The Stow Away

Ignashus, or Iggy as he was known to the crew, didn't complain, much. Though his origins were far from humble, he embraced the humility in the life he had recently chosen, and the hardships inherent to a life at sea. It was simple. He found it hard to fuck up worse than it already was.

Joining their band of misfits on a whim, a prayer, was as horrifying as it was exhilarating. His hand in the calloused strong grip of the pirate, his well-muscled arms too strong to fight against but too defined to ignore, he wanted to scream in both panic and joy, for before him and his sad blue eyes, nothing had ever made Iggy feel before. Not like that.

Since the initial thrill of it all, his life had once again settled into a monotonous cycle, as it had been in Tyrosh. The gruff and grizzled gallant assured him the world, but had yet to fulfill his promises.

After being brought aboard to much pomp, he'd been little more than a laborer, damn near a slave. His accommodations were offensive. The food was awful. The company not much better, and a week ago, he was sent over to a new boat they had commandeered, under the Captainship of a new captain with a skeleton crew of no one he had ever even spoken with before. Terrax was a large ship, and many of the more seasoned men kept to themselves. It had been lonely there. This heap was lonelier, like he was a ghost unseen.

He had much to complain about, but still kept quiet, for he was not one to complain. This was what he wanted after all, wasn't it? This was the adventure his young heart felt it needed.

He at least hoped for the thrill of it, like the songs and stories. That, it seemed, was also to be a disappointment. Though he wished for the chance at battle, his superiors forbade it. Once they'd learned who he truly was, there was nothing for them to do but protect him and return him safely. Otherwise, they'd be the ones in danger, and that was not something Ignashus or Iggy wanted, despite having to patiently wait out each reaving, chaperoned, unable to see or feel the action his soul felt desperate to taste. That hunger of danger and living left ever panging deep in his chest and gut.

Apparently, the battle tonight had been a tough one. Fun for the elder crewmates and a horrific lesson for the greener ones. When he raced down to greet the victorious reavers, he thought there'd be more glory in it.

All he could see were frowns and blood. Bodies and blood. Mostly blood. The most he had ever seen.

Ignashus had never labored a moment in his life previously. He had been praised for his sharp wit, but had never had to put it into such physical application. The slight youth gave every honest attempt at learning to sail, but every shout of, "Main the stays!" or, "Draw the line!" were met with ill attempts at faking the necessary knowledge, and even poorer attempts at physically managing the tasks even when he was aware of what to do.

As the boys said, he, "sucked at sails and ships." They weren't wrong. Even he could see that.

So, he was assigned to clean up. A job even Iggy couldn't foul up further. His role was to rid the boat of the dirtiest and muckiest of muck, from either the asses, dicks, and mouths of the crew, or even worse things like the aftermath of the fight. Though none of the fights previous were as bloody as this. Ignashus had never seen brains before. Iggy, it seemed, had always known them, their pink folded flaps of flesh as common a sight as a smile aboard a pirate ship. It had been an adventure indeed.

He missed the nostalgia of home more than he missed any of it really. He hated his home as much and more as the boat. For all that he hated, what he loved here was his freedom, despite his seeming indentureship. He enjoyed the different minds of all he encountered and experienced, from the most basic and blunt giving him little more than discourtesy and malice, to the most exotic and queer, teaching him things about this world books could never fully explain.

It was as beautiful as it was disgusting. All men of a different linen, their stories all as different as their looks, all intertwined in the patterns they best fit to form this unique tapestry of humanity, woven by this charismatic and beautiful woman, a rogue in every sense of the term, and the only one fit to unite this crew. The whole idea of it all, even in its failures, was enough to keep him hopeful and bright.

There were those that offered fellowship, almost in a way that felt like pity, but was welcome all the same. The boy Lio was always the sweetest to him, probably the most like him amongst this crew of misfits and exiles, other than the bed slaves that had joined with him, that was.

The rest that had never even uttered a word, barely noticed him, save the glance he'd catch from a fair eyed man ever so often. Even his partner in cleaning before he was separated to the other boat, Emmet, had little and less to say to him, even to just pass the time cleaning excrement.

A stone-cold silent bloke, Iggy knew less of the man he spent most of his time within arm's reach of than he knew of the Queen herself. A time or two Iggy tried to start conversation, making common cause of the shitty situation they first found themselves in months ago, when he was first assigned to his duties with the silent Stone. "Damn birds coulda shit a few feet further and we'd have naught to do but sit, eh?" Iggy asked, feigning a bit of a drawl to hide the etiquette in his speech.

The man simply nodded, grunted, and smiled. Which was all he seemed to do while working.

Whether simple or just resigned from life, Emmet never faltered, remaining as cold and as still as stone for every bit of banter he tried to bring up. Until Iggy stopped trying, that is, and they just went about their business, cleaning up the shit of the ship in silence.

Tonight was the first time he had seen Emmet since he was sent to the Alroh. Iggy waved with his mop hand to the man, hoping to at least elicit a small smile from his partner. Emmet gave a nod, which wasn't a total loss, and pointed to the deck of the other ship. Even the Silent Stone, it seemed, preferred to be alone than to be with Iggy.

He waded through the crowds still filing back into their chambers, most in the direction he was needed, back towards Terrax. Fighting with his frail arms to keep his bucket from spilling on the fighting men, Iggy found himself caught in a standstill, forced to brace himself against the oncoming warriors pushing passed him as if he were no more than a bust on the deck, wooden, of course, and worn, or any one of them might have even glanced to see him as they passed.

Battle worn doublets and breeches smeared into his clothes in red streaks, the bits of foes collecting on him as he stood as still as he could, though it took all of the little strength he had to keep from barreling over with each slight bump. They were all taller, wider, and bigger. Every one of them, to a man, is stronger than me. It was hard to feel more alone.

Eventually regaining his step, he trudged on, trying to keep up with the pace of the crowd. His bucket began to sway, the level of the water nearly splashing out, but as small of a victory as it was each time, the determined young man managed to keep even a drop from escaping.

Until he reached the rail.

Though the boats had settled in closer, the men tying the new boats to each other, to the Terrax, and Alroh, creating a floating tiny town atop the middle of the sea, the boats rocked with each passing wave and were hard to step onto. Iggy tried to time his chance right, keeping in mind the motion of the waves beneath, straining with the might he had to manage it without help.

His hesitation however caused the men behind him, tired and sore from battle, to jeer.

"C'mon! Do it."

"Now," they kept yelling.

"We haven't all night, lad."

"Aw, for fuck's sake."

"Now!"

His composure shaken, he succumbed to their demands, the pressure behind him building with the physical bodies accumulating and the mental stress of their jeers, until he just closed his eyes and leapt.

When his first foot landed, he struggled mightily to pull the rest of his body aboard, off balance from the mop in his one hand and the bucket in the other. He stumbled as the deck shifted beneath him, and as he tried to gain his balance without dropping either tool, his thin body crashed into another.

The bucket spilled and the boy toppled, most of the dirty water splashing into Iggy's fallen face. The rest, coating Xanadu Kafka's beautiful feathered and gemmed vest with a film of filth.

His dark face beat darker, and his eyes seethed in anger. The Summer Islander looked down on the fallen man, at first, his bent brow and strained neck poised to scold him, until he saw Iggy's straight black hair plastered over his eyes and to his forehead. Xanadu's expression softened a bit, or enough to offer a hand to the newcomer.

Iggy grabbed his wrist and felt the strength in the man's arms as Xanadu pulled his body off the deck like a feather for his fashion. "A shame you're forbidden, friend, or I'd find an interesting way to rebuke you for such an act as that. This vest was worth more than your mother'd be for a year." His bright white smile stretched sinisterly, almost to the point that Iggy could see pleasure in it.

All he couldn't say, his wet hair covering his eyes, was, "I'm sorry, My Lord. I'm sorry."

He grunted and turned, his steps graceful and grandiose, like where he was from, he was important.

Some would say I'm important.

Not here I'm not.

After gathering himself, his mop, and his bucket, to the chorus of cackles from the crew, he proceeded to the front of the boat, the bow? he thought, to fetch more water. As he finally pushed passed the crowd and could see the group of them from outside of it, he saw the pirate. They were all bloody pirates, but his pirate, unmistakable in his armor, unafraid of a watery grave.

For a moment, Iggy's mouth stretched open to yell out to him, but as he did, the Queen's eyes caught his, her purple gaze immediately on him as soon as he thought to break his vow. I'm not to speak with him she said. And since she'd said it, he'd obeyed. He'd rather cross almost anyone than her, for as sweet and fun as she seemed, he had seen her darkness, and it was as black as pitch at midnight.

His head sunk, forced away by the Queen's steely stare, and focused back on his work. The bleedin' mess of mush and muck that was the deck of the new ship. A ship he'd clean on his own, according to the wishes of his simple-minded partner.

What does that make me?

It was mindless work, once the rush of bodies was through to the Terrax. Dip, mop, dip, mop, squeeze. He could do it, and it was important too. They'd want to feast and drink and revel, and without his integral responsibilities executed, there would be no food and no fun. Or at least that's what he told himself as he dumped the torn and lifeless bodies of the fallen. Dropping them each into the drink, one limp flopping body at a time.

He began amusing himself as he threw them in, watching how each body fell, flailing uncontrollably into the sea, sometimes bouncing off the hull of the ship on the way. It made him chuckle when they'd splat onto the top of the water, smacking it like a flat hand. It reminded him of the games he'd played as a youth with his cousins, frolicking in the water gardens before life became a task to toil over.

Once the deck was cleared of corpses and their remains, he figured he'd better take a look below deck, just incase the fighting made its way there too. While still up top, he dumped his water bucket, its contents more blood than sea, probably a tantalizing lure for the sharks in the area, and pulled back up fresh briny, foamy seawater, salty enough to cut through any bloodstain.

He hobbled to the stairs, so close to completion, he began to feel excited for what the night might bring. As he began to lower his foot onto the first step down, he heard voices from below. They sounded like women or girls, which couldn't have been any of the crew, so it must've been the ones they'd kept alive.

Before continuing down, innate curiosity compelled him to listen. They were speaking Lyseni, it sounded, and their voices seemed hushed, as if their words were something to hide.

"I'm not tied as good as Missy, but I ain't gettin' free on me own," a soft voice said, her hushed whisper still loud enough to make out.

"I'll never break free of the shackles neither," a gruff man's voice sounded as quiet as his growl could go.

"Guess we'll wait for Penny."

Before they could say another word, he lost control of his balance, leaning down the steps to hear more clearly, and almost falling onto his face when he couldn't place his second foot down.

"Quiet, now. Someone's coming," a different voice, a female voice, said.

Iggy waddled down the stairs, turning twice to fully descend the tight wooden staircase, holding the mop handle up to allow its length to make the turns. When he reached the bottom, the belly of the holding area of the galley, he saw a behemoth of a man caged and shackled in the middle of the cleared area, two younger women not much older than girls tied to each other around a supporting beam, and a pudgy elder man with a round balding head curled into himself in the corner, his hands and ankles bound with thin lazily tied rope. He immediately looked the least threatening, and upon every quick glance of examination, continued to appear so.

Iggy stood there for an awkward moment, unsure of what to do or say. The pause began to fill with the tension and curiosity of the prisoners, themselves staring back at him in their own silences. He thought to try and speak to them from a position of strength, interrogating them with, "What do you think you're doing down here?" or some tough guy shit.

He managed to say, "Hello, I'm Iggy."

"The fuck you are then, Iggy," she said, as intimidating as the huge man. She was either an old girl or a young women, her face hard to see in the dim light. She had a burnt look to her skin that wasn't dark for where she was from as much as what she did. Her hair was a mess, disheveled and frayed. Iggy wanted so badly to comb it for her, but feared he'd lose a hand if he offered.

He didn't know what to say, or what to do with his awkward body, frozen in his place, like the same bust on the deck, but this time, all the eyes were on him and heavily awaiting his next move. The pressure of their stares was almost as intimidating as the Summer Islander's threat, though, there was no silly excitement to it. None at all. This was as real as he'd tasted.

Worst of all, they were all bound, even the pudgy man, and he was still, at the end of the day, the least dangerous one in the room.

"Well, fuck off, then, Iggy," the other girl said. She was shorter than the first to speak, and might have been younger as well, but he couldn't tell with the amount of dirt on her face. Her hair was longer and darker, but her skin was fairer. They seemed to have been from or going to the same place, for their garb was almost identical. As he looked at it, it was pretty plain, "drab drub", he might have said as Ignashus. But the desperation they wore seemed as dangerous as any weapon. "The fuck's wrong wicha? Your mum drop you on yer damn head or somethin'?"

In fact, his mother never held him much as a babe. It was the wetnurse that would have dropped him if someone did, and if she had, no one thought Ignashus was worth telling about it, if it did happen anyway.

"I'm fine. Heads good," his lips managed to form with all the courage he could muster. "What's your stories, then, huh? I'm sure they're fine ones." He said, taking a deep breath afterward. He wasn't brave enough to use his wit as most would, but he was still smart enough to use his useless and nonthreatening appearance to his advantage. Maybe they'll just let something slip to me they'd keep guard of before a threat. Maybe I could show some usefulness.

The man in the cage turned his head, keeping his tall broad, hairy, and muscled bare back to the crowd as if he only meant to see what the girls would do. No one in the room seemed to care or even as much as notice the other man, who still hadn't been visible enough to involve himself.

"We're no more than mere maids, we," the intimidating one said, smiling coyly as if she was keeping a secret. "They say we're not pretty enough to be whores, so we clean their kitchens and rooms, like you do."

"They tell us we're not pretty enough to whore while they fuck us," the other girl said, her tone and expression not nearly as cheerfully frightful as the other. She looked defeated, and her cheek had the notch of a scar in the shape of a dagger.

The man turned, the shackles clang nearly knocking Iggy over when he heard it. He stared at the girls and shook his face as he bit down, clenching the teeth in his squared and thick jaw in a look that frightened Iggy to even witness. Then, he turned, attacking the bars of his cage, grabbing the bars white knuckled and fierce, the smash and bang from the chains around his wrists almost made Iggy soil himself, and then he roared, "Fuck off!"

Iggy's feet took flight before his mind could even think to try to stop them. By the time he thought of courage, he was four steps up, the bucket and mop dropped down to the floor, still rolling and bouncing off the cold wet boards of the ship's belly.

Dammit. Now, I have to slink back down there in my shame and retrieve them.

Fuck it. They're all but helpless in their restraints. What's a mop and a bucket going to do?

With the shame as heavy on his shoulders and heart as the fear that still propelled him, he climbed the stairs with haste and out of breath. He was shaking when he reached the deck, and sat. What did he think he was doing anyway? What, it was to be I they send for their interrogations? No. I'm just built for this shit he thought, looking at the ship he was assigned. It was clean, for the most part, or as clean as a frail young man could get the scene of a battle with a bucket of seawater and a piss poor excuse for a mop.

He stood, urging himself to feel pride. He was assigned a task he alone was responsible for, and had done it. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't manage a smile. With his head down, and the guilt of the mop and bucket below, he drudged back to Alroh to change for the evening.

Walking back, he passed where he had spilled the water on the Summer Islander. That moment, as awful as it was, he felt alive. That vest was ever too nice for me to have done that to it, but even in rage he seemed magnificent.

Below deck, near the prisoners, he failed. He failed miserably at anything one could consider his purpose even walking down there. But I did. I walked down there.

Ignashus would never dare speak to such strangers, not without a guard present. Iggy was trying to become someone more than Ignashus was ever going to be allowed to be.

He wasn' t yet there, not by a long way.

But he tried. In failing, he still tried.

And he finally smiled.