Title: Victory's Thrill
Author: Leah Jenner
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh
Rating: PG for now, but probably will go up in later chapters. I'll switch the rating if that happens.
Included characters: Tristan, Duke, and Joey in this chapter.
Disclaimer: I so don't own Yu-Gi-Oh, or the boys. I swear.
Notes: Very, very obviously AU of the Napoleonic Wars kind. Don't read if it's not your thing. This all was inspired by a MSN roleplay done with bardicsidhe :3
Tristan Taylor, captain of His Majesty's Ship Victory, hated still winds.
Of course, still winds meant the enemy, the French navy, could not advance further, which was, of course, pleasing. But it also meant that he himself could not advance without rowing, which he loathed. He was a man of action.
He'd just been appointed as captain of a military frigate and given his first mission as captain, to seek out an enemy battleship, the Éternité, patrolling in the waters south of France. It was the year 1796, and war raged in the Atlantic.
The day was young, half past eleven in the morning and thankfully, the winds had just began picking up again from a period of no activity. The crew was in good spirits, and completely prepared to begin seeking out the Éternité.
But before the sails could even be raised, a ship came into view near Victory. Oh, Taylor knew it wasn't the Éternité – The ship he saw now was slow, sluggish, whereas the ship he was after would be lightening fast. This ship seemed to move as if it wanted to be found.
Taylor stood now on the quarter deck, clad in his dark blue naval uniform beside his lieutenants, all in similar garb. His quickly brushed brunet hair was half-hidden underneath his wide tricorn hat that all officers wore.
"Beat to quarters!" Captain Taylor shouted. The command was echoed by others throughout the ship, until all crew members had prepared themselves for battle, standing ready at the cannons. Taylor leaned his hands against the railing on the deck, looking out toward the ship, eyes squinting so that he could read the name printed on the ship: Illyria. A French flag was flapping in the breeze, hung on one of the masts on the enemy ship. Taylor could see no movement on board, no one above deck.
"Fire a warning shot!" he ordered, as was the custom. He wondered if the ship might be deserted, but he didn't want to let his guard down and take that chance.
A cannon was fired, its shot striking the water hard on the larboard side of the ship. The crew waited in silence, watching for any signs of movement, any signs of life.
Nothing came. Still suspicious, Taylor ordered a shot to be fired into the ship itself. A loaded cannon was fired, striking the hull just at the waterline. The wood cracked loudly under the force of the strike, shards flying from the ship into the water.
With the continued silence that followed, Taylor opted to move Victory alongside Illyria. As the ship was being positioned alongside the other, the captain issued further orders. "I want twenty armed men to search every last inch of the ship. If anyone's inside, bring them aboard – The Illyria's taking on water."
The first lieutenant was sent aboard, along with a crew of twenty, pistols cocked, free hands on their hilted swords in their holsters. They found no one above deck. The captain watched from a distance as the men disappeared below deck, and he waited some time before they would all emerge again.
Oh, there had been people inside - Taylor observed as prisoners were being led out onto the main deck - but no one whom Taylor had expected to find on a ship of war. Women were ushered onto Victory, perhaps thirty, Taylor thought as he tried to count each of them as they boarded the ship. Only a few men were brought on last, crew members, the captain assumed.
"Lookit this one 'ere," a sailor said to another beside him as he pulled one of the male prisoners on board Victory. The man they pulled inside was most assuredly the leader, the captain of the other boat, though he wasn't dressed at all like a naval officer.
This man had long, ebony hair pulled back in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, and he was dressed well, much too well for a man in the navy. He wore jet black trousers, synched at the knee, and equally dark stockings. His shirt was crimson silk, ruffled at the neck, and the overcoat he wore was black, its gold buttons shining in the pale morning light. Eyes were green like emeralds, pupils small like pinpricks. He, most assuredly, was a noble.
"'E's nothing but a right fop, 'e is!" the other seaman replied to the first. "An' a frog at that. D'you think cap'in'll let us sell those pretty clothes ta buy some rum, what say you?"
"You will do nothing of the sort!" the man in their arms growled, his English thick with a French accent. He pushed away from them with firm shoves. But immediately after he managed to get away from them, another man took hold of the prisoner's arm, an officer this time. He was blond-haired, strong; his hold on the prisoner was unyielding.
"Who are you?" the prisoner demanded, trying unsuccessfully to pull free. "Let me speak to the captain."
"First Lieutenant Joseph Wheeler," the blond replied. "The captain's aft on the quarter deck. Come along so we can get everyone on board before your ship sinks and then you can talk to the captain."
That seemed to settle the other man, at least for a moment. He waited until all the crew of his ship, and the ladies, had boarded before starting up his demands again. "Let me speak to the captain."
Lieutenant Wheeler shouted up to the quarter deck, where Taylor had reclaimed his post. "Captain? What should we do with these here?"
"Wait!" the dark-haired prisoner in Wheeler's arms shouted. "Do you have any idea of who I am? I'm Duke Devlin, and --"
But Captain Taylor, uninterested in what the French prisoners had to say, interrupted him with orders for his men. "Secure the women below—absolutely no one is allowed inside without my jurisdiction. Post a guard outside the door." It was clear that his own crew were disappointed with that command. "Take the Illyria's men below—clap them in irons if they cause trouble."
"You can't possibly expect me to stay with the rest of my men!" Devlin replied hotly. "You're barbaric! I am an officer!"
"You'll stay with all the rest," Taylor replied, not at all phased by the enemy's words. "Away with them, if you please, Mr. Wheeler."
Wheeler grabbed hold of the Frenchman's upper arms, and gave him a firm push toward the creaky stairway that led below decks. But Devlin again persisted, wrenching out of the lieutenant's grip and turning back to Captain Taylor. The three midshipmen assisting the lieutenant all immediately raised their pistols, cocked them, and pointed them toward Devlin to assure he would move no further.
"You'll give me my own room, by God, or I'll bite my tongue and bleed to death," he threatened lowly, his emerald eyes fierce as he glared up at the captain.
Taylor's own eyes narrowed, and he replied calmly, but firmly, "You are in no position to be making demands. You are a prisoner of war. Down below, if you please, Mr. Wheeler."
But before the blond could move, Devlin raised his right hand, showing all around the gold ring on his finger. It was encrusted with tiny rubies encircling an emblem in the center, a golden eagle, wings outspread in a gesture of aggression—Napoleon Bonaparte's emblem. "I am protected by my cousin, Bonaparte himself. Raise one hand on me and all of the French forces will advance to your king. I would think twice about how you treat me, captain."
A significant, uncomfortable pause filled the air, and all around became nervous, though the officers didn't let that emotion show. Wheeler stepped forward and took hold of Devlin's wrist firmly to take a closer look at the ring. He was skeptical, until he took a good look at the design on the ring. After a few hushed seconds, he raised his head to look up at Taylor. "That's… that's the real thing, Captain. There's no mistaking it."
Devlin's lips curved into a smirk, an air of smug grace surrounding his form. He'd been nervous before, himself, but his plan seemed to have worked. These English dogs were just as stupid and naïve as he'd been told.
Taylor, on the other hand, did not think out all the situation's possibilities or consequences at present. Instead, he acted, acted on instinct to prevent nervousness from spreading further to the crew. "Mr. Wheeler, take this man to my quarters and wait for me there."
"Aye, sir," the blond answered, lifting his hand to tip his hat in a salute. He took Devlin's arm and led him below, beneath the quarter deck to the captain's room. This time, Devlin didn't resist.
The captain continued issuing orders. He knew that if his men were kept busy, that no further panic would arise. "Carry out my orders from earlier: Secure the women and Illyria's crew beneath. Raise sails; head south by south-west, a quarter south. Stand ready to beat to quarters – a French frigate patrols the area there. Carry on."
The crew immediately went to work – the midshipman led Illyria's passengers below deck to be held there, while the rest of the seamen first raised the main sail, then the topsails and the foresails. Taylor, however, took the stairs down from the quarter deck to the main deck, then downstairs to his own room. Everyone whom he passed saluted, as was the custom.
When he reached the hallway leading to his room, he caught a brief snatch of conversation between the lieutenant and Devlin. For a moment, he stood in the doorway once he reached his room, watching the other two converse, his presence unnoticed by them at first.
"Ooh, who's this lovely catch?" Devlin purred, picking up a framed image on Taylor's desk. It was a portrait of a woman, very stunning, with long brunette hair, large cheerful eyes, and an innocent smile.
"My sister, that's who," Wheeler replied, his guard down now. He was able to talk more freely now that he thought he was alone with the prisoner. "An' the captain's wife – Serenity Taylor."
The dark-haired man laughed, setting down the portrait again and looking over at the blond. "Your sister? You must be joking. How could such a beauty be related to a scruffy dog like you?"
Wheeler growled, and was about to snap right back with an insult, but the captain entered then, and he immediately bit back his comment, and instead saluted to Taylor.
Devlin, on the other hand, simply rested his palms on his hips, a rather disrespectful gesture. But he knew he could get away with it. When the brunette closed the door after he entered, Devlin spoke up at last. "So where are we going?"
The captain strode into the room, and over to his desk, sitting down behind it with a sigh. "Not that my plans are any of your business, but we are currently in pursuit of a French frigate. My mission was to capture that ship – yours was an unexpected find. Afterward, we leave for England. You'll be held as a prisoner of war until we can make contact with your leaders to figure out what to do with you. And considering the nature of your country, I find that situation very unlikely to be played out successfully."
"So what are you going to do, then?" the raven-haired man asked. "Hold me in England forever? What crime have I committed?"
"You'll be given back to your people after the war. They'll do to you whatever they want," the captain replied. "You're none of England's business, nor have you raised a hand against the king's navy. Yet."
Devlin threw his head back, and couldn't help but laugh, those green eyes of his squeezing shut for a moment in amusement. "What do you think I'm going to do – start a battle on board your ship with my women? You're insane."
Taylor continued, not taking heed of any of Devlin's words, "Until we reach England, you'll stay in here. A guard will be posted at the door at all times. You won't be allowed to leave the room. The men do not take kindly to the French, and if you so much as try to interact with the others, I can't guarantee your safety."
"You are all mad," the Frenchman replied, crossing his arms, mildly irritated that the captain wasn't completely paying attention to him. But he knew how to change that. Taylor seemed to pay attention when he issued commands – Taylor couldn't have that, after all. It was undermining his authority. "Fine. I'll stay right here in your cabin. But I demand to see some of my girls from time to time. And I demand the best vittles. And you'll bring me cards, I think, and the best wine you have. Treat me well or all of France will be after you, captain."
The seated man sighed again, and rolled his eyes heavenward. He'd never, ever dealt with a prisoner so damned demanding that he couldn't clap in irons and lock away somewhere where he didn't have to listen to the banter.
Captain Taylor knew Devlin could be lying. He had no idea as to the names on Bonaparte's extended family tree, and he was quite certain that none of his crew knew either. Either he was telling the truth… or he was making an elaborate scheme of lies to soften his passage to the guillotine. Either way, once they reached the English port, Taylor would never have to see Devlin again. He looked forward to that day immensely.
Lieutenant Wheeler, on the contrary, was all for sending this guy below decks, no matter who he was. He didn't like Devlin's attitude, and worse, he had insulted him in front of the captain. "I say we don't believe a word this frog says," Wheeler replied. His voice remained informal, which surprised Devlin – but then again, he assumed the lieutenant and the captain were more than coworkers. A friendship was there, and obviously a strong one.
"If I knew that doing so wouldn't worsen England's chances of winning the war, by all means…" Taylor replied, rubbing his brow to ease some of the tension there. "But right now… I'm willing to do anything to keep him quiet." He raised his hand, and waved Devlin toward the chair at the opposite side of his desk, a dark-colored wooden chair with a royal blue cushion. "Sit."
The raven-haired man didn't hesitate to sink quickly down in the chair, casually, as if the piece of furniture belonged to him in the first place. "I won't keep quiet until I get what I what."
"What you'll get is the guillotine if you don't keep quiet," Taylor replied, not really meaning those words. He reached in one of his desk drawers and pulled out an old deck of playing cards, the numbers on each card fading a little from age. He set the cards down in front of Devlin, then stood up, circling the desk to stand by Wheeler.
"I need you up on the quarter deck," Taylor told Wheeler, squeezing the blond's shoulder reassuringly. "The battle won't be easy – the frigate is a fully-armed vessel, crew of three hundred. I need you to look out for yourself, all right?"
"Yeah… you, too, Tristan," Wheeler replied, but then caught himself. "Er, Captain." He reached over to take hold of Taylor's opposite shoulder and returned the gesture.
Devlin had turned his head to watch this little exchange, and was currently rolling his eyes. "How sweet." He turned his head back to the cards, shuffling them idly. He was good with cards. There wasn't a game he couldn't win. However… he knew the backs of the cards as well as the fronts, usually.
Upon hearing Devlin's comment, Wheeler lowered his arm and glared at the back of the dark-haired man's head. He was half-tempted to give that sarcastic fop a good whack – and it would be so easy now. But… out of respect for his friend's orders, he refrained from doing so. But it took quite a bit of effort. "The captain said for you to quiet down, Devlin."
"That he did," Devlin replied, not looking back, and dealing his cards out for a game of solitaire. Ah, it was boring to play alone, he decided. He'd demand to be allowed to play with someone else later. "But when has anything your captain said had any effect on me?"
Before further argument could break out, Taylor gently took hold of Wheeler's arm and guided him to leave. The blond had his orders, and without another word, he returned to the quarter deck to take his post with the other lesser-ranked lieutenants.
After the other left, Devlin spoke up again. "You two sure seem close."
"We've been friends 'since we were boys, if it's any of your concern," Taylor replied, crossing over to a map that had been nailed up on the wall. From there, he looked over their current course, and determined how long, based on the speed of the wind, that it would take for Victory to reach the enemy ship: roughly four hours.
"It's not," Devlin replied as he finished laying out his cards, and then began to play. "Does the crew know what you're really like? Why, I hear you haven't seen land in over eight months. I'll bet you don't even mind not seeing women. You certainly didn't seem impressed with the lot I brought aboard…"
"They are prisoners of war, and they are French. I've no interest in any of them," the other replied. "And as you noticed, I am married."
"Ah, but you haven't seen her in such a long time… Do you even really miss her that much?" Devlin inquired, amused. "I don't think you do…"
Taylor chuckled lightly. "You play a dangerous game, Devlin. I think you are the one that is insane."
"And I hear you have a marvelous singing voice…" Devlin continued, smirking, not listening to Taylor's words. "Not a very gruff hobby if you ask me…"
"And you heard all of this where?" Taylor asked, crossing his arms, and turning to walk over to Devlin's side.
Devlin replied, setting the ace of hearts down above the rest of his cards, "I am always at the center of social functions in Paris. We are quite fond of quirky facts in my circles."
"Quite fond of falsities and petty amusements," the other corrected, tilting his head down to watch the other play. "It doesn't surprised me. No wonder the people in France rose up against the nobility. If they're all like you, that is…"
"Maybe I'll tell you all about it later," Devlin suggested, still smirking. "When we become better acquainted."
"'Better acquainted?' You are mad," Taylor replied, then finally walked back over to the door. "I'm placing a guard outside the door after I leave. Don't try to leave, and don't rummage through my belongings. In several hours, I want you to get down, under the desk. We are at war, as you may have noticed, and we are approaching a frigate. It won't be an easy battle."
Devlin waved him off after setting down another ace, seemingly unaffected by the prospect of violence.
Taylor turned, then, and left the room without another word. He posted a guard outside the door, a midshipman, as he'd planned, then returned to the quarter deck to discuss strategy with the lieutenants.
