The seas were calm for a few days, which made work aboard the Flying Dutchman somewhat tolerable for the time being. But that time was regrettably brief.

In only a day, clouds appeared out of nowhere. It was nearly as dark as night. The winds became nearly unmanageable, and the gusts tossed Geneva around the ship constantly. But true hell had yet to arrive.

First, the air became thick. It was so saturated, it was nearly impossible to breathe. Clothing stuck to the skin like a layer of hot wax. It was so visibly dense that Geneva noticed fog was descending upon the ocean in the distance. But it wasn't fog.

It was only a matter of minutes. The fog grew, spanning the horizon, swallowing up everything in view.

And then came the downpour.

It went for days on end. There was absolutely no place on the ship that was remotely dry. Everything was soaked all the way through and dripping. Even down below in the hold, there was water everywhere. It was as if the ship had submerged, and the crew was simply walking as they would through the water.

But it was the noise that was truly unbearable. It was almost impossible to hear anything that anyone said over the sound of the rain pelting the wooden deck and the bodies of men. It made an ear-shattering noise, a constant piercing screech that echoed throughout the whole ship. Nowhere was there silence.

Geneva's hair was constantly stuck to her neck and face. Her large tunic stuck to her crudely, and she hated that it was white, but there was nothing she could do. Her boots filled with water no matter how much she emptied them. She wrung out her hair every few minutes, but it only became heavy again with water.

Out on the main deck, the crew was practically swimming. It was impossible to see more than ten feet in front of oneself, the rain was so potent. Geneva felt as though she was drowning wherever she went. With every breath she took, she inhaled water. It was constantly running down her face, into her mouth, all over her.

She really began to loathe her hair. It was becoming so heavy with the water that she couldn't deal with it. She couldn't tie it back anymore, for it was too soaked to even hold. Finally, she plaited it, which helped, but strands of it still lingered around her face, and whenever she turned her head at all, they smacked her in the face, sopping wet and unforgiving.

Even her room was soaked. Her cot was a puddle, and she figured she could have slept better in the brig. There was no such thing as being dry. It was constant drowning, constant swimming, constant lugging just to walk. The air was thick and heavy, impossible to maneuver normally in. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't hear. She couldn't see. She couldn't feel. All she had was her own mind and whatever was in there to keep her company, and all that waited for her there were her own thoughts, which were anything but friendly. They were worse than the screaming rain, telling her that death would be an admirable decision, but she didn't know how to die, and so she remained as she was, simply dying without ever reaching death itself. When her melancholy nothingness ran out, she searched for another crevice of her mind, and she found a horrible bitterness, which, once she had discovered it, consumed her in whole—her demeanor, her thoughts, her very soul—and she wore that as herself, for anger was the only thing keeping her warm inside the suffocating confines of her trousers and tunic.

It went on like that for two weeks. Then, it abruptly stopped. And the absence of noise was enough to wake Geneva from an already unrestful doze, and without bothering to return to her cot, she made herself ready before the sun was to come out, and she headed out to the deck.

She met eyes with the tiny sliver of light on the horizon, and then turned her eyes to the retreating clouds, unfeeling and thoughtless. She didn't wish to think of rain. She didn't wish to think of anything like she used to. Her old thoughts were nothing to her now. She didn't think that much of anything anymore, except for maybe how much she had begun to hate herself. But in the midst of her hatred, she could easily share the burden and place it upon the shoulders of those who had cursed her to such an existence, even if it was only in her mind. And so, as she was, all by herself on the main deck, barely visible, she pulled out her swords, and on the damp stone build of the capstan, she began to sharpen them.

She had limitations with her hatred, though. As much as she wanted to slice him right through with her own sword, she could not kill Jack Sparrow. She could only hope to watch someone else do the job for her, the thought of which left her begrudgingly unsatisfied. She loathed the thought of watching someone else kill the man who'd ruined her life. She wanted to do it herself. She wanted to deliver the final blow. But she was trapped in a bond that she couldn't break without a whole lot of pain. Barbossa's death was hard enough on her soul, and as much as she hated Jack, she didn't want to taste what a direct kill would do to her.

There was a bit of noise coming from the lower decks as some of the crew began their ascent to the main deck. Geneva didn't bother looking. She didn't care to look. She was busy occupying herself.

For a while, the men left her alone, and didn't even speak to her, which she was quite content with. She hadn't missed conversation for the past few weeks. Her mind was a good enough companion.

Suddenly, there was a low but demanding voice coming at her from one side. She almost winced, but instead, she placed more pressure on her cutlass blade.

"What are you sharpening those for?"

She didn't look up. She already knew the voice. "I'm goin' to fight someone," she said, bitter vengefulness in her voice.

"You're goin' to fight someone," Maccus repeated almost monotonously. He said everything like that. She didn't care one way or another.

"Aye," she muttered, not wishing to continue with conversation all that much. Hearing the sound of her own voice was something odd. But she heard Maccus snort at her, and her eyebrows furrowed some, but she didn't say anything.

"An' what are you gonna do after that?" he asked, and she became slightly annoyed with his persistence. She didn't even know what that question meant.

She inspected her cutlass and then dried it off with her tunic, sheathing it. "What do you mean?" she asked, finally turning to face him, not particularly in the mood for crypticness. His face didn't offer any indication of an answer, and she stared at him, bored. He returned the look, only his eyes peered down at her, almost intimidating. He always loomed over her, and he appeared to feel entitled to that position.

"Ain't you gonna kill 'em?" Clanker piped in from behind him, and Maccus looked at him, unamused. The first mate never seemed to be amused by much of anything. Clanker chuckled at Geneva, as if his question was something obvious. Everyone on that blasted ship treated her like she was an idiot. Geneva grumbled in his direction. She didn't feel like explaining her position. They wouldn't care anyway.

"She ain't gonna kill 'em," Maccus finally said, and Geneva looked in his direction.

"And what gave you that idea?" she asked him, just waiting for an insult.

"You didn't say you was goin' ta' kill 'em," Maccus said plainly, as if it were common fact. "An' you fight like some circus juggler."

Clanker and a few other men snickered at the comment in approval. But Maccus' words only came as a shock to Geneva. Suddenly, she didn't want to retreat back to her silence anymore.

"What?" she retorted, rather confused, and nearly offended. "I do not."

"All you do is flail your swords around," Maccus replied, as if he knew what he was talking about. "All jus' to distract." The deck was quieting down now. The men were listening.

"You've never fought me," Geneva countered lowly. "And I wouldn't suggest it. I've killed plenty of men before you."

But her threat fell on deaf ears. It didn't even provoke him. "I've seen you fight, and that's all I need ta' see," he retorted, and Geneva narrowed her eyes. There was something different about him, the way he spoke to her, and the way he remain above her without even trying. It really pissed her off. For the first time in her life, she cursed how young she looked. She had twenty years of experience behind her. And this seadog dared to say that she had the skills of a court fool.

"Maccus is a master swordsman," said Palifico, slowly heading toward the rigging along with a few other men. "He don' need to fight you to know nothin' 'bout how you fight."

"All you is distractin'," Clanker commented with a snicker, and a few men responded with an "aye" in agreement. The rest of the crew started to follow Palifico's lead to begin their work, including Maccus. But Geneva had adrenalin in her veins. She wasn't finished yet. She'd show him watching wasn't the same thing as learning.

"How many years experience you think I've got?" she asked calmly to his back, and this was what provoked him. Maccus stopped, and a few men turned back to watch, interested again.

He narrowed his eyes and turned back to her. She was young, or she looked young. She could swing a sword around and hit a few men who weren't ready for it, and her speed made sure of that. But she had nothing more than that. Maccus let a smile creep onto his face, and he chuckled.

"How many do I think you have?" he repeated, tickled by her question. "You think me a fool."

She pulled out her cutlass and pointed it right at him. There was a fire in her eyes, one he'd just fueled knowingly.

"I do," she affirmed, without hesitation at all. "And now, I'm waitin' for the master swordsman to prove himself just that."

"So you're lookin' for a fight then?" Maccus retorted. She was serious. As young as she looked, the legends had always described her as far beyond her apparent age. She wasn't that old, though. She hadn't existed in his younger days, which meant that he did have more experience, at least mathematically (if he could even reason in those terms; he wasn't some poppycock scholar).

"I thought I'd give you a fair chance," she replied, a smartass look in her eye. "You should be honored. I'm normally not that lenient."

Maccus scoffed. "Good God," he groaned, reaching for the hilt of the sword strapped on his back. "Your ego reeks."

"So do you," she said lowly, and he pulled his blade out of its sheath, holding it out to the light to inspect it.

"A longsword?" came her voice, and he glanced at her face. She expected he was joking. That was how he knew she had no experience.

"Works jus' fine," he replied, admiring the dirty hilt. It was an old beauty to him. But it fit him just right.

Out came her rapier. Maccus rolled his eyes, his grin disappearing. "You really do want a fight."

She narrowed her witch's eyes. "No," she said, readying herself. "I want a kill. That way, everyone on this damned ship will know me for who I am: a Sea Lioness."

"Hn," he nodded, almost boredly. "You've certainly come a long way. Now you're aimin' to kill, huh?"

"I always have," she growled, locking in her stance. She was at the ready. Maccus slowly brought his monstrous sword up to point at her, and then he let his lips curl into the most leering smile, ugly teeth bared.

"As have I."

She didn't expect him to make the first swing, but she reacted just fine. She brought up both of her swords to block his downward blow. She expected it to be heavy, simply because it was a long sword.

But it was heavier than she expected. She could barely hold it up. He was only using one arm. He shoved her backwards, and she flew and caught herself, almost stumbling. He was something else. He was no joke.

He swung at her again, even harder than the first time. She tried to push him off, but she ducked out of the way and slashed at his side. He blocked and shoved her off, and she retreated a few feet. The whole ship was watching.

She wasn't panicking. She had to come up with a strategy. He wasn't giving her much time to think, only enough to react. He came at her again, putting her on defense. She couldn't land an offensive. She couldn't get him to retreat. He was forcing her to. She didn't like that.

He backed her against one side of the deck, and she jumped and balanced on the rail to gain height. He swung at her feet and she barely dodged. She fled down the rail toward the front of the boat. She was stalling. She could only hope to tire him out until she thought of something. That wasn't likely.

He swung, slamming down on her as she blocked, and she had to try and make a direct hit. There was no distraction in his technique. It was heavy, swift, and effective. She had to meet that. But she couldn't.

She pulled back, and swung straight at him with her rapier. He swung at the same time, and the clash was harsh. His strength was unbelievable.

"I wouldn't fight like that unless you wanna break a sword," Maccus warned, the horrible grin still played across his face. He was enjoying this. She was struggling to get by. She glared at him. She didn't want him to know she was struggling, but it was too late for that. It was obvious. He was trying to make her lose focus. She pulled back and went to strike again, right at him. He deflected, and she tried at him again. Still, he held her off, without even trying. She was becoming anxious. Longswords were traditionally wielded with two hands. He was only using one. All he had to do was grab with the other hand, and he'd slice her in half with one stroke. She knew it. He was a master.

She pulled back, but he rushed up to meet her again, and she had to retreat further.

"You ain't doin' well to that rapier," he said again, his voice a bit more serious this time. She growled at him.

"You'll not tell me how to fight," she snarled, and she came at him hard. His grin disappeared. He blocked easily, shoving away her cutlass, and then, his other hand came to grip his hilt, and he sliced at her rapier right at the center of the blade, so fast she couldn't retaliate. The hit almost knocked the sword from her hand.

She jumped back quickly, and the rapier felt off. She looked at it quickly, and it was bent. She looked at him in shock, but he was no longer amused. He carried himself with real purpose now. He was going to beat her.

She dodged a harsh, double-handed swing again, and she fled across the ship. He came at her hard again, and she blocked with her cutlass on top, freeing her rapier to slice lower, but he blocked them both, and then he hit her cutlass so hard it flew across the ship. She recovered and switched her remaining sword to her right hand. Her right arm had suffered fewer blows.

She blocked and she tried to go for more offensives, but he was too strong. He beat down on her with every swing he took, and his strength only seemed to grow. Every blow became harder and harder to block. She was running out of options. She had to get to her cutlass. It was across the boat.

She had just enough time to glance at it before he came in with another hit. She dodged and flew down the length of the ship. He came up behind her and she tried to block, but he shoved her aside and she almost lost her balance. He stood between her and her cutlass, and she swung at him in hopes of catching him off guard. But he was swinging, too, and with both arms. Their blades hit, and then, her rapier snapped.

Her heart stopped. She couldn't speak. She was wielding nothing but a hilt and a jagged, five-inch blade. What had just happened?!

"You..." she sputtered, and Maccus lowered his sword, a bored look on his face. She couldn't believe it.

"You broke my rapier!" she said finally, completely flabbergasted. Maccus didn't bat an eye, and turned from her now that she had been disarmed.

"I kept tellin' you to hold your sword right," he replied, picking up her cutlass and throwing it to her. "I didn't break it. You did."

She caught it, and her anger suddenly erupted, and she threw the hilt aside, swinging her cutlass at him wildly.

"You did that on purpose!" she snarled, and he blocked her sword, baring his teeth at her.

"When you hold a sword wrong, you can force it to do things it wasn't made for," he growled at her, holding her in sword-lock. "You didn't listen. You held it incorrectly. You broke broke it."

She swung at him in her rage, and he parried, coming down on her cutlass hard. She tried to push him off, but he was too strong. He was bearing down on her.

"An' you best swallow that temper," he warned her lowly, a dangerous look in his eye. "You're creatin' openings."

"Shut up," she hissed at him, and she pulled back and swung as hard as she could at him, but he deflected easily, and swung. His strength was almost inhuman. She didn't have a chance. She knew. But she was enraged. She would never forgive that. He broke her rapier. He did it on purpose. Her anger flew.

She tried to swing at his legs, and he parried and went for her neck. She ducked, gasping as some strands of her hair were sliced. Her blade flew at him, but it was a clumsy strike, for she was losing her footing. His sword met hers, and her cutlass was flying across the ship again. His arm came back and he hit her with the hilt of his sword. She hit the deck hard, and when she looked back up, there was a blade at her neck.

"The great sea lioness," he spat down at her with mocking eyes. "Bested by a fool." She was hot with anger. It took everything she had to stay put. His sword was at the ready to finish her. She was seething, in hatred and embarrassment. How dare he? How dare he tower above her? How dare he mock her, the divine creation of a goddess? How dare he have power over her?

But she was just waiting for him to strike her. She was waiting for that blade to cut her throat and draw blood. That was when she'd prove him wrong. She would wait a thousand years for it if she had to. She'd prove him wrong, and she'd devote her life to it. He'd never win.

Maccus watched her. So this was the horror that Koleniko had met that night. She was out of control. A venomous, bloodthirsty whore. Her face was dirtied from when she'd fallen, and she didn't bother to wipe it off. She was hideous. And he had his sword at her abominable neck. But a strike wouldn't prove anything for him. Cutting her throat would be a triumph for her. She'd heal herself and prove him a fool for trying to kill her. So, he stepped back from her and sheathed his sword. Her expression couldn't have been more shocked.

"Go," he said down at her, allowing a grin to spread across his face. "I don't kill cowards. They'll drown in their own pity."

Her face slowly became red with anger, embarrassment seething from her audibly and her teeth clenching like those of a maddened bull. She stood up with a horrible outburst of a growl and grabbed her cutlass, ignoring the laughter of the crew as she retreated down into the depths of the ship, escaping the scorn of the men to wallow in her own.