The sun had risen over the first yard.

Maccus retired from the helm. The morning was underway. He descended from the quarterdeck, and as he reached the main deck, Jimmy Legs lumbered past him, cat o' nines in hand. Maccus halted him.

"Where's that headed?" he asked, and Jimmy Legs shrugged. The usual business.

"Quartermaster tells me that the wench owes five lashes," he replied simply. "Me thinks it proper since she nigh impaled the navigator."

Maccus suddenly felt something knot real hard in his chest. Jimmy Legs was turning to go.

"Now wait just a minute," Maccus snapped after him, before he could stop himself. "I took care o' that already."

Jimmy Legs huffed in disappointment, but stopped and waited anyway. Maccus turned toward the quarterdeck, scowling. Why couldn't he hold his own damn tongue? This was all ridiculous. He hadn't taken care of jack shit. He had just lied about performing a duty. But he didn't stop himself.

"What do you mean, she don't get no lashes?" snapped the quartermaster disgustedly. "I said she would, an' she will."

"That ain't gonna do nothin' for her now," Maccus argued.

"What the hell do you mean?" the quartermaster spat, eyes narrowed. "It does plenty! Jimmy Legs! Get on with it!"

"No!" Maccus ordered. The bosun had just started walking, but he stopped himself once more. Maccus couldn't believe himself. What was he doing?

"No?" the quartermaster repeated slowly. His eyes narrowed. "Pray tell, why not?" This was bad. He could have done this any other way. He could have just taken the whip from Jimmy Legs. But no, he resorted to feeding shit to the quartermaster, his own superior.

"She ain't got no strength as it stands," Maccus replied, trying to sound convincing. "She killed Jack Sparrow."

"What's that got to do with anything?" the quartermaster retorted.

"You know the legends. The sea lioness can't kill the victims she's done her eye trick on. If she does, it kills her."

"Well then why ain't she dead?"

Maccus swallowed.

"'Cause she didn't kill him directly enough," he said without falter. The quartermaster grumbled sourly.

"She's barely conscious, though," Maccus continued calmly. "I saw her. Lashes won't do her any good."

The quartermaster heaved a troubled sigh. His nostrils flared in frustration.

"I'd say nearly dyin' is punishment enough," Maccus added. "Not to mention isolation."

"Isolation, my arse," the quartermaster muttered. "That ain't lashes."

"It may not be," Maccus conceded. "I tell you, she's barely alive down there. Lashes would be a waste o' time."

"Lashes ain't no such thing!" Jimmy Legs complained from below on the main deck. The quartermaster turned sharply to the man.

"You'll bite your damn tongue, you weevil!" he ordered, and Jimmy Legs went silent again. The quartermaster turned back to Maccus and huffed begrudgingly.

"Just this once," he growled. "If you says it ain't worth it, then it ain't." Maccus breathed.

"But it will be the next time she slips up," the quartermaster growled. "An' all it'll take is one foul move. That bitch has been askin' for it for far too long."

Maccus grunted in response and swallowed another grimace, turning to the rigging ties. This was absurd. He couldn't believe he'd just done that. He was falling to new lows by the minute. He couldn't keep doing this. He had promised himself that she would get off that ship. That was what she was after, and that was what he would secure. Nothing would get in her way. He had vowed that to himself, and he had meant it. But now he was protecting her. Now he was making this personal. He was going out of his way to protect her from things that she didn't need protecting from. Sure, she had suffered a blow from Sparrow's death, but she wasn't dying by any means. Lashes wouldn't hurt her too horribly at all. She could heal herself easily, quick as a flash. He was blatantly lying to his superior now. And for what?

"Well."

Maccus looked up. It was Palifico, arms crossed, eyes on him.

Maccus grumbled. "Well, what?" Palifico wasn't fazed.

"You know exactly what."

Maccus grunted. "Go ta hell."

"I've still got eighty five years to go, so don't rush me."

Maccus growled but didn't move. It was a standoff. And Palifico was far from stupid.

"What are you doing?" the coral asked him lowly. Maccus hesitated.

"I ain't gonna stand here—"

"Damn it, you're not fooling me, Maccus," Palifico muttered harshly, stepping close so that only he could hear. "An' if you're not foolin' me, you're not foolin' Jones either. Like fuck you whipped her. You've been smuggling fish to her damn cell."

"Then carry me to hell in a fucking handbasket, you tattlin' rigger. I'll go easy."

God, what was he saying?

"Jones'll make sure it ain't bloody easy and you know it."

Maccus held his tongue. He had already said too much.

Palifico sighed and turned away to tend to his chores. He paused after a few paces, turned his head halfway back to the first mate, and hesitated.

"Just be careful. That's all I'm gonna say."

Maccus turned away and crossed the ship. How in bloody hell Palifico knew he snuck fish down to her, he didn't know. But he was right. If Palifico knew about it, the captain most certainly knew about it. But that didn't help him make much sense of the whole thing. If Jones knew, why did he do nothing to stop it? Why did he let it all happen? Why did he allow such blatant insubordination to persist?

God, it was too much. This was becoming worse by the minute. Maccus had thought he would be able to just do it all in secret, that he could help her just enough to get her out alive. But now he was dragging himself into places he couldn't back out of. He was doing things that jeopardized his position, his very life. But why?

Was the fear of lashes becoming weaker? Did the pit of snakes not make him cower? Why was he able to stand firm in the face of damnation, in the face of imminent death, and still risk his whole existence for something as frivolous as love?

Did he love her?

Did the cat o' nines scrape away everything, flesh from bone, all to expose an empty man, a heartless beast, with nothing but a pathetic, clinging desire to love? What was he that made him terrified of death, surrendered completely to that fear, and yet, still willing to dive further, if only to see her walk free? What was it that made him forsake himself, his own freedom, wholly won over by her, all to let her walk away, off the face of his lonely world, never again to be witnessed in her full glory, never to return, never even to thank him for such a favor?

Was it the heart of a man?