Arthur walked the darkening streets of the little colonial town, heading back to the inn. The smell of rain still hung in the air, and water dripped from the rooftops and gathered in the holes and sinks between the cobblestones. He was coming back from a meeting with a French navy captain stationed at the island: Arthur was supposed to report to him as soon as he arrived at the island, but the last few days had been eventful, and it had slipped his mind. Today, finally, when the storm calmed down as abruptly as it had begun, Arthur paid a visit to his office.

The meeting did not end well.

Arthur ran their conversation through his mind again, blood still boiling with rage; as always, the best words came to him only after the argument has ended, when it was no longer relevant. But what was that goddamn commander thinking; as if leading a pathetic fifty men's crew gave him right to behave as if he was in charge of capturing every wanted criminal on the island– Oh, those sodding Frenchmen should certainly learn their place; Not to mention the outrageous way he addressed Arthur...

A shadow fell over him. Someone was blocking the exit of the alley. "Excuse me," Arthur muttered absently and moved aside to go around him; the stranger moved with him, then opened his arms wide. He bowed his head, a sharp contrast to his derisive grin, and spoke in French. The words had a clear edge to them–a threat.

Even through the haze of his wandering thoughts Arthur realised what was happening. The mist dissolved with a cold shiver, his wakefulness snapping back; he glanced quickly over his shoulder–to find the other entrance of the alley blocked as well.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, surprised to find his voice steady.

The figure behind him inched closer, while the bandit in his front switched from slurred French to horrible English. "That watch, for starters…" His eyes flickered towards the golden chain of Arthur's pocket watch, visible at the front of his waistcoat. "Your purse…"

"Hat," the one behind Arthur added, delicately throwing the word into the air. "I'll take that."

The first one paused. "Nous discuterons ça plus tard," he muttered. He extended an open hand toward Arthur. "It doesn't have to be unpleasant…"

Fear stirred and gathered like smoke in Arthur's stomach. He took in a long, shaking breath, then reached for the watch's chain. He pulled it through the buttonhole with numb fingers and took the watch out; The bandit at his front followed each of his movements with his eyes, while the other kept a short distance from them, standing three or four meters from his back...

Arthur held out the watch upon a shaking palm. It slipped from his grasp, landing in a puddle and splattering tiny drops of muddy water. Arthur crouched to pick it up, and the man facing him did the exact same, reaching out for the glimmering object…

Arthur smashed his fist into his attacker's face, feeling the bones crack beneath his fingers; the bandit gave a surprisingly high pitched scream of pain. Arthur scrambled to his feet, swatch clasped tightly in his hand, and fled. He made it to the end of the alley and sharply turned left, shoes screeching and slipping over the wet cobblestones–he very much hoped that it was the right turn. Without looking back he knew they were after him, closing in; but the inn shouldn't be far away, now…

The street opened in front of him to expose full view of the sea; he turned right, and could now see the lights of the inn and the colourful sign at the front–

A hand caught his shoulder, pushing and making him lose his balance. Arthur crashed towards the ground, bringing his hands instinctively to protect his face. The shock sent a wave of pain through him, and he tried to pull himself back up, teeth clenched tight, but his pursuer slammed him back down. Arthur heard his head skull banging against the ground, and his sight blurred, and although he tried to fought to break free-jerked and twisted and spat-it was hopeless since there were two. The first held him down as the other stripped him of his coat and emptied his pockets, and pulled the golden watched from between his clenched fingers. Then the now broken-nosed bandit cracked his knuckles and knelt to hit his face; against his will, Arthur yelled and turned his face away, so the bandit grabbed him by his hair and did it again; then, it seemed to be too much of an effort, so he got up and kicked at Arthur instead, until he went limp and the world darkened around him, stars dancing in his eyes and the crowd gathering to gloat at his defeat. Eventually the inhabitants of Tortuga took pity on him and stepped in to separate him from his attackers, and he remained where he lay, curled and staring forward, until someone pulled him to his feet and a gentle hand dabbed a handkerchief across his bleeding lip. "Take him inside," said a familiar voice that seemed to echo from the bottom of a sea, "take Arthur inside, please." Blue eyes darkened with worry, then Arthur swayed in his place and they caught him just before he fell, and led him away from the noise, towards the building's light. When he looked over his shoulder he could see Francis' silhouette, soft under the trembling lamplight, with a shimmering knife held tight to the broken-nosed bandit's throat.

"They call me hanging Johnny,

Horray, Hooray!

They call me hanging Johnny,

Hang, boys, hang!"

Francis pushed the inn's door open, nauseous with bitter anger, and the room went quiet at once.

"He's up in his room," Michelle said from her place behind the bar, without looking up, and in the hostile silence her voice rang loudly. "He's fine," she added, "as much as one could be after something like that…He needs rest, though."

"Thank you," Francis made a faint attempt of smiling in her direction. He treaded up the stairs, aware of all those eyes fixed upon his back, and the thoughts spun painfully in his head.

The singing resumed as he reached the second floor and disappeared from sight of the singing sailors. "They say I hang for money; Horray, Hooray!"

Francis cursed. He couldn't shake off the sight of Arthur's figure lying like a broken doll on the wet ground, blood tainting his sand-coloured hair. As always, he had arrived too late.

He reached the last door in the moonlit corridor and knocked. Footsteps sounded, then the door opened to a crack, and Arthur's face appeared. He had a dark bruise blooming up his pale cheekbone, and his lip was swollen. "Oh, it's you," he said, not sounding very surprised, and opened the door wide. "Come in."

Francis shuffled in. He made an attempt to speak, but couldn't quite manage to do so, with his heart choking him, so instead he held out a small heap that consisted of Arthur's coat, folded, and the content of his pockets piled atop it. Arthur closed the door, then turned to look at him with a strange expression. He moved with the cautiousness of one who knows sharp movements will cause him pain. "Yesterday I handed you back your coat," he observed, "and now you bring back mine." He took it from Francis' hands and placed it on the wooden table, besides a brown rum bottle with carefully arranged yellow flowers. Francis' gaze stayed on them.

"I'm afraid I–" his voice rasped, and he cleared his throat. "I couldn't find all of your things. One of the two had escaped..."

"He must have taken the hat, like he said he will," Arthur gave a crooked grin, surprising him. "Nevermind, I have another one."

Francis watched him from his place at the door. There was something strange yet not-at-all unpleasant in the sight of Arthur in nothing but a white, open-collared shirt and ankle-length trousers, barefoot, outlined by the window frame and smiling so beautifully. "Arthur, I'm so sorry," he whispered.

Arthur's expression grew serious. He tilted his head in a birdlike motion; "For what?" he asked. "You couldn't control it." He quieted for a moment, looking thoughtful, then said: "You know, I watched you from here," he tapped the window and the glass rung softly. "You almost killed that man."

It wasn't a question, but Francis nodded anyway, nauseous again.

"And now no one would dare do it again," Arthur went on, clearly trying not to smile again.

"I could have prevented it from happening in the first place," Francis said, "had I announced you under my protection once you arrived…"

Arthur frowned. "No," he said matter-of-factly, "You had no way of knowing something like this could happen, and in fact," his voice rose, breaking the dream-like air, "because I came as a messenger from your former employer with a threat of death sentence, not as a guest, so it would have been plain weird and improper if you did that."

Francis opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur hushed him with a fiery gesture. "I may not know you well," he said, "or at all but I have a feeling that you're always searching for things to blame yourself over. It's getting on my nerves," he huffed. "Now I won't pretend I'm not completely pissed of with this accident, while practically every part of me hurts like hell, but it has nothing to do with you. Right now, outside, you've done more than anyone could have asked for, and anyway, there's no reason in hell that you should feel responsible for my safety." He paused for a moment, then added heatedly, "I'm not some fucking damsel in distress."

Francis let out a short, surprised laugh, and suddenly found himself blinking rapidly to clear his sight from tears, overwhelmed by a wave of emotion. "Non, that you're not," he said.

"What's with that expression," Arthur grunted. "God." He pulled out the chair near the table and gestured at it. "Sit, will you," he said, then walked over to his bed and sat down on its edge, dangling his feet in the air. At the floor near him stood a bowl of foul water, with a tainted cloth beside it; he picked the rag up and dropped it back into the water.

Francis sunk down into the chair, and by doing so, felt as if a great weight had been removed from his chest. "I'm sorry anyway, that it happened," he said, "and I'm glad you're safe."

Arthur gave him that strange look again, then shook his head. "Stop it."

"Alright." Francis wiped a hand over his face. "I won't stay for long," he said miserably. "I was told you needed rest."

"Buh. I'm completely alright," Arthur scowled, "Some carpenter bandaged my side, and the rest of me is not worse than this," he pointed at his bruised cheek. "I think it's safe to assume that I will live." He crossed his arms.

A long, quiet moment passed, in which Francis looked at every possible direction except Arthur's, aware of his gaze fixed upon him all the while. Faint singing could be heard from downstairs:

"I'd hang to make things jolly,

Horray, Hooray!

I'd hang all wrong and folly;

Hang, boys, hang."

"May I ask you a favour?" Arthur asked suddenly, and Francis' eyes returned to him at once.

"Of course," he said, so quickly that it was more of a 'fcourse, "What is it?"

"Can you teach me to shoot?"

Francis blinked. That he wasn't expecting. "Why, of course. You don't–"

"No, I can't shoot," Arthur cut him off, "That's not one of the skills they teach you in uni–"

"Hey, hey," Francis waved his hands defensively. "That wasn't even what I was going to say."

"Ah." Arthur went quiet for a moment. He rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly. "What were you going to say, then?"

"You don't happen to have a pistol with you?"

Arthur shook his head. "I thought maybe I could get one around here, if it won't cost too much–"

Francis waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. I happen to be unarmed right now… aside from that knife," he tapped the side of his right boot to the left, and a clanking of metal sounded from within, "but I can bring you a flintlock tomorrow."

Arthur looked as if he was going to protest; then he nodded. "Thank you. That's very kind…" He hesitated. "I was actually wondering about that. Everyone else I saw here–except the women–were carrying guns or swords. How come you don't?"

"Ah, that." Francis gave a little smile. "That's because I have faith in the Brethren."

"You have faith in what?"

"The Brethren of the Coast," Francis explained. "It's how we call the pirates and privateers in the Atlantic and Caribbean seas. Despite what people think, we hold laws within our society; stealing, for example, is rewarded by grave punishment… And besides that, no pirate would turn against another here on the island; it's one of the only safe havens we have, and we want to keep it this way." Then he added, with a tinge of shame, "You and other foreigners who visit the island are not members of the Brethren, so the laws do not protect you. That's why they dared attack you today."

"Do you have a leader?" Arthur asked curiously.

"No. It's more of a syndicate of captains... Some of them have more influence, but no, there's no actual leader."

"It's actually quite interesting," Arthur said honestly. He chuckled. "It's like an egalitarian society of law outcasts."

"Yes, that would be a good phrasing of it…" Francis laughed.

"I just remembered, You gave me a handkerchief earlier," Arthur recalled. "I still have it here, but it's stained with, uh, with my blood, so I'll have to wash it before I can return it to you–"

"Keep it," Francis said immediately.

"Huh." Arthur raised his eyebrows. "First flowers, now a handkerchief–I can no longer ignore the facts, you are trying to court me."

"How couldn't I," Francis grinned. Then he glanced at the window, suddenly worried. "It's getting late," he said. "And you have to–"

"Alright," Arthur gave a sigh that turned into a yawn. He stretched carefully. "Am I seeing you tomorrow?"

"I'll come pick you up."

Both of them got up from their places, quite awkwardly. They went to the door and Arthur opened it, glancing sideways at Francis as he did so. "Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight, Arthur."

Arthur watched him walk away across the corridor. Before he turned to the stairs, he looked back and waved, smiling. Then he disappeared from Arthur sight.

For a moment, Arthur remained there. "O the fair sailor lad, he was handsome and free," he hummed, "He was wae and forlorn…" Then he laughed at himself, and feeling rather silly, closed the door.

NOTES

The tavern song was "Hanging Johnny", a traditional sailors' shanty, and the song Arthur quoted was "The Fair Sailor Lad", a scottish folk song (for this one I mixed lines from the first verse and the second).