"Scourge of the Seas..." - Piratetalia

-


His hands had been upon it. He'd touched it, desperate pale fingers clawing at its facets. He dug into it with his fingertips, no other strength left in him, The waves, the dark water of death, clung to his thighs and pulled at him with icy fingers.

No! He could not, he would not be defeated here! Everything he had fought for, everything he had dreamed for was literally in his grasp. If he gave up now, it was all for naught.

If anything, he would not lose it in these waters. He sliced his palm with the glass, letting his blood drip onto the wet sand. The waves lurched, and he heard the deafening roar of the beast draw nearer.  With hurried fingers he drew the pattern of the sand, knowing this treasure, his memories, would be left here.

When the seal glowed with white light, the icy fingers reached to his shoulders, and he was sucked in.

Aidan could see, hear, nothing but black water. The sea had taken him, and he could see the beast in its enormous monstrosity circle him. His body swayed and lurched, his lungs grasping and begging desperately for air. The next roar made the seas shake.

And soon, he was swallowed.

For years there were legends of mysterious creatures of the ocean, hidden by the waves, the most common of these legends being the legends of Mermaids. Most of these legends involved these aquatic creatures killing sailors and pirates alike.

While there had been incidents like that, there were also incidents of their kindness. Saving a man thrown overboard from drowning, or directing them away from shallow waters. Soon the interest in these mysterious women of the deep had increased, and it quickly turned into hunting. Beautiful scales made for great profits at markets. After merely a year, they had been assumed to be extinct from overhunting.

They were wrong though. They had simply moved deeper into the water, or blended in at ports. An unknown fact to humans was a mermaid's ability to be on land. Granted, they could only last a week out of water at best, once they dried off, they looked like normal humans, legs and all.

With humans fooled, the mermaid population flourished, small underwater communities growing in the warm waters by what the humans referred to as The Grove. Often times, they would see tired and beaten humans attempt to take the precious jewels held on the island. They had gotten used to seeing the failures of those sailors looking for riches.

On that particular day, the skies had darkened and the warm waters started to churn. Abigael had wandered out closer to the island than she had intended, and when she felt the soft sand brush against her hand, she was surprised. There was merely a few feet of water above her head, allowing her to almost clearly see the moody sky.

As her eyes wandered from the sky back down to the water, she saw a flash of fiery red hair dip under the waves. A human. She felt compelled to help her, but hesitated. The stories of how cruel humans had been to her race ran through her head, telling the girl to turn away. Telling her to let him drown.

She did just the opposite though. As the Irishman sank deeper below the waves, being consumed by the salty water, she cautiously swam over to him. He was unconscious. She carefully grabbed his arms, pulling him to the surface. Thankfully the man was still breathing when they reached the surface.

Abigael slowly made her way toward the shore, ignoring the grumbling from the sky. After she had dragged him onto the shore, she had retreated to the edge of the water, her lower half covered by the water. As much as she knew she should leave, she had gotten too curious to just leave him there. She decided that she would simply wait for the man to wake up, then be on her way once he had awoken.

His body was ice. He could feel it in his blood, which no longer ran warm. He had stopped grasping long ago, for he knew the seas which he had conquered for years had now won. Perhaps it was fated.

Finally, Aidan closed his eyes, letting the sea have him.

-

Eyes batted open, revealing sharp green eyes, which in tales had been compared to jewels. The Irishman felt sand on his back, between his fingers, caressing his toes. It was soft, and dry. His hair was matted and wet, down from his normal ponytail, clinging to his neck and his forehead.

Slowly he rose. His white tunic was torn in many places as well as his trousers, and his boots were long missing. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking rapidly as sand drifted off his fingers and onto his nose and eyelids.

Where was he? He did not recognize this shore, nor was this anywhere near the Ancestial Glade. The sun was setting now, and as the light spilled onto the shore, his keen eyes caught a glimpse of a reflection of gold.

It took him a moment to realize it was hair, and belonging to a woman at that.

He blinked, slowly standing. He grunted as he did so, for his legs ached as if a horse had beaten him with strong hoofs. He found he could not stand for long, and collapsed back to the sand on his knees.

His head rose, and he stared at her with bewilderment. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, as if the sand had encased in his throat as well.

"Who...who are ye?"

When the Irishman looked up Abigael pushed herself back into the water a little more, letting it reach up to her shoulderblades. As he stood, she could see his legs shake a little before he fell to his knees. Silence enveloped the two before he spoke, asking her who she was.

She paused for a moment, choosing between staying and helping the mysterious man, or swimming away to leave him alone. Her good will got the better of her and she stayed in the shallow water, not pushing herself back out to sea.

"Abigael." She simply replied.

She had recieved no strange looks from the man. No looks of amazement or bewilderment. He must have thought she was a normal human at the moment, something she was grateful for. She had only ever been this close to two other humans, both of which had tried to kill her. She sincerely hoped he was not like the others.

"Abi...gael.."

Her name rolled off his tongue easily, and with a tang of mystery. From the moment he looked into her eyes, truly looked into those pools of iridescent green and blue, he knew she wasn't natrual. She wasn't human.

"Yer...yer eyes lass..." He smirked softly, "No human lass has eyes like tha'.."

He reached his hand out, as if to touch her, taking strawberry-blonde locks between his fingers that glowed golden when kissed by the sun.

Aidan was grasping, for something. It was on the edge of his mind, but he just couldn't reach it. Where....was he? What was he doing here?

Who was he?

"Ai-Aidan..." The name croaked from his lips, and it was haunting. Had he said that? It was the only thing he had now. He could not remember anything else.

"I'm...Aidan."

His eyes, not as keen as they once were, caught a glimpse of a glimmering green beneath the blue water lapping at her shoulders. He brushed past her, and in one swift movement his arms wrapped around her legs-

or, not legs.

He stared in absolute fascination at the beauty. Her scales reflected the glimmering color of her eyes, and his fingers stroked them with such care, as if she was made of glass.

He couldn't believe it, or make himself believe it. But here he was, and here she was.

"Ye saved me.." he breathed out, finally locking eyes with her again. "Why?"

When Aidan had reached out to touch her hair, Abigael recoiled slightly, shuffling back into the water slightly. He had a distant look, as if he were looking for something. After a moment she could see his eyes focus on what she had assumed was a fish, but instead was her tail.

A slight feeling of panic rose in her chest when he brushed past her to scoop up her tail, gently stroking the shimmering scales. Even with the comprimised state of this man, she was sure he could easily harm her, seeing as there had really been no need for her to actually learn how to fight someone off.

He slowly asked his final question, emerald eyes locking with hers. Now she thought about it. Why had she saved him? She honestly didn't know herself. It had just been a first reaction that she hoped she wouldn't regret.

"I... I'm nae sure, honestly. Ye mus' be special."

Aidan wasn't sure why her answer comforted him. Maybe, in the midst of this fresh confusion swarming his brain, some pure honesty was the best balm.

But the confusion was overwhelming. And dammit, it hurt. He could feel the answers on the edges of his mind, and slowly her tail slipped from his arms, his nails digging into the sides of his head. He was trying, so hard, grasping just to remember.

But he couldn't. He was clawing at nothing. Nothing. There was nothing to grasp, no memories to remember. Hot tears welled at the corners of his eyes, sliding down to his chin and dripping onto the sand.

"I can't...I can't remember..."

He felt helpless. All he had was one word- a name. "I c-can't remember anythin'..." He met her eyes again, almost looking like a lost child. He had no more words, for nothing would come off his tongue.

_

Luck was bestowed upon them, for in the distance a merchant ship traversing the Indian Ocean came upon them. Abigael had scuttered off behind brush, and he noticed vaguely that she was drying her tail. And before his very eyes, soft legs were revealed as the last of the scales fell to the sand.

She had grabbed him, hauling him to the ship. He could hear her bartering, badgering with the sailors to allow them passage to Barcelona.

And off they went, Aidan still dazed, but she took care of him, and guided him.

To this day he never knew why.

_

The docks of Barcelona were busy this crisp morning. Aidan MacCarthy (as he named himself, adopted from the merchant sailor who helped save him), pulled tighter on the strings of his brown tunic, furs under his arm as he came upon the vendor he had been searching for.

Isabela was the renowned jeweler in the Barcelona docks, and he had been eying her stall for some time. Not out of interest for the woman, nor out of curiosity, but a plan. See, it was a certain someone's birthday, and he was quite sure she herself did not remember (she often did not think of herself on most occasions), so he took it upon himself to remember for her.

His hunting had gone well today, and he had already salted and stored the meats back home. What he didn't tell Abigael, was what he was planning in the markets today.

"Can I get you something, dear?" Isabella batted her dark lashes at him, and Aidan gave a hearty laugh. "Jus' lookin' fer a present Isabella."

She raised a dark brow, fingers skimming golden earrings hanging on her display. "So is it still a no to my offer?"

Aidan chuckled, yet nodded. "Aye, it is." The woman smiled warmly. "And we both know why." He looked a bit taken aback by her words, pink dusting his cheeks. "Jus' lemme see wha' sapphire ye go'."

The woman chuckled at his flusteredness, but dug into a fur pouch below her. Her brown eyes glittered and she pulled up something that caught his eye. The piece was beautiful, intricately carved with its neck band of a soft gold, the jewel in the middle heavy but modest. It was dark, deep and blue, and it reminded him very much of her reclusive personality.

It was perfect.

"All the fur ye wan' fer it." He spoke too hurriedly, and Isabella only laughed, putting her hand on his and shaking her head. "Just one, amigo, and enjoy the rest of your day. Besides, this is to be a cold winter, no? You'll need the extra fur."

Isabella was a kind woman, and Aidan was grateful for it.

It had been eight months since Abigael had taken Aidan in. At first she had been extremely wary of the man, and with good reason. In time, she told him what she truly was, and for some reason he was very unbothered by it. It definitely explained her unnatural beauty.

Still, Aidan remembered nothing of his past life. Nothing had changed, he was a new man now.

'"Ey, Abby!" He gave a sharp knock to the wooden door, opening it to their modest little home on the harbor. A fair distance from the markets, but not too far from the water.

He knew where she would be already, in the kitchens doing what she loved to do. He plopped the extra furs down on a chair of roughskin, entering with a warm smile on his face. He leaned on the wall next to her, raising a brow. "Yer all work and no play lass," his smile broadened, "even on yer birthday."

Abigael had woken shortly before Aidan had set out for the market. She had just enough time to see him gather some furs, which raised some questions in her mind, but she decided it was for the best that she didn't ask. The thought of her own birthday hadn't even crossed her mind.

She set off on her daily work, tidying up around the small home she shared with Aidan. Granted, she was often gone for a day at a time, she still spent a good amount of time in this house

After about an hour she had slipped into the kitchen, gathering her stuff to prepare a meal.

" 'Ey Abby!"

She could hear Aidan from the front of the small house, but she didn't return his greeting. He knew very well exactly where she would be.

For the past half hour she had been in the kitchen, preparing a small meal. She had taken great joy in cooking when she first started living in Barcelona, and now she had gotten rather skilled at it.

When he stepped into the kitchen, she gave him a slight glance, smiling softly at him. "Hello." She returned to her cooking, oblivious to the knowing grin that was glued to his features. Out of her periphial vision she could see him lean against the wall.

"Yer all work and no play lass," she could hear amusement seep into his voice as he continued his sentence. "even on yer birthday."

It took a moment for the forgotten occassion to sink in, before she looked at him with a curious expression. "Ye remembered?" She laughed softly, setting down the food in her hands, "Funny, I had forgotten myself."

She turned slightly to face him more directly, looking up at him with a smile. "I would tell ye no' tae do something special, bu' I know ye won' listen."

He chuckled softly, nodding. "Of course ye did lass. Ye forge' tae even ge' yerself in the water sometimes." His grin was awfully boyish now, but oddly handsome. "Wha' would ye do without me.."

His grin broadened, and he nodded, almost excitedly. "Ye know me too well. Here, turn around."

With eager hands he pushed her towards their door that led outside, towards their little personal haven, their own little slice of the harbour. There he pushed her out onto a dock, towards the very edge until her toes were nearly hanging into the water.

"Alrigh' now stay still," he commanded, fishing into his trousers for that precious piece of metal and jewel he had practically stolen from his Spanish friend. His rough, calloused fingers brushed against the soft skin of her throat as he slid the gold past her collarbone, hooking it behind her neck.

He breathed out slowly, fascinated with how it already glowed on her skin. But it was her turn to see, not his. "Look down, lass," he whispered softly, awaiting her reaction eagerly.

Abigael raised an eyebrow when he placed a hand on her back, gently pushing her out to the harbour. When she got close to the water's edge, she gave a quick glance down at the glassy liquid. She could hear a soft clink of metal as the Irishman fished around in his pocket for the necklace.

She could feel his hands brush past the skin on her neck, followed by the cool touch of metal. When the necklace settled, she could feel the small weight from the sapphire pulling the rest of the gold necklace down.

"Look down, lass,"

The ginger woman looked down at the harbour's water, greeted by familiar teal eyes. Her eyes then wandered down to her neck, eyes widening when she saw a beautiful gold and sapphire necklace that highlighted the blue in her teal eyes. She was stunned into a momentary silence, the generous present surprising her.

"Aidan, ye shouldnae have..." she mumbled in a soft voice.

"Aidan, ye shouldnae have..."

His grin nearly split his face in two, and a happy warmth filled his body. "Aye, bu' I did." His fingers lingered about the skin at where the gold band met her collarbone, before he finally withdrew it. He peered over her shoulder, very much so admiring her reflection and how the jewel complimented her eyes beautifully. He'd made the right choice.

After giving her another moment of admiration, he turned her, wrapping his arms around her in a gentle hug. "I don' say it often...but I wanted te thank ye. Fer takin' me in. Givin' me a life." His voice was very soft, almost a whisper. He trusted her and he saw no reason to hide it, for she trusted him with her deepest of secrets.

The sea collided with the side of the ship, causing the mass of metal and solid wood to groan as it lurched sideways. The storm had yet to die out after two grueling hours, and the sea was far from calm. Water sprayed over the side of the boat and across the deck, making it slippery and drenching the sailors with freezing water. The Baltic Sea could be quite the bitch to navigate, but she was well worth the trouble.

Ivan Braginski stood at the helm of the massive ship, barking out orders in his thick Russian accent to the rest of the crew, "COMRADES, TO THE SAILS! ALL HANDS ON DECK! BRRING HERR DOWN, PARRKERR, VHAT ARRE YOU DOING?! YOU DO KNOW HOW TO STEERR A SHIP FOR THE GOOD LORRD'S SAKE, DA?!" He spat out at his workers with his thick Russian accent as the ship lurched forward over a wave's peak and slammed down into the water. A wave surged over the deck, knocking many crew members off their feet and sliding them across the wood before it swept over the back side of the ship. Crew members howled as they knocked into the waist-high edge over the vessel that kept them from going overboard, and cursed loudly in various languages as they pushed past one another to get back to work.

A loud clap of thunder sounded overhead and a bolt of lightning flickered across the sea, causing the water to flash with bright iridescence. Rain poured down in icy sheets over the crew, like daggers slicing across their skin. Most of the men had coats or jackets, but there were a few of the lower ranked who were merely clad in thin shirts and baggy pants that were haphazardly tucked into their worn, leather boots. Some didn't even have shoes.

And yet, these possibly life-threateningly poor conditions against the cold weren't enough to make them throw down the towel and quit. No-They all remained loyal to their captain. Maybe it was his charisma that was able to sway any man's choice, or perhaps it was the money he paid, no matter how low it was. Maybe it was the fact that if anyone tried to leave, the captain would beat them out of their skins and throw them into the sea. Maybe.

Their captain, the aforementioned Ivan Braginski was- in short- One hell of a man. Legend whispered in the ears of land-dwellers that he held the strength of one hundred men, that he was able to raise a mast with his own, two, bare hands, and even that he was the most powerful pirate to ever claim the Baltic Sea. Perhaps even stronger than those who he had dethroned who had claimed it before him.

You see, the Baltic Sea used to be a peaceful trading center controlled by seven of the most powerful pirates of Northern Europe. This group of seven-Matthias, Lukas, Emil, Tino, and Berwald, along with brothers Ludwig and Gilbert- ruled over the sea with an iron fist, and were honored and revered for their actions. That is, until a newcomer came along. Ivan had began his piracy at the age of sixteen when he left his sisters to explore a life at sea. It had only taken him two years to venture from his home in Russia to the Baltic Sea, where he joined a crew. Six months later,he was captain of his ship and had a crew of his own. Word of this newcomer didn't take long to spread, and he was swiftly labeled a non-threat.

No one had any idea how wrong they were.

That winter, when the sea reached freezing temperatures and supplies were hardest to find, the Russian struck at the ruling seven, storming aboard their ship and mercilessly slaughtering almost everyone on board. The ones they didn't kill became their prisoners, including one Gilbert Beilschmidt. Gilbert was the only one of the seven known to survive to siege, although he probably wished he hadn't after watching his brother's beheading before his very eyes, and being slave of Ivan's for over a year now.

However, these thoughts of the past were far from the Russian's current mindset as he shoved "PARRKERR" out of his way and took the wheel, jerking it to take a hard left to counter a wave that slammed into the side. The ship still jerked, but not as roughly as it would have without the captain's guide. The wheel spun momentarily, but Ivan grasped it roughly and pulled it back into place, muscles straining, pressing against the fabric that covered his arms, against the power of the sea.

By now, the storm was beginning to calm down and thunder rolled in the distance to their south as it passed over. Sunlight began to stream through the dark clouds, and a few men cheered as the sky brightened. Ivan grinned in triumph as the waves began to calm themselves, and he straightened the wheel back out as his first mate came up and gave him a good pat on the back, complimenting his seafaring. He let out a hardy laugh and helped up Parker, scolding him momentarily before giving him his spot back at the wheel, and going onto the main deck to check out the damage.

"Hey!" He called to a crew member.

The man- a boy no older than fourteen-halted what he was doing and looked to his captain with bright eyes as he wiped the saltwater from his brow, "Oi, cap'ain! Qui'e 'he s'orm 'here, huh?"

"Da." Ivan spoke, offering a harmless smile, "Have ya taken inventorry? Did ve lose anythin'?"

"Aye, sir, bu' we only los' t'ree barrels o' supplies."

"Vhat did ve lose, comrade?"

"A barrel o' flour," He spoke, counting off the items on his fingers.

"A shame." Ivan replied with a shrug. They had plenty of flour below deck.

"A barrel o' sal'," The crew member continued, pulling up a second finger.

"Damn." The captain cursed slightly. Salt was a plentiful mineral up at sea, but it was going to mean a loss of money when they reached port.

"An' a barrel o' vodka." He finished, counting out the third finger and smiling up at his captain.

"...Vhat?"

The boy hesitated slightly, hearing the harshness in his superior's voice, "U-Uhm... We los' a barrel o' vodka... Sir."

There was a pause before Ivan raised his hand and stuck the boy across the face, causing him to crumble onto the deck. The entire crew halted as the sound of skin-on-skin contact ricocheted through the air and looked over t their captain, who smiled genuinely, but everything about him felt sinister, "Vhat have I told ye' lot about losin' my vodka?" He barked, turning to his crew, "I TOLD YE TO PRROTECT IT VITH YOURR LIVES, DA?!"

The crew flinched and drew back. A few members nodded their heads hesitantly.

"YE DUMBASSES CAN'T EVEN HANDLE A SIMPLE FUCKIN' TASK LIKE ZHAT?! VHAT IS VRONG VITH YE?! ZHAT'S IT. NO ONE GETS DINNERR TONIGHT. IS ZHAT UNDERSTOOD?!"

The crew winced as their captain yelled, a few nodding before quickly getting back to work to avoid upsetting Ivan any more than they already had. A crew member had taken the unconscious boy and set him against a barrel before shuffling away.

However, fury boiled in Ivan's ears and he exhaled shakily before his heavy boots stepped across the deck to a door in the wood that led belowdecks. Using a key on a golden ring around his belt, he unlocked the bolted door and yanked it open. Below, a set of wooden steps led to a darkened room only lit by a single lantern that hung in the center of the ceiling, swaying with the ship along the waves. As he stepped down the staircase, he pulled the door above him shut and locked it as he stepped onto the floor, having to hunch over slightly because of the low ceiling. Before him sat, curled in a ball, none other than his prisoner Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"Привет." He purred with a sickeningly sadistic grin.

Abigael felt him turn her around, pulling her into a gentle hug. She froze for a moment before wrapping her arms around his waist, smiling softly. His voice showed all of his emotions, something that didn't happen often.

"Ye don' need tae thank me. Actually ye probably helped me more than I helped ye."

Before she had known him, she was far too distrusting of humans, only interacting with them if she needed something from the markets. She had seen only the worst kind, and wasn't prepared to trust them so easily. After knowing that there were people like Aidan, people who wouldn't treat her like an odd creature of the deep, only to be captured and poached, she had begun to interact with humans more freely. Sure, she still avoided sailors like the plague, her only contact with them being near death experiences, but for the most part she had made plenty of friends.

"Thank ye, this is already a grea' day."

Gilbert didn't know how long it had been. Thunder roared from above him, and lightning flashed through the cracks of the roof above his head. The sea crashed against the ship, tossing it every which way. Water seeped in through the roof and drenched the floor around him, causing the air to become frigid and his bones to ache from the cold. His attire of a burlap sack offered hardly any prevention from weather of any kind.

Above him, he heard the loud, muffled barking of a certain Russian commander, ordering his "comrades" around the ship. Footsteps clambered to meet these commands, heavily thundering on the ceiling above him. Suddenly the ship lurched forward and water collided with the deck, sending a heavy amount of the bitterly freezing liquid to drench the Prussian ex-captain. A gasp escaped his throat as he was covered in the icy sea, accidentally inhaling some, and choked to release it from his throat.

Thunder crashed above deck and lightning momentarily lit the small room through the cracked ceiling boards. The frigid water clung to his skin, making him contract into a ball as he shivered fervently to try and stay alive against the harsh bitterness of the cold. His entire body was sore, but that was normal. His stomach churned and growled in pathetic remorse from desperate hunger. His lungs sputtered and heaved to try and catch a dry breath of air. His heart pounded heavily in his chest in order to keep his blood flowing to warm the inside of his body.

All he wanted was to give up- To let the sea claim him as its own and allow his story to end its final chapter- but he couldn't. Not after everything that had happened. Not without avenging his brother. He didn't know how long it had been; Months, years, weeks? But he remembered the events as though they had taken place only yesterday.

Gilbert would be lying if he said that he had never heard of Ivan Branginski before that fateful day, but he would have never guessed that a newcomer such as he would ever have taken down the famous Seven. Berwald, Matthias, Lukas, Emil, Tino, and his brother, Ludwig, along with himself; They had all ruled over the Baltic Sea for years- Long before Ivan had set foot in these waters. The Seven, along with their hearty crew, had been suffering from a particularly harsh winter on that November day when Ivan struck against them.

Blood. Blood had been everywhere. The echoed screams of the dead and the dying screams of the wounded slashed through the air with utmost cruelty as the Seven fought for their lives. Gunshots ricocheted through the night and Gilbert had been brought to his knees as a bullet passed through his leg, shattering his kneecap. Crew members from the opposing force held him down as his brother, Ludwig, charged forward to protect him.

That's when it happened.

A single gunshot rang out and the German howled with pain as it passed through his stomach. He collapsed to his knees and clutched his abdomen as his clothes were stained scarlet. He choked, and blood spattered from his lips, dribbling down his chin as a Russian man- none other than the infamous Ivan Braginski- moved behind him and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back and drawing his sword. Gilbert screamed in anguish as the sword was sliced across the German's neck.

Blood splattered across the Prussian brother's face as the body slumped forward, head remained grasped tightly in the Russian's fist as hot tears of rage boiled over the albino's eyelids and poured down his cheeks. Moments later as he was dragged away and thrown onto the enemy ship, he vowed to avenge his brother's death.

The memory caused him to shake even more against the cold, fighting to remain conscious as the ship lurched to the left and he slid across the floor and into the corner of his small room, ankle chains rattling against the wood below him. By now he could tell that the storm was beginning to calm itself and sunlight began to stream through the ceiling as cheers of victory sounded from above deck. The crew calmed down after a few moments and Gilbert sighed as sunlight warmed his pale skin, illuminating his body.

If anybody had seen him now-a-days, they'd have one hell of a time trying to recognize him. He was nothing but skin and bones anymore, frail and weak. His eyes appeared to be sunken into his head, heavy bags and shadows darkening his ruby irises. His cheeks. Also appeared to have sunken in, and his pale skin made him appear to be completely skeletal.

However, he jumped as he heard a shout from above deck and winced, moving into his corner and pressing his back against the wall in a feeble attempt to escape the obviously pissed off voice of the Russian. Damn it. God fucking damn it all. He knew what was going to happen next as heavy footsteps pounded against the ceiling, and the door to the cellar was ripped open. No. No, no, no, no, no!

Oh, but yes... The Russian stepped onto the floor of the small room at the door closed and Gilbert looked up at him with a feigned solemn gaze, panic twinkling in his eyes as Ivan offered a sadistic grin and greeted him.

"V-Vhat do ya vhant?" He growled lowly, "Leave me alone."

Gilbert's feeble attempt to feign such a solemn gaze caused the Russian to smirk. The panic and utter terror in the Prussian's eyes were enough to make him smile. And when he spoke up with such a timid voice? Ivan had to work very hard to suppress his laughter.

Normally, he hated violence. He despised it. But right now, he was pissed, and instead of releasing his fury on those whom he needed to work for him, he found that taking his rage out on such a pathetic excuse of a prisoner was far more useful. What else was a prisoner good for? Nothing but gloating rights and having a thing to do whatever you wanted with. This thing before him-this pathetic excuse of a creature- didn't deserve the air that he swallowed. Why? Because Ivan said so. He was a man of god, and this creature didn't deserve to live while someone else could have. This man had taken lives and pillaged villages and raped women, and he didn't deserve to live. He deserved to rot in Hell.

Not until the Russian was done with him, though.

"Vhat do I vhant?" Ivan purred, stepping forward and taking the whip from his belt, "I believe yeh should know that by now, da?" He smirked, mischievous fury flickering in his violet eyes, "Yeh sicken me. Yeh know that by now, don't yeh?" He continued, tilting his head to the side as he stepped up to the albino, lifted his foot, and brought it down hard onto Gilbert's shoulder, pinning him to the wall, "Pathetic." He growled, and took a step back before raising his whip and cracking it against the prisoner's skin. A gash opened in Gilbert's forehead and blood began to trickle down his face, "Now stand."

The twisted smirk that conformed against the Russian's lips was enough to know that his attempt to conceal his fear was in vain. A shiver was sent up his spine and Gilbert was unsure as to whether it was due to Ivan or the freezing rain that had drenched him only moments ago.

In short, the captain was a twisted man. He believed himself to be a man of God, someone who redeemed the wicked and was born to spread His word. Gilbert saw no God here. He had never seen a God. From the time he spent inside the confines of his hellish home under the brute force of his grandfather, to that day that had led to he time he spent inside the confines of his hellish home under the brute force of his grandfather, to that day that had led to his brother's demise, not once had he seen a God.

Something gave him a funny feeling that he never would.

However, as the Russian's sickly-sweet voice caressed the air, Gilbert visibly winced and drew away as Ivan pulled the whip from his belt. The pure hatred in the captain's eyes sparked and a lump formed in Gilbert's throat. He should have been used to these beatings by now. He should have been used to the insufferable pain. But he wasn't.

A solid pain shot through his shoulder and a gasp passed through his lips like a hiss as his eyes grew wide. The thick bottom of the Russian's leather boots had been imbedded with sand, shell, and rock fragments over time that now cut into the albino's skin. The saltwater that still clung to his skin was quick to dig into the fresh wounds and he squeezed his eyes shut as his back was now pinned to the wall.

Ivan spat at him again and Gilbert felt a bit of relief as the pressure from the Bruce's boot vanished from his already bruising shoulder. He looked up just as the Russian raised his whip and didn't have a millisecond to react before the whip cracked against his skin. White-hot, searing pain scalded his face and he let out a small cry as his eyebrow was split down the center. The vision in his left eye quickly became shrouded in red as fresh blood trickled from his newest wound, and he held the as the pressure from the Bruce's boot vanished from his already bruising shoulder. He looked up just as the Russian raised his whip and didn't have a millisecond to react before the whip cracked against his skin. White-hot, searing pain scalded his face and he let out a small cry as his eyebrow was split down the center. The vision in his left eye quickly became shrouded in red as fresh blood trickled from his newest wound, and he held the left side of his face gingerly in his hand as he squeezed his left eye shut.

"Now stand."

Gilbert knew better than to disobey orders, so he shakily managed to stand on his two thin, gangly legs that barely supported the weight of his head and torso, bracing himself for the inevitable impact that was sure to follow.

_


Tanned fingers tightly gripped onto rotten wood, small prayers flying from pink lips as the ship lurched back and forth violently.

Two hours. After two long hours, it still had not ceased. Alisia hated it all, the cold sprays that would leak from the ocean and into the mess hall where she resided, the rolling of her stomach as she was tossed helplessly from wall to wall. Alisia wasn't very strong, nor very large, and was easily swayed. If this damned storm wasn't brewing, she would have had the crew's meals finished by now. She knew, very well, how Captain Braginski hated when tasks were not completed on time.

A girl like Alisia was not meant to be on a ship, nor a pirate ship, and especially not one that sailed under the flag of Braginski. If she had had a choice, she wouldn't be.

The Armenian girl had come from a small, humble tavern in the ports of Lisbon. Well, it was where she had inevitably wandered to. The girl had no home that she could remember, living her early life in alleyways and filthy streets of Europe. She had wandered far from her homeland, never counting the days that were spent starving, or the steps she took on bare battered feet. She never knew were her parents were, or if she had any. They were absent from her memory. Had they died when she was young? Had they left her, finding her unfitting for them?

Those questions still haunted her, even to this day.

Perhaps it was because she was diseased. Whether it was fatal, terminal, or minor, she had no clue, for she had found no doctor to see about it.

The ship gave another violent lurch, and as a spray leaked in and licked her legs she gave a shout. She could feel it, the soft tingle that nearly felt like a feather upon skin. But it was no feather, and Alisia resented even the mere sight of her affliction. Her skin began to stretch, only the slightest, an awful spot of a dull, sickening purple clawing its way from the layers of her skin, becoming a thwarting blemish upon her calf. As quickly as the small woman could, she grabbed a filthy rag and dried the water droplets from her tanned leg. As quickly as the blemish came, once her leg had dried, it vanished back beneath the folds of her skin.

It was daily she had to suffer this. Daily that she knew she was some freak of nature.

Finally, the storm ceased.

Alisia had a few spare minutes (what felt like moments) of breath, turning back towards her pots as she attempted to cook even one man's supper. As she sprinkled salt into broth, the bounding of boots rattled wooden stairs as one pirate bumbled down to her. She blinked at the man who, with frightened eyes, told her the meals for the men tonight were off.

This wasn't the first time Captain Braginski had neglected and mistreated his crew, nor would it be the last.

Faintly, she wondered what had possessed this captain to abduct her and force her to slave as a cook upon his ship. He had none before she came, she knew this, but why her was still a daunting mystery. The raid he oversaw had been swift upon Lisbon, and why he had sailed so far south she had never quite known. The woman who had taken her in (and nearly raised her), Constance, had pleaded for Braginski to release her and leave her be.

He had not complied. And now, she was here. There was no way she could have fought him, nor fought his army of loyal pirates. Often she feared for her very welfare on this ship, barely having the chances to bathe, and having the hungry stares of physically deprived men latch onto her like leeches. It made her shudder and feel ill. She was grateful, at least, that the captain had allowed her to keep her normal tavern dress and not dress her in something ridiculing, or worse, nothing at all.

Alisia knew that, even though the crew's supper was abstained, Braginski would have her head if he was not fed at the appropriate time and with succulent food. She brewed a stew, roasted the last of their goat legs, and baked a loaf of fresh bread, all accompanied with a cup of what she hoped was clean water. For her sake, that is.

For the sake of the crew she covered the sight of his meal with a (clean) cloth, wandering above deck in-search for the man. Not in sight. Her brows furrowed and she came to his cabin, knocking timidly. Still no answer. Where could he have gone? Ivan was not a man to wander idly, and could usually be found in the same places at certain points of the day.

No, something was wrong. And she could feel it.

After questioning a crewmate she wandered towards the hatch (that Ivan had inevitably left open), and traversed downward with careful steps. It was dark, and quiet at first, only the soft echoing of faint voices reaching her piqued ears. But she followed the sound still, soon recognizing a very thick Russian accent that she had found impossible to ignore.

She hoped, for her life, that she was not interrupting anything important. The last thing Alisia ever wanted to do was make Ivan Braginski angry.

Not far away now the dim light of a latern came upon her vision, and she soon found herself at the edge of a very poorly-lit room. A man lay in chains, frail and limp. His hair was the most stark white she had ever seen, his eyes burning garnets. Then, there was the captain, a sickening grin plastered upon his lips and a whip in his hand.

She had no time to speak. The whip came. Snap! Once. The albino man was braced against the wall, his face dripping pain.

"C-...Cap-...." She tried to utter the word, his name, but at the horror of the torture taking place before her she could not move nor speak. Her tongue became stone and her limbs became tender wheat in a harsh wind, shaking without her consent. She barely kept her grip on the tray, but knew it nearly literally held her life.

She could not watch it. She could not watch a man be needlessly tortured for a sick game. If she was going to die on this ship anyway, wouldn't it be better dying doing what she knew was right.

"STOP!"

The word rung out, silencing the room and her eyes widened in a sudden fear. A sudden knowing. But there was no turning back now.

"C-Captain...this isn't necessary. Don't you see?" Her voice shook, but she did indeed take steps towards him, eventually stepping herself between him and the injured man. "He's already suffering. He's already dead. Doing this won't satisfy a need for revenge, my Captain." Her voice became oddly firm, but not enough to be intimidating. Her eyes pleaded, begged for him to listen and for her own life.

Ivan didn't suppress his laughter as the Prussian became so visibly distraught. The pale man's shoulder was already beginning to swell and turn a sickly shade of purple. Blood trickled from the wound in his forehead, and he looked just as pathetic as he really was as he staggered to stand on his two feet. The prominent fear in the albino's eyes caused a smirk to etch across the Russian's face and he raised his whip, bringing it down hard. It snapped, the sound cracking through the small room. A wide gash opened in Gilbert's chest, the skin easily stretching apart due to the fact that it was still wet.

Little did he know of the woman approaching him from behind as he cracked his whip again against the prisoner's skin, his grin growing more malicious with every additive amount of pain he caused Gilbert.

"STOP!"

He raised the whip again and went to move, but hesitated as a high-pitched scream caused him to jump. It wasn't Gilbert- no-it had been far too feminine.. He whirled his head around to see over his shoulder, where the tavern wench he'd abducted from an earlier pillage of some random village stood, trembling, with a tray clutched tightly in her hands. Ivan's lip curled into a snarl as she shakily spoke and moved in between the predator and it's prey. She spoke sternly, but her eyes showed weakness, pleading with him desperately. If it were anyone else, he would have taken his rage out on them, but she was a woman, and a valuable member of his crew. So, he took a step back and gave an agitated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb as he narrowed his brow and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Fine." He spoke after a moment, throwing his hands up in defeat. Rolling back up his whip, he tucked it in his belt and glared at the woman, "I vill show zhis peasant merrcy." He growled, "Take carre of his vounds und get back to vorrk." He spat and turned, heavy boots clomping up the stairs.

When he reached the upper deck, he grabbed the nearest crew member, a certain blonde Norwegian named 'Lukas' and pushed him towards the staircase, "You. Help zhe girrl take carre of zhe prrisonerr." He growled and walked away.

A cry of pain erupted from his throat as the whip cracked against his chest, slicing open a broad gash with great ease. He clutched at the wounds, scarlet liquid dancing around his fingers and down his wrists as it flowed from the wound. He held up his arm in a feeble attempt to block the next strike as the whip was brought down again, colliding with his arm and curling so that the thin tip just barely sliced open his collarbone. He collapsed to his knees as pain swelled through his body Blood dripped from the gash on his forearm and he clutched it in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut and sucking in a swift breath through clenched teeth as he braced himself for the next hit.

However, it didn't come.

Instead, a high-pitched, desperate scream resounded through the room and Gilbert's eyes opened wide to see a woman bracing herself in between the captain and himself. His left eye soon fluttered shut again as blood still trickled from the gash in his forehead, but he stared at her with shock as she spoke so strictly to Ivan.

No sane man would ever talk to the Russian like that, and yet this broad seemed to have the insane courage it took to actually stand up to the brute. Sure, she was far from intimidating in any sense of the word, but it honestly meant a lot. Gilbert had never met any of the other crew members aboard the ship before, despite that fateful night, but he didn't recognize her from then. Not a single woman had been aboard Ivan's ship when the siege took place as far as he knew, so he could assume that perhaps she was new. Maybe her naivety of the Russian's power was caused by this, which is what led her to defy him. Or maybe she was just suicidal.

In any case, the only thing that could have shocked Gilbert more is when Ivan actually complied and ceased the malevolent torture. The albino blinked in disbelief as the Russian turned and exited with a wave of his hand and an order for the girl to take care of his wounds. Looking down, he noticed just how bad they were. Blood drenched the burlap sack he had salvaged for clothing that hung loosely to just above his knees. A large rip in the fabric revealed a good portion of his torn chest and he coughed into the crook of his elbow. A bit of scarlet sprayed onto his skin, dribbling from the corner of his lip and he looked up to her with a wide ruby eye that shimmered in the light of the dim lantern. She was beautiful, yes, but that wasn't what was on the Prussian's mind as he turned his attention back to his wounds. He was beginning to feel light-headed as he saw so much of his own blood, clutching his wounded arm in his hand, blinking a few times to suppress his urge to heave whatever spare nutrients were left in his stomach from when he'd been fed days ago and he coughed again, looking away as he slumped back against the wall.

"Thank you." He murmured with a raspy voice, "I owe you my life, Madam."

Not so long ago a Lukas had ruled the northern European seas with six others. They were all replaced with a single Russian man who had easily destroyed their fleet in the harsh winter months. It had all happened so swiftly, leaving so little time for them to react. There wasn't much they could do once Ivan had decided that he would control the seas.

Lukas had barely escaped with his life, and for a while had wandered through Europe. His friends and crew were gone, all of them dead or missing. He hadn't even gotten the chance to find out what had happened to his brother. Now he had ended up in the crew of the man who had taken almost everything away from him. When he was staying in Amsterdam, Ivan had arrived to gain crew members, whether they be willing to go along or not. Unluckily enough, Lukas had been in the wrong place in the wrong time.

Now, for months he had been stuck on this ship, which to him and most of the crew could be comparable to hell. When the storm had ended and the Russian captain had found out that a barrel of his precious vodka had been claimed by the sea, the consequences weren't good. The crew member to tell him had been struck down, then they had been deprived of their much needed dinner. Now he had been commanded to go down to the lower deck and help the cook take care of a prisoner. He didn't even know that they had a prisoner.

He felt Ivan suddenly push him toward the staircase, muttering to himself as he walked away. Knowing better than to go against his orders, the Norwegian stepped down the stairs, stepping into the room at the bottom. The sight he saw shocked him into silence.

A bloodied and beaten Gilbert was on the floor, nursing a wound. He spoke in a raspy voice to the Armenian cook, thanking her. He took a couple of steps toward the duo, stopping on the other side of the room. After a moment he spoke, "Ivan told me to help you take care of the prisoner."

He refrained from showing any recognition, not particularly trusting the Armenian woman. Sure, she was likely harmless, hating Ivan as much as the rest of them did, but he'd rather not risk it. If Ivan had even the slightest suspicion of Lukas being one of the seven pirates who had ruled the seas before him, he'd surely be killed. Or worse, end up like Gilbert.

Aidan felt warm, happy, elated. Not only did she seem to love his gift, but she seemed happy. Could this have gone any more perfectly?

No, he didn't think so.

"Ye don' need tae thank me. Actually ye probably helped me more than I helped ye."

The corners of his mouth twitched up, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "Lass, I was the one with no life, no home, nowhere te go and no memory of anythin'. Withou' ye, I'd be lost, alone, an' most likely starved te death."

At her last sentence, he winked with a boyishly-handsome grin plastered on his face. "An' it's only begun. It's yer birthday lass, ye only have so many. Ye think I'm goin' te let ye ge' off with a measly gift?" He tsked, waggling his finger inches from her face. "Ye better get in somethin' nice lass, we're headin' out on th' town."

With a soft kiss to the forehead, and eyes that promised just what he had told her, he slipped back into their humble home, cleaning his own appearance up as well.

Alisia expected the worst possible. A beating. Or perhaps the whip on her next. Despite her short swell of bravery, her small hands began to shake, causing the silver dish of which she gripped like a vice to clatter. She remembered, now, that not many spoke out against Ivan and kept their bodies intact, much less lived.

"Fine."

It was the last thing she expected. Her eyes widened to disks, staring at the captain with absolute disbelief. Was this a joke? No, it did not seem so. He was actually listening to her, and was going to relinquish his torture on the already doomed man. But she was not about to test her already-frail fate, nodding quickly as he walked away with heavy thumping.

She nearly dropped the platter, releasing a trembling breath she did not realize she was holding. She had just confronted Captain Braginski, unscathed.  That was more than a tremendous feat. She turned to the wounded man, kneeling and shaking her head. "You owe me nothing. Prisoners have to look out for each-other." She heard the boots behind her, turning with a newly steady gaze to the blue-eyed boy. "You, watch him. I'm going to get a rag and some water."

With that she made a quick exit, gripping her skirts for some kind of support as she nearly darted from this prison below deck and to the kitchens.

Gilbert couldn't help but feel a but shocked at the events that had just unfolded before him. This random broad had weaseled her way in between a beast and it's prey and the beast had walked away? Honestly, who was this woman? What about her made her so special? Could it be that the merciless Captain Ivan Braginski held some form of a civilized manner in that thick skull of his? No way. That wasn't possible... Was it?

However, as the woman kneeled down in front of him, he hesitated. She spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent, and when she finished her sentence he had pieced together that she must have been in a similar situation to his. Except, then why would Braginski listen to her? Why wouldn't he have just lashed out at her, too? Why wasn't she locked up like he was? With the condition she was in, it looked as through she must have worked with the crew or something.

Questions swarmed his head and his lips parted to voice them, but hesitated as a pair of boots clambered down the wooden stairs and into the room. The boy was small in stature, his light blonde hair swept back on one side with a silver cross pin, and his blue eyes flickered like the sun against the open sea. Gilbert had only ever known one other person with features quite like that: A young Norwegian pirate with high ambition and a loyal heart. Gods, he looked so familiar but... It couldn't be Lukas... Could it?

No way.

However, that voice. He even sounded like him. He had the same accent and everything. But... Lukas had died that day with everyone else... Hadn't he?

When the Armenian woman took her lead, Gilbert decided that he had nothing left to lose, "Do I know you?"

Almost as soon as the Armenian cook had left, the broken Prussian in front of him spoke up, hesitantly asking in a low voice, "Do I know you?"

Lukas frowned slightly, debating in whether or not to acknowledge that he did indeed know Gilbert. There were enough reasons to almost make him decide against familiarity with the albino, but simply seeing an old friend, one he had thought dead for so long, was enough to make him reply with, "So you're blind now, or do I simply look that different?"

He took a few steps closer, kneeling down in front of Gilbert. He looked worse than he had from afar, dark circles forming under his crimson eyes. Deep gashes covered his body, blood still trickling out of the fresh wounds. He had obviously lost a lot of weight, and was now easily comparable to a skeleton with how pale he had gotten.

The Norwegian shook his head, sighing softly. "He's crueler than I thought." He paused for a moment, "Most of the crew is here to make attempts on his life, and I can guarantee that they regret it." Had this been a lighter mood, maybe more sarcastic jokes would have been elicited from Lukas, but with seeing an old friend broken down like this he had no idea what to do. Even if he were to attempt to help Gilbert off the ship, they were at sea at the moment, and jumping overboard was a ridiculous idea that not even the dumb would try. As of right now he was stuck, unable to help in any way.