of all the squabbling. 

“And just like that, things got more complicated.” Reaching down, he pulled Marianne to her feet and steered her down the stairs.  

While somehow more hectic, she was grateful for the focus to not be on her this time as she padded through the hull. She stole the occasional glimpse of the form everyone was crowding around. A golden lock or sodden boot was all she was afforded. 

“Steph!” Bogart called over the calamity and the same woman from earlier came rushing. “I don’t have time for this. Please take her and make arrangements while I go deal with,” he fumbled for the words before gesturing around to the general deck. “This. Please.” Leaving no room to argue, he left the two of them to watch everyone else scramble. 

“Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on or am I supposed to figure that out on my own?” She gruffed while the one named Steph led her through the corridors of the ship. It wasn’t meant to be a joke but she heard the amused puff of air from beside her. 

“You weren't supposed to be here,” was the only explanation offered. The hand on her back was more leading than predatory, yet firm all the same. She wasn't quite out of the woods just yet. 

“You mean this isn't my honeymoon?" Exhaustion sunk deep into her bones from the countless hours of facing near enough death in every which way it could be thrown at her that sarcasm was the only conversation she could offer.       

While the captain and a handful of his crew went to figure out what to do with Roland’s body, Maker, he’s a body now,  Steph was instructed to “take care of her.” Whatever that meant. Fully expecting to be taken to another cell and chained to the wall like a beast once again, she was led to a modest bedchamber. Nothing spectacular, of course, but there was a hay-stuffed mattress on the floor with a single pillow and linen sheet for cover. A neutral colored pile of woolen somethings sat atop. The wall to the right of them had a small porthole that wasn’t big enough for a person to fit through, but just enough to let in the sunlight. A wooden desk sat beneath it. Just a table and chair, no pens or parchment to decorate it, but a desk nonetheless. A large metal tub decorated a far corner of the room. She saw that it was empty. 

“Captain don’t need you stinkin’ up the place,” Steph teased. “Cook’s boilin’ up some water for you now.”  

“Water?” She asked.

“For your bath?” Steph remarked. “Maybe you need to be looked over sooner rather than later. The boss wanted to wait ‘til tomorrow, but I’m not too convinced your heads on right, girl.” Heavy footfalls resounded down the corridor, punctuated by telltale clinking and sloshing of copious amounts of water in metal pails.  “And that would be Brutus.” 

The steaming pails were all but thrown to the floor by a rather large crewmember she assumed to be the ship’s chef. His disposition nearly matched Crowley's, but rather than decades of anger and resentment, Brutus’ was out of antipathy. His strength also appeared to come from his sheer size in lieu of anything intentional. Expecting the steam to fill the room with salt, she was pleasantly surprised to note there was none. Again, there seemed to be a curious abundance of freshwater in the middle of the ocean.  She’ll have to ask about that later. Meanwhile, both Steph and Brutus moved to leave and grant her the privacy to bathe herself it seems with no supervision. 

A tired, “Don’t need to tell you to bail it yourself. You’re grown after all,” came from Brutus before the door was closed and locked behind them. 

Alone and unrestrained, she had no choice but to stare at the tub in front of her. The steel was smudged with use, but remained in good shape. It was well loved, she supposed. The stack on the bed revealed itself to be a simple tunic and breeches-both far too big for her, a plush towel, and an unmarked bar of floral smelling soap. How strange. She figured there was nothing else to do than what was instructed. A bath instead of a beating? No need to think on it. 

In pure disregard to the craftsmanship, that dress was all but torn away. Buttons and pins held on for their lives as she yanked and pulled until she was finally free from it. Now she was free to look in the dim light at the purple and greens that mottled her torso. Thankfully, any prodding only made her hiss, not scream. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as it looked, but looking still made her a bit queasy. Her knife also survived along with her. The leather fastenings just as tight as she left them the day before as she tucked it into the remains of her dress which she placed on the desk beside her. Lifting the heavy pails was a task maybe for someone like Steph. Brutus could have at least filled the tub for her but such favors are not for prisoners, she reminded herself. The bruising and stiffness from ages of restriction wormed their way through her aching muscles as she finally sank into the water that swished in coppery pools, collecting the grime and crusted blood she had accumulated these past handful of days. As much as it pained her to lift her arms, she was determined to work the lather everywhere she could. Lavender and light hints of eucalyptus mingled with the steam and the idle waves rocked her gently enough she finally allowed herself to just breathe. Married and widowed in less than a week. Bruised, bloodied. Considering the stolen time she was already on, nothing felt real to her since she boarded Roland's ship. Yet here she was. However many miles away from home, using luxurious soaps and hot water completely void of salt in the middle of the ocean on a vessel that isn’t supposed to exist. It felt like a fairy tale. A bubble of absurdity crept from inside her which she let run its course. Giggles turned into full belly laughs while she soaked, giving herself a frothy beard in the process. It was all too much. Dawn wouldn’t believe her when- 

Dawn

Her last moments with her sister were spent in weepy goodbyes. Frosting-sticky fingers pinched at each other's cheeks for what Marianne knew, knew would be the final time. She knew her sister would learn to mourn her eventually, never to see her again, but now? There was a sliver of hope. Her minute taste of freedom and control from deciding her own fate still gripped her even with diverted plans. Even as the suds dripped from her chin, she thought to the leather scabbard and dagger hidden in the sullied mess. It was the one tangible thing she still had left of her life she wouldn’t dare give up. 

Drying off proved to be as much a treat as the bath. The high quality soaps raised the expectation to even higher quality plush towels. This was the odd bit of home she missed. She was a 'wild one' as Roland said, but couldn’t go without her little luxuries. If her honeymoon luggage wasn’t waterlogged in the sands somewhere, she might have had nearly the same soaps. The only difference was the fragrance-she much preferred earthy scents to floral but the softness was the same. Curious how a man only known for his brutality carries such trivial things on his ship. Little random odds and ends could have ended up in his stolen bounties, but why keep them? The more time she spent on this ship, the less it all made sense. But that was thought for tomorrow. For now, she waited for another escort to take her to a more secure confinement. Chambers like this were much too good for a prize like her. 

The hours trudged onward. Resorting to toying with her knife out of sheer boredom, she waited for the rushed ushering that would not come. Tossing it from hand to hand, she began to understand that these were her chambers, this was her bed, and she was really meant to sleep here-for tonight at least. Steph's words suddenly baffled her. She was not supposed to be here. Maybe this was a last minute arrangement and something more permanent, less comfortable, was in store for her, but for tonight, she would take all she could get. Since the engagement, she finally had a glimmer of hope.

And this time, it would not go to waste. 

Chapter Text

The clang of workers’ routine stole Marianne from a sleep she wasn’t aware of falling into in the first place. Rattling of pots and pans; scrubbing, scraping. Singing. Nothing like the morning before where there were only leering eyes and sinking feelings. Slicing open the padding beneath her, she slid her knife between the hay and silently prayed over it once again. It’s gone through quite enough with her already, but their knowledge of her treasure could very well mean death. Her breath clouded for a moment, deciding the blanket should join her for the day; not only as extra warmth but she would take all the layers of protection she could get. Still unbound and unwatched, she tried the door only to be met with the raised fist of Steph seemingly about to knock. They both stared in an abashed beat of silence. 

“The Captain sent me,” she offered as explanation. “You’ve been quiet all day.”  

“All day?” She looked around outside at the hard working crew. “I guess I slept a little late, huh?”

Steph's gaze hardened in both confusion and concern. “You mean you’re just now waking up? We all had lunch a few hours ago. Someone brought you some, but they said you weren’t hungry,” she recalled. Her tone shifted immediately into something more urgent. “Did no one come to check on you? Who did you speak to?” Nearly each word was punctuated with a heavy step forward pushing them both into the room. 

“Uh, I-” Marianne was more confused than intimidated by the rapid interrogation. “I’m not sure.” She thought briefly to her dreamless sleep, not noting any visitors of significance. If someone had spoken in her room, she wasn’t aware of it.  “I don’t remember, I'm sorry.” Steph snatched her wrist in hand and led her to the bed. In the other was a bundle of jars and rags with some metal instruments thrown into the mix as well. 

“Girl’s sorry,” she grumbled under her breath. “Beaten and slept for days, not eating, and she’s sorry.” Her calloused hands lightly tugged the hem of Marianne’s tunic. “Up. I need to look at you.”

Stunned, she shot a glance to the open door and back to Steph in a silent plea. Without even looking behind her, her boot clanged against the wood and shut it with a click. Her brows shot up. Better? they ask. 

Her own shaking hands gripped the edge of her tunic in response and pulled upward to reveal mottled purples and yellows from the days prior. Any scrapes from Roland's boots or the dirty floor were mostly cleaned during last night's bath. Marianne knew time and rest were needed to heal the hurt beneath the surface, but Steph had to make sure. She was expecting far worse if her supplies gave indication, but Marianne meant nothing to her; this was most likely an order from the Captain. But then again, she was a prize to be hand delivered. If she was broken on arrival, someone would surely pay for it. Without a legitimate reason to argue, she allowed her wounds to be dressed. 

Steph worked in trained concentration. Softly yet methodically she prodded at the watercolor of blood beneath skin searching for anything more dire. Mostly she worked in silence except for the occasional hiss from Marianne at a particularly harsh poke which was met by an apologetic hum from her surveyor. Wraps of cloth soaked in liquid smelling strongly of rum and menthol were drug across her ribs and chest, retching a muffled cry from Marianne as it seeped into any weeping lesions it found. The harsh burn subsided into a warm sting as Steph finally deemed her attentions enough and bound her sternum in fresh cloth.

“That should be enough for now. Nothing I haven’t seen, nothing I can’t mend,” she chatted, packing up her supplies. “You’re tougher than you look, you know,” she added.

“I know,” she retorted, keeping her eyes downcast at their hands. 

Steph scoffed at her cockiness, nudging her knuckles lightly against her chin to tilt her gaze skyward.  

“Oh, I know. Quite the tiger you are,” she laughed. “Got the Captain worked up for sure.”

That caught her attention. 

“The Captain,” she began precariously.  “Who is he? I mean who is he really?” The silence that followed was uneasy for the both of them. Cocking her head, she searched for any answer she could find in the stoic woman’s eyes. “You know something. Tell me.” It wasn’t a question. But if there was a time for answers, it would be now. She was tired of being left in the dark. Steph’s cordial demeanor soured immediately into forced professionalism. 

“He is our Captain. What more is there?” A single heavy palm braced the mattress to steady herself as she excused herself from the bed to take her leave. For as strong as she was in a fight, she seemed to turn away from conversation. “Try not to sleep on your right side, girl. Nothing’s broken but you’ll be feelin’ it for a while.”

Marianne nodded, ignoring the defensive change of topic and busied her hands with whatever scraps that ended up left behind. The quick muttering and shuffling at the door caught her attention once more as the very same Captain was at the threshold exchanging knowing looks with Steph as she stepped around him. The tension, unfortunately, stayed behind with Marianne.

“So, er,” he scrambled for words at Steph’s leave. “I take it you’re faring much better, then?” 

She rubbed at the phantom twinge of chains that have long since sunk into deep, murky waters and hummed low in her throat. 

“I am.” 

As watched as she felt, she made sure to observe in equal measure the ferine creature whose kindness shown in the decimation of men and possession of their wives. 

“You gave us all quite the scare. I know this is less than ideal, but my will toward you is not unkind if you’ll believe it.”  

Loitering uncomfortably, he continued. 

“Roland joined us today as well. Asking for you.” 

Fear and anger alike bubbled in her throat.

“What words in any of the realms would I have to exchange with that wretch -”

“None,” he yielded a hand to interrupt. “The last thing I need is two extra bodies on board who can’t control themselves. Now get dressed. You’re due to pull some weight around here unless you’d rather join him in the bilge.” 

Before she could even think, a week went by. Then another. Day after day of choring, hearty food, and good conversation passed by in a comfortable blur. As it turns out, they were remarkably self-sustainable. Nothing was wasted aboard the ship and everything had a use. They also were thoroughly prepared from the chickens living below deck to the seemingly endless potable water that never refrained from surprising her. Scuppers were even plugged up to collect any rain water and sheep's pelts hung alongside the sails to catch morning dew each day. This plus the two months of fresh water they started with granted them surplus amounts for bathing, washing, or cooking. Much to Marianne’s satisfaction, someone let slip that the Captain was indeed from the mountains and used heavy blocks of ice to immensely extend the lives of their perishables until they melted and joined the stock as well. There are only so many uses you can get from the same water, however. If she wasn’t as exhausted and filthy as she was her first night on board, she would have realized the thin layer of cooking oil that went unnoticed among the soaps before she sunk into it. But she was clean despite any impurities of the water. And more importantly, she was grateful. 

Since it was made very clear she would have a purpose on board after she was able, they wasted no time at all putting her to work. The little experience she had doing work of any kind limited her options of positions, yet they made do with her. Peeling potatoes isn’t exactly skilled labor. Mending and sewing were also available tasks and those too required the skill she was thankful to have. Those less fortunate with the knowledge muttered swears and hisses during their feeble attempts at stitching and took her back to a time when her fingers were also as bandaged up as her newfound friends’. While Brutus wouldn’t mind a needle, his hands weren’t exactly dainty nor dextrous.

As the days turned into nights, her unease gradually dissipated and without her permission she became as tamed as a mangy stray with a full belly. As her aches and pains left, so did her ferocity. One of the shiphands even taught her to play some obscure, backstreet card game where they played for extra pieces of meat and scraps of fabric. She still didn’t quite understand the rules in its entirety, but she seemed to be winning. The other players traded knowing glances which is when she realized they were letting her win, the bastards! They want to play shady? Marianne could play shady. Hamming it up, she trashed a few bluffs and discarded some wilds completely by accident, oh my! and snuck a few more winnings into her pile. This only seemed to egg them on more. If she actually paid attention to the rules, more winnings was actually not how to win, if you would believe it, and she walked away with nothing after all. Her own fault for not expecting pirates to play dirty, really. Grumbling, she pushed away from the crate-turned-table and excused herself to her quarters. One of the more skilled players snuck her a snack or two as she left as thanks for keeping them entertained for a moment or two. Nothing too indulgent. They were known for sneaking a piece of crusty bread or salted meat into their pockets now and again, but she appreciated the gesture all the same. 

She supposed it was time to give these brutes their deserved grace as she’d harshly misjudged them from the start. The very same group that tore a military vessel entirely to pieces was the very same group that looked on her scars and snuck her little things to sink her teeth in. Each passing day became that much more comfortable. That much less spent anticipating the next disaster. Falling into routine proved easier than she could have predicted when she wasn’t constantly fearing for her life. 

More and more was she fully content to stay in this dream and never wake. No more tutors or disapproving glances from her father. No more wondering who she’ll bribe next to let her sneak out night after night. Whether she meant to or not, she had found a funny kind of freedom here at sea. But then again there was still a warm bed at home waiting for her. It was fun to dream, but what happens when the other shoe drops? You’re still a prisoner here. Nothing has changed. Just as a stray never forgets its fight no matter the hand that feeds it, Marianne never forgot her blade still hidden and discrete.  

Her trek back to her chambers was interrupted by clattering somewhere down around the bilge. She wasn’t allowed down in that part of the ship as that was where supplies and Roland of all things were kept, but she didn’t care to explore around the filth anyway. There were only so many potatoes you could look at. The clanging grew louder, drawing the attention of the rest of the crew. Suddenly everything halted as Roland himself clamored up to the main deck. Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. 

Someone who was so vain about his appearance had never looked more haggard. His clothes were shredded and filthy and plastered to his frame with far too much sweat which showed the awkward angle of his shoulders jutting out from beneath them. Arms bound behind his back, he could do not much else but stare and panic. A long dried trail of blood lined his temple and was flaked away in some places, but held clumps of hair to his face against their will. Bare feet stumbled as he turned, frantically, looking for any last minute hiding places or methods of escape. Resembling more a deranged animal than a Navy Captain, a bitter satisfaction simmered from deep within Marianne. She was a captive, but he was the real prisoner. No one even had the chance to grab him before Bogart slunk out of his quarters to see just what the excitement was all about. Roland went from deranged beast to cornered snake at the sight of the man and instantly regressed to a floundering mess. 

“N-n-now Crowley, please, let’s discuss this like gentlemen. I’m sure there’s been some mistake, here. I truly do admire you greatly and sir, ‘n I just don’t understand how I’ve offended you to this point-I really don’t!”   

Everyone's attention turned to behind the sniveling rat as Thad, the meek quartermaster,  finally caught up with hands on his knees and heaving breaths in between words of “sorry, sir” and “too fast!” Bogart surveyed the broken man and offered him a glance holding everything from anger to disappointment as he stepped forward. 

“Mmh,” he grunted. “Not so lucky I found you though, Roland.” Keeping his chin tucked, he tried constraining his words to a minimum clumsily slipping into his false accent without proper warning. Marianne said nothing to indicate the switch but smiled to herself as Roland sagged to his knees in submission. 

“Whatever I’ve done, I’ll right it!” He begged. “You’re reasonable, sir. Intelligent and reasonable and, and-”

 A click of a pistol silenced his whining as the cold barrel was pressed to his temple. 

“That’s quite enough, Captain. My business is my business and you’ll endure. Do you know why that is?” 

Roland swiftly shook his head, flinging his sweat-matted hair free from his cheek. 

“Because animals endure. And what do we do with a sick animal, men? ” His eyes and pistol remained on the poor bastard at his feet as he addressed his crew. 

“We put ‘em down!” Many voices shouted from their various positions on deck. 

“We put ‘em down.” His teeth were on full display in all their voraciousness.  Roland’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull.

“No! Sir, please!” He pleaded, openly weeping. But Marianne saw through his crocodile tears. She knew this man would only beg for his life just because it was something he could take. There was no value to it, only consequence. Bogart finally turned his cool gaze her way, nearly freezing her along with it. 

“What say you, Marianne? Does he live to see another day?”

Rolland turned his wallowing to her as well along with each other pair on the ship. 

“I,” she considered. On the one hand, he’ll never exist in her life again. His demanding hands will never touch another living soul; no longer grasping in the dark desperate for tithings. She, and all others, will be free of him as long as they too exist. Yet his teary, snake-like eyes bore into her anxiously awaiting the decision of the woman he owned-at least for a time. Her vows made in lace and satin and glittering things under her father’s scrutinous eye urged for her hesitation. For eternity, she promised. Forsaking all others. 

“Come on, Marianne,” he whispered in one last solicitation. The air stilled. 

“Girl?” Bogart whispered, urging for a decision. 

She too shook her head, almost in a panic, as dread pooled any and everywhere it could worm its way into her from head to toe. The short snapping of the hammer disengaging awarded Roland his undeserved reprise as his own dreadful feelings left him in a breathy and relieved sigh. 

“Oh, Marianne! How I adore you, believe me. You know I’d do anything to make this right,” he bowed his head to the dirty floor and blubbered into the planks while Bogart rolled his eyes at the display. Turning to look behind him at the girl who spared such a lowly creature his eyes were uncertain, but firm. Disapproving, yet understanding. 

With his back turned, Roland seized his opportunity to lurch up and dart for anywhere other than at the feet of his subjugator. The crew shouted their alarm and scrambled to subdue the man again, but Bogart raised a halting hand in favor of words as well as his weapon. 

“Roland, I give you this last chance,” he warns over the noise at the rat zig-zagging through the deck searching for sanctuary. His words go unheard, however, as he darts and weaves behind barrels and crates, trying to find somewhere, anywhere that will grant him a few extra precious seconds of life. 

“Please, lad,” he whispers in one last warning, forgetting his false inflection for a breath.  

Finally heeding, Roland suddenly whips his head around, eyes wide in recognition, and stretches his mouth wide to utter accusatory words otherwise interrupted by the unanticipated firing of a gun sending its bullet right between the poor man’s eyes.  

Marianne bit her tongue at the viscera as she witnessed the death of her husband for a second time. 

Pocketing his handgun, Bogart sneered at the mess while the burn of spent gunpowder dissipates. 

“S-sir, he…” Thad gasped meekly from where he stood to the rails. 

“I know,” he avowed.

More knowing exchanges eluded Marianne as so much secrecy was had in such an intimate crew. One moment she was jesting along with her shipmates and the next it was like a haze shrouded them, separating her entirely. It was frustrating. It was nerve wracking. 

It’s annoying is what it is.  

“Thad!” He barks at the still-heaving man. “Clean up this eyesore, will you?” 

“Of course, sir,” he pants. “But first you need to see the bilge.”

Bogart sighs, smoothing over his beard very much irked.

“What’s wrong with the bilge, Thaddeus?” 

He squirms under his unhappy Captain’s glare. 

“Well, it’s uh,” he struggles for words until Steph wrecks an elbow into his ribs forcing them out.

“Underwater! It’s underwater, Captain,” he sputters. “Roland kicked through some loose boards as a distraction. We need to dock for repairs.” 

His jaw clenched and unclenched in disdain, fighting the urge to tear into the small man. 

“We had just resupplied some two weeks ago, mate. I didn’t plan for an emergency stop in our schedule.” 

“Well, we’re going to have to. At least a quarter of the new chicks have drowned already and that’s not even counting the water we’ve taken on.” 

Thinking of any second options, Bogart resolves to stamp past the crew. 

“Hoist the mains, gentlemen!” He bellows, forgoing reason. “Ready to ground!” 

While Thad did his best not to heave at the blood underfoot, the rest of the crew scrambled to ready the masts and gather everything they needed to ready the ship for land leaving Marianne to process. Luckily the winds were favorable and they found a quaint little alcove far away from any form of civilization in no time at all. Immediately after reaching land, the ramp was tossed.

The ramp leading to the shore was caked in sand from the years of use. Crates and barrels of dry goods and sleep mats were carried arm to arm by meandering shiphands as Marianne watched them all. The chill of early Spring was holding everyone tightly still sending a wave of ice through to her bones and shivering, she looked to the emerging stars in the twilight. Long, winding shadows were cast from the conifer border to the inland. In fact, the treeline wasn’t too far from the shore and looked thick enough to get lost in. She leaned closer over the creaking railing to judge the distance. If she managed to get past the already busy crew, she’d just need to sprint through the brush. Far enough inward and they’d have less and less of a chance to capture her twice. A hand at her shoulder startled her from her dangerous train of thought - it seems her musings caused her to roam perfectly in the way of the workings that reminded her so much of ants. Murmuring an apology, she resumed her positioning off to the side and firmly out of the way. 

Each member of the crew had something different in their arms. All crates and containers of sorts but each was meticulously labeled in stark, bold lettering burned into the sides. Dried meats, flour, tools, what have you were passed down one by one. Everyone had a job to do but her. Next, a metal cage with several of the surviving chickens was pushed to the ramp inspiring her. Everyone was busy after all. All she’d need was a distraction and her knife. 

Sand squished between her toes as her legs carried her as far and fast as they physically could while she ignored the howling behind her mixed with panicked cackling of the startled fowl. Harsh winds whipped and whirled around her, almost guiding her forward as she couldn’t get it into her lungs fast enough. Bobbing and winding through the dense wood, she didn’t dare look behind her, couldn’t afford it. If she had, she’d see the sliver of a thin hand silently halting the rest of his crew as a single man stepped into the trees. 

Heartbeat thundering in her ears, she finally slowed to catch her breath in heady gulps. The pounding in her chest matched that in her head, but she was too far gone to stop now. Now was not the time for giving up. Resting against a nearby tree she thought about the stories she would tell Dawn when she finally returned home; the crying they would do. The fear they would both put into their father. She could weep at the almost taste of her mother’s recipes just out of reach. Her bed, her blades, her sister, all seemingly paces away. Did she have any sense of where to go in the heavy foliage? Absolutely not. But all she really needed was to put enough distance between her and the creatures at her back. All she needed was an unfamiliar face and the promise of reward and she’d be home. 

A nearby snapping of twigs broke her from the fantasy. Catching her breath somewhere between her heart and her lungs she waited; hands clasped at her lips to not even let the fog of breath escape. Scratching bark to her back shielded her from any searching eyes as she counted the urgent beating of her heart. Rather than haunted by the ever persistent threat of Roland’s men, she was instead hunted, rather, by a fresh threat of her own creation. The wheezing of trapped breath behind her palms threatened to reveal her; remaining calm must take priority. One, two, three, four, five, six. She counted with each stampeding beat. One, two, three, four, five, six.  Leaves crunch from behind the nearby brush. Onetwo, threefour, fivesix.  A scurrying of something much smaller than her from ahead, frightened. Onetwothreefourfivesix. The shadow of strong shoulders and hooked nose hovered behind her sanctuary and for an instant there was nothing for her to count. Just as he rounded the edge of the trunk, she bolted once more revealing her position but willing her legs to test their limits and ignored the fire in her lungs. 

The Captain hollered triumphantly and soared after her, his own legs that were much longer and stronger granted him just enough extra speed to gain on her and close the distance. With a roar that mingled alongside her yelp, his deft fingers gripped the back of her tunic and pulled sending her flying backward and landing harshly on the cold ground. Luckily she kept her breath which she used to scream every obscenity she could recall while he pinned her beneath him.

His breath was hot in her face as she bucked and struggled against his unwavering grasp. She was all nails and teeth and elbows, and she wondered exactly what the rest of the crew was thinking back at the beach. Fallen needles of pine and spruce dug into her back, threatening to pierce the flesh there and she remembered her scabbard that has survived all this time hidden at her hip. She snuck a hand downward to reach for her undetected defenses to at least even out the fight. A flash of astonishment, panic, and something else entirely washed over his face as he narrowly dodged a swipe of the blade and with gritted teeth, placed all of his weight on a knee at her stomach. She cried out once again. His long dexterous fingers held her wrist in a bruising grip only to slam the offending hand in the dirt once, twice until the hilt slipped from her grasp.

“No!” She cried. “Please!”  But she was already flipped to her front, face shoved into the dirt beneath them.

“Stupid girl,” Bogart snarled, pinning her arm to her back forcing her shoulder into an arduous position. “Had that with you the whole time, did you? Incompetent Roland couldn’t be bothered to search you over?” 

“Fuck you!”  Marianne spit behind her only to be met with grit at her lips once more.

“Such a filthy mouth on a pretty thing like you,” he leaned down to whisper, whisker gruff prickling her neck and shoulder. “Now I see why he liked you so much.”

He palms the blade, and with one hand binding both wrists forcefully tugs her to her feet. On clumsy footing, she stumbled to escape his grasp but he whistled low in warning.

“Be good,” he grunted. “Wouldn’t want to spill your own blood on that knife, would you?”

Exhausted from the chase, she hung her head low and trudged onward. She would either be killed here or back at the ship-at least this way she could see one last sunset. 

She hadn’t recalled how far from the shore she had taken them as the walk back was much longer than anticipated. His hold on her never faltered nor were words exchanged. Just the Captain’s thickly accented mutterings in an unfamiliar language filled the silence their sand dampened steps wished for. Once they reached the shore, the crew’s work became more leisure than anything to sneak a nosy glimpse or two at the both of them as Marianne was shoved up the ramp. There she resumed her struggles of hurling swears hoping at least to hurt him with words rather than blades. Long, spindly fingers gripped her wrist much too tightly while her legs frantically rushed to catch up to his long strides as he drug her through the cavity of the ship. Once they reached her chambers, she was roughly hurled across the threshold, scraping her knees against the wooden floor. Clutching her wrist to her chest didn’t soothe the ache nor the fingertip shaped bruises forming there. In their first meeting, Marianne was spiteful. She wasn’t afraid of death then; she wasn’t afraid of pain. Now with tear-stained cheeks she watched the dreaded creature staring predatory in the doorway and understood they were one and the same.  

“Now you’ll be a good little butterfly and think before you try flying away from me again," he scoffed,  boxing her in.

“You can’t just keep me here!” She shouted from when she lay crumpled on the floor. “You aren’t taking me to Jones and you’re not keeping me for yourself!”

Bogart turned to meet her scowl, puzzled.

“I’m not your crew. I don’t know what I am to you, but I’m not going to be your prisoner anymore,” she sobbed. Watching her tremble from the watery words and Bogart softened his gaze in something that could’ve resembled guilt. “And don’t you dare touch me again or I’ll-”

He barks out a laugh. 

“You’ll do what, girl? Kill me? With this?” He admires her prized dagger in the moonlight, catching the beautiful glint reflecting off the metal and curbing the reignited, unfettered rage in his eyes.

 “Not anymore.” 

He hums in thought. 

“It's a pretty thing, really,” he growls watching the light refract through a quartz embedded in the hilt. Marianne helped Dagda pick out the stone when her cheeks were rose-tinted and her father was her world. “I’d like to think I should keep this; add it to my collection. Much too pretty to be wasted on silly noble girls.” The thought of losing the best treasure sent Marianne spiraling. She scrambled on her hands and knees to try and reclaim it, to try anything, but the blade was instead spun around to press its tip firmly at her throat. The Captain’s hand was steady. No sign of hesitancy shown in his eyes while she wept.

“None of that again. Escaping to the trees with stolen weaponry is so unbecoming of a lady,” he spat. “I hope you enjoyed your little adventure because it was the last free breath you’ll ever draw again.” He withdrew the blade and puffed out an amused laugh to himself. “You know,” he whispered to her crumpled body on the ground and lifted her gaze by the hair, just as Roland had done once before. “You’re a pretty thing too. Maybe I'll keep you as well.” He couldn’t help but laugh at her anguished expression as he closed and locked the door behind him, plunging her into darkness once again.

It must’ve been hours. They were still docked, but the laughter and crackling of campfire separated her from the crew she’d grown to care for from where they ate together on the beach. The crew that saw her as an equal. Stupid, she thought. He’d made no move to hurt her until now. None of them did. And now, thanks to her impulse, she was right back where she started. Trapped. Alone. And now she’s lost her only piece of home to her captor. Her skinned knees had long since crusted over, but she was still so incredibly sore from running as she never had to do in life. While impulsive, it was her only chance at freedom after she had already been given so much. Who knows if she’ll ever be allowed to see the sun again? The setting of heavy boots and the unbolting of a lock held the answer for her. Uncharacteristically timid, Bogart crowded the doorway and she couldn’t help but flinch.  

“I..erm,” he began awkwardly. 

Marianne just stared.

“Brutus found some wild greens and uh, made a stew. Everyone seems to like it.” His words apparently have found him. 

Blinking up at him, she held enough quiet for the both of them.

“It’s getting late and you still need to eat, so,” he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “I’m asking you to eat. With everyone.”

His hollow laugh that bounced off the trees echoes through her mind as she narrows her gaze. 

“You want me to eat with you?”

“With everyone, yes.” 

“I thought I was never to draw a free breath again,” she challenged, articulating each and every sound. 

Pursing his lips, frustrated, he leaves her a sliver of space at his side to follow him out into the ship.

“And I thought you were able to be trusted to stay manageable in these past few weeks. Especially since you’ve been armed all this time, I half expected you to be as senseless and shortsighted much sooner.” Dramatically, he flourishes his hand to beckon her. “Now would you like to eat or not?”

Against every voice in her mind screaming in opposition, she stands to her feet. 

The walk to the beach wasn’t as awkward as she expected. The silence was appreciated by both of them as he guided her to the fire using his own sheer size to lead her without any argument. A few questioning eyes looked up from their drinks, but lingered reticently. Those who chose not to acknowledge them, kept to their comradery and focused on whatever tall tale was being shared around this time. Soup was slurped and ale was spilled just like all other nights back on the ship, omitting the sand beneath their feet. A bowl was nudged into her lap along with her share of ale.

It was a rich looking broth smelling earthy and fulfilling. Having spent all her energy scurrying and weeping, her stomach gurgled urging her to drink. She of course indulged, all but groaning in satisfaction the second the spiced broth hit her tongue. The fats of chicken and walnut melded beautifully with the hearty greens and wild spices that accompanied the charred smoke of the roaring fire they all huddled around. The thick glue of a porridge that Roland fed her was lifetimes away from her now as she guzzled down the stew. Brutus smirked in that pompous way only an artist could while she damn near licked the bowl clean. 

The crew continued on with their storytelling's and singings, with the occasional shanty Marianne hummed along to having spent her nights evading palace guards and slumming with her most favorite peasant friends in backwater pubs. Vaguely impressed, Bogart snuck glances at her pretending not to know the words. Eventually, a voice piped up insisting on the Captain’s turn with a song. Boos and cheers rang around the blaze.

“You know he don’t sing,” gruffed one of the men. 

“He’s too stubborn,” Steph griped, elbowing Thad sitting to her right. Light jeering erupts, settling at the Captain clearing his throat.

Marianne almost mourned the boisterousness from moments before as a tension settled heavy as a fog over the camp while he sang. Eyes lidded and shoulders stiff, their Captain recited what must have been some ancient lullaby from a time before life made him so cruel as he sang as if each word were a prayer. The melody flowed from his lips like rich wine and enthralled, she managed to only capture the last few lines: 

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

    And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

    Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips.

Solemn here, here ’s were called and in the silence that followed his melody, the last of the stragglers retired for the evening bidding goodnight’s and farewell’s leaving just the Captain and his ward.

“Who was she?” She whispered, aching to fill the quiet. “The woman who made you feel this way.” 

“Hmm? Oh,” he blushed. “No one.” Downcast, he tossed a twig into the flames and watched it burn. 

“You cannot be serious.” She tried not to smile. “You’re just always this morose?”

“Easy,” he teases. “Yes, I’m serious.” He retrieves a pipe from his breast pocket and lights it with a smoldering piece of kindling, taking a long drag as if the bitter herb could conjure the words for him. “It’s the only memory I have left of my mother before she passed. Sang it to me every night, nearly.”

“Oh,” she somberly replied, not used to being on the other side of this conversation. “It was beautiful, your singing.” 

He huffs out smoke.

“Thank you. The crew always wants me to join in on their amusement, but I never oblige. They love when I get creative telling them all to fuck off.”

Marianne snorts into her tankard. 

“Besides, that was a love that was never meant for me,” he continued. “She would dance with my father in the candlelight after tucking me in. I used to sneak out and watch them every night. Always thought that was the closest thing we had to magic.” 

Forcing the change in subject, he reached a hand into his coat to retrieve a wrapped bundle to pass into her lap unceremoniously. Wordless, she unwraps the fabric to reveal her blade back in her possession. Her eyes question him where her voice can’t find the strength to. 

“You could’ve had me earlier, you know. Back in the forest?” He coughs, continuing. “If I was just a tad slower you’d have had it buried in my neck quicker ‘n you should’ve,” he laughed. “Quite embarrassing. Glad I had the rest wait for us back at the beach; no doubt you’d be long gone by now.” Not able to bring his own eyes to meet hers, he settles for mouthing at the wooden lip.

“I don’t…” Marianne shook her head at both his admission and gesture as neither made any remote sense to her. 

“You’re quite confident with it; from what I’ve seen anyway.” He takes the blade from where it lay untouched in her lap to manipulate the hilt in his hands. “It’s tarnished, but sharp. It’s taken care of, clearly.” 

She nods an affirmative. Her swordsmith back home got fed up with her asking to have it sharpened so often that he finally just taught her how to do it herself. She couldn’t ask anyone else for help anyway. Sharpening her dagger became a meditation, but it was also a matter of pride. 

“Listen, girl,” his voice came once again much more stern. “There was no sign of you being on that ship with him. Things weren’t supposed to happen this way.” 

“How were they supposed to happen then?”

“That’s complicated.” 

Marianne scoffs. “That’s a word that keeps getting tossed around and I’m sick of hearing it. Everyone around here seems to know something I don’t.”

“There’s a reason for that.”

“Well I’m tired of it,” her voice wavers, frustration evident. “I’ve done everything I was supposed to for hell, however long I’ve been here. I’ve washed your damned laundry, scrubbed your damned deck. I think I finally deserve an answer.”

Bogart sighs in indignation. “Aye. ‘Suppose you do.” 

He takes a long drag of his pipe, stalling. 

“There’s something much bigger than your little honeymoon going on here. It’s been in the works for some time now and,” he sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry you got mixed up in it all.”

“Tell me,” she pleaded.

“I can’t. Wish I could.”

“Why not?” 

“‘Fraid I can’t say.” His smile never reaches his eyes. 

Marianne thinks for a beat. 

“Then why did you kill Roland but not me? If I’ve already stumbled into too much, then why keep another mouth to feed on board?”

Bogart chews the inside of his cheek in contemplation. 

“Because he’s wronged me and you haven’t.”

“Wronged you how?”

Another drag.

“Let’s just say I’ve been trespassed and invaded. And I’m not amused.” 

Marianne grins, taking her blade back from him. 

“I’ll be sure to be on my best behavior then.”

“I don’t know if the chickens’ll believe you, but,” He sucks his teeth. “Actually, about that. Don’t run again.”

She peers up, puzzled. 

“You know too much already whether you believe it or not. And whether you like it or not, you must stay until everything is finished. There’s far too much I’ve gambled to let you ruin it.” 

“And why should I trust you? After everything you’ve put me through?”

“Stubborn just like her father,” he spits under his breath. 

“Like you know anything about my father, you filthy-”

“Watch yourself,” he warns. “And do not mistake this kindness for weakness, I knew your father very well,” He sighs. “A little too well.”

“My father is a worm, but he’d never stoop to associate with pirates.”

“Give me some credit, please. I wasn’t quite as cruel then.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“‘M afraid that’s a tale for another time." 

He glances at her finally, grateful for her milding temper.

“Look,” he sighs. “I have no reason to bring any harm to you. But if you run like that again, you’ll be forcing my hand, do you understand?”

Fully heeding this warning, she nods.

“Yes,” she breathes. “I won’t run again.” 

He nods in kind, accepting her answer and tosses another log on the fire. 

“Good.” 

The flames crackle in her brief flash of consideration. 

“Will I ever see my family again?” She questions, hoping.

Miraculously, he nods again.

“You have my word. I’ll take you to them myself.” 

“Good,” she echoes. 

Together they finish the night in silence watching the flames lick at sandy logs and flitting smoke dance up, up, up into the sky until it cannot be witnessed by any living thing any longer. 

Much later into the night, so much so that it could be considered morning, Lord Dagda is awoken to urgent pounding on his chamber door and only then did he notice the frantic shouting in the harbor down below. They all seemed to be swarming, pointing at something in the water. Squinting in the dim light, Dagda could make out the form of long extinguished remains of a ship washing aground in these dark hours. Remains that should not have lasted this long without sinking into the depths. This was something that had seen utter horror and left only tattered flags and charred masts as a cautionary tale. He stumbled out of bed to hurriedly shrug on his robe and join in on the clamoring as they all gawked and rushed toward what was left of a familiar Naval ship teetering into the harbor.