A/N: I have to give one of these lines credit to Walt Whitman, who wrote the poem, "The World Below the Brine." Just seemed to fit!

Mirror Mirror

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and months had turned into yet one more year I had spent on this ship.

Though in all this time I had not come across a mirror during our excavations on other ships, I could tell that my appearance was changing at a quicker rate than it had in the past. The fins on my arms were noticeably longer and were turning a milky-white hue, accompanied by reddish bands on the tips. The small spines on my temples were longer. My skin was sallow, my hair coarse and stiff with salt and tangled with seaweed. Many of my physical changes had progressed so slowly that it was hard to notice.
As the living change over time at an unnoticeable rate, so too did I slowly change into something inhuman over the course of my life on board this vessel.

And still I was not wholly transformed.
I may not have been able to see my face, but my hands still resembled human hands, my legs human legs, and my voice was as I had always remembered it. It all came back to the theory I had about how the crew of the Flying Dutchman really changed. Something about it having to do with their hearts, their will to stay human; maybe even matters of the soul were involved in some way that we couldn't fathom.
But no matter how hardy a man was, no matter how unshakable a person's resolve, in the end the curse always won.
I admit that as time went on, the notion bothered me less and less. I knew the reason for it, but as I said, it no longer mattered as much as it used to.

And, I was resented.
The crew were always rather hostile toward me, which in itself was nothing strange; they were never very friendly to anyone. But I sensed a certain aversion they had toward me that they didn't seem to extend to other crew members.
For a long time I assumed that this was because I was a woman. Women are rarely useful to have on ships, at least not as working hands. Average pirates often used woman as a means of pleasure, I knew. Sometimes women even made it into the crew. But they were stronger than your typical woman, much sterner, fiercer, perhaps driven by unabated hatred. It must be remembered that most if not all pirates are superstitious and considered women to be bad luck when brought on board a vessel. It took a very stern lady to break the barriers of those beliefs and make herself a part of the crew. The female creature can be surprisingly deadly.

But I was none of these things. I never thought of myself as physically strong, or fierce, or even consumed by anger to the point of being dangerous. I was a simple girl from day one and never asked much out of life.

All in all, I was certain that the others enmity toward me was due to my sex. Various reasons for this existed...maybe they despised "weak" people on their ship who couldn't carry their weight, so to speak. Maybe they were superstitious and abhorred my presence. Or maybe a new face was an undesirable reminder of their pasts.
I know now that none of this is true.
They despised me, because I remained human for so long.

I had witnessed how quickly the curse takes hold of them. Every year that goes by takes a little more of their humanity, and some of the men seem to change more quickly than others - oftentimes it doesn't even take a full year to witness the abominable transformation. Some new members have held out longer than others, changing a little more slowly, but only just.

I - although my appearance was surely disfigured - was far too human for their liking. They didn't understand why my regression was so slow.
Bootstrap Bill once told me that I've retained my humanity longer than nearly anyone else on the ship ever had. He told me that the wicked at heart succumb to the curse very quickly. I took this to mean that I was the least wicked among them, if my heart and appearance were any indication. It was strange, this variation in transformation from person to person.

But strange or not, I was always under the impression that the crew - including the captain - were not altogether pleased that I was not changing as quickly as new recruits usually do. There was no especial outward indication of their hostility toward me (at least no more than usual.) Their animosity came to me more as a vibe. It was like noticing a change in the air before a thunderstorm; you can't see it, but it can clearly be sensed.

I went about my work as unobtrusively as I could.
The pirates never made it easy, of course. When I labored, I sunk deep into myself, focusing on my task and nothing more if it could be helped. Pouring myself into my work only achieved so much, but it was the only shield I had. I put as much effort as I could into what I did and hoped to God that I wouldn't attract attention. I rarely made eye contact while performing my duties.
As well as I could, I ignored the jibes and abuse from the others. Ignoring them and putting my back into my chores didn't always work, though, and so some days were worse than others.

Once, I was ordered to take a bucket of water and start cleaning the floors below deck. It had just been filled and was very heavy, and I struggled to lift it as I made my way to the stairs. There were a lot of men on deck, and as I tried maneuvering my way through the crowd someone shoved me to the side and I nearly stumbled, spilling the bucket of water onto the shoes of Angler, one of the bulkiest men on the ship.

My heart skipped a beat as I looked in astonishment at him, at what had been done.

"I'm sorry -" I began, but he seized me by the front of my dress.

"You clumsy wench," he snarled. He nearly lifted me off my feet. I cowered before his grotesque face, placing my hands on his thick wrist in a feeble effort to loosen his grip.

"It was an accident!" I stammered, fearful.

He suddenly recoiled, dropping me to the floor. His face darkened and he stared furiously at his hand. I didn't understand why he had let me go, but he came at me in redoubled rage. "Miserable maggot," he rasped, then backhanded me across the face, sending me to the floor.
I was stunned, both physically and otherwise. Casting a horrified look at him, I scrambled out of his way.

"Teach you to go woolgathering," he spat and stalked off.

Inherently flustered and shaken, I quickly grabbed the bucket and darted off below deck. My heart pounded as I leaned against the wall, out of sight of the others. My face stung.

Still in a daze, I grabbed the already-moist rag and began my work on the sodden boards.

The vision of what had just happened replayed again and again in my mind. I had been treated cruelly by these creatures many times in the past, had been harshly reprimanded and had even felt the taste of the lash on more than one occasion. But I had never been struck.
The cruelty of these monsters never ceased to astonish me. Angler had needed little excuse to harass me (...really, to have been bothered by a little water on his shoes…)

Our scuffle had earned a few rude laughs from those nearby. No doubt it amused them to see 'the weak little girl' get berated by someone as massive as Angler. Although my face tingled, I suppose I really had gotten off easy; he could have knocked me unconscious if he had had a mind to.

I didn't understand why he had released me so quickly, though. It was as if he had been burned, the way he flinched and looked at his hand…


The Flying Dutchman rarely engaged in open combat with other ships.
Usually it was the work of the atrocious beast to wreak havoc upon unsuspecting vessels, and only after would the crew descend upon them and reap the benefits, if any were to be had. Still, there were times when the captain would meet an enemy vessel head-on and carry out the terrible deed himself.

The Dutchman's elite crew were always active when it came to attacking another ship. We who were among the lowest ranking individuals were always below deck performing our duties or occasionally assisting the higher-ranking members with their battle in what minuscule way we could. In the heat of the moment, the others were relatively content if we simply kept out of the way. Battles were tedious, agonizing, and terrible, and I hated them almost as much as I hated the kraken.

I could never decide what was the worst thing about living on board this ship with these creatures. As of late, I still had never gotten used to the fact that the crew boarded other ships to recruit or kill. Although death was certainly the better option, it didn't make them any easier to bear.

Not that I regularly witnessed the deaths of captives from other ships. Indeed, I was hardly ever taken along on a boarding party; that "privilege" was reserved for the most skilled fighters among our lot. I had been brought along perhaps once or twice before, but I think it had been arranged out of cruelty for the entertainment of the others. Undoubtedly, it gave them a good laugh to think of one of the most inexperienced people on the ship forced to carry out an appalling task that was clearly out of her element (along with everything else.) I remember the pitiless mirth on many of their faces the first time I arrived back from a boarding party, pale-faced and wide-eyed. It amused them. They'd never had a woman on the ship before, and the steep disadvantage I was at was something fresh for them, something they hadn't quite witnessed among newly recruited men.

"Never seen dead men before?" Quittance had rasped out of his freakish tendrils. Though his face had lost all semblance of humanity, the amusement in his words was unmistakable, even in that ghastly voice of his. The others had cackled, scornfully. I didn't make eye contact, didn't say a word. All I had wanted was to be away from everyone.

Yes, thankfully I was almost never brought along on such excursions. Maybe if I went along more often I would indeed grow used to the sight of dead men, but...somehow I doubted it. Maybe it's better I never find out.

As it happened, there was a ship in the vicinity that had been destroyed neither by the kraken nor by our own cannons. It puzzled me, but the others were more interested in scouring it for survivors and valuables that might be of use.

When we came within sight of it, I peered through one of the portholes. The ship was, in fact, still afloat but the masts and sails had been torn to bits. It looked as though it had ended up on the losing side of a cannon-fight. Still, one could easily tell that it had been a good, worthy ship before whatever accident had befallen it occurred. I was not good at reading the signs, so couldn't guess what might have happened. If it had indeed been in combat with another ship, where was its' crew? From this distance I could see no sign of men whatsoever. It may be they'd been taken captive by their attackers before we arrived. Lucky for them, if that were so.

I knew the boarding party had already departed our ship to investigate. I was thankful not to be a part of it, but as usual very curious to find out the outcome of it all - whether the crew would return with new members, new cargo, or simply empty-handed.

"Lass," I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to face Tanger. "Best get back to work. You'll find out what happens as soon as the crew get back."

He knew me too well. I nodded and grabbed the mop I had been holding, immediately setting to work. Jimmylegs was not around to see that there were no slackers, and I was all the easier in my mind for it. Although I feared everyone on this ship to an extent, I feared our bosun most of all for his ability to cause unimaginable pain, for the most trivial reasons. I used to entertain thoughts of him going away on a boarding party and never returning; how merciful that would be! Although no doubt a quick replacement would be found, and anyway it's not as though the pirates could be gotten rid of that easily, if indeed they could be gotten rid of at all. Their debt seemed to anchor them to this world regardless of what trouble they ever came across.

It seemed a long time before they came back, though in reality it never took them too long to carry out their business on other ships. I was still below deck when I heard the telltale thud of their arrival above me; the captains' irregular pacing could not be mistaken. Their voices mingled for several minutes, but I could not hear what was being said. I strained my ears, trying to pick up any new voices that might have accompanied the trip back. It was no good; they dispersed and went to carry on with their work. It didn't even sound as if they had brought back any cargo.

Thinking it a wasteful trip (as the only thing worth looking forward to was new cargo, especially if it held fresh food), I gave up finding anything out soon and refocused my attention on my chores.


Things had gone about as usual the next day.
I was assigned one task after another, most of them menial, but at least two excruciating enough to warrant my exhaustion by the end of the day. I was so worn out, I hardly had the strength to mingle - which, for me, either meant conversing with Tanger, watching a game of Liar's Dice, or...surviving an encounter with Maccus. As much as I relished our interactions, I was feeling too weak to fraternize with him this evening, at least on a physical level. Not all of our interactions consisted of rough fondling and harsh kissing. I enjoyed the times I was able to stand beside him during a round of Liar's Dice and listen to his commentary on the game. Many's the time I've spent wishing I could hold his malformed hand, or touch his arm - to display any simple outward sign of affection. But to have done so in front of the crew would have been...inadvisable.

"Your work here's done, wench," Jimmylegs snarled, standing above me. He jerked his lash. "Get that fetching face of yours below deck or I'll flay your hide!"

I staggered to my feet and obeyed, quick as lightning. Many low-ranking crewmen were down below nursing wounds they had received from the bo'sun, resting themselves, or talking among themselves in low tones.

I lingered in the shadows in the hopes of getting some rest myself. My body ached, my limbs were stiff, and I was emotionally exhausted. But for the company, it would have been a pleasant night. The stars were bright, the night comfortably cool, and the current soft and easy.

Over the years I had become quite used to retaining my balance aboard a swaying ship. I felt as comfortable steadying myself on the Dutchman as I would be walking on firm, solid ground. My hand rested gingerly on the wall beside me as I made toward my favorite sleeping spot, the one next to the loose floorboard where I sometimes hid bits of food. I was always a little afraid of someone discovering it and either ratting me out, or taking whatever I had tried to save. Without a hiding spot, it was much harder to guarantee even a small snack later.

I kneeled down in the corner, taking a rag from my pocket and using it as a pitiful sort of pillow. Before lying down, I glanced around. I always checked the loose floorboard before settling down to bed, making sure that whatever oddment I had kept there was still to be found. I didn't like checking it when others lingered nearby, but I decided to take the chance.
Edging over to my makeshift safe, I slowly lifted the small board. The last thing I had hidden down there was a tiny piece of bread that had been brought from another ship some time ago. It wouldn't be fresh, but it was still good enough to eat. I reached my hand down, fearing as usual that my fingers would close on empty space.

A flicker of hope raced through me as my hand found the hard morsel, but it was quickly replaced with puzzlement when it brushed against something else; something hard.
I was positive that I hadn't put anything else down there but bread.

I felt the object with my hands. It was flat. Surely, someone had discovered the loose board and put the object down there...but for what reason?
Unsure whether I should proceed, I cautiously lifted the item. It was dark below deck, but not completely black. A few dim lanterns provided just enough light for me to see what this thing was.
I brought it closer into the light, and promptly dropped it.

It was a mirror.

My heart beat fast inside my chest. I hadn't seen what was on the other side.

I knew for certain now that someone had put it there to mock me, or at the very least, terrify me.

...I hadn't seen myself in years. I couldn't imagine what I must have looked like at this point, and in all honesty, I really didn't want to.
Yet, I didn't trust myself. Temptation and curiosity were two of my weaknesses, and I didn't count on myself not to look at it, if it was anywhere near me.

Stepping carefully over to the mirror as if it were a boa constrictor, I picked it up - mirror side down - and put it back under the floorboard. I stared at the loose slab for a minute before settling down on the ground once again. Re-positioning the rag, I sighed and made myself as comfortable as possible. I closed my eyes and tried to fall asleep. But sleep never came.

My thoughts drifted. From one thing to the next my mind refused to relax, and I tossed and turned.
I thought of the days work, how hard it had been, and hoped to goodness that tomorrow would prove less trying. I thought of Tanger and the steady transformation that was taking over his once-human features, bit by bit. It took me a while before I was able to tell exactly what kind of creature he was starting to resemble. Not everyone on board took on the appearance of a sea creature, of course. Some of them were mere amalgams of flotsam and jetsam; Ratlin and Piper were two very keen examples of this.
But Tanger, I noticed, was beginning to resemble a swordfish. With every year that went by, his skin was replaced with patches of silvery scales and his left eye appeared bulbous and depraved. It hurt to see him change so dramatically.

I turned over on my side, and my thoughts strayed to the first mate.
I wondered what he was doing at this moment. Most likely watching or partaking in that dice game. Certainly he would never come down here to sleep, not even with me. Or perhaps I should say especially not with me, given our circumstances. The elite crew members and the lower-ranking slaves never really shared sleeping quarters. If to make a bizarre comparison, it was a lot like the rich and the poor in society; most of the time they simply didn't associate with one another. The higher-ranking crewmen had some standing, but we who were considered slaves were little more than fodder. Besides, it was the duty of a first mate, above all, not to show favoritism - even the appearance of such could land me in hot water. I knew this and so did he.
Even so, I always lamented that I could not sleep beside him. I suppose some still-small part of me craved protection and affection from a man, and although I knew without a doubt that Maccus showed neither protection nor much affection toward me, it was the closest thing I had. Our relationship was more like a mockery of one.

"...Maccus…" I mouthed, and moved to lie on my back.

The ship swayed above the waves, and I could hear the voices of the crew above deck getting a thrill out of whatever game they chose to play during their off time.

Time dragged on, until at last I sat up in the dark.

The small group that had been lingering below deck had either departed or gone to sleep themselves. Judging from the few scattered dark forms on the floor a ways away from me, I gathered that at least some of the crewmen were as tired as I from the days efforts.
I suppose in all honesty, I really was tired enough to sleep - but the thought of seeing myself in that mirror wouldn't leave me alone. I could almost feel it beneath me, sitting idly in the hiding place that I now know had been discovered. Clearly it was put there to torment me, and so far it had been doing a fine job of it. I almost no longer cared who placed it there; I wanted to see what I looked like. I had to know how much of myself I had left.

I turned and reached my arm out to lift up the slab. Putting my hand down, I felt for the mirror and brought it out. I stared at the back of it; at the front.
My corner was dark so I could discern nothing of myself in the gloom, only a shrouded outline and featureless face.

'There's still time to turn back,' the more sensible part of me urged.
I wanted to turn back. I wanted the willpower to shove the mirror back under the floor and forget the whole thing. Like my reflection, I wanted to be in the dark about my appearance.
...But, like I said, curiosity was one of my greater weaknesses, and...I knew that some part of me, even if it were a small part, was dying to know what I looked like.
Deciding that I would brave whatever happened and whatever I saw, I stood up and made my way toward one of the lanterns. My hands trembled. I held the mirror in my hands, lifted it up, and turned it toward my face.

A monster stared back at me.

The air left my lungs in a painful burst.
Thinking for a brief moment that a very cruel trick had been played on me, that the face staring back at me certainly wasn't mine, I turned away. "No," I whispered. "No…" My breath quickened, panic rising in my chest. I forced myself to look again. Now that the deed had been done, there was no going back. I couldn't help it; I was horrified, utterly transfixed.
My skin was sickeningly pale, barnacles protruded all over my face, tiny red-white spines emerged from my temples and neck. My hair was hopelessly tangled, bedraggled, and sodden. My once-green eyes had become dark, sunken-in and inhuman. I was a horrifying, nightmarish mess.

"I'm a monster," I breathed, feeling tears well up in my eyes. "I'm a monster…" The face in the mirror contorted in agony.
As a normal human girl, I had never thought of myself as beautiful or attractive...but seeing the appearance I had taken on as a member of this ship, I would have given anything to have my old appearance back.

Not caring who might hear, I let the mirror fall to the floor, and myself along with it. I felt no shame as the tears streamed from my eyes. I was hurt; I no longer knew who I was, or even what I was. I knew...somehow I knew that I would regret ever looking into that mirror. If I ever found out who put it there…
I murmured brokenly to myself as I lay there, crying.

After what seemed like a long time, I picked myself up and decided to head back to my corner. My eyes were swollen and my body felt drained. But before I had a chance to make it back, a cold voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Catch up on your beauty sleep, wench."

I turned to face its owner. "Koleniko," I greeted, stiffly.

"Small wonder," he continued, walking down the steps toward me, "when you realize what truly lies in a mirror."

My chest tightened. I should have known he had been the one to put it there - but all in a moment, my perplexity outweighed my anger. "...Why?"

"You've remained human long enough," he said, striding almost right up to my face. "You've lingered on the edge of sanity far longer than the rest of us." He picked up the mirror and held it up for me to see. "This will make you realize what you are." With that he tossed it aside. It fell to the floor, shattering to bits.

I understood now, but it did nothing to abate my anger. "You…" I seethed, unable to think of anything appropriate to say. "You are a cruel...sadistic...uncaring rat!"

He must have sensed my weakness, for he only laughed. I felt like a mouse trying to stand up to a cat. He gripped my face with his spiny hand, as he seemed so fond of doing, and penetrated my eyes with his own. "Time's running out, pretty one," he growled mockingly. "Go on and hold out as long as you can. In the end, the curse will claim your life."
I was taken aback by his animosity. He had always enjoyed amplifying my discomfort, my doubt and hopelessness. But now, what he did with the mirror...I couldn't take it anymore.

With a cry, I knocked his hand away and tried swiping at him with my fists. My attempts were futile, however, as he immediately overpowered me and backed me against a wall. I struggled to break free, but his hands held my wrists like iron shackles.

"Let go!"

His face was plastered in wicked delight. "You never learn, do you?" He inched closer, and I redoubled my efforts to escape. "Hold still, wench," he said, in an unusually calm tone.

I was too flustered to think straight. I hated being waylaid against my will, especially by him. I didn't know what he wanted from me, what he wished to do - but I finally conceded, knowing that he wouldn't let me go any time soon.
My shoulders sank, my breathing slowed, and I did what he said; I held still.

The tension was unbearable. "What do you want?" I seethed, giving him the wickedest glare I could muster.

"It's not what I want," he responded venomously. "It's what fate wants. Have you not noticed that the rest of the crew despises you? Why do you think that is?" He paused. "You can hang onto yourself all you like, but you'd do well to remember that you no longer belong to yourself."

I wasn't sure how to respond. Something in the way he stared at me made me uncomfortable; a discomfort that went beyond his inhuman appearance.
Feeling a sudden, strong urge to get away from him, I squirmed in his grasp. "I need to get some rest," I started, uncertainly. "I need to be able to perform my tasks tomorrow…" I trailed off, hoping he would take the hint and let me go. I was done talking with him, but as it turned out, he was far from done with me.

"I wonder what in God's name our first mate sees in you," he said, ignoring my words. My shoulders rose; I desperately didn't like the direction this was heading.
He released my wrist and reached up to caress my hair. I felt insulted by his remark, whether it was undeserved or not, and tried shoving him away. He gripped my arm, making me wince.
'No, oh God, no…'

It was unfair, his being able to overpower me, both physically and otherwise. Whether I was weaker than him or not shouldn't have mattered; people shouldn't be allowed to treat each other like this; it just wasn't right.
But then, the crewmen on this ship were no longer people. Perhaps neither was I. Even so, I couldn't shake off the sudden misgiving that welled up in my chest. I knew that Koleniko despised me. I knew that he looked down on me and saw me as little more than a pest. Why, then, was I apprehensive?

My wrists were trapped in his solid grip once more. He showed no outward signs of wishing to harm me otherwise, but still I was uncommonly nervous. I wanted to speak, wanted to implore him to leave me alone, but words stuck in my throat.
When the distance between us became unbearable, someone descended the stairs. My eyes darted past Koleniko, and I saw Maccus approaching.

Hot shame rose inside of me at the awkwardness of the situation.
I feared that Maccus would misinterpret the scene and take out his anger on me. I didn't fear for Kolenikos' well-being; he and Maccus usually got on fairly well, at least by this crews' standards.
But would Maccus pick up on the fact that his fellow shipmate was too close for comfort? Would he notice that I was upset, or even care? Although I was thought of as his, maybe he wasn't the type to begrudge another crew member getting close to me. No one aside from him had ever shown any interest in me. I didn't have any reason to believe they would...except that now, for some reason, Koleniko's attention seemed focused on me in a "not quite right" sort of way.
These thoughts flashed through my mind in a matter of seconds.

Maccus strode up to us. His expression didn't change when he saw me against the wall, and only a hint of a shadow flitted across his face. As usual, his thoughts were impossible to read.
He glanced at me, at Koleniko.
"You've been challenged, mate," he said, placing a hand on Koleniko's shoulder, un-phased by the spines.

He turned to face his comrade. "In a minute, Maccus. I'm not finished with this harrowing harpy yet."

Maccus brought his face in closer, hissing. "And I say you are finished. Wouldn't want the others to think you were a yellow-lubber now, do you?"

The threat was barely-perceptible, but Koleniko took the hint and released me roughly. He left, though not before casting one last vicious look at me.
I didn't waste a minute. As soon as he was gone, I quickly made my way to the dark corner that should have been occupied by me much earlier. I kneeled on the ground, frightened and confused, trying to process what had just happened. My hands rested on the loose slab, no longer a secret.

I thought Maccus had left, and so was surprised when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him, and he lifted me by the arm. He took my chin in his hand, as if to examine me. I was unable to meet his eyes. Though I'd done nothing wrong, I felt ashamed.

"He did no damage to you, girl."

"I know he didn't," I responded impulsively, rubbing my neck in chagrin.

He gave a slight chuckle. I looked straight at him and asked, sharply, "Why is that funny?"

"Because," he responded, mild amusement still evident in his voice, "in all this time, you still haven't learned how to deal with that bilge-rat. What's more," he reached up to touch my face, in what might possibly have been the first gentle gesture he had ever bestowed on me, "you are beautiful."

I could have sincerely laughed, had I not been so shocked. My mind went blank upon hearing those words, from his lips. "I'm not, though," I said, barely above a whisper. "I saw myself...he put that mirror where he knew I would find it...I'm a monster…"

His hardened face gazed down at me for what seemed a long time. "We're all monsters here, Chainer." His hand slid off my face.

I gazed at him, wishing so much that I could find true comfort and tenderness in my affiliation with him. If he were any other man in the world, I would have clung to him, embraced him, perhaps shed a few tears while he stroked my hair and told me that everything would be alright.
But he was not that kind of man, not by a long shot. And...anymore, I suppose I would have to learn to be "not that kind of woman."
Maccus was not a comforter. He was a pirate. A murderer. A...yes...a monster…like me, I suppose. Did monsters show tenderness and love toward one another? Of course not. Yet, monster or not, I certainly cared about him.

"Maccus…" I said, unsure if my next words should be uttered, "thank you for...intervening." Some part of me doubted that he had done so on my behalf; I knew better than to expect charity in a place like this. I didn't want to hope because hopes were always crushed, leaving nothing but disappointment and ruin.

He came close to me. "Listen, Chainer," he leaned in, fixing me with his shark-like leer, "if Koleniko wants a round with you, then he can make a wager with the captain." He stalked off.

I suppose nothing more need be said.
I watched him leave, and let loose a breath I didn't know I was holding. Too tired to feel offended by his callous remark concerning "having a round with me," I made my way back to the corner. I had lost sleeping time and knew that I had to snatch what few precious hours I had left for rest.

I shook my head. He was a conundrum to me.

Lying down on the hard, sodden floor, I closed my eyes and fell asleep within minutes despite the unpleasant occurrences of the evening.

The excitement and horror had drained clean out of me.


About two weeks after Koleniko had left the mirror for me to find, I had fallen ill again.

It was a shock to me, and a puzzlement to Tanger, who once again acted as caregiver to me during this time. On the plus side, I was nowhere near as ill as I had been the first time. Both Tanger and I had hidden bits of that strange, small plant that had acted as an antidote to me. I no longer hid anything in the floorboard, but had kept some within the folds of my dress. I wished that I could find out more about our curious cure-all. If only there had been some kind of book written about it. The pirates, naturally, did not call it by its scientific name.

During this time, I was wobbly, queasy and disorientated, but somehow I managed to stay on my own two feet (if only just.)
Because I had been delirious the first time, I hadn't seen the others' reaction to my illness. This time was different. I noticed that most of them seemed sadistically amused. Not just amused, really, but secretive...knowing, almost, as if they were aware of something I wasn't.
I initially brushed it off as nothing more than them taking pleasure at the sight of me struggling.
Still, there was something odd about it.

Another week had passed before I began to feel even slightly well. Between bouts of hard work, I would slip pieces of the medicinal plant in my mouth. It wasn't appetizing, but I forced myself not to think about it, focusing instead on chewing and swallowing as quickly as I could before anyone noticed. This was easy enough to do, however, as there were plenty of slaves for the bo'sun to keep track of beside me.

The sea-plant did wonders in speeding up my recovery, but the second bout of illness disturbed me.
Why had I become ill a second time? What on earth was causing these sudden, strange ailments? It had been understandable the first time, what with my fatigued state, the injury to my head, and the blood loss. But I had long recovered since then. There didn't seem to be any reason for me to succumb to sickness a second time.

Since I had no obvious explanation, I tried putting it out of my mind and refocused my thoughts on other things.

Sometimes while I was doubled over while cleaning the deck, I would glance up to see Maccus approaching. He would catch me staring at him, and deliver a cruel smirk in response. There could have been a number of meanings lingering in that grin, with those serrated teeth. But it was the same sort of look that the others gave me. Maccus was clearly in on the joke with them, whatever it was.

After a time, the pirates tired of their amusement at my expense. Things began to progress as they always had on an average day on the Flying Dutchman: a day filled with back-breaking work, merciless taskmasters, and unabated loneliness.

One night I carried the bucket and rag down below deck; our work was done for the time being. I was lucky enough to have been out of the way of Jimmylegs for most of the day. He was not above flaying anyone within range, regardless of how hard or fast they were working. I was indeed fortunate; most of the time he seemed content just to shove me roughly aside or deliver a painful kick to my ribs. It hurt, but it was still better than feeling that dreaded lash. I've sometimes wondered why he didn't use the lash on me more often. Maybe Maccus had had a word with him about it...but I knew that wasn't possible. As a human, I would have ventured to believe that he was capable of caring for someone, and maybe he had.
But these men were hardly human at all. They were monsters. Maccus said so himself. Even I said it: monsters did not exhibit human traits. They did not have compassion, did not care for one another, and certainly did not love.

This was all true...wasn't it?

The only traces of humanity that still lingered on this ship was my own infatuation for the first mate, and his...well...very human intimacy with me. And, of course, there was kindness from Tanger and Bootstrap Bill. Maybe the men on this ship weren't complete monsters, no matter what they believed. Perhaps there was more humanity in them than they realized. The evidence was scant, but it was there.

As I set the bucket and rag down, I rubbed at my sore shoulder. My back ached and my hands were raw from scraping and prying barnacles and mussels from various parts of the ship all day. I hadn't gone seven paces before I heard those telltale footsteps behind me.

I turned to face him. "Maccus..."

Ever forward in his actions, he strode up and took me by the wrist. "Come," he said, dragging me along behind him.

"Come where?" I asked, flustered.

"Keep that pretty mouth of yours shut. You'll see."

I did as I was told and followed in silence. Offhand, I would have assumed that he was interested in kissing, but he always did that on the spot without bothering to lead me anywhere in particular. I knew he couldn't be leading us to an island; there were none within range of our ship. Swimming certainly wouldn't have taken us to one; we were as in the middle of the ocean as anyone could get.
My curiosity deepened as he led me to one of the lesser-used store-rooms that had once served the ship as a regular cabin. A few small crates lined the walls, but other than that it was largely unoccupied. He shut the door behind him.

I stared at him. "Maccus…?"

Though I was by now very familiar with his ways, I was still caught off guard when he came up and drew me close, firmly lowering his mouth onto mine. I always gave myself up to him whenever he had a mind to fondle me (that is, almost always.) But I wanted to know why he had led me here, of all places.

I tried pulling away when his teeth bit into my lips, but he held me fast. "Maccus," I breathed, "why are we here?"

He grinned, not releasing his hold on me. "Always with the questions. Relax, Chainer. Be still." He spoke so quietly, so unconcernedly, it was hard not to play along. And, seeing as I surely wouldn't be leaving until he was finished, I did relax.
And truly, why should I have hesitated? I didn't spend my time pining for him so that I could turn him away. Proper etiquette screamed against everything I was allowing to happen (or not allowing; it was all the same either way.) But proper etiquette had been thrown out long, long ago. The only reason I held back at times is because my old beliefs would resurface.
But no more.

I wrapped my arms around him as best I could and leaned into his treacherous kiss. My hands groped for a better feel of him, my back arched into his painful embrace. Seeing that I no longer hesitated, his grip tightened and the kissing intensified. He pressed me closer to him, if that were possible, and I winced as the oddities clinging to his skin bore into mine. We engaged in this fervent exchange for some time, before he began to lower me to the ground. I was not a short woman, but he was taller still; it was easier for both of us if we resumed our exchange on the floor.

He leaned over me, but instead of proceeding, he placed a hand over mine and stared at me. I stared back, slightly nervous, but allowing myself to drown in his features. His single blue eye gazed down at me with an emotion I couldn't pinpoint; his other was a perpetual mess, lingering on the edge of existence. I've often wondered that he was able to hold his own in a fight with only one eye.

"You're a strange one, Chainer," he said, almost bemusedly.

"How so?" I asked, in something of a trance myself.

"Not many women would be willing to give themselves to me."

I smiled very briefly, then reached up a hand to touch his face. My lips parted, but I hardly knew what to say. As usual, words only carried me so far; I could never seem to express how I truly felt about him. He was, indeed, amazing. Perhaps he didn't know it, and likely few other people on earth, if any, would have regarded him as such. But I did, and I meant it with every fiber of my being. Even after all these years, he still entranced me.

He leaned down to kiss my neck, my shoulder, my lips. He was a harsh lover, but I knew he would never go too far, not while we remained on the ship.

The single lantern illuminating the room grew dimmer as time wore on. It was not a romantic atmosphere by any means; rather, it was an eerie, ghastly glow that made one want to cringe and cower. But in that moment I was not in the least concerned with the rooms lighting or its dingy atmosphere.
Maccus had my full attention, and I, his. His mouth explored every inch of me, and I marveled at his ability to ignore my hideous form. Yet to him, clearly, I was not hideous. Somehow or other, he desired me. Perhaps he wasn't particular because he had been at sea for so long, and in the company of creatures ten times more bestial than I.
Even so I didn't want to speculate; I only wanted to enjoy the time we had.

We indulged each other deliberately, intensely. Maccus was taking his time with me, which is something he never felt quite at liberty to do before, not on the ship. I wanted to do the same, but I couldn't put my mind at ease; not completely. Though I was thoroughly and painfully savoring the feel of him, a small part of my brain wouldn't shut down. I kept wondering how much time we had left to mingle. I worried that someone might walk in on us.

At any minute, I expected him to stop and release me - to tell me that we had to get back to work. He always did.
But the moment never came, and a slight misgiving began to grow in me.

"Maccus," I said, already finding it difficult to breathe, "shouldn't we stop?" I hated to say it, but duty called. I knew the unspoken rule as well as he did, but it wasn't like him to lose track of time.

"I already told you, lass: relax." He sounded almost as breathless as me.

I tried as hard as I could not to worry about the time. It wasn't until he placed his hand upon me that I knew. I tried to sit up, and looked him hard in the eye.

He gave a harsh laugh. "Still afraid of me, are you?"

I didn't take my eyes off him. "Maccus, you...we can't -"

"You won't get into trouble, girl. I've won you fair and square; you're mine."

"Yes, but -" I cringed as he sank his teeth into my shoulder. I desperately hoped - now that he was going to take his time with me - that he was willing to hold back, even a little. These were the same teeth that had snapped the chain around my ankle, years ago. And now they were penetrating flesh.

But he did hold back. Even as painful as contact with him was (needless to say it didn't take much for those teeth to draw blood), I could sense that he was doing his best to go easy on the kissing and biting. My body was already covered in cruel scars from past encounters with him. I was sure that by the end of our ordeal, I would look like twice the monster I was.


I was in a half-awake daze beside him on the floor.

Cold and exhausted, I began to shiver - something I had left off years ago, but for some reason it decided to plague me at this moment. Maybe the sensation didn't result from physical discomfort.
Maccus leaned over me, stroking my face with his rough hand. Then he stood up, taking me with him by the arm. I was wobbly and felt as though I had been drugged. If I ever doubted that Maccus had held back during our previous encounters, surely I doubted no longer. I knew, now, that he had indeed been very lenient with me.

The way we had interacted this time, though...

He stopped at the door and turned to face me. I wasn't aware of the state I was in until I saw the look on his face. He must have known I was in pain, but he said nothing.

With each step we took, I became increasingly conscious of my discomfort. It was hard to focus on anything else. I reached a hand up to my right shoulder, which was bleeding. I was a little worried, but swallowed my fear and followed him down the ships' corridors. There would be time to tend to the injury later.
The pain in my body gradually increased; it was almost becoming difficult to walk. I staggered behind Maccus as best I could, but my wounds began making themselves known in places I didn't even know he had reached. I glanced down, and nearly started upon seeing a dark stain tainting the front of my dress.

The ship lurched in a sudden violent motion, and I stumbled against the wall. The sea had grown considerably choppy, and I knew the others would be hard at work. Maccus had indeed known when to call it quits. He was gone as soon as he set foot on deck. I stared after him as he left; you would have thought nothing had happened between us at all.

One of the pirates I recognized as Crash strode up to me and shoved a bucket in my hands. He tossed me a mop that nearly clattered out of my grasp. I dropped to the floor, well out of the way of the others and tried desperately not to think of the pain coursing through my body. Amid the barnacles dotting my hands, I noticed several deep punctures that could only have been made by sharp teeth. Thin streams of blood stained my hands pink.
Shutting my eyes tight, I tried not to look at them. I focused on my task, and played a counting game to distract from my discomfort. It did little to help.

A short while later, I was aware of someone swabbing the decks close beside me.
"Bloody hell, what the devil's happened to you?" It was Tanger. He actually stopped his work to stare at me.

I met his gaze very briefly. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came. I looked away.
He knew exactly what had happened.


Night fell.

We were still on the surface, for reasons I couldn't fathom. As far as I could see, there were no ships in sight. The horizon was aglow with the dying rays of the sun and the sea brushed against the ship in gentle laps.
Most of the crew's work was done, and as soon as it was dark they set about to drinking. I despised being around them when they imbibed, and was amazed that they had any alcohol left in their stash. Usually the stores of rum disappeared in the blink of an eye. Raucous laughter greeted my ears, and I headed below deck before the sauce was hot in their blood.

The ship rocked steadily as I descended the stairs. I had a goal in mind, though I half dreaded it.
Stepping over clumps of seaweed on the floor, I went to the place where Koleniko had shattered the mirror. Kneeling on the ground, I felt around on the floor, but not a single shard could be found. Evidently, it had been cleared away. My hand went under one of the old tarps covering several large crates, and met with something sharp. I quickly drew it out; a piece of mirror had escaped after all.

I studied it for a moment, then made my way to the nearest lantern. Dim though it was, it would be just enough for me to get a good look. I wanted to see - had to see - why Tanger reacted the way he did. I took a deep breath. "Ok…" I whispered, and held the shard up to my face...and was staggered, for the second time.
I immediately drew the reflection away. Then, overcome with grotesque amazement, raised it back up.

I had never seen the victim of a shark attack before, but I wondered, as I stood there transfixed, gazing at the cuts and scars on my face, if they looked anything like this. Dark smears of blood lined my cheeks, my neck, and my mouth most of all. Most of it had rubbed off, leaving horrific stains in their wake. It contrasted sickeningly with my pale skin. Bruises, pockmarks, blemishes, discoloration and small injuries adorned my face like warpaint.

...What had happened to me?
I was overcome with fear. I didn't know what to do, I felt overwhelmed. I wanted to find a rag to place on my wounds, I wanted to find antibiotics (though I knew full-well there were none on the ship.) I thought of crying, of going to find Tanger, of heading to my sleeping corner and shutting everything out.
'Calm down,' I told myself. Here I was turning into a horrifying half-human sea creature, and I chose to overreact to a couple of scars on my face.

It wasn't just that, though. They hurt. I didn't recognize myself. It wasn't easy seeing the face I thought I knew so well turn into a living nightmare. It looked like I'd been attacked. I moved the bit of broken mirror this way and that, forcing myself to take in as much of my face as I could.

I think, in those moments, the real nature of my relationship with Maccus was brought to light. I saw now, physically, what I had gotten myself into. I stared at the dark-crimson cuts on my skin, no longer bleeding but there to stay. Was this what his affection looked like? To be torn and maimed until I no longer recognized myself?
Yes, that's what his 'love' resulted in...how fitting...

Finally shaking myself out of the reverie, I scuttled up on deck, dodging the mingling pirates, and went to the edge of the ship. I threw the shard of glass overboard.
I never wanted to see myself again.


I was ill for the third time.

During my chores the previous day, I had felt overwhelmingly nauseous and dizzy. My limbs shook, and I scrubbed the planks and pushed the mop with as much effort as I was able to muster. Whenever I was out of sight, I sat down to rest.
Needless to say, I was scared out of my wits. I was no nearer to understanding what was causing my illness than I had been months ago. My diet hadn't changed at all, and that was the only thing I could think of that might account for my condition. My ailment still wasn't as severe as the first time, but it was much worse than the second. As such, I was forced to take refuge below deck yet again, where I would be out of everyone's way. I relied on the charity of Tanger (and even, on occasion, Bootstrap Bill, who sometimes brought me a bit of spare food when he wasn't on duty.)

The fear I harbored did nothing to improve my state. I was not only fearful about my health and constantly wondering what was happening to me, but I feared for Tanger as well. I didn't want him to end up spending an eternity on this ship just so that he might tend to me a second time. I would sooner have neglected his offer (had he given me the choice) and taken my chances in my weakened condition, even if it meant perishing (which I knew that we on the Flying Dutchman were not lucky enough to hope for.)

My arrangement below deck had been carried out remarkably smoothly; that is, no one complained or was outraged when Tanger had lifted me to my feet and assisted me below deck. They taunted me, of course, but that was the worst of it.
Had my wits been sharper, I would have been beside myself with confusion. There were so many questions I wanted to ask, but I was feeling too wretched to bother.

When Tanger appeared below deck to see me, I eased myself up and blurted, "Don't make any deals with the captain...!" My equilibrium was off, and I slumped back down.

He came to my side, un-phased, and regarded me with his piercing eyes. I was caught off guard by how strange they looked.
"I haven't made any deals with the captain. Don't worry, lass; no one's going to so much as think of discharging you...No...we can't escape that easily," he mumbled, more to himself than to me.

I stared at him. "Tanger?" He glanced at me. "You're...you look different…"

He laughed humorlessly. "Might've known that'd happen eventually, lass."

Words failed me. I couldn't take my eyes off him, for his were thoroughly inhuman. When had that happened? I could have sworn he didn't look that way yesterday.
Something inside me panicked, and my eyes began to sting. Seeing him, my long-time friend like this, was too much. I stared at him and thought of my own disfigured appearance.
"I'm scared," I said, and the thickness of my voice surprised me.

He stared back at me, long and hard - not without compassion, but his gaze was fatalistic.

"Don't leave," I pleaded, unable to keep the tears from falling. I hated playing the part of a blubbering fool, but I couldn't help myself. I was terrified, terrified of everything, and long past the point of caring about what kind of coward I came across as.

"Chainer," he started.

"Don't leave...please don't leave, Tanger."

He frowned. "What do you mean, lass?"

"You're changing…" I wept as quietly as I could, but it was hard. I had kept everything inside for so long, and now that my turmoil was out in the open, it was hard to keep it at bay. "And I'm changing. There's nothing I can do to stop it." I sniffed. "I don't want to live without your friendship. We won't always be friends, not when we lose ourselves, Tanger...What's going to happen when you're lost completely? ...What will happen to me?"

He sighed and lowered his gaze. He wanted to give me words of comfort, but he knew - and knew that I knew - there were none to be had. Not even a lie of comfort would have sufficed.
He reached out a barnacle-covered hand, half-coated in scales, and placed it on my own malformed one.
We both knew how our lives would ultimately end.


I staggered on deck one day and was put to work mercilessly.

I barely made it through the first day; no one showed any clemency toward me at all. Although, had I known that at least one of my fears would soon be put to rest, I might have carried on more hopefully. Or not...considering what I was soon to learn.

The ship had long been submerged, and anymore I was largely indifferent to that world below the brine. Though the days work had ended, I was still idly prying mussels off the bulwarks near the quarter-deck.
Tanger sought me out, looming out of the darkness like a specter. Though we were deep underwater in a world shrouded in murkiness, there was no mistaking the gleam in his eye.

"Well, lass," he said, "I may have found the culprit behind your illness."

He held up a small, white, slender fin. It was tipped with red and looked very much like the fins protruding from my arms. I gingerly took it out of his hand. "I don't understand."

"Has no one mentioned to you what you're becoming?"

"Yes," I answered slowly, sifting through my memory. "Maccus once told me that I resembled a...what was it?"

"A lionfish, mayhap?"

"Yes, that was it!"

"Well," he laughed cynically, "therein lies your problem."

I shook my head. "I still don't understand, Tanger."

"Lionfish are poisonous, lass." He let the notion sink in, and it dawned on me.

"You mean…"

"Aye. Your body's been poisoning itself."

I stared at the small fin in shock. Surely what he said was impossible; my body couldn't possibly poison itself...and yet, it did make a certain sense. There was, after all, no other explanation to account for my ailments. It was a frightening notion, but I couldn't deny its credence. I shook my head. "Tanger, I'm not sure…"

"I'm sure, lass. There's no doubt about it."

Suddenly recalling the odd behavior of the others, I realized then that he had to have been right. I said, "Whenever I was sick, the others…" I shook my head in awe. "See, when I was ill, I always felt as though they were laughing at me or making a joke at my expense."

"Aye," he said, knowingly. "They knew your body was releasing toxins. It's happened to a few of us in the past. Always the same thing: some poor chap begins taking on the appearance of a venomous sea-beast, and he falls ill. Takes a bit of time before they adjust."

I swallowed, eyes wide. "How much time?"

He shrugged. "Depends, lass. No two crewmen on this ship are alike."

Another realization dawned on me. I gasped. "I see now...so that's why Angler jumped back…"
I told him about my unfortunate run-in with Angler, about how he had flinched when he'd seized me in his massive hands.
"It all makes sense," I said.

He chuckled. "One of your barbs must've nicked him in the hand."

I looked down at the barbs protruding from my arm. I felt the smaller ones around my temples and along my neck. They grew at such a steady rate that it was hard to judge exactly how much longer they'd grown. At any rate, if Tangers' findings were true - and there could be no doubt that they were - the length didn't matter at all. Long or short, those horrid little extensions were venomous, capable of doing not just myself but others harm.

Even above my own safety, I wondered whether or not this would affect my relations with the first mate.