"Walk or die."
The word "die" stung his heart. He heard the screams of the cook who burned to death. He saw the glint of malice in Blackbeard's eyes. He could not let that happen again, not to anyone, not to this angelic creature. She was perhaps not an innocent, perhaps she too had killed, but right now she was defenseless, and only God could judge her sins.
She knew why she was there. She knew what they would do to her. Her knees (it was so strange to have knees) stung from where they had hit the ground. A piece of glass had glanced her ankle, she could feel the blood trickling down. It was humiliating to be naked, to be unable to walk or defend herself. The shirt that covered her was still warm, and smelled of the sea.
He knelt down beside her. "Put your arms around me," he said, half expecting her to cry, half expecting her to spit in his face. "I do not ask for your help!" her voice wavered, but she did not cry. Her eyes met his, and he saw the shame, the hurt, the humiliation.
She was surprised at his kindness. Not that he had ever been unkind, but that someone so kind could exist. "But you need it." He looked earnestly into her face. It was a battle of wills. She did not want to die, but she did not think that she could bear all of her weaknesses being exploited much longer. She dropped her gaze in defeat, and raised a shaky arm around his neck.
Philip did not break eye contact, he wanted to allow her as much dignity as possible, even when the shirt slipped a little, exposing her bare breast to him, he turned his eyes away. Her body was cool and wet and soft, and he caught his breath for a moment to feel her against his bare chest. But composure took over and he slid his arm around the outside of the shirt, allowing her to cover herself more fully. She did not deserve to be treated as a source of heroic perversion. This was not her fault.
She tucked herself into his arms, feeling safe and secure, but not letting her guard down for an instant. She was out of her element and completely powerless. "We're in a hurry, yes?" Philip asked Blackbeard. He sounded cocky, but she could feel his heart pounding against her own skin.
Philip gathered her up tight in his arms as Blackbeard warned menacingly not to fall behind. He had never felt the need to protect someone so precious. For she was precious. Her eyes were so sad, but so beautiful.
When they paused to rest, he marveled over her beauty. Feeling abashed, she looked down.
"Such beauty," Philip said. "Yet deadly."
She looked up. He did not understand. It was because of her beauty and the beauty of the others that they were so deadly. They had nothing else to protect them from lonely sailors.
"Deadly? No." She corrected. He turned back to look at her. Her face was of innocence, of true innocence as she told him he was different, that he protected, did not harm.
And then he remembered. He was pulled out of the way. She had saved him from the falling debris, and that had cost her, well…it might cost her life.
He gazed on her now, with new eyes, slightly taken aback at this new information.
"—and bring the creature!"
Blackbeard's words once again cut him to the bone. They seemed to sting her too, and he saw the look of despondence glaze her face as her head drooped.
"She has a name!" Philip snapped, feeling furious. The girl could not defend herself, protect herself, but he could.
"Pray tell." Blackbeard said sarcastically, waving his hat. Philip turned to look at her, her face expectant and for once, hopeful.
"Syrena," he said, his eyes never leaving hers. She was his siren. She had enchanted him, body and soul.
