The Privateer
A Pirate101 Fanfiction
By: SeverinadeStrango
Summary: Privateers are born leaders, commanders who can rally their troops to victory through the most desperate of battles. Or at least that's what they seem like to their crew, who can only see the backs of their leaders as they plunge into the fray.
Author's Note: This is another one of my short stories. It'll only have one chapter and won't be continued, but even so, please review! Reviews encourage me in general :D This story, like my other short story, is rather dark in nature, but more sad than scary.
Disclaimer: Pirate101 belongs to Kingsisle, the plot and characters are mine.
And with all of that said, enjoy!
The Privateer
The heat of a battle was always the most glorious, the most beautiful part.
It was when the true animals that were always kept locked, deep down, inside of every pirate, were unleashed, set free, let loose to kill.
A madhouse, containing the inner insanity brought out by each individual in their effort to vanquish their enemy.
The heat of a battle was when heroes were made, when Captains built their reputations, when blood was ruthlessly shed. It was a moment that artists only dreamed of capturing on canvas. Glorious splashes of crimson, bright orange tongues of flame consuming the structure of the doomed ship.
But before any of that could explode into its wondrous existence, the battle would have to begin.
The beginning of a battle, the moment before chaos corrupted both sides equally, was tense. It was always tense. It was when the entire crew of each of the ships gathered behind a single point, weapons drawn, eyes trained, blood pumping fast, each individual silently pledging their life to the victory of their comrades.
All behind a single point, all to a single point.
The single point, the privateer.
This was the privateer's moment to shine, right here, right now. They represented the common objective, they were an object of unification.
The privateer's job was merely his presence, and to remain standing as a point to move towards.
This privateer was no different than the others.
He was a young man of an average height and build, with dusty blond hair and hazel eyes that had always seemed full of drive and determination, determination to succeed. His success had been great up until now, as one could see by the sheer size of the crew he commanded.
Thirty-two buccaneers.
Twenty-seven swashbucklers.
Twenty-one musketeers.
Ten witchdoctors.
Eighty pirates, eighty lives, eighty futures, all in his hands.
One privateer.
One brocaded figure.
It was funny, he thought, how loyal they were. How easily they were inspired. He could go mute, without speaking a word, and they would still follow him. It was funny how they managed to draw that out just from looking at him.
They weren't even looking at his face, yet, they were inspired. Just by looking at his back, his massive crew saw a brave young man, noble and powerful, selfless and fearless. They saw a bold leader, a proud leader, an invincible idol.
So maybe it was good that they were not looking at his face, for his face was tired.
He was worn out, sick, tired of the constant fighting that he was expected to lead his crew through in order to fulfill his purpose. His eyes, which had somehow appeared energetic and driven to his crew, were dull and empty.
He was drained. Drained of everything.
But they don't see that, do they?
They were facing their greatest enemy now, the clockwork Armada. They had been boarded by an Armada frigate, which had a clockwork crew whose size was roughly equivalent to his own.
This enemy was not a human one, they all knew.
But nevertheless, he was still expected to lead them to victory.
That was his job.
He was the privateer.
And looking at the perfectly lined up clockwork soldiers with his sunken eyes, the privateer felt a strange sense of belonging.
These were relentless machines, the clockworks, whose only purpose was to exist and to eradicate.
Just like me, just like me.
He felt so weak and tired, so finished, and his arm shook as he raised his ornate, decorated cutlass in the air, giving the signal to charge. His crew did so without hesitation, not even noticing their Captain's slight moment of weakness, as it had been hidden by the layers of brocade hanging off of his frame.
The motions were second nature to him as he ran forwards as well, taking on the center marine, kicking his shield out of the way, dodging an oncoming blow aimed at him before severing the clockwork in half with one clean swing.
This is my function, this is my purpose.
The crew looked to their Captain, the privateer, and saw an expression of fire and fury that they now had to match.
And so they did.
They're draining it from me. How can they even-?
He wondered, as he took on the next clockwork, how they did not see the desperation in his eyes, how they did not see his cheekbones jutting out of his face, the sickly grey tinge of his skin.
Go through the motions, serve your purpose, your duty, for you are the privateer.
He was empty, he was a shell.
A pretty, golden shell that all aspired to be.
That was the function of the privateer.
He could not cry, his heart was empty.
He could not shout, his lungs were empty as well.
And even if I could, what would it be for?
His crew, so naïve, so oblivious. What could they do?
And now he came face-to-face with the clockwork Captain, the officer in command of the Armada frigate. He was a musketeer, slender and agile, and the privateer knew what to do, he knew what would happen, as it had happened all before and it would happen all again, the same way.
The same.
He was sick of it.
But the privateer smiled, for this time, it would be different, he promised himself.
But your crew.
My crew is materialistic, too materialistic, if they depend so heavily on their pretty, golden, empty shell.
He barely felt the impact that traveled up his spine as he dropped to his knees before the clockwork officer, and felt the tip of the officer's ornamental sword against his Adam's Apple even less. Instead, he watched the members of his crew rush around him, fueled off of his image, his presence.
Nothing lasts forever, sadly.
The good news is, shells can easily be found and replaced, can't they? Objects are like that.
The privateer laughed, and he welcomed the sword that pierced through his throat.
FIN
Review, please!
- Severina