Mihawk presses his seal firmly into the dollop of red wax and efficiently seals the envelope. He picks it up and looks at it closely, as if still seeing its tucked away contents in the faint glow of the dwindling candlelight. Satisfied, he rises from his wooden desk, and places the envelope within the safe hidden along the far wall of his bedchamber.

His affairs are now neatly in order; his wishes transcribed to be executed whenever death comes for him.

And it is coming, of that he is certain.

The thought, as strange as the effect may seem, etches a wistful smile upon his thin careful lips. Despite the lateness of the hour, he does not retire to bed, but instead, returns to his desk. He leans back against the velvet-cushioned embrace of the chair, and his eyes, once again catching the light from the nearby candle, burn brightly their eerie gold.

His fingertip traces the mostly smooth surface of the desktop. He thinks about storms and about the hunt. He thinks of youth, goals, and impertinence. He thinks about a moment of recognition, the arc of his sword, the surface of a deck stained red.

His finger finds what it has been seeking across the desktop, and and it pauses, before slowly tracing the cracked raise section of uneven surface with sensuous care.

He thinks of the deep scar formed across the proud stretch of chest, about the heart hidden beneath; its sometimes erratic beat. He closes his eyes and imagines that it calls to him, like a beacon, or a song, or like destiny.

His hand stills, and he lifts it carefully from the wooden raise. He pinches the wick of the candle, burned low but not finished, and goes to sleep patiently in the shadows.