Blood of the Liberated

[The Stealthy Pirate]

What he said. Great Chapter mate!! I can sense this is going to build up to something big!

[Captain Del]

Thank you, mates!

This chapter is a little on the shorter/slower side, but that's mainly because it's more of a transition chapter. Regardless, I hope you all enjoy it! So, without further adieu...

Reborn

April 25th, 1702
Martliona, Spain
5:45 AM

The Spanish sun had just peaked over the horizon as the two squandered out by the docks of the town, huffing and panting in exhaustion and pain. They had ran all the way from the mansion to the mouth of the port, not stopping or slowing at any point, for fear that somebody may come up from behind and capture them. John bent over to sit on the ground, while Maria held herself up against the stone wall of a home that stood next to them.

John laid back on the dirt beneath him, letting the Commodore's pistol rest atop his chest. He wiped his hand at his brow, pushing aside his bangs; he tried to ease his restless body from all the pain that stroked through his body, both physically and mentally. The sight of what he had done to Garcia at the hands of the gun, the meshed and cut tissue that surrounded a gouged, bleeding eye, haunted him with a constant taunt, as though he had done something wrong. It sent shivers down his spine, the thought of the mutilation that he caused.

He looked across from him, where Maria was. She stood with her back against the wall, almost as though she was sitting on air. Her face wasn't at the slightest worried, or scared, or remorseful - she was just exhausted, and of all things, liberated. Where Garcia had gripped her forearms was marked by his hands, so much so that smears of blood ran up across her arm. She rubbed at it, not like it pained her, but that she was simply getting the blood off of her body.

John started to stand up, taking the pistol and sliding it back in to its holster. He walked back and forth, rubbing his right hand on the back of his sweaty head. "You should have allowed me to put him out of his misery, you know."

Maria shook her head no, wincing as her hands ran over her scars. "I'd sleep much sounder knowing that he has to suffer, much like how he did to me."

"I'm sure, then, you'll be glad to know he won't rest until he has us at his doorstep again, then?" John challenged her. He pointed his hand out to the path they had come from. "For all we know, he has his men chasing after us as we speak... God, why did I ever-"

Maria interrupted. "You did the right thing, regardless. If you had not shot him like that, I can assure you we would have been dead long before we escaped that mansion."

"Ah, excellent. So we might just prolong our executions so I can let that manifest in my mind for a little bit." John huffed; kicking the dirt as he angrily resumed pacing back and forth. He felt like as though he was just waiting to be killed in this paradise, stranded and left for dead. But as his vision was caught by the bay, he paused - and idea had come to his mind. "The ship!"

Maria looked at him his curiosity. "What ship?"

"Ruthe-t-therford's ship, The Darkskull, it still has to be in the bay. Maybe the others haven't reached it yet, or maybe they haven't left yet - perhaps they'll take us in!"

Maria froze for a minute. She looked at John, wide-eyed, before pushing up off the wall and walking up to him. "Hurry, let's see." she ushered to him.

Immediately John turned around and started running at top speed down the remainder of the road, and breaking off in to the dock area. He ran down the length of the beach, hoping that he would remember where the ship itself was parked - and he did, noticing the peak of its top mast towering over the tops of the other ships that were parked to the docks adjacent it. His heart raced as he imagined seeing his fellow crew members, and then departing back across the channel. He imagined being back home, with his childhood friends and neighbors - but it was at that point, he remembered his past.

John, as a child, was sheltered by his mother. She was incredibly protective over him, in the sense that if he was gone, she would be alone during the extensive merchant journeys that his father would embark on. She kept him confined to their home, aside from the very few times John was able to weasel away from the home when she was too busy to notice. He went no further than down the street, and the only friend he ever had to interact with was with his eyes.

As he reached the start of the stone dock, he banked at the turn and sprinted down it with whatever energy he had left. He propelled himself right to the foot of the board that led on ot the ship, and steadied himself before he strode up it, trying not to topple over in to the crystal waters below. He hit the deck with a slam, and much to his pleasure, he was met with four Navy soldiers with their backs turned to him. His thud on the ground grabbed their attention, but just as he prepared to walk forward and explain himself, he found the barrel of a long, steel musket pointed right at his teeth.

"Oh no," the soldier with the gun said, shaking his head sternly. "I don't think so, mate. Off the ship, now."

John was in utter shock, the men who he had spent his limited time on the ship interacting so tranquilly with. "What?! Surely there must be a misunderstanding, gentlemen, I mean no har-"

"Shut yer trap!" the short, stubby soldier to the right of the man with the musket barked. He turned and nodded to the soldier with the gun, who John could now recognize as Commodore Rutherford's First Mate, Hugh Roberts.

"I was sick of listening to Rutherford talking about you forever and ever on end, saying how you would 'fulfill the spot of a son he never had.'" Roberts making a mocking voice of the Commodore as he inched closer with the gun. "Sick of it, I tell you. Almost as sick I became of you as I did him, that arrogant little twat."

"DON'T talk about him like that!" John snarled. The three men surrounding Roberts took an intimidating jolt forward, but stopped right there. "You sick monster, you wanted him to die, didn't you?"

Roberts shrugged. "I wasn't the one who shot the bullet, but I sure as hell wanted to." Roberts rose the musket a little higher, pointing at John's head. "Now, I do suggest you leave. It's a long way back to London, and I'm not going to let you leech off us anymore."

Just at that instant, Maria gleefully bounded on top of the deck of the ship. John tried to swing his hand back to shoo her away, but before he could, Roberts turned the musket on her. He eyed the girl up and down, from head to toe. He licked his lips before smiling, and shrugged. "Well, I assume we can make one.... exception. The girl can stay, but the boy must go."

Two of the soldiers instantly lunged forward, grabbing Maria towards them and pulling her close. She tried to kick and flail against them, but they held her so tight she could barely move. They breathed heavily down her neck as they carried her off to the crew's quarters, her eyes like that of a puppy as she looked at John. "Hmm, I see they've already taken a liking to their new toy." Roberts chuckled. "You," he motioned to the remaining soldier, "take our acquaintance here off my ship."

As the greasy, lanky soldier crept towards John, the boy stumbled back, hitting his back against the banister of the ship. He accidentally had backed up in to a rope that was loosely tied to the side, which came undone as he hit it. The rope flung upward, to the first beam of the ship, where a barrel which had been lifted up from underneath the ship's deck had been hoisted. It fell straight down on to the dock, slamming with a tremendous force down on to Robert's shoulder. As his captain shot the musket blankly to the ground, collapsing under pain, the crew mate turned to see what was going on. With this opportunity, John grabbed at his pistol and tried to fire at the soldier - but it was jammed.

The soldier turned to the click of the gun, but by that time John had flipped over the gun and pistol-whipped the man straight on the forehead, so hard that it sent him to the ground in an unconscious clamber. Immediately disregarding Roberts, who was wailing in pain on the deck, John scooped up his musket and made a run for the staircase leading down in to the crew's quarters, holding it firmly at his side.

As he jumped down in to the dark hull, John was met with a wall of darkness. It was eerily still, not a thing to be seen. As John tried to motion through the void, a high-pitched scream rocketed far in front of him. Stunned, he paused a little, unsure of whether to respond or not. "...Maria....?" he whispered, trying to find her in the abyss.

A cry for help came forward from the same direction, and it was at this time John shifted in to action. He started trudging through the lack of light, bumping regularly in to buckets, stools, crates, beds, hammocks, and posts, but nevertheless moving onward. Each little scream seemed louder and louder as he progressed step by step, and each time he became filled with more and more anger. His face clenched with anger at the visions of what they may be doing to Maria - he would make them regret every second of it.

John pointed the gun at the back of one of the soldiers as their starch white skin pointed through the air. He turned around, his shirt already torn off, as he and the other soldier gasped in shock. Maria still screamed in terror as she nearly dove off the hammock they had thrown her on, crawling on the ground towards John. "Both of you, up!" he motioned them up towards the main deck, towards the little beam of light emanating near the stairs.

On the deck, Roberts just briefly began to scramble to his feet, catching himself on the mast. As he turned around, his two fellow men were thrown at him, knocking him back in to the mast. Before they could collect themselves fully, and get an understanding of what was going on, John began to bark at them. "Don't just stand there like idiots, set the sails!"

The entire group of men turned and looked at him as if they hadn't understood a word he said. Even Maria gave him a questioning glare, but he dismissed all of them. "Get to work, dammit!"

Slowly and shamefully, the three men went around the ship, fastening the riggings, tightening the knots, checking the sails, and coordinating anything that was regularly done before a journey. They all moved in an odd mood, however, a sense of confusedness and denial among them. Roberts felt as though he was about to throw himself over the banister and let himself drown, the thought that his dreams of running his own ship were being squandered by a fifteen-year-old - not that John wouldn't mind if he did. Not anymore, at least.

As John watched the three downfallen soldiers work about from the helm, he felt with him a transformation, as though he had been reborn. No longer did he feel squeamish, nor did he feel remorseful fr what he put his enemies through. Watching Maria being tortured slowly, emotionally and physically, brought an idea to his mind that he was meant to stand up for himself once in a while. He could feel his skin becoming thicker as he gripped the wheel of the ship for the first time, running his fingers over it. It was incredibly smooth, soft, and easy to the touch. Yet at the same time, it was firm, strong, and empowering, sending a shockwave through him.

When the ship was prepared, John gave Roberts the honor of steering her away from the dock. He seemed to do it in an utterly depressed manner, but John stood right by the wheel, his musket in hand, to make sure Hugh didn't try anything. The soldier easily got the ship away from the dock methodically, trying to hold back from tears as he literally drove away from his dreams. John saw the man grip the wheel tighter as the back of the ship pulled away from the tip of the stone dock, but he tried not to feel bad.

Once they had progressed in to the middle of the harbor, John called for Maria. "Alright, Maria, come and steady the wheel for a minute." As Maria took the wheel from Roberts, John shoved the man away from the helm. "The rest of you, down on the deck! NOW!" he yelled.

The three men stood in a small group in the middle of the main deck, worried as to what was about to happen. They rubbed their hands together feverishly, watching *** John descended down the stairs of the helm with the musket still in hand. Maria tried to watch what was going on over the wheel as John jumped down off the last step, stopping in his tracks. He raised the musket and pointed it at the group of men, causing them all to flinch a little. "Get off." John simply instructed them.

They were confused. "What do you mean?" the fat one asked.

"Get off my damn ship." John told them off, pointing with his free hand over the side of the ship.

The men's eyes widened in shock. "Surely you can't be serious!" Roberts protested.

"Would you prefer if I killed you, and disposed of you in the water?" John asked. It was with that statement he finally realized that he had changed completely from what he had been. He had gone from a peaceful, submissive child, to an aggressive, hardened man, and it felt good. But at the same time, he knew from this point on he was no longer an innocent - he was a criminal.

Slowly, the group of men backtracked to the side of the ship, looking over the banister. They buckled at the knees as they watched the waters splash up against the side of the ship, but just as they prepared to ease over, John called them one final time. "Oh," he said, pointing the barrel of the musket to their still knocked-out ally on the ground, "Don't forget about him, now."

Their friend in tow, the group of men sat themselves on the side of the ship, one leg hanging over the side of the ship, and the other still on the inside (with the exception of their unconscious friend, who had already been ruthlessly tossed in to the ocean.) Just as they prepared to go over, they were knocked violently in to the waters below, slamming in to them at a great, bruising speed. John had swiped the boots of the knocked out soldier and chucked them at the men, hitting the fat one with one boot, and Roberts with the other. The third, a fit yet dumb witted man, jumped off in fear something would hit him too.

John chuckled softly as he placed the musket down on the deck. "Would you look at that, I stole a ship with a gun with no bullets."

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Comments? Reviews? You know the drill, mates!


Thanks for reading!

[The Stealthy Pirate]

Not bad for a transition chapter mate! Not bad at all..

[Robert Ironcastle]

Best part was the last bit.That was hilarious.

[Captain Del]

Okay mates, I have a treat for you!

I was really eager to finish this chapter (mainly because of what is explained in it, and because the next few chapters are going to be huge and action packed.), so I got to work today, and was able to finish it! I hope you all are able to enjoy it - think of it as a gift right before Lady Gaga's new album is released

So, without further adieu, I give thee....

Ledger of The Deep

The next few days were on the verge of being both exciting, and perilous. Every minute the pair looked over their shoulders, across the back of the ship, to see if they were being followed. In between chores around the ship, they each would try to reassure the other that they would survive, but neither of them was completely convinced. This was the first time either of them had been completely on their own, and it sent a shockwave of both fear and exhilaration through both of them as they paused, watching a questionable merchant ship sail past them a few miles in the distance. They learned to stand on their toes, and every time the ship creaked, they nearly jolted in to a run.

Maria had told John that she knew of a man by the name of Hernan Jaenada in Cadiz who would be able to help them, and possibly shed light on the situation they were caught in. She remembers meeting him when she was younger, and before her father's wickedness really burned her skin. He was the head of an out-of-touch branch of the Spanish nobility, believed to have gone rogue from the crown a long while ago, yet still managing to stay away from any imperial or military trouble. He had sparked a rivalry with Avaricia, and was positive that if anybody could help them, he could.

It was a rough time handling the ship all to themselves, seeing as how they had only learned through watching from the corner of their eyes. Still, having watched ships go in and out of ports all his life, John had a good grasp of it, and kept the ship out of many binds. Every day that passed, he became more and more protective over the ship, like it hadn't yet fully clicked in his head that it was his. Instead, the thought slowly progressed in to his head with each rise of the sun, and his sense of accomplishment grew with it.

About a week in to their venture, Maria brought up a subject John hadn't even thought about. It happened as John was standing at the helm, gliding the ship through the easy Spanish winds. "You know," she called from the deck of the ship, "it would be a smart idea to rename the ship."

John was in awe of the idea. He knew the ship was his, and it may be dangerous to keep the name, but also knew renaming a ship was like enchanting it with a curse. "I'm not sure... I'd feel like it'd just be a further burden."

"Relax," Maria reassured him. "I know of a way."

The next time they reached port, a small fishing village somewhere on the Northwestern tip of Spain, Maria grabbed a bucket of paint left out on the dock and began to get to work. She instructed John to go find any logs or journals of Rutherford's, or any of the crew mates’s for that matter, and discard them in to the sea. Meanwhile, she began painting over any carving or painting of the ship's name. "We need to wipe the ship out of the Ledger of the Deep, unless you want Poseidon to come hunting for us." she told him.

Once all previous records of the ship were discarded, Maria removed the main board from the back of the ship and placed it on top of a few crates on the small wood dock. "Well, Captain, what shall we name it?"

John took a few minutes to ponder the name of the ship. He had always been fond of the old ship name, but he was even fonder of the new subject of his eye - Maria. Every moment he was around her, he felt consumed in her swaying, graceful presence, like the scent of her sea-washed hair created a high for him.

John grabbed the paint brush, and slowly and delicately created the name of choice. Each stroke had to be perfect, or else it would not do proper justice to it - but when he was finished, he was confident in his work. He and Maria both smiled at the new name of the ship, as they held up the board to get a better look at it in the light.

Once they were ready, Maria grabbed a bottle of champagne from the hull of the ship and met with John at the base of the dock. She went through the entire chant necessary in the ceremony, closing her eyes and holding John's hand as she recited it in an eerily beautiful tone, speaking as mystically as the Oracle at Delphi. She poured half of the bottle in to the ocean, East to West, and then she and John took two heavy swigs of the bottle. It was an odd taste for John, who had never had alcohol before, but he planned to assimilate to it.

Another bottle in hand, Maria recited the second half of the chant, this time replacing the old name of the ship with its new one. She then poured one glass for John, and one for her, and poured the rest in to the ocean, from West to East. After that, she addressed each of the gods of the winds, tossing a little champagne in each of their directions, as though the wind would lap it up like their eternal tongues.

At the completion of the ceremony, John happily revealed the new name on the back of the ship, for all to see. Maria lightly kissed him on the cheek as they walked back onboard the ship, the Maria Darkskull's name glittering in its red paint.

It was just a few days before reaching their destination that they made stop in a small port town to rest. However, an old Spanish crone, who proudly called himself the Harbor Master, pestered the two as soon as they stepped on to the dock to stretch their legs. Maria translated to John that the old man, screaming by his bad hearing, not asked, but demanded what ship John captained.

"I'm Captain of the Maria Darkskull, sir." John told him, to which Maria translated to him.

However, the old man was poor at comprehending their answer. "¿Qué?!" he roared every time they tried to answer. Finally, Maria violently screamed the name of the ship in his face, but the poor man still didn't hear it completely right.

"CAPITÁN DELMARIA DARKSKULL?" he yelled in question. He began to laugh, commenting how silly the name was, but Maria simply chose to ignore him, disgruntled by his lack of comprehension. John, however, thought over the name as they proceeded down in to the marketplace. He liked the sound of it.

1

May 16th, 1702
Cadiz, Spain
5:50 PM

There was a heavy downpour that drenched the late afternoon, coating it in a rough mist in between the bombardment of water droplets. The rain patted heavily against the gigantic stone dock of the city, which rose up like a great winding hill, far and long away from the bay, to the walled gates of the port. From within, it's magnificent towers, mansions and palaces alike were hidden behind a fog only the likes of the gods themselves could see through, as the rain violently clashed against the stained-glass windows. Waves ten, maybe twenty feet high rose up and smashed in to the long, jagged cliff from which the city on top of, though not themselves reaching the great buildings.

The many plazas of the city, filled with outstanding gothic cathedrals and halls, were flooded with about half an inch of water, pattering up and around as fisherman, merchants, and couriers ran every which way. Even in such a torrential storm did the town still thrive, it's rich heart beating like that on an unhampered giant. In these times, what was one of the centers of the modern world was soon to be transformed in to one of its primal stages, a showcase of economic, political, and military might.

John and Maria sprinted down off the ship as they finished tying down everything, using a few clothes left behind on the ship to protect their heads. Paying no mind to the Spanish guards that hurried them along, they began to sprint up the large stone structure, around it's weaving corners as they nearly slipped between the wetness and the incline. They scurried as giant waves tried to jump over the side of the path, just nearly sweeping them off their feet. If it wasn't for Maria, John would have walked through the rain peacefully - he enjoyed the rain hitting against him.

As they reached the top of the dock, they marveled at the large stone archway that greeted them. At its highest point on the arch, it had to have reached at least thirty feet, towering over the two Spanish soldiers who stood on either side. Two lanterns that sat halfway up its columns illuminated the wide wooden gate, wide open to allow them to walk in to the courtyard before them. It was a small cobblestone square, the palace wrapping tightly around it. In the center was a small fountain, being overflowed by the onslaught of rain. The pair hurried around it, and went right up to the two guards who stood under the little overhang of a small wooden door leading in to the building. "Detener, ¿que van allí?" one of the guards asked, both of them blocking the door by creating an "X" shape with their bayonets.

"Yo soy la hija de la Garcia de Avaricia. Tengo que hablar con Hernan." Maria yelled over roar of the rain. The two guards looked at each other, then stepped aside and opened up the doors, hurrying them inside away from the storm.

Dripping wet from the rain, John and Maria looked down the long, chambered corridor of the building. It was long, with small walls jutting in to separate the parts of the hall, yet no doors were used, allowing them to vaguely see the end of it. The floor, flat and smooth (to the point it was almost slippery) had small black tiles that ran down the middle, like a singular line continuous through each chamber. A wall of windows ran along the left side of the room, flashing the stain-glass depictions of saints every time lightning cracked its whip outside.

As they slowly began to step down the room, the door all the way down the corridor slammed open, and down came it a tall, angry Spanish man. He was tall, a black long coat with golden buckles running down it. He wore a thick black vest, behind it sitting a dark dress shirt, a few buttons undone. As he came closer, John could make out the top of a tattoo, but he was more interested in the glare he was being given than the man's chest. He was a sharp-looking man, a small mustache and goatee on his face. Atop his head, sat a strange hat - it was wide brimmed, black, with a bird's father sticking out the top of the hat.

He slammed his feet as he stopped right in front of the two. He began to yell at them in Spanish, throwing his arms up and jumping his eyes between both of them. John couldn't understand a word of the blunt cursing, but he felt automatically intimidated. It was only when he calmed when Maria held up her hand, and told him who she was.

"...María?" He said, his jaw dropping in awe. "Oh, ¡pobre niña! Vamos, vamos!" he cried to her, ushering the two of them as he jogged back down the corridor.

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The room they stood in was just a small room with a single, expansive glass window that looked out over the waters that sat beneath the cliffs of the port. The waves clashed high and mighty as the dark night began to roll in on the port, the winds only becoming stronger and the rain only falling harder. The only thing different from before was the escape of the fog, which now let John see down the coast of the city. Buildings of stone hid behind walls just before the edge of the drop off, trying to hide from weary eyes. Yet the tops of the buildings themselves poked over the walls, and when they did, they were magnificent - domes, spires, and towers alike poked up from the grand feats of the port.

They all looked out the window, staring out to the blank darkness that was the Atlantic. Hernan, who fought through an extremely heavy, fiery Spanish accent when he spoke in English, listened intently as Maria explained what had led them here. She told him of the ambush at the pirate cave, the standoff in the mansion, and their hijacking of the British ship. With each word, Hernan just stood there and nodded, taking in every word.

He turned to John when she was done. "You stole a British ship?" he smirked. "I wish one of my men could do that." He chuckled as he turned back to the mirror.

"We were hoping you could explain to us why Garcia had such interests in the waters he ventures - and, more in particular, why he ordered his men to attack my home." John gritted his teeth a little. The mere thought that Garcia wanted his father killed made him want to snap.

"Ah, yes." Hernan took a very deep breath. "I have known Avaricia for many years - longer than how long you've lived - as both a friend and enemy. I've seen him collaborate nearly every little devious idea of his, and one could say I've studied his inner workings. He's very much an interesting man, to say the least.

"Garcia.... seems to be after a certain object in your father's possession. I myself know this because Garcia has met with your father on numerous occasions to work out certain negotiations and trade deals, many of which are much farther than the extent of the law. But this one time, the one in question, your father did not allow Avaricia to have what he wanted - and I believe I know why.

"You see, my son," Hernan took a quick sip of wine from his glass. "Your father came in to the prospect of earning a very high-valued item on the black market, so pricey that nobody even knew it existed. Your father, by some stretch of the imagination, recovered a journal from the Draque himself - Sir Francis Drake."

John's eyes widened, the thought of his father hiding such a prize from him. "The journal of Sir Francis Drake!? The navigator?"

"And the pirate. The scars he caused to this city can still be seen in the rocks of Cadiz." Hernan pointed out, his voice turning a little cold as he panned his eyes over the coast of the city. "Regardless, your father found it. Avaricia wanted it, but he couldn't get it."

"So what happened the journal?" Maria asked.

Hernan smiled. "Balnette may have turned sour against Garcia - but he could still confide in me." Jaenada reached in to his coat, and pulled out of it a small, black, waterlogged journal. Slowly, he handed it over to John.

Shaking, John took it in his hands. Etched in on the leather cover of the book was carved the name "Francis Drake," so steadily it looked as though it had been imprinted in to the book. He flipped through the book, the pages incredibly tanned and thin. The ink on them was slightly running, but still readable, each stroke of the cursive so quick, yet fine and precise. Each page had a different feature to it - a drawing, a map, a course, and so forth. John felt as though he could read this book to eternity, and still never completely finish it.

Just as Jaenada prepared to speak again, he was startled by the loud bang of a cannon. He ran up to the window, trying to see where it came from, and saw a terrible sight. Off on the horizon, an armada of white-sailed ships, perhaps a hundred of them, loomed towards the city, a few already unloading their cannons on the walls of the city.

"Damn Englishmen...." Jaenada growled.

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Big things to come, mates! Be sure to rate and review!

Thanks for reading!

[The Stealthy Pirate]

Thanks for the extra chapter Del! I needed that mate! Great chapter as always, and know we know we got your name and hat, aye? (Im guessing Hernan's hat is yours.)

[Robert Ironcastle]

Nice!Darn cliffhangers...
Anyway, a great chapter mate.

[Captain Del]

I want to thank everybody who follows this story for being so patient this time around. Usually I'm pretty good with typing out chapters - this time, however, not only did I have to type through end-of-the-year chaos, guild events, and a vacation, but I also had to deal with the fact this chapter was a MONSTER.

This is not for the faint of heat - tackle this beast at your own risk! So, my mates, I present to you....

The Battle of Cadiz

May 16th, 1702
Cadiz, Spain
7:30 PM

The seas churned in a violent surge as the British ship pushed through the waters, encroaching on the city of Cadiz. Their starch white sails flapped in the gales as the downpours of rain slapped themselves in to hats of the red-coated soldiers, who worked tirelessly to feed the heavy iron balls in to the cannons. They yelled at each other, and in between boats, trying to coordinate the attack well enough so that they didn't end up ramming in to each other. A group of thirty ships began to break off to take land at a small fishing village north from the port, while the remaining fleet broke to bombard the city from both sides of the peninsula.

Immersed in the middle of the armada was a large British Indiaman, thick yet slender in design. An army of British crewmen ran back and forth across the deck, scurrying as barrels and crates were lifted up through the openings to the deckhands. At the helm of the ship, underneath a makeshift tent, stood a very plump, proud man, his face more focused on watching and overseeing than participating. Atop his head was an extravagant, pompous powdered wig that curved its way down to his shoulders, where covering his entire body was a long red robe, with golden trimmings. He stroked a white handkerchief that was wrapped around his neck, as he leaned his massive body weight against a cane.

One of his Officers ran up next to him, sending a salute to the careless man before proceeding to speak. "Admiral Sir Rooke, His Grace the Duke says his men are preparing to make their land on Fort St. Catherine and Rota. He insists on you providing naval support so that his men aren't decimated by enemy artillery." The Officer yelled over the rain.

"He comes to me so that I can sacrifice more men on my advance? The Dutch are here for a reason, and if he needs any subordinates than he can find friends in them." The Admiral instructed, keeping his eyes panned on the horizon, where Cadiz stood.

"Admiral Sir, the Duke was very urgent about this. He said they won't make it as far as Port R-"

The Admiral began to protest. "You tell him and the Prince that if they need help, they can go to those damn Dutchmen! I don't need them in my navy in the first place." The Admiral began to walk away from the soldier, in to the rain. "I'm going to my quarters! Tell me when Cadiz is ours!"

Within the Jaenada residence, the noble hurried across an open garden courtyard in the center of his palace, walking straight across the grass, underneath a few trees planted inside it as the rain began to trickle down from the roof of the home, and the leaves. He busted through a dark wooden door on the other side, leading in to a large, stone, circular room.

John and Maria entered in behind him, daunted by the sight as Hernan began to storm up the wooden staircase that followed the side of the room. They stood within a magnificently tall lighthouse, about a few feet less than a hundred high. It was wide, and slowly became narrower as it rose. They looked around before speeding after the nobleman, who had already taken off up the steps.

John ran up behind him on the narrow path, followed by Maria. "Please tell me all of those ships aren't after us and this book." John said, waving it in front of himself as to gesture to it.

"No no no," Jaenada said as he pounded his feet up the staircase. "This is our own war that you two have stumbled in to. A war of politics, greed, and self-gain, that shouldn't be happening right now if man cared for his fellow man. It's a war for power and power alone, and every master to his dirtiest servant has to fight so somebody else can take it." Hernan rioted as he walked faster and faster towards the top of the staircase. "If the Bourbons wouldn't have brought our country to this, then I wouldn't be standing here, fighting for somebody I don't support. This is Spain, DAMMIT!" He slammed his fist against the wood railing. "Maldición de los Borbones, todos y cada uno."

They finally reached a door on the roof, which led them out to the top of the lighthouse. It was a circular space with no walls, stone beams supporting a cone-like roof to the structure. Running around it was a large group of Spanish Officers, yelling back and forth as they looked over the situation. Being so high up provided a much more dramatic touch to the scene - an armada of British and Dutch ships shooting off their cannons towards all three sides of the city that were exposed by the water, erupting chaos down below in the city. Buildings began to collapse and fires ripped through the town as men, women, and children ran through the streets, trying to find a refuge from the attacks. Some of them banged on the doors of the church, though it itself was under attack. Some tried to break in to the homes of the other high-class merchants and officials, but they were either beaten back or shot at by their personal guards. The fire of the lighthouse, which shined bright in the center of the room, seemed like the only beacon of hope in this darkness.

Jaenada ran to the far side of the lighthouse and caught himself on the edge, looking out over the ship-infested Atlantic. Schooners, Corvettes, Cutters, Frigates, Galleons, and even a few Indiamen and Rates swarmed towards the city, making Hernan nearly buckle at the knees. "Alguien encontrar Marqués y dile que conseguir su acto juntos. Si tanto como ver una casaca roja en mi ciudad...." Hernan slammed his fist on the ledge of the lighthouse. He pointed down at the end of the long stone dock, where the Maria Darkskull wavered next to a few ships. "Obtener algunos hombres hacia abajo en los barcos!"

Maria gasped in anger as the men near Jaenada ran past her. "Usted no puede hacer eso, ese es nuestro barco!" she roared at him.

Hernan turned right around to her, grabbing her by the arms. "En estos momentos nuestras vidas son más importantes que su vuelo!" Maria flinched at his voicing yelling in his face, so he backed up a little bit. He looked at John, so he could talk to both of them. "Listen, both of you need to get out of her. Right now, we need to focus on organizing our defenses. Do not leave the city - you don't know what those dogs will do to you if they catch you. Find an abandoned home, tavern, building, and barricade yourselves in there until the first siege ends. Understood?"

Maria and John looked at each other. They were afraid as to what their fates would be, waiting here to be eaten alive by the British, but they had no other option. They nodded in agreement, and Jaenada nodded back. "Good."

Just as the two of them turned their backs to hurry back down the lighthouse, they were called on one more time. "Wait!" he called to them. They turned to see Hernan pull from his side a small dagger, gold and slim at the hilt, twisting like the trunk of an ancient tree, and a curved blade, like that of a snake. He flipped it in his hand, so that the blade sat in his palm and the handle faced John. "Take this for now. I'd give you a sword, but I don't want to leave myself unarmed."

John took the dagger in his hand, feeling it cruise through the air with almost no effort. "Gracias." he bowed his head to Hernan, thanking him with the only Spanish word he knew.

Jaenada patted John on the shoulder and sent them off. "Godspeed, chicos."

1

The cannon fire from the seas, the rapid explosions and shockwaves, could only be seen at this point as they flew over the city and crashed in to one of the nearby buildings. But it did not take sight to understand the sense of the moment - the very vibrations that rocked as the iron balls shot through the air chilled you to the bone, at the same moment it sent a pulse through your body with each rumble. Even after about an hour of the initial fire, with the shots becoming less and less frequent, the state of the port remained the same - lost, chaotic, and dark.

John held on to Maria's hand as he led her through the cobblestone streets of Cadiz, staying away from the main avenues, as they were quick to become overflowing with people and sites of a riot. They stayed to the smaller roads that avoided cutting through the squares, hidden under the shadows of the churches and estates that loomed dominantly over the city. Even they, however, were easily filled with a few people; the two of them were walking in the heart of Cadiz, away from the Isla de Leon, where only the most elite officials and merchants lived. Therefore, the main part of the city itself was quite small, but bustling none the less, as though it were in a paradox of sorts.

They finally reached a small tavern on the outskirts of a small square, with a babbling fountain in the middle. Without taking a moment of delay, they bursted through the doors - to an odd sight. The bar was set across from them, along the wall, with a little seating area to its right before the back entrance, and an area before them filled with tables and chairs. A staircase to the right of the door led up to a small seating area with two tables on the second floor, which then exited off to a hallway. The walls were lined with maps, displays of national affection, and so forth, which would be expected. However, it wasn't this that they were interested in - it was the people in the tavern.

Sitting on the tables, on the bar, and across the floor, huddled and in the fetal position, were a few dozen people. Most of them seemed as though they were meant for dresses and frills, with their lean, beautiful faces and their high-class fragrances and makeup. Instead, however, they were dressed in leisure clothes and nightgowns, curled in fear with their families as they uncertainly looked up at the two who had entered. Whether the sight was dreadful, or pathetic, was debatable.

One man, a burly, unshaven man stood up from the back of the tavern came strutting towards them. His powerful appearance almost made John back off a little, but he knew how to handle himself now. The man approached in a violent manner, but when he took notice of John - his skin color, his facial features, and how he poised himself - he became even more angry. "Englishman!" he yelled, reaching out to grab him.

As the man yelled it, the entire tavern began to rile themselves. Some, especially the women and children, began to flinch and cower in fear, while some of the men nearly jumped to their feet in action, pulled back by their wives. And as this happened, the Spaniard latched out a large hand, grabbing John forcefully and preparing to pull him in for a lesson. But as this happened, John's actions fell to instinct, with no use of thought. He plunged his hand to his side, grabbing the dagger and pointing it straight in the man's throat.

At that point, the entire tavern broke out in hysteria. Women began praying, children started to cry, and men tried frantically to reassure their families it would be alright, fighting back their own fear. The burly man let go of John, and backed away slowly, raising his hands in the air in an innocent surrender. John looked around the bar at the disarray in the room, and threw his hands in the air. "QUIET!" he shouted gruffly at the top of his lungs.

The entire room hushed themselves at the resounding of his voice. Although they did not understand him, they knew what he had meant for. John turned to Maria, and nodding to her, meaning she would translate for him. He mustered up a good orating voice, cleared his throat, and prepared to speak - instead, however, he was interrupted.

From the second floor of the tavern, on the balcony above, came the slow walk of two powerful, heavy boots. The crowd that sat there, before the railing, turned to see who was passing by. Over the tops of their heads, John could faintly make out the silhouette of a large, flimsy Admiral’s hat, a wide array of feathers peaking up from the top. As the shadowy figure approached the top of the staircase, John could see the man clear, as the rest of the room’s eyes followed to him.
A tall, lanky man stood there, the heavy, gigantic hat tipping just over his brow. Dreadlocks from underneath the hat reached down just at his shoulders, following alongside a very young, yet rusted face. He looked very stern for this age – roughly in his mid-twenties – but that was more than likely due to what he had seen in his life, judged by how he was dressed. A long redcoat hung down his body, layered beneath it with shirts, medals, beads, and other various trinkets. For a moment, John was reminded of the pirate who had abducted him from his home, but by now that memory had become ineffective to him. The man was very gruff in what he said, gargling through a rough voice, “Who the ‘ell are you?”

“John Ba-“ John caught himself. He had given his name away to too many sources by now – for all he knew, the man before him could shoot him pleasantly in the face. “Captain Delmaria Darkskull. And you?”

The man stepped down the steps of the staircase. He tilted his head just a bit to the side, to slide the hat off of his gaze. “Del-mar-ee-uh Dark-skull, hm? Peculiar name…. sounds like a pirate name, if you ask me.”

“Pirate? No, no sir, not I.” John shook his head, starting to fear the man before him was a soldier in disguise.

“Don’t act like such a tomfool around me, boy, it’s not something to be ashamed of.” He said, by now standing right before John and Maria. “I’m a friend to you here, and let that be assured.” He outreached his hand, as to shake John’s. “Lord Edward Teague, of Madagascar.”

John was weary to shake the man's hand. The heavy aurora of booze that wavered off of his coat was almost overpowering if not for it being damped by some sort of high priced, presumably stolen perfume. He looked too young to be entirely villainous, yet he still gave off that sort of vibe he meant trouble. Yet John knew that he had no other option to go towards - though the noose was always the safe way out, he didn't want to be safe in this situation. He returned the motion, his hand crushed by a powerful handshake from the end of the hand.

2

Days turned in to weeks within the tavern, as the siege of Cadiz began to become less explosive with th settings of the sun. Still, every few hours or so, a few shots would be fired over in to the middle of the city, often just landing blankly in one of the side streets, or a pile of rubble from an already destroyed area of town. Yet there were times where it came down upon a new target, or even came dangerously close to striking the tavern - just a few days after they had settled here had a cannonball struck down a blacksmith across from them. Regardless, they stayed intact, as though a malevolent shield was over them to protect them.

Some of the residents felt they were capable of going away from the tavern and returning to the households they abandoned, assuming that the worst of the attacks was over. Yet many of those who left - about half of those previously dwelling within - were met with unmistakably bad fortune. Take, for example, Richardo Albertino, a very high-priced merchant who lived in a nice, cozy estate on the southern end of the city. When the attacks began, he took him and his family, one wife, two mistresses and five children, to take hold within the tavern, leaving behind all of his loyal servants and accountants to fend for themselves. When he chose to return, his men locked the gates and doors and attacked his entire family in the courtyard before their home, beating all nine of them to death with brooms, buckets, books, and rocks.

Regardless, the tavern had become much more spacious, peaceful, and orderly, allowing for a small pecking order of organization to develop. John was chosen to oversee functions in the tavern, from the hand of Teague, who saw that things would "be better managed under a boy than under a group of greedy trade mongers." John was there to make sure rations collected from deserted stores from across the port (a few pieces of bread, a glass of water, and a glass of wine a day per person) was handed out equally, that quarrels remained at a minimum, and under no circumstances was anybody allowed into the tavern.

In the down time within the tavern, which came frequently, John and Maria developed a mutual relationship, in which they would both gain from one another - John would use all his knowledge of swordplay to teach Maria how to defend himself, and in return, she would teach him how to speak Spanish. And as John passed on his limited footwork to Maria, Teague himself had picked up off where John's self-tutoring aboard Commodore Rutherford's ship had left off.

And, least to say, the Captain was brutal on him. From morning until night, in between his session's with Maria and keeping order, Teague would mercilessly push John to the limit. He would often find something double the amount John could properly lift, then tie it to his back with a rope and force him to stand on top of a barstool, on his toes. "The key to defending yourself is finding a balance to work off of under extreme conditions. You'll be hard-pressed to not find a fight where you have to keep going when your body tells you not too." Other times, he would duel with Teague himself, who was a much better fighter than he looked like behind that ridiculous clothing of his. In their first fight, it only took him about fifteen seconds to disarm John - by the end of the first week, he had worked himself up to forty.

At the end of one of his first practices, Teague lead John in to the back room behind the main area of the tavern, just next to the bar. It was empty in this small room, aside from a few crates and large barrels where the supplies were stored. Teague reached behind a small stack of crates, and pulled out a thin, shining cutlass. The blade was much thinner than his previous sword, with a slightly smaller curve. It moved lighter in the air than his previous sword, and instead of being a rusted mess, it had a clear glimmer off of its spotless steel face - maybe this one wouldn't get lost if dropped in to the water. "That was my sword at one point." Teague said, watching the boy play with it in his grasp. "Simple, I know - but sometimes simplicity is all you need."

And while John couldn't get over the fact the man probably got rid of this sword because it didn't cut bone fast enough, he knew behind his rugged appearance, one could find a peaceful, tender soul. One night in to their third week, when John believed everybody had gone to sleep, he heard a fiery, yet passionate noise coming from the little sitting area above the tavern. There, with his feet propped up on the table, sat the Captain with a small flamenco guitar cradled in his lap. He ran his fingers up and down the instrument furiously, yet in such a light way that it all felt connected, smooth, and without effort. The song he played was that of a dance of love, swirling through the air carefree and magically, like the gypsies from whom it originated.

John felt himself draw to the second floor, stepping slowly up the steps. He stood behind Teague, who was just about reaching an explosive end to the song. When he finished, the strings ringing through the room, he spoke over his shoulder. "I'm not sure what I should call it. It’s part of this new type of music that originated here in Spain.... perhaps.... the Malagueña will do."

“That was quite beautiful.” John said, awe-struck.

“Gypsy music, it is. When language barriers are too much of a border between two groups, they demonstrate where they are from by their music. I picked this little beauty up from a travelling caravan of gypsies from Malaga.”

John nodded for no reason, walking around Teague to sit at the chair adjacent from him, on the other side of the table. It sat right before the railing, giving him a good view of the camp of people who slept silently on the floor, wrapped in thin wool blankets. As he looked out over the dark room, John asked “How much longer do you think this will last?”

Teague took his guitar and sat it down on the floor next to his chair, shrugging. “Could be days, weeks, months before we even see the light of day. It all depends on how badly the British want to get a good start on this war."

“Food supplies are getting low. I don’t know if we’ll last by next week.” John shook his head, looking down over the tavern. His eye was caught on Maria, who even slept gracefully on the floor, her breathing easy and steady. He sighed.

“The girl, Maria, you care for her, don’t you?”Teague nodded.

John looked at him, mystified. “I ca- well, I- How did you know?”

Teague chuckled. “Have you not learned by now? I can tell these things.” He took a sip from a mug that sat on the table. His voice became very hushed. “The sparkle that she ignites in your eyes is one I’ve never seen out of something outside of love.”

John stayed silent. Perhaps it had become very apparent of his feelings for Maria – he had fallen for her as the sun falls for the stars, except she shined brighter. He was unsure of how to go forward, though, as he was reluctant to draw towards her, should something happen to him.

Teague continued once more. “Delmaria is based off of her name, isn’t it?” he said.

“It may not be my own name, but it might as well from henceforth. I’ve destroyed my old one to the point that even shuttering it in an open port would get me shot.” John ranted, trying to keep his voice low.

Teague chuckled again. “That’s the magic of recreating yourself, as a pirate.” Teague reached in his to pocket, and pulled out an old circle of metal, roughly coin sized, covered in dirt. He held it up in between his thumb and his middle finger before John. “Men like you and I are like this coin. Damned and condemned by the qualities that society has casted us aside for. We have been beaten, cursed and tainted to the point we can’t even see ourselves anymore. But, when one man devotes his life to the sea…” Teague began to rub the coin in between his fingers, scrapping off a layer of dirt to reveal a small glimpse of gold underneath. “…He is reborn, in such a free and magnificent form that no man can put in to words."

Without another word, Teague stood up, flipping the coin is to John’s lap. As John picked it up, rubbing off more and more dirt, Teague walked down the hallway leading over to the few bedrooms housed in the tavern, saluting a good night.

The night after Teague and Delmaria spoke, Delmaria woke up to a loud commotion coming from beneath him. He woke abruptly in his chair, where he had fell asleep, to see that a group of men had forced themselves in to the tavern. Delmaria grabbed his dagger and ran down the staircase, stopping at the bottom step just as the rest of the bar awoke in shock. “Speak now! Who are you?” he yelled pointing the dagger at the five men. They were dressed much like a British soldier, except their red shirt was accompanied by gold instead of white, and were covered by a blue long coat.

Before they answered, Teague’s voice, which hushed the room, came clambering down, behind, and past him. “Easy, boy. They’re friends.” The pirate stuck his hand out to calm Delmaria. He then turned his attention to the head of the group, a tall, very angry-looking man with a short yet thick head of hair hanging down from his head. “It’s about time, Fajardo.”

The man scoffed. “I should have known you’d be here! What are you here for, holding all of this innocent people hostage?”

“More like defending them in their time of need, when you weren’t. I suppose the Spanish are more than happy about cowering under their beds while innocents die, yes?”

“We have been doing the fighting, rat! Unlike you, who has been hiding here in this tavern, it took my men two weeks just to get here!”

“Cartwheeling, I assume?” Teague laughed. In response, Francisco spat on the ground. Teague, whose boot was hit by the demonstration, tensed his face and jumped forward to try and attack the Spaniard, but was held back by a quick-reflexed Delmaria.

“Now, are you going to help us, or not?” The Spaniard said, stepping back comfortably amongst his men.

“I suppose we don’t have much of choice. May we at least know how we are going to die?” Edward smiled sarcastically.

Fajardo pulled out a rolled up, crinkled map from his inside coat pocket, which he revealed to be a miniature version of Cadiz, and lands surrounding it. “The British have made their foot advance along the coast parallel to the Cadiz peninsula to Fort St. Matagorda, which will give them an even distance of attacking the adjacent Fort, St. Lawrence, and marching straight to Cadiz. I managed to get a few open ships to slip down to one of the remaining docks just east of this tavern, which we can fill up with your men and send them off to fight back the British. If all goes as planned, we can reverse the tide.”

Teague nodded. “Prepare the ships. We’ll be right there.” Teague turned to the bar, and began barking orders in Spanish, causing all the men to jump to their feet to answer the call of battle. They began to run about, collecting their things, while women and young children clung and shrieked so that they may not go.

Amidst the confusion and chaos, Delmaria was interrupted as he gathered his stuff by Maria, who grabbed his arm. “Please don’t tell me you’re throwing yourself in to the fray.”

Delmaria shook her off and continue to organize his things, throwing small pieces of ammunition foraged from the back of the tavern in to the pocket in his sailor pants. “I’m not letting all of this go to waste. If the British want to hang me, then I need to fight back.” A little magic and tingling sensation accompanied that phrase, realizing that he really was about to go to war, as a man.

Caught in the moment, he turned to Maria, grabbing her arms. “I’m not so much doing this for myself, as I am for the both of us.”

Maria was flustered, but she still objected. "Well... you simply can't expect me to fend for myself here! What if you don't come back!?"

Delmaria hushed her, putting a finger over her lips. "Promise me you'll stay safe." He whispered, still carrying his voice over the screaming and yelling in the room.

"Bu-bu-" Maria stammered, but Delmaria hushed her again. She saw something in his eyes. No more was he that quiet foregrounder that she had met not too long ago. He reflected confidence in his eyes.

Maria nodded quietly, and held herself close to Delmaria. For a moment, he could feel her heart beat against his, strong and pulsating. “Be careful.” She whispered.
Delmaria held her forehead to his, rubbing his hand on the hair on the back of her head. What was once pampered, clean and straight had become dirtied and curled, but nevertheless she was more beautiful than the gem of the highest sheen.

3

June 13th, 1702
Bai Von Puntales, Cadiz, Spain
11:20 PM

Teague had intercepted Delmaria as the small militia of men from the tavern began to ferry themselves down towards the far walls of the city, where the docks shrouded in night shadow sat. Edward walked by him, and as he did, grabbed the boy’s sleeve and tugged him violently as he continued, letting go not to simply drag him, but give him the implication he was to follow him. In this, Delmaria nodded as quickened his pace, keeping his view focused on the small Flamenco guitar that was strapped to the man’s back.

It was a quiet, humid night, a simple breeze pressing on a few clouds that glaciered across the black glistening sky. The sounds of the city had longed been hushed, so the silence was expected, and not as uncomfortable and awkward as those moments you feel as a room falls silent halfway through a conversation. In fact, the only thing that came as a shock was the sound of noise itself – the whistle and howl of the wind whipping through the battered streets, the rolling and writhing of the ocean waves as they came up on the Cadizan walls, before receding back to plan for a next assault, much like the British.

They were brought to a small opening in the wall, though it was more of a large crevice at the end of a dead road than anything else. They passed in between the chipped, narrow sides, and stood on a lengthy yet thin strip of bare dirt than rose like a cliff against the stone walls of the city. Before them , five poorly constructed wooden docks, much like those you would see in small fishing villages of the South Asian Third-World, rose down to the seas, where two ships sat before one large, wavering beneath a massive galleon.

The galleon itself was a daunting sight. Painted black, it blended in so strongly with the night that its massive hull could only be detected by a sharp eye seeing the contrast of it with its background. Giant masts rose up the sky to pierce it, like sharp daggers that plunged themselves in to its stomach. It was wide, and seemed like a heavy ship – but at the same time, it gave to you the sense it was agile as it was powerful, outrunning any ship that should try to pursue her. Teague smiled happily as he saw his ship, as though for the first time, and pointed to her name written on the back – the “Wicked Wench.”

They stammered down the dock, heading towards the ships in a flurry of eager men waiting to assume their dooms in honor. Only Delmaria was picked out of the group to follow Teague, so he automatically assumed he and Teague might be sailing out alone. This all changed, however, as they reached the end of the dilapidated dock, where from the side of the ship a few dozen men stared down at them.

They hung from the masts, the ropes, the nets, and the railings, all staring down at the boy and the pirate. Some were as young as ten, and others were as old as fifty, their individual experience and valor judged by the stains and cracks that lined their faces. They were wrapped in rags and torn linens that hung loosely down from their shoulders, dirtied vests, crew tanks and other strange yet poor wear the norm among them. They were all stern as a wall, and the thickness of the crowd, which lined the entire side of the ship was almost an emotional sight. Their tear ducts had run dry, each and every one of them here because they wanted to spend their limited time on earth fighting for something. They weren’t ready to die – just waiting.

Teague pounded his boots on the starch black deck, yelling at his crew, “Don’t just stand there! Places to go, people to see! Move!”

The flood of men instantly dispersed, running to their respective spots across the ship. As the organized confusion burst out across the ship, Teague walked towards the tall, towering, disconnected staircase that led up to the helm of the ship. Delmaria still couldn’t comprehend the greatness of the ship, but that didn’t distract him from hearing what Teague had to say as he strode ahead. “Do not automatically assume the nobility of my crew by misconception – my crew is one that fights to run, not one that runs to fight. We are not a mindless crew that lives off of blood, and I pride myself in that. A pirate should have as much dignity and conduct as that of an Englishmen.” Teague hurried up the staircase, and turned himself right up to the large, dark steering wheel, just as the massive sails of the ship fell open like black tidal waves falling down from the sky. As the ship kicked forward in the window, Teague called out, “SILENCE! Bring out the darkness!”

One by one, the lanterns that hung on the edge of the ship were blown out, submerging the ship in an enclave of darkness. For a moment, Delmaria felt as though he was not so much aboard a ship as he was mystically drifting through the night, by how well the ship blended in to the bleak atmosphere of the open waters. Over the side, Delmaria could see only a few miles ahead of the ship the outline of a stout fort on the flat horizon before them.

The fort had obviously undertaken a beating judging by the scars on its walls only a few days after it’s capture. Small holes, cracks, and fire stains littered any visible area of the fort, although it wasn’t much. The fort was short in height, about thirty feet off the ground, though it was more than likely built further inward than it was upward. From a flagpole that sat square in the middle atop the front wall, wavered a tattered British flag in the wind.

Approaching the building, Teague reached in to his pocket with his free left hand and pulled out a small white handkerchief, waving it above his head in a counterclockwise circle. This motioned for the two ships at the Wench’s side to prepare to turn to the left, which they did in the slightest and smoothest of motions. Delmaria turned his vision around to the right side of the ship so he could further view the fort, and it was from then that he realized just how close they were to the fort, it being less than a quarter of a mile away from them.

For just a brief moment, the crew was left in to take in the remainders of the silence, it possibly being the last that they would experience. Teague looked to his right, then to his left, and then looked out over the ship. “OPEN FIRE!”

The sheer force of the initial explosion was enough to send Delmaria rocking back to the railing behind him, the feeling of the ship tilt for just a brief moment under the cannon fire. The force of sixteen twelve-pound cannons unloading on to the fort might not have been much for an accustomed sailor, but it was enough to give Delmaria a startle reminiscent of the fire time he heard the dreadful sound.

As the three ships unloaded mercilessly on the fort, which had just begun to fire back in a laughably bad and disorganized manner, Teague motioned to his First Mate to take the wheel from him. He passed by Delmaria, and once again tugged him by the shirt as he passed (this seemed to be a normality of the man) telling “The battle has begun, my boy! Follow me to the dinghies!”

“But, Captain, I only have a pistol! Surely you must be joking?” Delmaria cautiously questioned as he followed Teague down the stairs.

Teague turned to Delmaria, and said simply, “Then you better know how to use it damn well, aye?”

The crew Teague had picked out of the chaos aboard the ship piled in to two dinghies, Delmaria jumping carefully in to the one the Captain had piled in to. It tipped back and forth unstably as the last pirate jumped in to the boat, and for a moment, Delmaria had a flashback to his experience just prior with the Rutherfords. He remembered the blood and the smoke on his face as he was forced in to the small boat... it was right after one of his first murders.

One of his first. It resonated in his head, the thought that he was starting to keep count of how many men died at his hands. What would the tally be by next month? Next year? In five years? If there was a man that lived in a cell inside his mind, would he begin to run out of places on the wall to etch in how many he'd killed? To think it was becoming an afterthought, it sickened him. It was at this point he started to once again question what he had become.

And this questioning blocked his vision up to the point he hadn't realized they reached the base of the cliff. The small boat crashed in to a small opening that was sandwiched in between two large patches of rocks, which quickly narrowed to a single-file path that snaked up the steep, rocky hill towards an opening that sat on the side of the fort. The men around Delmaria began to push him around like a doll to get to the path, almost with eagerness in their eyes. Did they really want to die? Was this the life that Delmaria was soon to live?

He was the last one to slowly stumble out of the dinghy, besides Teague, who watched him as he went about exiting. Delmaria tried to ignore everything that was around him, though - the explosions of the cannons, the shouts and howls from the inside of the fort, and the stone glare of Edward - so that he may concentrate on simply surviving the remainder of this brutal battle. He figured the fault of most was that they caught themselves in the midst of battle, and more importantly, in themselves.

Delmaria began to climb up the hard rock incline, his feet pounding under pressure. He caught up quickly to the line of pirates, who were pushing one by one through the small hole they were climbing through on the side of the fort wall. When it came Delmaria's turn, he threw his arms through and practically dove through the opening, though his flawless entry was interrupted by the fact he landed flat on his face. Still, he stammered to his feet, waiting to see what was going on.

The fort was a flat plain, with four thin walls surrounding it. It looked almost like an arena of sorts, with dozens upon dozens of pirates fighting against dozens of red coats. It was a sight to behold, the battle carrying on in individual fights scattered all across the fort.

Delmaria couldn't help but feel the rush of battle run through him, charging at the back of one of the soldiers. He ran up right behind him and cut the British man down the back, his red blood just adding a dark menace to his uniform. He yelped in pain as he slinked to the ground, and normally Delmaria felt compelled to help him. But not today - today, Delmaria was not fighting for another man, but for himself. And perhaps a selfish idea, but it was enough justification to let himself lose.

Though not engaging directly in to combat, he was a strong ally. He would run across, trying to dodge the battle, as he would cut and chop his sword in to the skin and limbs of anything that wore red. He was a blur in the battle, swinging and gutting so quickly that he hadn't a drop of blood on him. But he could feel his weapon picking away at every enemy, soldier, and officer, with no discrimination other than doing his best to not harm his fellow pirate.

And it felt good, too. He had found a medium to relieve himself of the stress that had built up in him, and each and every blow and strike had a little piece of his soul riding on it. He could feel himself feeling better and better every time he heard the drop and gash of blood, and from this, his doubts once again became an afterthought. It was as though here, on the battlefield, he became a new person - an evil person.

But his hell and fury came to an abrupt halt. He felt his legs knocked out from under him, sending him throttling to the ground. His sword stuck out in front of him, causing the hilt to jam in to his stomach as he fell, knocking the wind out of him. He twisted his pain-stricken abdominal as he thudded on the ground, trying to gain a sense of where he was.

His eyes locked on to a torn redcoat uniform, bayonet in hand, trudging towards him. He tried to get up, but he had no energy left in him, so he just fell back on to his rear. The soldier began to raise his bayonet menacingly, so in desperate action, Delmaria threw his sword up in the air to block the blow. But the soldier wouldn't let that get in his way - he hit the sword away with the barrel of his gun, and then raised up the tip, plunging it down towards the boy.

Delmaria felt the sharp metal point dive straight in to his left leg, digging in to his left thigh just in the middle of the muscle. He could feel the blood vessels throb as the blood ran out and on to the ground - and he screamed a loud, echoing scream, half in pain, and half in fear. He knew that he was trapped - he couldn't walk any further.

The soldier gritted his teeth and pulled the weapon out, pulling it back to go in for the final blow. Delmaria thought that the idea of how stupid his recklessness was would be such a terrible last thought - such a pitiful way to die. He tried to crawl away, but it was useless - some pirate he was. The pain was starting to take hold - his vision was becoming darker and darker. He prepared to be consumed.

Just then, the soldier paused. His face tangled and stretched in pain, before he dropped his bayonet right on the floor. Before the man's body even hit the ground, it was pushed violently aside like a rag doll, nearly spiraling through the air. The last thing Delmaria Darkskull saw before he passed out was a cloak - a heavy, leather cloak, pushing towards him. He felt a pair of thick swordsman's gloves scoop him up, the smell of Spanish spices faintly resonating in the air.

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

FINALLY.

Well mates, now that that is over, I'm pleased to announce I will be able to keep up with posting once again. So, look forward to seeing more posts on here more frequently!

You know I love all those comments and reviews, so post them! Thanks, mates!

[The Stealthy Pirate]

Oh good lord, what will Crest say!?


That took a LONG while to read. Good chapter mate! And yes, we are even for not posting in a while.

[Robert Ironcastle]

O.O that was long.And exciting.And cliffhanging....aghhh cliffhangers!But epic chapter mate!

[Captain Del]

So, I was nice with chapter - made it nice and short

And so, to make this introduction short as well, I give you....

Revelations

The city was quiet underneath the dawn of the early morning. Smoke from the battle's end was still settling over, passing in between the orange and purple clouds that fluttered over the horizon in a silent migration from side to side across the sky. The wind carried the warm whispers of the morning far - today was going to be warmer than usual, it told you. It wanted to tell you to watch out for a thunderstorm later that night, though it would only last for a few moments. It wanted to tell you to be wary of a shift in the tide, not large enough to throw you off course but large enough to leave you confused for a few moments. And it wanted to tell you that the wind may pick up now and then, and that you should make sure that anything light enough to drift away should secured, but that was not the case for today. No, today was different.

The streets of Cadiz were quieted under the whispers of the wind, expecting that knowledge would flow along them. But, not today - not because the wind had become lazy, nor because it was misinformed. Today was a day where the day itself took a backseat to what it stood for - today, nothing seemed to have as much of an importance as it usually did. Today, nobody would bicker over how increasing tax rates would slowly kill the people of the peninsula. Nobody would bargain over getting that bushel of food for just a coin or two less, or debate over which duke had a better duchess as his pair. Politics, economics, and all those things which we revolve our lives around took a breath for today.

What the people of Cadiz had forgotten in their systematic, bureaucratic lives was that not all the details of life were their necessities. Perhaps their lives had become too important, and too busy to remember that perhaps the occasional recognition of the others around us was more important than a torn lace on one's finest dress. Perhaps the glitter of one's rings had become a much more pressing matter than the glitter in a child's eyes. And perhaps the routes of ships entering and exiting port had become more exciting than first steps or words - but, I digress.

Yes, the people of Cadiz had certainly lost themselves within themselves. Or should I say, in the shadows of their former selves - for the pleasures of life had lost their simplicity, and though that may be related directly to the loss of simplicity in itself, why would one want to match their pleasures on the same levels as their strains and difficulties?

But at least the people of Cadiz, for today, would return to themselves for this day. They came back this day to clean up the remains of their homes; to clean the blood and the dirt from their wounds; and to carry the bodies of the dead to the sea, as even the cemeteries had been ruined, destroyed, or burned. Perhaps now the husbands who carried their wives would remember to think of them, or perhaps the women who carried their child would remember a nurse can only come as close to a mother as a friend can. And yet, most of them were too late at all.

So perhaps now the men and women of Cadiz will appreciate what they have not from where they are now, but for what they always have had.

It is wonderful how much time good people spend fighting the devil. If they would only expend the same amount of energy loving their fellow men, the devil would die in his own tracks of ennui.

Helen Keller

1

Throbbing was the first sense that returned to Delmaria as he regained consciousness, beating like a miniature heart in his forehead at first. Then, as his senses strengthened, he felt the pain in his leg - or the vague area where his leg felt like it was. It took him a while to realize he was awake, but when he did, he didn't want to - even trying to open his eyes gave him a drilling, pestering pain, as if small weights were strapped to his eyelids.

Eventually, however, he began to open his eyes, slowly so that he could ease out of the blurriness that usually comes after a long sleep. But it was dark still - he was not blind, affirmed by waving his hand in front of his face. But it seemed as though the room that he was in had no light, with dark grey walls enclosing on no light or sound. Slowly Delmaria sat up, rubbing his eyes to confirm that they were not fooling him.

But they were correct - and he was not sitting up on a bed, but a wooden table, carvings and marks cutting all over it. It had designs and symbols dug in to it roughly, mainly crosses and other religious symbols. He had a few splinters sticking in to his skin, which he easily pulled out before investigating the small stone room.

It was only after removing the final piece of wood from his body did he realize that the wall to his back was not a stone wall, consisting of heavy, stoic bricks like the other three walls, but instead a wall of steel bars. He turned to look at them, rusted and cracked, giving away to a hallway much better lit. It was a wide yet short hallway, cutting to the left and around the corner. Torches on both sides of the hallway sat next to two cells roughly like that of Delmaria's, one on either side, though he judged by the silence that they were vacant. At the end of the short hallway, before the turn, there was a little cut in where stacks of crates and boxes sat. They had black writing on the side of them, though Delmaria could not see because of the dim orange light the fires provided.

It was after a few minutes of silence did Delmaria finally hear something. Around the corner of the hallway came the patter of light footsteps, tapping along the dingy cobblestone. Delmaria waited anxiously to see who was coming, but seeing as how it sounded far off, he took a few moments to study his room. It was blank still, except for a strange sight - despite being in a jail cell, his sword and pistol sat quietly in the corner, polished and with a bag of ammunition sitting quietly below them. He scratched his head in confusement as he stepped off the table to go gather his things, when he felt something wrapped tightly around his leg, which still pained him. He lifted his pant leg, leaning his backside up on the edge of the table, and saw that a fresh linen bandage was wrapped around where the wound was supposed to be, obviously coated in some sort of heavy liquid.

It was by this time he heard the patter of footsteps turn down towards him, so he wobbled around to see who was coming. It was one of those cloaked figures yet again, a brown, leather coat hanging down their body, with a hood tucked over their head, shading their face. In between the cloak, on the body, was what looked like a long, light purple vest, with elegant golden lining.

The figure came right up to the bars of the cell, lifting their head of a little just to look up and down Delmaria. Expecting a deep, mysterious man's voice, he was instead met with a kind, lightly accented voice. "Good, you're awake." it sighed in relief. The figure lifted up its hood, revealing a woman, somewhere in her late twenties. Her brown eyes smiled at Darkskull as he reached over to the side of the cell, a key in hand, leaning towards the lock of the steel door. It creaked and clanked as the keys turned within, slowly opening the old, rusted door.

Delmaria watched confused as she stepped back from the cell, waiting for him to respond. She gave off the same weary aurora as did Teague when he first met him, though he assumed that could be a good thing. He began to turn to the back corner to fetch his stuff, when her voice called from behind. "That won't be necessary."

Delmaria turned curiously, now starting to fiercely question her credibility. "And why is that?"

"No need to be rude, Mr. Balnette, but weaponry is strictly forbidden where we are going. I promise none of the shadows will jump at you." She lifted up the sides of her cloak, better revealing what was underneath. Running across a royal purple vest with rich golden branches cutting over and across the torso was an array of sashes and belts, though no weapons were visible. "Just follow me, aye?"

Delmaria shivered. "I'm not a 'Balnette' any more.... but... aye..." He hobbled out of the cell slowly, making sure to keep a safe distance from the woman in question.

He was led back up the small hallway and then around the corner, proving to just be a further extension of a network of similar ends. The cells persisted to be one on either side, and one at the end wall before cutting over either left or right, which often walked the two under a heavy metal gate, its points raised off the ground just high enough so they could walk through without having their scalps impaled. It didn't take Delmaria long to realize he was inside an old, rustic jail, long abandoned, and possibly taken over by whoever had brought him here.

Eventually after hobbling through four or five of these small hallways did they reach a final, small room, a cell on the wall to the right and just before them, with the left wall replaced by a staircase that ascended upward in to a dark abyss. The stairs were at first a strain to the boy's leg, but soon he became in to the motion and developed a pattern that kept his pain to a minimum.

The stairs led them up and around a short distance, before they cut in to a circular room lined on the outer walls with more cells. These, however, were actually occupied - entire crews dressed in uniforms from all nations were penned up, and being prodded through the bars like cattle by laughing guards, taunting and hollering. The floor of the room was metal, with small square holes punched in like a grid to allow view of the dark murky waters that sat below. In the water were rocks - and vaguely, Delmaria could make out the outlines of decomposing bodies.

They walked across to another staircase which held itself against a tall stone wall, running from left to right. As they climbed it, Darkskull took notice of what hung from the towering ceiling - chains suspended small, iron cages where men, either alive or dead, were left to be food for viciously hungry crows. Some of them were still screaming in agony, whether trying to express their fear, or just take their minds off of the pain.

They made a U-turn once they hit the top of the stairs and walked along the high plateau, up a few more small steps before they were led up to another staircase, which led off of the platform, and eerily hugged the wall as it went up to a small door just sitting at the top of the room. The woman pushed Delmaria forward, and slowly he eased his way up the narrow walkway, leaning towards the wall to make sure he would not fall off.

After what seemed like a never ending journey, he reached the small wooden door, not before looking back down to the floor way below. The woman easily stepped in front of him as to not knock him off the little area they had to stand, and pushed the door open, stepping aside as it moved so that Delmaria could enter first.

It revealed to be a small storage room of sorts, the sides lined by chests and crates. The center of the room was occupied by a small, poorly lit table, with a group of men crowding around the sides. When they turned around to look at him, he almost had to look away - their faces were covered in tattoos, jewelry, and all these eccentric pieces that made them seem more gruesome than they did rich.

"Step aside, mates." A voice called from the other side. Delmaria halted. His heart sunk, his stomach emptied, and his body ran cold. He had heard that voice before, and he should have - most people he has known have. His knees began to quake at the very idea, wondering if it was simply his mind playing games with a voice that just sounded similar. But no - his thoughts were confirmed, as it's origin stepped around the table, in to plain view.

"FATHER!" Delmaria yelled, beginning to run towards him. He wanted to embrace his father, knowing the idea that he was alone in the world was gone. He was finally free from this mess - or so it seemed.

He was halted by the points of three blades jutted out in front of him, in a desperate attempt to keep him from approaching his father. Almost instantly, his father turned to the other men. "LOWER YOUR BLADES, YOU DAMN SAVAGES!"

Delmaria was shocked - he had never seen his father talk like this. And it was at this point Delmaria took in his father's appearance. He wore a cut up, torn shirt beneath a very long coat, nearly done to his ankles, where it frayed. It was patched and padded in all sorts of places, and atop his head his hair had nearly turned a dark gray, slimming over a cracked face with a small scar on his cheek. He looked disgusting - he was not who he knew him has.

Adam saw the dismay in his son's face, and sighed. "Son..."

"Wait." Delmaria stuck out his hand. "What is all of this.... You mean to tell me... You've been a PIRATE?... all this time along?"

"It's much more complicated than you think i-"

"YOU'RE the reason why mother is dead! YOU brought this curse upon us! YOU.. YOU..."

"I DID IT SO WE COULD LIVE, DAMN IT. If it wasn't for me, we'd be living off the streets, and your mother damn well knew that! I'm the reason you lived the life you did!" The room fell silent. Delmaria flinched under his father's voice. As his heavy breathing beginning to slow, Adam relaxed, and began to walk back around the table to where he stood, now in sight. "I was going to tell you on our first voyage together, but I never got the chance to. Not like I need to tell you now."

Delmaria sighed. Yelling and fighting would only tear him away from what he had left. "How did you find me?"

"I got word from a few spies in the Navy that after you had turned up, you had somehow gotten abducted by Avaricia's men. Of course, I didn't believe it - so I went hunting for one of his ships off the coast of Portugal, and eventually one of his less-than-loyal captains tipped us off that you had run away with his daughter. I put the pieces of the puzzle together from there."

Delmaria's heart sank. He had completely forgotten about Maria. "His daughter, Maria, do you know what happened to her?" he asked his father, hoping they had rescued her too.

"I can testify to that." a gruff voice called from behind. Delmaria turned, and there in the doorway stood Teague, smoke still ridden on his face from the battle.

"Ah, captain, there you are." Adam said. "I was beginning to wonder where you had gone."

"I assure you, captain," Edward said as he stepped forward, revealing his left arm caught in a sling. "It was fun making a short-noticed journey here to your little fortress with a half-sunken ship." He stepped next to Delmaria, and looked up and down at him. "I'll give you my leg, and you give me your arm, aye?" to which they both chuckled.

"Mr. Teague," Adam called. Both of them looked over, and there, in the man's had, was an old, leather bound book, with the initials "FD" inscribed on the front.

"Aah, there it is. The journal of Sir Francis Drake." Teague walked up to an empty space in the table. Adam slid the book across the table too him, and he picked it up, easily flipping through the pages.

"Mr. Teague, what happened to Maria!?" Delmaria demanded to know.

Without looking over his shoulder, Teague spoke. "Oh, she's fine. She's staying with that noble fellow in Cadiz for now."

Delmaria sighed in relief, calming himself down so much that he could focus on what was at hand. "Why does Avaricia want the journal so bad?"

His father responded to him. "Well, to tell you to truth, the majority of the book is a snooze - most of the treasures and places mentioned have already been found an divulged. There are, however, a few pages written in cryptic text in the back of the book, which seem to hint towards something."

"Perhaps if we had stopped to speak with that translator in Madagascar like I had suggested, we would not be in this situation..." Teague mumbled under his breath. Ensuing was a long, feisty argument back and forth between the two captains, Teague throwing the book down on the table.

Delmaria, however, could not get his mind off of the journal. He knew how badly Avaricia wanted it... maybe, if he handed it over to him, he could live with Maria, and all of his problems would blow over. It was fruitless, but worth a shot.

Delmaria quickly lashed out a hand, grabbing the journal and bounding out of the room. Before the female guard could respond, he was down the stairs, with Teague and Adam in the doorway of the room, watching him run as the guards ran after him. Adam was in awe, but Edward simply chuckled to himself. "You must admit, he takes after you quite well."

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

A slow chapter, but at least it got us somewhere!

Please keep those comments coming! I love to hear you all talk as much as I do myself!

[The Stealthy Pirate]

oOoH! Good chapter mate! I did have a sneaking suspicion at the beginning of the story...

[Robert Ironcastle]

A fantastic chapter as always Del.

[AdmiralSavvy]

Mwahahaha! I finally took the time to catch up on this story... and before you could post the next chapter. I win, Del. @O@

I forgot when I last commented, but if I said it before, I'll say it again: Seriously, you're extremely gifted when it comes to writing. So, it's needless to say that I won't like myself if I see myself falling behind on the story, again.

Can't wait for the next chapter. :]

[Captain Del]

I'm sorry that this chapter took longer than expected - but, as you'll see, I wasn't eager to write this one.

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER IS GRAPHIC. If you do not feel up to it, do NOT read it.

The Shadows Dance

Delmaria stayed in the fortress for quiet away, under the watch and guidance of his father. His "staying area" was relocated from the dingy old cell in the jail area to small, old storage room, decorated only by a few empty boxes and a cot against the back wall. There was nothing special about it, but Delmaria was determined to make due.

He became a part of the society of pirates just like he always did, assimilating and knowing where his place was. There was no work to be done around here - the only real jobs were carried out by the guards and the captains, seeing as how small of a population the hideout actually held - so Delmaria mainly kept to himself the first few weeks he stayed, especially because the room often was cooler than the rest of the pirate palace. Yet it was roughly in the first few days of August when this all changed. A guard was sent to Delmaria's room, instructing that he meet his father in one of the holding rooms down past the right wing of the armory.

Delmaria went down through the hallways of the corridor, looking in to the large rooms that he passed as he made his way to the room given to him. He watched as some of the guards that patrol the jail areas where the prisoners are held jab, swing, and cut at targets furnished out of wooden posts and bags of grain, acting as rough with them as they did the actual jail dogs. They grunted, fought, and even at times pushed around the dummies like they were attacking them, aggressiveness slowly building in each of them.

He finally wrapped around in to the room he was instructed to go, where he was met by his father staring at him from the middle of a blank, tan stone room, save a small window that sat atop the far wall. His father gave him a blunt stare, showing no emotion as his son stepped forward, a look on his face mired by confusion and misunderstanding. "Father....? Are you al-"

Before he could complete the sentence, Delmaria heard a loud, raging yell come from behind him, accompanied by forceful footsteps that pounded their way towards him. He turned his head quickly, but stopped his head short just before the blade that was stuck at the side of his neck. A short, iron cutlass shaved the side of his neck, held still by Teague's firm hand, which held it out from the hilt of the sword. He exchanged a glance with the boy, before slowly pulling back the sword and sheathing it, walking past Darkskull to stand next to the captain.

Balnette gave another cold, long stare, before taking a short breath, and speaking. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

Delmaria looked around the room, still dazed and confused as to what was going on. "Apparently not." he said comically. He had become comfortable around his father once more, except not in an obedient matter - instead, in a matter of almost equality between the two. But he was beginning to feel that wouldn't hold up, by his father's face of sheer lack of amusement.

"There's a lot I've been keeping from you, my boy." Balnette said with a withdrawal, like he didn't want to say it, but had to. "I believe I'll start from the beginning. What you are standing on was once a fortress used to hold only the lowest of criminals. Treasonists, political enemies of the Crown, privateers of a rival nation, and of course, pirates. Unfortunately, it was abandoned due to constant riots and rebellion from within the cells - yet instead of all the men here being left to die, they used this place as a way to forge and build their anger.

"They used their years of experience from all known reaches of the world to create a new mecca - a Pirate Babylon, if you will. And when their opportunities came, they used their new knowledge and brought it with them to the areas they sought out to return to, whether to live in peace, or pillage the men that betrayed them. Yet they all carried the same idea, and with them the same flag - the Jolly Roger, established here as the symbol of the Brethren of the Coast, which has acted as a "free government" for the pirate nation.

"And now, that our nation is under attack, we find ourselves at war. And you are going to help, by becoming a soldier." Balnette patted Teague on the back and stepped backward a few steps. "Draw your sword."

Delmaria reached for his sword and slowly began to draw it out, yet before it was even halfway out Teague let out another blood-curling battle cry, rushing forward and raising the sword to strike. Delmaria rushed to get out the cutlass, but it was too late by the time Teague rested the tip of his blade lightly on Delmaria's shoulder. A physical, gruff sigh came from the back of the room, and you heard the father's voice call out. "Again."

Teague returned to his original spot, waiting for the boy to draw his sword again. Seeing as how speed was the name of the game, Delmaria waited a moment before lashing his hand to his side and drawing his sword with a quick speed. As Teague moved forward, Delmaria drew the sword out and prepared to fight, awaiting Teague's sword to be blocked by his. Yet instead of a clash of metal, Edward raised up his leg and kicked the cutlass out of the boy's hand, then thrusting his sword out inches before his neck.

Another sigh came from the back of the room. "You can practice as many techniques and blows as you want on your own, but nothing will come of it. In battle there is no time to think, it just has to flow easily."

For a moment, Delmaria thought of his time aboard the Commodore's ship, taking in the same advice. Had he repressed those thoughts already?

He focused back in to his father, who was still talking. "War never sleeps, my son. You're going to find yourself fighting for your life at times you would never anticipate. And that is what we plan to do - from now on, at any given moment, whether you are sleeping, training, or eating, you can count on one of us to come after you. And you better be ready."

And sure enough, the man stayed true to his word. The next couple of weeks were true torture to the boy, as every waking moment was left to be lived in anticipation and anxiety. It seemed as though the entire crew was in on the training, as around every corner he would be met with another attack or another fight. Sometimes, he was left to fight against a masked guard with a bloodied dagger in the dead of night, who had somehow broken in to his often-barricaded door room. Other times, he would be eating in the common area when a bottle was thrown from across the room towards him, often shattering small pieces of glass in to his arm or body.

It was after a while that he began to learn how to survive in this place that things started to become more and more aggressive, not as though they were trying to teach him their ways as they were trying to hurt him. On one occasion, he was passing through one of the jail corridors when one of the guards jumped out from around the corner flailing a large, swung cutlass. Delmaria quickly drew his sword and attempted to disarm the pirate, but even after he sent the cutlass across the hallway, which was often the end of such encounters, the guard ran back to his sword, picked it up and engaged in battle once again, twice as furious. Delmaria, who was caught off-guard, tried to block the blow, but instead a trail of blood down his arm, crippling him from using a sword for the next few days. It was nice to get a break from his crusade, but not necessarily how it was brought on was welcome.

He stayed up late that night, not even attempting to sleep through the dull, throbbing pain. Even after all the months he had spent living this life, it still felt like a dream to him - just a very bad nightmare that at one point would end. And even though he had finally found his father, it was still a dreadful journey, because now it was assured to him the rest of his life would be lead like this. He longed once again for the quiet nights in his home, the silent cackling of the fireplace - and most of all, the shining, beautiful smile of his mother.

But she was dead.

And he felt dead, too. He felt that in the blink of an eye, all of his innocence had been slain on the floor just like his mother, bleeding and gurgling. It sent shivers down his spine, the memories of the past, just by how distant they were from the life he lived right now. It all seemed foreign to him, but it was a love for foreign things that had captivated him so - just that idea that the one thing you still have left was so far out of reach. And that was on two respects, one for his lifestyle, and the other for Maria.

Every night could not go without a thought of that pretty girl from the north of Spain with the long, black hair, which just so perfectly complemented every feature of her fine face. Her eyes still sparkled in his whenever he laid down for rest, and it gave him a comforting feeling to just think about her. But he still missed her, longing to see her in person. He thought of where she was, how she was, what she was doing, and all of that. She had become an obsession of his.

It was one night when he was about to sleep that he remember something that had slipped his mind all of this time. He remember the small package that she had slipped to him the first time they had met. He quickly jumped to his feet, pushing the lightheaded-ness that came with getting up so quickly, and ran over to the small bundle of his stuff that sat in the corner of the room. He doubted it could have survived all that it's been through - surely he had been knocked over and around one too many times for it to still be in his pos-

He felt the tips of his fingers brush on a soft piece of fabric, nestled in between a pair of shirts and pants that had been given to him by his father as a fresh pair to slip in to after his current clothes become tethered and bloodied beyond belief. He tore the shirt off the top of it and there, wrapped around by a small piece of leather string, was the small bundle. He latched on to it and bounded gleefully back to his little bed, where he tugged off the string and began to furiously unravel the small thing. Only his imagination could give him an idea of what it was until he actually saw it, and then did puzzle it.

Sitting in his lap was a small, golden ring, the band of which was slightly orientated and twisted like the curving waves of the ocean. Atop it sat a very odd purple gem - it radiated a dark yet fiery purple with red hues around the edges, with a small star-like design sitting just in it's center. Delmaria could feel a few ridges as he tried to slip it on his finger - which fit surprisingly well - and so he took it off and looked on the inside of the band, where there was a small loop of writing running around the inside whirl. He could barely make any of it out, but just as he leaned in to give it a closer look, a banging noise echoed from the door.

1

The two pirates hurried down the corridor, their boots tapping loudly down on the cracked dry stone. It was dark - all of the torches were unlit down here, in the deepest recesses of the building. He was told to never go below the level to which he stayed in when he first came here, but now he had done just that - and he realizes his curiosity was ill-fated. The stone was eerie and black, hallways notably smaller, and the cells close together. But what was different here, was that the cells actually occupied by men, prisoners of war and sailors captured by the rogue band of pirates, grossly thrown together and packed in to the rooms. It was lethally unsanitary, as bodies of the sick rotted in the corner of the cells, piling up like the flies on top of the heaps of rotten flesh.

The stench filed his nose all the way to the back of his throat, shoving his face in to the elbow of his sleeve until he finally reached the end of the long hallway - the very end of the tunnels beneath the fortress. Around the corner was a group of pirates, huddled around in a group, turning to look at the boy, and staring in blank silence. They looked around at each other briefly, before looking back at the boy. One of them, who stood at the front of the group, looked at the guard who had escorted the boy, and nodded.

The next thing he knew, Delmaria felt suffocated. His vision had become blocked, his breathing feeling very narrow and short-sighted as he felt himself being spun off of the ground. The soft fabric that brushed against his face let him realize a bag had been thrown over his head, and as he tried to kick and fight the man who had picked him up, thinking this was another test, but instead was met with almost surprising brute force. The man caught his wiggling legs and threw them back down to their place violently, and a big hand slapped his back, knocking the wind right out of him and giving him a sense of lightheaded-ness.

While he tried to regain himself, he was put down in to a sitting position on a floor that felt just like one in the hallway. He tried to jump to his feet and flee, but he was knocked back by a painful whip that nailed the front of his body like a freight train - it was metal, and that same metal was now being forcefully wrapped around his wrists as he screamed and yelled in protest. It became so tight that his hand felt like it was going to fall off due to lack of circulation, and his bone would collapse under pressure alone. He was forced to stand as the chain was lifted up, but as soon as he maintained a standing position, he felt another fierce piece of metal hit the back of his knees, leading him to rely solely on the chains around his wrists as he sank.

The bag around his head was torn off as he stopped screaming in protest, his throat becoming so tired and cracked it could barely make a noise anymore. His teary eyes looked around the dark room - it was an empty storage room much like when he first fought Teague, only much darker. He watched the backs of the pirates that had subdued him in ambush walk out of the room, and before his voice could muster anything, the large door to the room slammed loudly shut, echoing the complete darkness and isolation he was now in.

He hung in that room for five days.

Not once did the door open, neither for food, nor company, nor even bathroom breaks. He never had to go to the bathroom, however - he was starved to the point just try to give feeling to his stomach hurt him. He was never able to stand up either - accompanied by that still throbbing, consistent pain, he had no strength to muster to help him up. He was left there, bound by his wrists in pain as the skin began to crack, dry, and then bleed. His exposed muscles began to sting against the dirty metal.

When you have nothing to do, your mind runs loose. Delmaria just kept wondering why he had been left here, letting his mind run wild with conspiracy, fear, and horrors. He imagined the worse possibilities, and then his mind allowed them to become worse and worse, allowing him to become more restless and scared. He felt helpless - but more than so, abandoned once again. He wondered if his father was trying to get rid of him, or he had been mutinied against, and his body had been tossed in to the ocean carelessly. Every little thought made his spine shiver.

And not only had he lost his train of thought, but his entire mind. He began humming to himself sensely, without even thinking, as his brain tried to distract him. He became paranoid, so much so that his heart raced at an abnormal rate, and he could not sleep because of his fear. He saw the shadows shift around him, figures of demons and disfigured creatures dancing and prowling around him, or just staring at him from the corner. He would often shout in to the emptiness, thinking it would be away to regain his confidence, and "scare off the monsters."

It was around the break of the fifth day he began to see his own mother before him, standing vividly right before him, fully in color as though she were standing in a brightly lit room. She looked at him with no emotion, as he pleaded to her begs for mercy, help, and belonging. He almost became a child again, begging over and over "Please help me, mommy, please help me..." And as she would once again receded in to the shadows, he mustered a thick, deep, shallow cry, that seemed to carry on in to the darkness forever.

It was the end of the fifth day when the unimaginable happened. The door opened, a line of light slivering through the door, as it was almost blinding to his crust-covered eyelids. He leaned forward in an undead moan, hoping for something to walk in. And somebody did - and they carried a leg of meat. He became excited, but he knew he could not eat it - yet the guard knew, as well. So when she approached Delmaria, she tore off pieces of chicken from the bone and shoved them down his throat, force feeding him. After he had nearly gagged, she forced him to guzzle a bottle of wine, before throwing it to the ground, shattering it to pieces, and walking out of the room, closing the door.

Five more days passed.

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

Delmaria's ears slowly perked up as he heard the door to his confinement open again. He barely had any strength left to lift his head, as though he was a lifeless doll trying to gain enough energy to crawl across a floor. He wondered if he really was still alive, or that the light he saw was the gates to the afterlife opening to him. But then, he realized it was real - not because of the figure that entered the room, but because he remembered if anything, he was going to Hell.

His father closed the door behind him, the darkness no longer consuming them by the lantern he placed next to where he stood. He stepped forward, his hands behind his back as he looked over his son. His face had no remorse, nor regret - only the slightest sense of satisfaction, that his son had survived.

Without saying a word, he pulled out a single item from his coat - a dagger. The man dropped his long coat on to the floor, and walked behind his son, again without saying a word. He lost his father, but he knew where he was, the footsteps stopping right behind his back.

The father took the dagger and put a slit in Delmaria's shirt, then grabbing it at both sides and tearing it apart at the seams. The boy had forgotten about all the sweat he had worked up on his back, and accompanied by the murkiness of the room, the stank that came from his back was enough to blind a man. Still, it felt good for some part of his body to be exposed - not for long, though.

He finally was able to let out a scream as his father did a quick cut with the blade on his son's back. As he felt the warm blood run down his son's back, the man spoke. "I do this not in vain, nor vengeance, but in love. In war, any man is left to fight for his own, and war is the true pain a man can deal with. By bringing you here, we have given you something to look back on - something that you will try to repress, but should embrace instead - so that you may understand that life will always have it's perils, but you will always survive."

Another cut.

"You are a soldier of a different breed. You fight for your freedoms based on the pain which you have endured, for all freedom fighters are only justified in their own right if they have already been through the opposite of what they strive for."

Another cut. "Ergg..." Delmaria tried to push through his rotted throat. "Fath.. stop..."

He was ignored. "You will look back on this one day and realize that this has made you strong."

Another cut. "Puh-le-se.."

"You will endure nothing more than this, but so only death."

"Sto..."

"It will b-"

"FATHER!" Delmaria shrieked in the deepest, darkest tone his exhausted voice could muster. The pain was simply becoming too much, his face looking like that of a fish out of water struggling to breath.

Behind him came silence. He thought it was over, until the voice spoke a final time. "In here, I am not your father."

Another cut.

By now, Delmaria could feel a design being carved on to his back, as though his father was making a work of art of him. The pain began to numb, as did his whole body - he was finally beginning to sleep, his mind giving out under the pressure. Whether it would continue or not, or whether he would wake up, he knew this nightmare was over as he faded out once again.

As his senses were just about to close, he heard a final, blurred voice. "In here, I am your retribution."

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

I hope you see why.

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