Chapter 10 : When Night Falls

Impatiently Antonio strode across the deck, seeing no one, speaking to no one. His men parted respectfully before him, and someone placed in his hand a spyglass, which he lifted to eye level. But even without it he could recognize the faraway ship at first glance.

The Rising Sun it was called—a romantic name coined by a decidedly unromantic man. Arthur Kirkland was well known as one of the most fearsome pirates of the Seven Seas, the most wanted man in Europe. Rumor had it that he was an English privateer gone rogue; he took no prisoners and brooked no dissent, and though he had only one eye he made use of it in ways no others could. Deception and daring were among his main weapons, and there was no doubt that they had served him well in his notorious career.

So if it was a fight he was looking for now—by all indications a likely occurrence—then it would be quite a fight indeed.

Though the sun was beginning to set, the ship still appeared clear as day before Antonio's enhanced eyesight. He scoured every inch of it—the skull and crossbones flag waving merrily at the crow's nest, the apparently new canvas sails, the elegantly carved green mermaid and the blond-haired men running about on deck. The pirates he observed with particular care, but nowhere did he catch a glimpse of feathered hat or black eyepatch. Kirkland would have been difficult to spot in any case—he was a master of subterfuge after all.

The Spanish pirate captain felt his headache worsen slightly as he straightened up, and after a long moment's thought he called for the new navigator, a lanky man by the name of Alfonso. He appeared posthaste and stood by nervously, awaiting orders.

"How long till we reach land?" Antonio asked quickly.

The questioned man answered in short jerky tones, obviously intending to please but not quite succeeding. "I—ah—it'll be about seven hours. Aye. Seven—at our normal speed—but the landin' will be hard... an' they'll be on us by then..."

Antonio had heard all he needed, and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

Nearby a group of his more sensible men had had the presence of mind to rig and adjust the sails—without his having to give orders. Evidently they had assumed the Trinidad would reach Venice in time before the Rising Sun caught up to it. Antonio made his way over to them.

"Stop," he said clearly.

The men, Eduardo among them, paused their work to stare at him in astonishment.

"But Cap'n," said one, "don' we need to go faster?"

"No. I said stop, so stop." His voice, hard as stone, did the trick and they hurriedly obeyed. "We don't need to outsail him. His ship is smaller than ours—he'll catch up either way. It's open sea for seven hours. We'll have to face him anyway." Even before he finished, however, he had seen the disagreement in Eduardo's face.

"What do you say, Eduardo?" he made sure to add cheerfully. The Spanish quartermaster shifted and reluctantly replied.

"We lost many men at Gallipoli already."

"No, we lost five," Antonio said flatly. "And we have thirty left, including myself. A whole crew. My crew. Do you think I'll sit back and listen while the English call my crew cowards?"

He deliberately raised his voice at the end, and by this time most of the pirates had gathered around to listen attentively. Antonio could hear murmurs of indignation, indicating their assent. He shot an expectant glance at Eduardo, who did not answer.

But that was all right—he could be forced to answer.

"All in favor of a fight, say aye!" Antonio shouted.

"AYE!" his men bellowed wholeheartedly—every one of them save Eduardo, who still looked unhappy about being outvoted. Antonio leaned close and nudged him in an almost conspiratorial manner.

"Aye or nay, amigo?"

"... Aye," he said at last, quite unwillingly, but it was all Antonio needed. The Trinidad's captain clapped him heartily on the back.

"Muy bueno. Now, here's what we'll do. Your capitán has it all figured out." He drew his men close around him. "That English hijo de puta should learn his lesson this time..."

The plan was simple—simple by anyone's standards, exactly the sort of thing a crafty man like Kirkland would long have predicted and overlooked, and so would least expect.

Antonio had divided his men in half, with one group remaining aboard the Trinidad and the rest with himself. Eduardo and Emilio were to supervise the ship and post guards at regular intervals to ensure nothing went amiss. If trouble arose they would light arrows on fire and shoot them up into the sky—one for a minor problem, two for a more serious one, and three if the entire ship was threatened. But of course everyone expected it wouldn't be necessary.

Antonio and his men, meanwhile, would take several small boats, row across to the Rising Sun, and ambush the English in the dead of night. Darkness was essential for stealth, and thus they had planned for the whole operation to take place at midnight—when the only light out at sea would come from the stars and the ships themselves. If the mission succeeded, not only would they have another ship, but the name Kirkland would also soon be replaced with a new one—Carriedo.

No one wanted to think about the consequences if they failed.

But at the moment Antonio could have cared less.

He, Eduardo, and Emilio had spent over two hours organizing his men and detailing his plans, and now they were ready. All that remained was to wait—for about five more hours. Five more hours and this endeavor, or battle, or whatever it was would be underway, and then only fickle, half-blind Fate could determine the outcome.

Yet Antonio didn't want to think, and it had nothing to do with his still-painful hangover from the night before. For some reason he had begun to feel weary, impossibly weary, of everything and everyone and most of all himself. It had occurred to him for the first time that day that all this would simply be another violent episode in their lives—they would kill and gain or kill and lose, or not kill... and then what? It was all his crew could do, it was all Antonio himself could do—and he suddenly felt crushed under the simplicity of it all.

What a meaningless existence this was.

He felt so despondent that if, at that moment, someone had offered him the solutions to all his problems, he might have refused purely out of disbelief. But as it was the next best person he could see was waiting for him, leaning awkwardly by Antonio's cabin, half-hidden in shadow so that the Spaniard ran right into him when he turned the corner.

"I heard," said Lovino flatly, stepping out from the darkness.

Knowing it would anger him, Antonio chose not to answer and moved to unlock his door. The offended Italian immediately pushed right in front of him, blocking his way.

"Don't tell me you're actually going to do it, you dumb ass—"

Antonio pushed open the door, causing Lovino to lose his balance for just a second, then walked past him into his room. It was only when he lit a candle that the Italian noticed his face and grew even more agitated.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" he cried. "Can't you even fucking answer me?"

Antonio glanced tiredly at him.

"I'm all right," he said, not knowing why he was even speaking. "I made a decision and I'm abiding by it. That's all."

"Then I'm going with you!" declared Lovino without hesitation.

"No, you're not."

"You're fucking joking, right?"

"I'm not. You're staying here with Eduardo and all the rest. They still need to eat, you know." Antonio laughed quietly to himself, but Lovino was having none of it.

"What about you, then?" he demanded.

"I'll... go, like I said. If... if something happens, and I don't come back, then so be it. I had it coming to me anyway..."

"Oh, so that's the way it is!" cried Lovino, in a frenzy by now. "You stupid asshole—no one's making you go, you don't have to! It's fucking dangerous out there and you still—you still—"

"I still what?" Antonio couldn't find much strength to speak. "I don't have a choice. That's the way it is—there never was a choice. It's all been decided. You don't understand, Lovino." Almost automatically he placed one hand on the Italian's shoulder, but Lovino shook it off angrily.

"I understand better than you do! And I'm telling you, you're not going!"

"I am," said Antonio calmly.

"No! You can't!"

"I can."

"Oh, you can, all right." Lovino's eyes blazed with a sudden unknown fury. "You can" —he moved closer, eyes piercing into Antonio's, voice rising— "you can, and I can't, but I'll be damned if I let you go off and die again! I'll go to the fucking Devil if I have to but you're not fucking leaving, Antonio Fernandez Carriedo! Do you hear me?"

Antonio could only stare at him, frozen in place, unable to speak. The Italian's words had somehow seared through him, traveled all the way to that one little spot in his chest where it felt especially hollow, and settled there. A strange feeling took hold of him, spread through his veins like wildfire, whispering to him that maybe, just maybe, that one impossible hope of his might just come true...

Lovino had come close—so close—so very close that only a few inches separated them. Antonio could see the golden flecks in his hazel eyes, the dark anger slowly giving way to something so soft and so gentle it made his chest ache with a familiar pain.

"I can't lose you," the Italian whispered. "Not you... Anyone but you."

And then Antonio didn't know who moved first, him or Lovino—but suddenly the distance between them had vanished, their lips had crashed together and they were kissing roughly, passionately, desperately. Lovino's fingers raked through his hair as he pressed closer, oh so close, murmuring Antonio's name over and over as though the Spaniard were his only source of life. Some small voice in Antonio's mind kept screaming no no this shouldn't be happening, you're being selfish, you don't deserve his love because of who you are—but he couldn't do as it said, he couldn't, because he had never felt so alive in thirteen years and all he could do was kiss Lovino back and show him every, every bit of feeling he had ever had for this wonderful, handsome, strong, honorable little Italian.

For the first time in thirteen long years, that hollow in his chest, where his heart had once been, had filled up again—and he was whole.

Night had long fallen. In the darkness all was still, save the slow rise and fall of their chests as they breathed in the cool air. Lovino lay beside him, fingers tangled in Antonio's shirt, closer and warmer than the Spaniard had ever dreamed possible. Even in the shadows his eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own, brighter than any candle or lantern or star.

Antonio reached out to touch his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he heard himself whisper. Lovino's bright eyes flickered questioningly at him.

"What do you have to be sorry about?"

"Everything." Suddenly Antonio didn't know what to say. "Everything's messed up because of me. You wouldn't have to suffer if I wasn't selfish. You wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for me... It would've been better if we had never met at all."

"Don't say that."

"It's true. You could have gone on living your life, I could have gone on wasting mine..."

"Shut up." Lovino moved even closer, resting his head on Antonio's shoulder. "You're telling me to live my damn life with half a heart."

"But I'm a pirate," the Spaniard said weakly, disturbed by the strange pounding feeling in his chest.

"And you know what? I don't give a flying fuck."

Lovino pulled him down to meet his lips. The second kiss was soft, gentle, everything they had wanted to say with the first and more, and slowly but surely Antonio felt himself melting and giving in. In that moment he knew he loved Lovino and Lovino loved him and somehow the pain he felt inside worsened all the more at the knowledge.

Eventually they parted, Lovino's lips lingering just a bit more before he pulled away. For a long time they stayed in each other's arms, silent, unmoving, each trying to read the other by his eyes alone. It was infinitely miserable for Antonio—he could see everything in Lovino's eyes, all his feeling, all his devotion. He wanted to say something—just a word, or two, or three—but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Don't leave, Antonio," the Italian whispered at last. "Don't ever leave me again."

He couldn't answer.

"Antonio..."

Antonio kissed him once, twice, three times. Lovino fell silent because his mouth was busy returning them. But the expression in his hazel eyes was undeniably sad. He knew what Antonio wanted to do.

"I'm not letting you go," he said desperately. "I'm staying right here and I'm not going anywhere."

"Then I'll sleep easy... mi capitán Lovi."

He tried for a mischievous smile and the air seemed to lighten.

"Shut up," Lovino snapped, some of the old flame returning to his eyes. But a faint blush had spread over his cheeks and the corners of his mouth had turned up ever so slightly. It was the most beautiful sight Antonio had ever seen. He wanted to stop time, keep that image in his head, never move from his place, never let go of Lovino.

"I'll sleep now, then," he murmured, but it was not before kissing the Italian one last time that he finally closed his eyes.

But he did not sleep.

His eyes were shut but his mind was still awake and alert. He knew he had only a few hours left before the mission began, and he would have to get away at the first possible opportunity. He would have to leave Lovino but it was all for the best.

There could be no other way.

Lovino must have been watching him, waiting for him to fall asleep, because after what seemed like ages he let out a quiet sigh and reached out to stroke Antonio's hair.

"I love you," he said softly and the Spaniard's heart stopped. "I've loved you from the beginning, when we met... and ever since. Even when I thought you were gone... I've never stopped loving you. And I never will."

He pressed a kiss to Antonio's forehead. It was a moment the Spaniard would remember for the rest of his life.

Eventually Lovino quieted and all Antonio could hear was his even breathing. Hesitantly he cracked one eye open, then the other. The Italian was most certainly asleep—his eyes were closed and he did not even stir when Antonio gently pried his arms from his waist.

"'Tonio..." he mumbled sleepily, in the throes of a dream. "Antonio... stay with me..."

Antonio's heart suddenly ached.

He lay Lovino back down on the bed, pulled the blanket over the sleeping Italian, and stood up. The hourglass on a nearby table told him he had little time left, and he turned to go. But a sudden thought hit him and he stopped.

Slowly Antonio unclasped the golden necklace he wore, watching it flash for a moment in the starlight from the window. Then he took out a piece of parchment and a quill and wrote.

He left everything on the table and went quietly out. At the doorway he paused for just a second, to look at Lovino one last time.

Unable to stop himself, he ran back and kissed the Italian's forehead, before leaving as quickly as he could, without turning back, without thinking twice, without anything except the remnants of his heart and the memories.

Nothing had ever hurt so much.

Some time later an unknown instinct caused Lovino to jolt awake with a start. The room was still dark, but the moment he opened his eyes he could see the other side of the bed was empty, no longer warm. His heart sank and he was just about to leap up and run out the door when a golden gleam caught his eye.

With shaking hands he reached for the items on the bedside table.

He recognized the moon charm immediately—it was Antonio's necklace. Tucked underneath it was a message.

Heart pounding, Lovino unfolded it.

There were only seven words.

I'm sorry.
I love you, Lovino Vargas.

He ran, ran until his lungs were burning and his heart threatened to burst. It seemed to take him forever to get up to the deck, and even though he knew it was too late, he couldn't accept it. It couldn't be. Antonio couldn't have left. He wasn't supposed to go.

"ANTONIO!"

It was Lovino's fault. All his fault.

He had been such a fool, such a goddamn fool. Why the hell had he closed his eyes, why?

It had just been for a second...

But in that second he had slipped away.

"ANTONIO!" he screamed, running to the railing, desperately straining his eyes but finding nothing. "ANTONIO!"

It was there he collapsed, alone, the sheer weight of reality crashing down upon him with a vengeance. He could see the silhouette of the English ship in the distance, far away, too far away for him to swim and reach.

Just as the Spaniard was by now too far out of reach.

"Antonio," he whispered, and the first tear fell onto the cold, hard ground.

x X x

Translations

Amigo (Spanish) — friend

Muy bueno (Spanish) — very good

Capitán (Spanish) — captain

Hijo de puta (Spanish) — son of a bitch

Spyglass — a version of the telescope, used around the 17th and 18th centuries out at sea.