"Gilbert Beilschmidt. Who is he?"

Carmen's eyebrows rose, questioning. "I'm sorry?"

Arthur laughed nervously. "I had come across the name while looking through the island's archive. It sounded familiar…yet, I have no idea where I've heard it before."

Carmen put down her teacup on the table. She leaned forward, placing her elbow on her knee. "I see," she said, eyeing Arthur carefully. "Were you searching for anything special, while going through those documents of yours?"

Arthur answered in an instant. "No, not really. I just wanted to know more about the place I am visiting." The lie came swiftly, before he even thought of it. Telling her the truth, somehow, was not an option; it meant admitting to himself, first, that he was developing a strange interest in the subject of his mission-Francis Bonnefoy.

Carmen kept watching him silently for a few more moments. Then, she smiled understandingly. "Of course. That's reasonable."

Either she believed him, or she decided-for her own reasons-to let him get away with it. Arthur suspected it was the latter.

"Well, it's not surprising that the name sounded familiar to you," said Carmen. "Gilbert has gotten himself quite famous. You probably have heard the rumors..." Without noticing, she was returning to her exited, fast pace of speech."Everyone know his stories-the infamous privateer, the terror of the Spanish traders. The demon serving Louis the 13th, with red eyes, is pale as a ghost, and just as heartless! The man who keeps an yellow parrot by his side and leaves no survivors..." She tilted her head. "You MUST have heard of him."

It did not sound one bit familiar – he would have remembered such a bizarre story if he had heard it - but Arthur nodded all the same.

"Most of those are just stories, though," Added Carmen. "Especially the 'no survivors' part– if that was true, who would be left to tell the stories, right?" She smiled. "Would you mind holding this?" she asked abruptly before handing a round mirror to Arthur. He took it, quite awkwardly, almost failing to catch it in his surprise.

"I have met him only a few times, so I can't say I know much about him! I can say that he gave me the impression of a proud man with a loud laugher and a cynical view of life. And although he truly had blood-red eyes, he was definitely human!"

As she spoke, Carmen had carefully lifted a flowerpot near her, picking up a plate of lip coloring from underneath as she moved it aside. "I first met him shortly after I joined Francis' travels. It was very exciting, to be honest-After all, Gilbert was quite the legend, even back when he was alive…"

"Back when he was alive?" Arthur repeated, a bit perplexed.

"Yes, of course," Answered Carmen, surprised. "He died almost two years ago. You didn't know?"

Arthur shook his head. "How did he die?"

"Shot. Would you mind holding the mirror so that I can see myself, Arthur?"

Arthur, noticing that he had been holding the mirror in the wrong direction, flipped it over, feeling quite dumbfounded. "What do you mean, shot? By whom?"

Wincing at her reflection, Carmen shrugged. "One of his enemies within the court. He had plenty. They envied him because he managed to get so close to the king, even though he came from a very humble origin – and was not even French." She was coloring her lips red, taking the task very seriously.

Arthur was still feeling agitated. "Just like that? What happened to his killer?"

Carmen's mouth twitched, and her hand holding the lip-color brush slipped, painting a red line across her cheek. "Nothing," she said bitterly, and rubbed off the red line with the back of her hand. "Because, as you might know, in our perfect society, which is so full of equality," the words were said with a very acidic tone, "A respected family name is enough to buy you a pardon."

To these words, Arthur's discomfort grew into real anger. "That is- that is very – not –"

Oh! The struggle to express one's true feelings while still remaining polite.

"That is- god, and they call him Louis XIII le Juste! Very just he is, indeed! One man get sentenced to death for, say, disobeying the king, and another gets away unscathed after shooting his own comrade?" He called out angrily.

"But he did die in the end," Carmen pointed out. "At sea, a few weeks after this event." She raised her gaze to look at Arthur's, meaningfully, a pair of green eyes meeting another.

"He was killed," she went on, slowly, "by the hands of a pirate, a French pirate, avenging the death of his patron."

It took a moment for the meaning of her words to sink in, before Arthur realized.

Everything made sense now.

"I should have realized it sooner," Whispered Arthur. "So that was his first act of treason?"

Carmen nodded. "This was what you were aiming at from the beginning, wasn't it?"

Arthur nodded, defeated. He avoided her eyes, staring down at the brownish remains in the teacup held in his hands. "That-that makes the situation even worse," he summed up the thoughts going through his head.

I wished to know, so that I will have a reminder not to let him close to me-something to define him as treacherous, cruel-a wall against my own affection.

"What do I do now?"

Carmen laughed. "I seem to get that a lot, these days."


A golden haired man stood on the deck of a gold-decorated ship, his coat stained with blood, surrounded by corpses. "Please, let me live," begged the nobleman kneeling at his feet. "Please, have mercy."

The pirate kicked at his side, his face twisted with rage and disgust. "How dare you," he spat. "Did you have mercy when you killed Gilbert?"

The nobleman raised his widened, horrified eyes, holding his side, wincing painfully. "You're not like him, I know," he whispered. "You're kind, they all say. You never kill when you have a choice… Prove it to me… prove it to your king…"

Mouth twisted with revulsion, the pirate loaded his pistol. "I bet you betrayed your comrade without batting an eyelash, you scum," he hissed. "Shot him with your disgusting hypocrite smile…" He aimed his weapon at the nobleman's head. "Does this thing deserve to live, boys?" He shouted to the men who were standing at a distance, watching him with silent respect.

Cries of rage rose from around them. These men wanted blood spilled. Their god was dead; the killer had to pay for his actions.

Satisfied, their leader turned back to look at the desperate accused. "I guess that's it, then."

"WAIT!" cried the man sentenced to death. "If you kill me, you'll become an enemy of France, a traitor! You'll be hanged not long after I die-"

The pirate pressed the trigger. With a loud gunshot, the nobleman's body flew backwards, hitting the wooden floor. The pirate crew bursted into roars, quickly silenced by their leader's raised hand.

"The man had a point," he said, smiling bitterly. "This was an act of treason." He looked away from the corpse's head, a shapeless red mess. "Have you left anyone alive? Bring them to me."

A shaking, horrified boy was pushed forward. His hands were tied behind his back, and his shirt was torn.

"How old are you?"

The boy was almost too terrified to speak. His eyes were filled with tears. "S-s-ixteen, sir."

The pirate's eyes widened. His hand, still holding the pistol, was shaking. "We will anchor soon," he said to the boy, quietly. "Get on a ship to France. Pass a message from me, to your king Louis. Tell him this…" The pirate closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. "Tell him that Francis Bonnefoy declares himself a traitor. His up-to-now loyal servant will not go on serving such a corrupted, oppressing government, a law that pardons a murderer because of his respected family name.

"One more thing, pass the king this promise: the French maritime trade lines will cease being safe for travel."

The boy nodded once, a small, jittery nod.

The pirate made a strange gesture, as if meaning to touch the boy's shoulder. The boy flinched and jumped backwards. A painful expression appeared on the pirate's face, and he stopped his hand midair and brought it to his side. "I am sorry," he said. The wind snatched away his voice, making it into a quiet whisper. The boy heard it. And although he nodded again, the pirate knew he would never- how could he? – accept the apology.


Francis slammed an empty glass on the bar and shook away the memories. "Pour me another one, will you?" He smiled tiredly at the bartender. The little inn was almost empty. He had arrived there early, before the music and chattering filled the place. That was, for sure, a bad thing. For whenever he was alone, Francis couldn't stop himself from thinking.

What should I do? What should I do? My freedom or my life? My pride and beliefs, or my future? And what about my crew? Any choice I make will affect them. What about Carmen, what about Gil- what would he want me to do?

Francis rubbed his forehead, trying to think clearly. The thoughts brought the memories with them, making the task of thinking clearly almost impossible.

"Captain, your wine," said the bartender, a fierce girl with tangled cream hair. Francis thanked her and took it.

"Wine again?" He could hear Gilbert's snarky voice. "Who the hell do ya' think you are, Francis!? Your pisswit of a king? Have some beer, or scotch, or anything else worthy of a real man's consumption."

Francis winced. He raised the glass in front of him, so the last sunrays from the setting sun dispersed in the purple red liquid. Cheers. For you.

"You know, you are a very strange pirate indeed, Francis," Gilbert would note with a smirk. Francis sipped from his glass, hardly tasting the bitter-sharp flavor.

The inn was slowly filling up; some of the visitors greeting him with a nod, a wave of their hand or a smile. The members of his crew bowed their head with respect, a few stopping to inform him with the news about the trade of their findings.

He was halfway through his fourth glass when Carmen arrived, together with her performance partner; a serious looking man carrying a cello. As he went aside to tune his instrument, Carmen headed over to Francis. "You're not drunk yet, are you?" she asked, amused.

Francis wrinkled his nose. "Really, I thought you knew me better than that."

"Great," Carmen glanced around them, and then drew closer. "You won't believe who visited me today," She whispered very loudly into his ear. "Your friend, the British señor with the mighty eyebrows."

Francis frowned. "Monsieur Kirkland? Did he?"

"Sí, he asked about you. Well- not exactly about you, but he did, indirectly."

Francis looked even more disturbed. "Quoi? What am I supposed to gather from that?"

Carmen shrugged. "I don't know, figure it out yourself. He's not MY royal messenger."

"He's not mine either!" protested Francis. "I first met him YESTERDAY-"

"And, he may be coming here later. He wanted to see me perform, so I invited him. So, uh, be ready in case he'll appear."

Francis stared. "Carmen, dear, you are a disaster."

"Why? Can't I invite one of my guests to my performance?"

Francis shook his head. "I was planning on having a quiet evening, and now I'll have to be-"

"Sober?" suggested Carmen. She burst into laughter at Francis' expression. "Anyway, I'm not even sure if he will come. He left when Roderich arrived," Carmen pointed at the cello player, "and said that he'll maybe come later. But, cheer up; he might as well flee at the sight of your scowling face."

Francis put his face in his hands. "Don't you have some Spanish singing and dancing to do, or something?"

Carmen pondered about it. "I guess I do, now that I think about it. Cheer for me, will you?" She grinned and left to join her cellist.

Arthur did arrive, at the end, though it never became a burden for Francis, for Arthur did not even notice his presence. It was already dark outside when he entered the inn, carrying a suitcase. The place was crowded and noisy. Francis was speaking to one of the younger sailors of his ship, hidden in the shadows in the other side of the room.

Arthur exchanged a few words with the innkeeper, who sat beside the young bartender, both clapping with the rhythm of the song. A room for one, he requested. He was handed a small steel key with a number etched on it. Yes, he really had to leave the dusty ship chamber. If he had to suffer another night of the ship's rocking and stirring, he would go insane.

After receiving the key, Arthur retreated to a small corner, which he deemed quiet enough.

The cellist was defiantly talented, he thought. As for Carmen, the painting on her wall, amazing as it was, didn't come close to describing the real beauty of her art. On stage, she became living music, moving with careless perfection almost too great to be real. Her sweet singing voice mixed perfectly with the cello music.

She was performing the same song Arthur had heard her singing earlier, through the wooden door of her house. When she noticed his presence, she sent Arthur a smile.

Arthur stayed for a few songs. Then crossed the room, bumping into a swirling couple in his way, muttering an apology and dragging his suitcase up a creaking staircase, to the room he had ordered.

It was plain and quite poorly furnished, but it was clean, and most importantly- it stood on solid ground.

Arthur was preparing himself for sleep, and with the sweet sound of music still ringing from downstairs, he was almost sure he would fall asleep immediately.

That was, until another voice joined the singing. It was a man's voice, bright and cheerful, French-accented, and undeniably Francis Bonnefoy.