Genre: time travel AU, adventure, romance
Warnings: language, violence, sensuality
A/N: This ficlet was largely inspired by Alexandra Bracken's Passenger, and will most likely stay a ficlet. Also, the title and the beginning quote are from the song, The Drowning Hymn, by After the Sirens.
.oOo.
And I will sway and weave
Through the Western Wind that pulls through me
Like the tide hems the sand
You divide what's left in my hands
.oOo.
Raven wakes to the sound of multiple, simultaneous explosions. As her nose fills with the acrid scent of gunpowder, the ground beneath her lurches sharply to the left. She struggles to stand, her feet and brace tangling in the voluminous skirt of a dress she neither owns nor would willingly wear, but manages it with the aid of a nearby sturdy-looking bookcase. Blood rushes to her head, pounding painfully in her ears and through the growing lump on the side of her skull.
The last thing she remembers is the metallic shriek permeating the space station - the beginnings of a catastrophic mechanical failure - and running towards the sound with Echo hot on her heels. But there'd been a strangeness to the situation: no alarms, no recognition by the station's integrated AI that anything was amiss, no sense of urgency in the rest of the crew. Then, just as she thought she'd reached the source of the sound, Raven had been shoved from behind. The subsequent fall must have knocked her out; she remembers nothing else.
"Echo, you bitch," Raven whispers into emptiness of the unfamiliar room.
Whatever elaborate practical joke her Russian coworker has set up, she's obviously gone to great lengths. Hell, the floor even looks like it's made of real wood.
Raven opens the door, expecting to be greeted by the laughter of her crew. Instead, she's blinded by the midday sun and assaulted by a breeze that blows smoke and particles of salt water through the air, along with the heady scent of iron and sweat and the cacophonous clang of steel on steel. Panic begins to well up, overtaking her shock, but Raven quickly tamps it down; she's got no time for that particular sentiment now. As her eyes adjust to the brightness, she surveys her surroundings with a careful eye.
Blood and guts and bodies litter what appears to be the deck of a period accurate 18th century British merchant ship. Several skirmishes, involving both fists and swords, seem to be in the throes of their climax. Another ship, bearing a flag she does not recognize, is anchored nearby, its deck also occupied with fighting men.
Beyond that there is only ocean and a blue, cloudless sky.
As Raven watches on, the scattered groups of fighters on her ship coalesce into circle - a dozen around a single man. Even surrounded as he is, he yells to the lot of them, "Is this all you can muster?"
Angered, they charge as one. But the man is like water in their grasp, fluid evasions and powerful strikes in equal measure. In less than a minute, he is the only one left standing. Wiping their blood from his blade, he turns his attention to Raven and saunters across the deck.
Raven looks around for a weapon to defend herself - a sword, a knife, a piece of rope, anything - but there's nothing she can get to before he reaches her. Still, she's not going down without a fight, odds be damned. Squaring her shoulders and her stance, she prepares herself.
But the attack never comes.
The man stops a mere foot away and takes a piece of battered parchment out of his vest. He studies it for a moment, then his gaze slowly works its way over the entirety of her body. With a skeptical hum, he holds the paper out so that it's suspended parallel to Raven's face. His bloody fingers pull at the chain around her neck, revealing the small metal bird that had been hiding in the bodice of her gown. He nods and lets it fall back in its place nestled in her cleavage, but not before giving her what she's sure he thinks is a charmingly roguish smirk. Raven returns his smirk with a glare, but he doesn't see it because he's dropped to his knees in front of her.
Lifting the skirt of her dress.
Raven reacts instantly, kicking her good leg with as much force as she can. It lands a direct hit to the man's jaw, splaying him out on his back, and she draws the sword from his hilt. Digging the point into his chest, she says, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you now."
In response, he grabs the sword with his bare hand. The sharp edge of the weapon cuts a line across his palm and fingers, drawing blood. He doesn't flinch, only grips harder and pulls it out of Raven's hand. "I'm Roan, Captain of the Azgeda, and I don't make it a habit of assaulting women."
"Then what, exactly, was the purpose of putting your hands under my dress?"
"Come, Time-walker," Roan says, smirking once again as he hands her the paper. "You've got a lot to learn about being a pirate."
Raven looks over the contents of the square of parchment and gasps. It's a hand-drawn likeness of herself, along with a smaller inset of both her necklace and her brace. In the outer margins, there are descriptive notes - such as hair and eye color, approximate height and build - and a set of instructions for her rescue, provision, and protection. The signature at the bottom reads Clarke Griffin, Commander of the Arkadian pirate fleet and is dated September 17, 1702.
Clarke Griffin, Raven's best friend, disappeared five years ago.
On September 17, 2012.