Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not my property. It is owned by J.K Rowling and all characters belong to her.
In the endless flow of the river, the grey murky waters push us along. Sometimes swallow, sometimes feral and wild. They grasp at the untouchable path at their backs, hands reaching in despair. In front, the river storms angrily, roaring with desire for destruction. And under the pale twilight , the land remains barren, lifeless, cold…..
The boat rocks on, wood creaking with tension, it to feared for the inevitable. But what was the inevitable? The river pushed on, the surrounding area, persistent in image. Brown, grey, black were all that remained in this desolate land.
A small ember of flame rose ahead, burning brighter and brighter as the boat moved forward. It rage with sinister anger, red scarlet waves flashed in the black sky. Higher and higher it burned, heat beyond comprehensible. Yet the boat moved on, slowly, they rushed down, pace quickening. Embers sparkled out of the fire, dosing the river with prickles hidden with light. A lone ember landed on the boat, unnoticed by the riders. It burned viciously, smouldering the wood into brown ashes, it lashed out, and too late, the riders acknowledged the danger. It was too late…..
They went up in flames, a lone star in the endless pitch-black atmosphere, alone, isolate, forgotten.
Ashes scattered into the wind, turning into dust, then nothing.
And in the endless flow of the river, moved on….
Harry jolted straight up from his bed, his head throbbing like hammers upon a misshaped sculpture. Obnoxious snores rose beside him, echoing into the vast hall, the men deep into their pitiful slumber. How lifeless they seemed now, their enormous masses useless , and swinging in tangent with the feral sea. Percy groaned, and slumped back onto his back. The agonizing screams of his muscles, their dire need of rest. His hands flew off to the slide, his mind in a hazy blur. Fear forced him to find ground, but nothing was there.
Harry stiffed a yelp, his face flushing, though unseen in the dim mellow light emitted from the rusted lantern. He lurched around, the tied bed swinging viciously. His fingers brushed an adhesive strand of brown hair, slick with fluids unwashed for months.
The worn-down wood contributed to the putrid odour, though time would make a man used to it. The creaky, half rotten floor was dowsed in various liquids, some old, some new, some of rum , some were worse. The walls contained the same grim setting, and the sooty men with rugged, torn clothing completed the image.
He raised himself with his thin, bruised arms. He stepped off and landed on the wooden ground. He collapsed to one of his knees, pain singing in the marrows of his bones. He walked forward. Putrid, nauseous fumes grew stronger as he continued. It entered his nostrils, convulsions of rancid, foul air. The floors were stained with feverish yellow liquids. The rotten flesh of a putrescence rat lay on the ground. Harry plugged his nose with his hands, as his vision grew blurry, and he swayed on his feet. He finished, and left, grasping for breath.
The ship creaked and groaned occasionally, like a forgotten cannon, clouded with scarlet blood, rusted to its core. The constant lightning held no indication of the time, and the grasps of sleep tugged at him. Harry tried to fight back, but to no avail.
Back into the inky darkness he went.
"Rise and shine, ya low-born bastard." a gruff voice said, shattering the serenity, fragments of glass dispersing onto the ground.
Men grumbled beside him, and Harry opened his eyes.
The faint light shone onto the ground where the door opened. The dust, pollutants clearly visible floated in the air, lost without a purpose... A sea westward breeze penetrated the ship, thus the faint particles lurched, an uncontrollable ferocious animal trapped in despair inside a cage.
Harry tossed his feet to the side, dead masses of flesh, his bones ached in turmoil. Never-ending cycle of a single man, empaled inside rusted cage, flowing through an endless murky water.
The men dressed, and left some faster, some riddled with injuries: slower. Harry stood in silence, slowly putting on his clothes, brooding indifferently about the day. He was the last man that left, his scrawny limbs reaching up the stairs, his gaunt features highlighted by the fringe of sunlight.
The dining hall bustled with life. Men scrambled past each other, those with strong shoulders push aside the gathering crowd. Mouths opened for the fumes of repast filled the tight air. A look of frenzy and desire appeared on the men, though slightly concealed under a thick mask brought on by age. The younger members of the crew, stood in front, and older members fell in behind them. The barrier created by their bodies, much to unmovable by the elderly crew.
The dim noise of plates put on tables, and clanking of the pan under a blazing flame. The savoury smells of fresh eggs, marked the beginnings of a lengthy journey. The sizzling of oil was constant, and the mouths of the men watered. It could dowse an entire barrel with drool.
A man with a bald patch on the left side of his head grumbled aloud, "The younger crew never respect us, naive, imprudent bastards. They never learn any manners? ." His heavy frame spoke for itself, bulging out of the thin, tight clothing which fitted him years before. His white shirt, wrinkled and blotched with a variety of stains, covered by a strained brown jacket .His rustled blonde hair, above a cold, harsh countenance. A glint of envy and contempt flashed through his black eyes, his mouth quirked, as if sneering .Though he was by no means fat, as no lazy slob could survive on these seas.
Harry stood at the back, beyond the fog of animalistic instinct that lingered upon the men. His dark green eyes, sparkled like shattered marble, each a different vivd colour of emerald.
Harry clutched at his dagger, hidden within his belt. It had taken ages to sharpen, and refine the metal. The brown rust gave way to polished steel, a beauty in the mundane colours in the ship.
A gruff, short dwarfish man with a few tinges of brown hair made his way over. His hands swung with a bottle of bitter alcohol, "you alright?" He questioned in a gruff voice, his gaze sweeping across his body. "The captain needs to stop being such a condescending ass."
"Yeah, I've got to clean those wretched bathroom again!" He uttered, "his parents were pigs, they were."
The man, Tyran nodded in affirmation. "I feel sorry for ya, but it'll be over soon ya know?"
A shrewd grin lifted in his complexion. "Yeah."
He made his way over to the table which stood in front of all others. He sat down beside a slim figure, his black hair sweeping across his forehead. The man, Draco wore a dark harsh jerkin over a light shirt. His grey eyes, dimming in the proximity to a lantern.
In a piercing whisper, Harry leaned over and said into his pale ears, "It's time."
Draco whipped his head around, and glanced at him with wide-blown pupils. Harry nodded once again in confirmation, hunger forgotten in the face of .
The crooked, enormous machine groaned in exertion. The thousands of gears began to turn, the metal straining, the machine moved forward. And again, and again. The pace quickened, a shot of oil in the rising flames, it roared and raged, it burst into the colourless sky, a column of heat in the twilight.
Events now set themselves in stone. Elaborately sculpted, only waiting for the river of time.
Parallel with the rising sun on the horizon, where the sea was stuck in a persistent cycle of rotation. Rising high above a pompous ship, a black flag glimmered, black and sinister, like the depths of an abyss.
A white skull manifested in the middle, placing gruesome despair in the hearts of all sailors who dared see it.
It flowed in the wind, glorious like a Roman Standard carried by the Legions.
Drums of death began to beat.
Few Weeks ago...
"Ship spotted, on the east Captain!" One of the deckhands shouted. His figure hanging upon one of the heavy masts, attention focused on the telescope in his hands.
Crossing through the promontories, a ship appeared out of the ashen rocks of Corse. The greenery and vegetation of the Mediterranean , stood out like a prized possession above the cliff wall. No inhabitants lived upon the cliff walls, nor was there any port. The ship attempting to pass the straight, nevertheless oblivious to the Pirate ship. Perhaps it was the long wearisome journey from Turkey, and the near comfort of Spain. The Spanish ship, crept along, slowly, a weakened, heavy animal. Harry's crew sailed around this Corse, a predator waiting for its prey, and now it struck.
A stout, tall man stood at the helm of Harry's ship. His sleek, well-defined jerkin hang tightly against his frame. The well-toned muscles dignified. His face, resting the the dim sunlight, reflected off the sea, seemed cathartic. His wild black hair flowing loosely behind his head, his dark brown eyes glinted dangerously with lust. His chiseled face, weathered by years of rugged work, smoothened. A tinge of a smile appeared on his lips, and he bellowed, "To your stations!"
The men scrambled to their various posts, and Harry was no different. The distant ship became more visible, as the massive ship lurched starboard, its various cargo and barrels shuddered as they tumbled.
The Spanish flag flown high of the mass of the distant ship, and its bulky frame marked the clear signs of a frigate. The wood looked furnished and polished, a lustrous sword of the Spanish military. It tried to turn but the cargo, too burdensome for the ship to be maneuverable.
The Pirate ship sailed nearer to the frigate, the crew preparing to sail by. The Spanish tried to turn away in response, perhaps to run, or perhaps to open fire. The miniature figures of men rushed about on the red, and checkered ship, their sense of serenity burst. A puff of smoke, and roar of a cannon echoed from the Spanish men. The air whistled in friction, and the explosive rushed towards them.
A tall fountain of water showered the sea 30 metres on the left. Even with the massive, towering ship enclosing the Spaniards, they missed terribly.
The men beside Harry laughed, and their vicious smiles grew widely. Harry felt his dagger subconsciously.
"They're all inexperienced bastards! This be the easiest raid of my life!" one of the crew said, recklessly oblivious to anything but the frigate. Some of the crew grumbled in agreement.
"Stop standing there, and move your ass!" Bapistie, the captain bellowed.
The lone crew member cowered in fear, and fluttered aside. Harry would find out later his name was Gregory.
"Hey you, prepare to lower the sails now!" He yelled in the direction of a young, hollow man. "Hurry up you slacking bastard! NOW!"
He scurried to the mast, and with his face, strained with exertion, flushed red, veins flowing with blood. He lowered them alone ,in accordance with the wind and distance to the Spanish ship.
More splashes of water burst forth from the calm sea, desperate, despair. The spark of hope faded, and in the face of destruction, despair.
The Spanish ship seemed to sink in size as they got closer. The majestic colours worthless in front of the Royal Depths.
"Prepare to FIRE!" Bapistie ordered, his eyes narrowed on the Spanish ship.
The loud clasp of wood against wood rang throughout the ship, and cannons slid out. Harry drew his cutlass, the metal hissing from the scabbard. The other pirates did the same, the scorching adrenaline. Bounds of ropes, and blades of steel in their hands.
An eruption of noise flew from a lone cannon, a gloom of soft smoke swept into the wind. A warning shot, to the Spanish to surrender. Still, no movement came from them, perhaps they were paralyzed with fear, or steady and gallant even in impossible odds. Harry noticed a young sailor, his eyes hallowed out in defeat, his body unmoving. Fear filled his complexion, a dam broken beyond repair. It dispersed the naive thoughts of the world. He slumped onto the ground, the last ember of hope fell.
The Royal Depths soon almost covered their ship with its shadow, its murky black flags. The Spanish man were in tumult, screams of unobeyed orders, fear, pale corpses that breathed and blinked in their spots.
A dull echo reverberated through the ship, the weak out-dated weapons ineffective. The pirates scarcely noticed its presence. The rise and fall of the sea, made the crew indifferent to the movement. A hot, spark, with crimson red ruptured from the dark steel. The sinister explosive pulverizing the fragile wood in its path. Fragments of sharp, twisted iron flew from the force of gunpowder, penetrated flesh, bones and wood. A cruel painting of blood, gore, and snarled bones from living flesh. Screams of the forgotten, screams of the pain, hot and stifling, screams of the jovial times, lingering in the past.
The barrage continued, and the vivid slaughter grew mundane. The Spanish ships entire lower deck was gutted, beams of wood hanging limply in the soft sun, stained with scarlet.
"Montez a bord de leur bateau!" The order echoed throughout the ship, and bounds of rope hooked onto the other ship, and men pulled them together. Harry touched the handle of his dagger, now in its sheath and in reach.
The men boarded the frigate, swords glinting in the light, some stood aside, guns aimed. Harry boarded the Spanish ship one the very right, his sword calm in his hand. No men stood upon the deck, it was silent like a graveyard. His crew lowered their weapons, however greed burned even brighter in their eyes. Harry , like the rest of his crew, rushed towards the barrels and boxes. They were worn out from the erosion of sea water, but endured. They were heavy and rough. The captain barely spared a look at them, and made his way to below deck, upon which the valuable cargo probably resided. Harry stabbed into the top of the barrel, and a bitter fume shot up. A pile of gunpowder rested in the barrels. Its ashen particles dissipating from the wind. Harry looked around, and cut the top off another barrel. It too, was filled with gunpowder. Realization dawned upon him, and he stepped back, a psychological barrier rooted him in his spot.
A war cry rose from his right, just out of the captains cabin.
A mass of silky blonde hair manifested out of his black tricorne, his eyebrows arched in anger and confidence . He wore a pompous suit, embroidered with golden streaks and buttons on top a pearly white cloth. His robust arms carried a fine sword, the sparkling jewels in the reflection from the sea.
"MEN!" He roared, "It is time for us to fought against these cruel savages who have boarded our fine ship! It is time for us to represent our glorious country! It is time to not only save our ship, but also for the freedom of the country we live in! Show your PRIDE!, Show YOUR HONOUR, SHOW YOUR COURAGE!"
The rest of his crew, too absorbed in their barrels cast out these foreign syllables, now looked up in confusion. Harry strained his ears, and mind, in an attempt to understand. The pace of the Spanish blurred the words, though he managed to understand.
From the Cabin, around 30 men, dressed in luxury charged out. The furnished swords and pistols dancing in the light, the sun lowering behind them. They rushed down the stairs towards the temporarily blinded pirates, and they collapsed in dashes of ruby red blood.
He shouted, "These Spanish idiots are attacking!" But the abundance of noise drowned him out. He ducked behind a grouping of barrels, and snarled to his crew. "Get the bloody captain NOW!"
A small crew member heard him and sprinted below deck. The rest of the men struggled to regroup, and the lines broke. The radiating dagger cut through the men, and its leader on a rampage. Buckets of blood spilled onto the deck, screams of pain, bangs of guns shattered the air. Harry still rested in his cover, observing the battle.
Bapistie appeared, and the leader of the Spanish, objective clear slashed his way towards him. The men that fought with him, slowly drifted off into their own battles. His white jerkin, now streaked rivers of blood. Many men died under his unrelenting assault, a gaping wound in his arm didn't stop him, a blow to the leg didn't either. Bapistie in his sight, shocked.
The Spanish captain raised his pistol.
BANG
The single bullet assailed from its barrel, its metal spinning, the billow animated with frosty flame.
He fell onto the ground, suffocating with his own blood, face caved with fear, pain, and shock.
His white jerkin torn with a rupture, his pure silken blood spilling on the deck. He withered, but the thundering storm weakened. Dark gloom subsided into grey skies. Silent, empty, gone.
Harry reloaded his gun without a second of remorse. His captain glanced at him, and nodded his head in gratitude. Harry lifted his dagger slightly out of its sheath.
The Spanish captain lay dead. The edge of the dagger, blunt. Bapistie, regained his senses, and fought back. The pirates's vigour showed his savage face. Harry fired again, and a body slumped down, dead.
The Spanish fell. Their bodies crashing onto the deck, creating a beat. The lyrics, replaced by senseless screams. A symphony of death.
Harry fired again, but in the heat of battle, had no time to reload. He lashed his cutlass in an arc, cutting through men. Their blood flashing on his sword.
A young member of the crew incorrectly judged his footing, and stumbled into a pole on his right. He retreated backwards, but fell. The Spanish saw his opportunity and lurched forward.
CLANG
Harry's blade stopped the swing. The Spanish man, retreated backwards. Harry stood rooted, and lifted his sword in front, his left foot backwards. Harry focused his eyes into the grey pupils. Exhaustion swirled around them. The Spanish man's dark hair plastered onto his forehead. His lineaments, wrinkled but stern in manner. He lashed out his sword, like fangs from a viper.
Harry parried it to the right. His enemies sword arm halted, as the tip chipped against the mast. Harry struck, thrusting forwards into the open chest. It penetrated an invisible body made air.
The Spanish man darted to his right, and stabbed forward. Harry side-stepped his attack and swung downwards with both hands. He met fierce resistance, and the obnoxious scarping of metal. The song of life and death continued in his melodic flow, each person unbreakable in their guard.
Still, all things come to an end, And this song's credence approached.
Harry's arms felt heavier, and his strikes less ferocious. But the Spanish man never faltered. Harry stepped back, his primal instinct pumping in his blood, urging him to retreat. He shifted his body clockwise, and showed the flat side of his blade. The gleam of the reflection, blurred his opponents eye, but his blows , accurate. Harry miscalculated, his flat blade unable withstand force. The Spanish's blade fell downwards, a radiant meteor in the sky.
It hit the flat of Harry's blade, and his grip loosened. The Spanish pressed downwards, and Harry's two hands bended painfully under exertion. His wrists twisted to such a degree, searing him with desolation.
He let go at last, clanging onto the deck. The muted clashes of battle chimed in his ears, and no one went to his aide. He swept his eyes across the black face of Thanatos, and smiled.
The sharp metal penetrated his soft flesh, fracturing his bones. He went limp.
Harry smiled as he held the crumbling man. His right hand dripped with hot crimson blood, protruding a dagger. Harry tossed the body aside, and sighed.
The Spaniards grouped near the captains quarters, surrounded on all sides by 'monstrosities'.
One by one, they dropped their swords. They hands, empty above their heads. They knelled down, abashed. Tears sprinkled some of their eyes, and plattered on the wood.
The Captain walked over towards them, and spat over them. He beckoned the young man Harry just saved, "Tie them up, and store them in spare cargo holds. Fetch me a bottle of rum while you're at it." The young man obeyed, and left.
Harry stared at the mass of prisoners that lay captive on board, the Spanish frigate barely holding itself together. The bitter smoke from the gunpowder resided in the air. Not even the salty mist from the sea could tear the fumes apart.
Delusion, paranoia, fear, doted in the beating hearts of men. Flowing like melodies in their bones, muscles, blood. It was cold, as cold as the waters of the Atlantic, wreathing in dissonance of a broken song. In the endless abyss, sylphs from the burning mazes of hell brought light. Swords forged from lava and core's of the sun, in a tint of devious red.
"A song of Ice And Fire"
George RR Martin
AUTHORS NOTE:
The first passage is not a foundation for the story at all. Rather, it speaks out against humanities self-destruction of Earth. How pollution, war, and consumerism will lead us into an inescapable hell. The river represents time.
The end passage is part of the story however.
If you need any further explanations, feel free to ask.
Also, this story will deal with profanity and gore, proceed with caution.
Thanks.