A/N: You should not need to read my current WIP Voyage of the USS Thunderbird to understand this story, as this is a separate one-shot simply set in the same universe. For this AU, the Tracy brothers are all officers on the USS Thunderbird, a merchant ship that sails the seas in the later 1700s.
Port of Eden, 1776 – a Thursday
For a town named Eden, the jagged shoreline up New England in what was the Massachusetts Bay territory boasted more mountainous rock than it did verdant gardens. Past the crags and the low hills, dense forest swathed the land in pine, spruce, maple, and ash, all grown thick, unruly, and uncultivated.
Inland, she was still as wild as she was on the shore, even with the splattering of local settlements along the rivers. Fishing was robust, lumber was in easy supply, and the townsfolk had even started agricultural trading with their allies.
It made Eden and her neighboring villages highly contested among the peoples of this land for her vigorous resources alone. Just half a day's journey nor'east was the trading post along the Machias river, where last year local patriots had captured the HMS Margaretta, and a few months later their prize landed their homes razed under the incensed, retaliatory fire of four British ships.
Though, to be fair, the HMS Margaretta had been intending to bring supplies to the Loyalist troops under siege in Boston, and Patriot ideals this far North were both passionate and pervasive. The ire may have had more to do with that than the resources of the region. But, if the British ever did manage to overtake some of the land, it would be a huge hit to the Colonies.
The nearby lumber also made the towns ideal as centers of shipbuilding – and ship repair. That was why the Thunderbird was docked in Eden in the first place after a brief run-in with the British along the coast landed one well-placed cannonball to the Thunderbird's portside.
As a merchant ship, they'd only carried cotton and fruits, but the British didn't know that.
While Alan, their young gunner, had fired back, likely completely missing the ship at that distance, Scott had them re-route and head to friendly waters where they'd get back up if, for some reason, the ship decided to pursue. It hadn't – the warning shot had been just that – but it left a hole in their bird's side that was a glaring safety hazard, even if it wasn't crippling.
The Thunderbird still had her speed. But they'd learned not to take safety concerns lightly ever again. For weeks before Gordon's accident, the foremast yard had been tilting. They hadn't fixed it then because doing so would've taken them off course completely, and it had seemed so small. Gordon had paid the price, even as careful as he always was when it came to rope and sails and the oak of her foundations. It was the first time the sea had taken something from him. And in doing so, it took something from them all, a spark that would never quite be the same again.
But Gordon endured, and Virgil was thankful they still had their light-hearted boatswain with their crew, even if the lilt in his song resonated through the sails with just a bit more intensity than it did before.
The subject of his thoughts groaned beside him as frigid water streamed through the bed of rocks under his back. Virgil had settled himself on a large rock nearby for the purposes of keeping his sketchpad dry as he drew the outline of the warbler flittering among the stones a few feet away. The side of Virgil's palm was smeared with the dark color of the graphite rod in his left hand, and it had managed to spread to his cheeks sometime during the transposition of the small sea bird onto the page.
As focused as he was on his work detailing the feathers, Virgil peered in Gordon's direction at the wounded noise. The sound of the waves echoed strongly along the pebbles and smooth sea rock of the beach here as they rolled and pressed over each other, so very different from the rush of water over the grainy, warm sands of the South. And yet Gordon's pain could cut through rock.
"M'okay," he breathed gently with the ebb of the water as it took to the sea. Then as it came back, he said it again. "I'm okay."
Virgil's pencil stopped mid-shade as the warbler took flight up into the air, then out of sight over the rocks above.
"I'll believe that when you stop scaring away the birds," he responded. He tucked his sketchpad into the pocket of his satchel and jumped down from the rock to check on his brother, frowning when his voice caused a shock to run through Gordon's shoulders as if he'd forgotten Virgil was there. His words, then, had been to convince himself and not in fact directed to the ship's Doctor. That told Virgil all he needed. "Let me help?"
He quickly dipped his hands at the water line to scrub at the graphite on his hands before returning to where Gordon was laid flat.
"I've just gotten a bit stiff," Gordon shared as Virgil probed at his sides.
"Mhmm." He dug through his satchel for the tin of salve that would bring Gordon some relief, then helped him turn onto his stomach. He pried the damp shirt from his back, lifting it up towards his shoulders so he could get better access to the cool, tender area. Earlier, they'd taken a dip into the sea, and Gordon's skin was still a little blue from the chill.
At first Gordon hissed under Virgil's touch, the doctor in him still feeling for signs of healing (or lack thereof). Eventually Gordon relaxed as Virgil continued to massage the ointment into his lower side, the heat from Virgil's hands warming the area.
"You've definitely had enough cold therapy," Virgil said. The water had been his idea, to aid in his brother's recovery. But pulling Gordon from the sea was like forcing John to bed when the stars were falling, and so Gordon had stayed – to feel connected, he'd said – for much longer than Virgil had realized. "Did today help, though?" He asked.
"A bit, yeah," came the muffled response.
"Get your face out of your sleeve, Gordon. And give me a real response."
"Sorry, Chief," Gordon responded, eyes looking bright as Virgil packed the tin of salve back into his satchel. "About a three now."
Virgil didn't believe that for a second, but it was progress from the morning. He helped him pull back to his knees, which stretched his back out, and Virgil's hand came back damp where he'd touched the material of Gordon's shirt.
"We should really get these wet clothes off of you now."
Gordon nodded in agreement, wresting the rest of the wet, white linen over his head. Virgil had already changed, his previous set of breeches and his linen shirt drying on the same large rock where he'd been sketching. Gordon's spare set was still folded among the rocks as well, resting on top of a second satchel. And propped up beside the pile was a cane. It was simple, hand-crafted by John under the watchful eye of the stars. It was made of wood from the exact yard that had broken and sent Gordon in free fall towards the quarterdeck. John was resourceful like that, and well, Gordon, he appreciated the poetry of it all. Virgil recognized the necessity of it, but he didn't have to like it.
He'd intended to step away just for a moment to grab his brother's personal effects, but Gordon had other ideas.
"Careful of those barnacles, Virgil. They can really cut into skin." The voice came from almost right behind him, and this time Virgil jumped, not realizing Gordon had followed him.
It made him stumble.
"Virgil! What did I just say?" For someone who pretended their pain was at a three when it was really a five, Gordon was still quite agile, catching Virgil under the arm to steady him.
Virgil made sure Gordon made it to the other side of the rock before turning around to give his brother the privacy of changing. After a few minutes, Gordon re-emerged drier and looked a good deal warmer. Though, he still managed to fling moisture everywhere, bowing his head then wildly raking his hands through his hair to shake off the rest of the salty sea.
"Did you want to start heading back?" Virgil asked when he finished up.
"What? No," Gordon responded quickly. He glanced up at the sun through the clouds. "I've just laid my clothes out. Plus we've barely been here, and you wanted to draw today too. Let's go meet a sea friend."
He didn't want to admit it (and he would've done whatever Gordon requested), but Virgil had wanted to stay on the pebble beach longer. Though they all had their down time when in port, Virgil had been pulled in many directions of late between his duties as a brother, doctor, and second-in-command. Scott had given him a rare morning off from his other responsibilities, even though they heard tell the day before that the town was sitting on an overage of a mis-delivered rum shipment.
The deal was an important one, and negotiating a reasonable price was key. The rum that was sitting around the warehouse could sell at significant return for them in the ports of France. But it needed to make enough of a profit for Scott to agree to the Thunderbird's first voyage across the sea, considering the risks associated and the costs that would come from stocking up for the trip.
In the end, they had the opportunity to help the town and the Thunderbird had the money to take it off their hands. Virgil knew when Scott left with John that morning for discussions with the town leaders that his mind had been made up already.
It was apparent to him as left with Gordon that morning that this time in port might be the last for a while, so Virgil was grateful that Scott had given him the morning. John was better support for Scott in business deals anyway. Virgil still had ship watch later though. It was Alan's shift on board that morning, and Virgil was due to take over for the afternoon shift.
He still had some time before the sun reached high noon, and Gordon seemed equally as eager to stay on the shore. The bosun grinned back to meet his brother's smile.
"Okay, let's stay. You're not too cold?"
"No. Just come over this way, I saw some stars earlier."
Gordon led him to a tidepool where there were more than just starfish – still there were the ever-prominent barnacles, but also sea crabs and snails. Virgil knew better than to touch the creatures, worried he might hurt them, but his fingers itched to explore. Instead, he occupied himself with drawing out the sketch of the scene. Instead of drawing each creature on its own page with his observations noted below as was the standard for his Naturalist journal, he opted to sketch the pool itself, under the watchful eye of his warbler on the previous page.
Since the tidepool was still close to the shore, Gordon had the good sense to perch on a rock to avoid the water this time, his gaze drawn out towards the horizon where he sat, giving Virgil the space to observe and document.
"Hey, these two starfish seem like the same species, except one has five arms and the other has four."
Without needing to look, Gordon answered him, "They are the same."
"Really?" As he spoke, Virgil filled in the details around the lines he'd drawn on the page.
"Mhmm. The number of arms can vary, I believe. And there's a theory that they can actually grow their arms back because they can uh -" he waved his hand, "shed appendages too."
"Is that for real?"
Gordon shrugged. "Aye. In truth I am not sure anyone has studied it much," he admitted. "Which is a shame because imagine the possibilities. But I definitely feel like it's real. I don't see why it wouldn't be. Once saw a little red fella in the Caribbean with four arms and a little nub. Named him Finn. Do you think you have any books in your library about it?"
"It makes sense to me. We can always check the Systema when we get back on the ship to see if its documented. I think they're under vermes." The Systema Naturae, a Swedish naming classification book they'd picked up in Boston had reshaped how they understood the world around them. Virgil shook his head. "There's so much we just don't understand. That's why I do this." He gave his book a small wiggle.
Watching from above, Gordon grinned down at him. "Well, we're never in one place long enough to really observe. But that doesn't mean we can't still learn from them. Can you just imagine what's under the sea we haven't explored yet?"
He could imagine all sorts of things. Virgil had heard tales of sailors following the siren's call, the dangers of the creatures of the deep. They were often included in his songs, and he'd pass the stories he'd heard from port to port. Sometimes, it all seemed a bit far-fetched, but then again, so did the possibility of growing new arms. Gordon was thinking about it too as he scanned the waves. And in the relaxed smile, Virgil knew his brother wasn't looking for life – he felt it.
The sun shone through a break in the clouds, their rays meeting the sparkle in Gordon's brown eyes. It was cold still, even through their jackets, but the sun felt warm against their faces.
It was Gordon looking over the sea reflectively, all his talk about feeling connected, and that innate knowing that he seemed to have that compelled Virgil to keep his attention directed towards his brother.
With a turn of the page the warbler and the tidepool disappeared. Lines were drawn – the barnacled rock, slightly wet but windswept hair, Gordon's silhouette looking out to sea, the rays of the sun meeting his gaze and the sea like a blessing.
"So, any creatures in there growing back limbs? What about your four-armed friend?"
Virgil glanced up from his drawing, his curious eye searching the shallow water. "Not that I can see."
"Ah. Shame."
He stood and stretched, turning the page back to the previous spread and added a few mini-sketches at the corners like a border as he walked the length of the pool.
"Wait." He stopped at the opposite edge. "There's a three-armed starfish over here. Different species, I think, if you want to have a look."
Gordon jumped down eagerly from his rock and bounded over. Virgil watched him carefully.
"Virgil," he breathed. "Look!" He pointed inward a bit towards where another two arms were connected just to each other but seemed just as filled with life as the rest. "Can I -?"
Virgil recognized the fluttering in his fingers and offered his sketch book and the wood-cased graphite pencil. Gordon didn't have the same level of art skill, but he'd always shown an aptitude for capturing the essence of the creatures they found. His lines were not as well defined, definitely not as shaded, but he always seemed to know what was the most important to draw. Virgil trusted him with his artbook; he always had.
Gordon thanked him, flipped the page, and found himself.
He was careful not to touch the lines along the page. "Damn. Were you just going to hide that, Chief?"
"No. It just wasn't done."
"Hmm. You know - I wonder what you'd be able to do with color." In truth, Virgil had always itched to try paints. This was more portable, less expensive, and a little easier to manage between curing his brothers' ailments, and filling in for Scott when necessary, and coordinating their storage space and resources. Even with having his own reserved four walls aboard – his medical cabin – Virgil's hobbies were compact and transportable.
"Just draw those starfish, Gordon."
Gordon's hand was already flying across the page. "Sea Stars," he said. "They don't feel like fish. They don't feel like vermes either."
They left at the first sign of the tide coming in. The main village was not a far walk, but it would take them a bit to make the return journey. He'd offered to hold onto Gordon's satchel as well, but the younger man insisted on carrying his own belongings, even if the alternative would've given him better control of his balance. He relied on the cane a bit more than Virgil would've liked, but it did help give him a bit more stability over the rocky terrain.
"I'd like to – put in an order - for a new back please?" He panted between words.
"One new back coming up," Virgil retorted, taking the hint to stop for a moment at the top of the hill and give Gordon the time to catch his breath and stretch out his muscles. "Are you okay to keep going? We aren't far now."
He could see the docks in the distance where the Thunderbird rested in port, her sails tied up for the time being.
"Of – course," Gordon affirmed, leaning heavily on the cane. "Let's keep going. And no, I still don't need you to carry my bag."
"I didn't say anything."
"You didn't need to, doc."
They moved slowly down the rest of the hill, small stones trailing with them where Gordon shuffled forward. Once they reached the bottom of the hill, they started to see the townsfolk bustling about their day-to-day lives between buildings.
Gordon straightened his back as they came into greeting range, and while he kept his cane, he held it parallel to the ground and useless in his grasp. His expression was cheerful as he waved to respond to the friendly townsfolk that remembered them from their visit so far.
"Gordon."
"It's fine, Virgil. Just don't stop," He urged, his voice taut.
Their temporary lodgings were two rooms at The Whale's Wharf Inn which would take them back through the town and near the docks. The clientele of the inn was primarily sailors, but it was one of a few locations in town for an evening's beverage, and so quite a few people recognized Virgil and his brother from their contribution to the entertainment the nights prior. Virgil played his violin. Gordon was Gordon. He sang, he mingled, he told ridiculous stories.
They loved it.
He was good at that, their Gordon – only sharing the parts of himself he wanted to share, hiding away the embers to make way for flame. He was good at pretending he was fine when he wasn't. Too good. And Virgil was self-aware enough to recognize he wore his heart on his sleeve. So, for his brother's sake and to protect the aura of joy Gordon managed to muster from within, Virgil tried his best to quell his worry as they returned to the Wharf.
He walked with him up to his room, promising to pick up watch aboard the ship so he could relieve Alan and send him back with a few of books on marine studies. Gordon was exhausted, but he would get bored before he fell asleep or rested. He just made him promise that in return he wouldn't see Gordon again until dinner.
Gordon had worked himself hard today.
"What else do you need?" He fluffed his younger brother's pillows behind his back, propping him up against the headboard.
In lieu of answering, Gordon asked, "Did you have fun this morning?"
"This morning was for you," Virgil replied. Gordon had been wanting to visit the stone beach since they arrived. They just had to wait for a good enough day to go. "But of course I did. We might've documented limb regeneration today."
"We did, didn't we?"
Virgil's boots thumped against the wood of the dock, the water lapping at the support posts below, as he strode towards the vessel they called home, the hole in her side now patched.
Further down the dock, a new ship had sailed into port and the dockhands were busy offloading cargo from the traveling whalers. Many of those same dockhands were regulars among the audience for evening festivities in town, and so they waved to acknowledge his arrival, recognizing the First Mate as the violinist. He waved back, his gaze already in search for the brother he was supposed to relieve for the afternoon as he stepped aboard the Thunderbird.
Alan didn't appear to be on the main deck, so he'd be either resting in the officers' quarters below the quarter deck or further in the ship's interior. Dropping off his satchel in their room told him it was the latter, and so afterwards he stepped down to the lower deck and past the rows of cannons that lined the inside of her hull, following Alan's voice in the galley.
Inside the galley was the sheet-iron stove where they cooked and a mess table long enough to fit all the crew. Their men often still entertained and ate their rations in their quarters in the forecastle, and sometimes the officers would dine in Scott's quarters if he called a meeting. It was a unique feature of their ship to have the dining area where the food was cooked, but it was important to them that had the option to dine together. And they did. Often - when they could afford it.
The sailors who breathed life into the Thunderbird's sails treated each other like family whether they slept in the Captain's Cabin, the Officer's Quarters, or the hammocks in the fo'c'sle.
"I don't have the crew yet, Hal. One more roll."
"I'll roll," the other man said. "Not great cargo numbers."
Virgil recognized the muted rattle of ivory shuffling in their cups, then hitting the wooden table with a clack as the two men across from each other at the table rolled their dice. Even though Alan was behind heading into the third (and last) roll, his sudden "Whooo!" told Virgil he must've had solid luck on his re-roll.
Meanwhile, Hal groaned, pushing the pot over towards Alan.
"Hey, Virgil!" Alan called, accepting the pile of pebbles and shells they used as chips with a laugh at Hal's expense.
"I got the same roll, Master Virgil." Virgil peered over at the three dice Hal had set aside (the 6-5-4 that represented the Ship, Captain, and Crew) and the two dice he rolled in the final round, showing a 2 and 3.
"I hate when that happens," Virgil sympathized, placing a hand on Hal's shoulder with a chuckle. Across the table Alan's rolls showed 6-5-4-4-5; he'd won by the luck of actually managing a four in the final roll, otherwise it wouldn't have mattered, and four additional points. "Mr. Alan tends to have the best luck of all of us."
"That 'e does, Master Virgil. He rolled midnight a few rounds before you arrived." Virgil raised an eyebrow at that. John had once run the calculations for the probability of rolling the highest score with 6-5-4-6-6 on the first roll. It wasn't high.
"Youngest's luck."
"Is that what you call it?"
"It is," Alan insisted, sorting through the pebbles and shells so they could put them back in their respective jars. "I also used Mr. Gordon's dice."
He couldn't help it; he laughed. Gordon always was particular about his dice. Something about their luck being stolen if others even touched them.
"Sounds like I should play him next. Might actually win now."
"You should!" And there was a twinkle in Alan's eye as he tapped the side of his nose. "Here I can take those, Hal," he said, standing up to finish putting the game away. "I'll debrief our Chief if you'd like to head out."
Hal nodded, thanked him, and stepped out of the galley.
Once everything was put away, the two of them followed suit, but their steps led them around the corner instead towards Virgil's medical cabin.
The room housed Virgil's medicines and salves, but also his books and journals. He glanced through his books for the items he'd promised to find for Gordon after their scientific discovery that morning, giving his younger brother the update on Gordon's progress as he paged through his shelving. Alan may not have had the medical knowledge as his older brother, but he listened attentively when it came to Gordon's health.
"Here, he'll be bored when you get in. Let him read, and he'll fall asleep after a bit." Virgil handed Alan the selection of literature. "If he can get an hour or two of rest in, it'll be good enough."
"And if he doesn't?" Alan clasped the books against his chest.
Virgil shrugged. "Distract him at that point. But you should be fine; he was exhausted earlier. He might even be asleep already. Just remember to put those dice back where you found them before you go."
Hours later, the sound of a roller banging on the mess table signaled the start of dinner preparations, and shortly after the aroma of beef simmering in ale wafted through wooden walls.
John had joined him on board about half-way through Virgil's watch. Out in the natural light of the main deck, Virgil had been jotting down the notes from a tune he had drifting in his head, but the navigator's arms were full of fresh meat and vegetables from town when he arrived. Virgil had helped him carry the provisions down into the galley, excited for the promise of fresh rump steaks in place of their supply of salted meats that usually ended up in stews.
Still better than grandma's hard tack.
The moderately-sized leather-bound book that was their mother's copy of the Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, was open on the table near a plate of finely chopped onions. The simple recipe book was one they knew backward and forward, but John was always a stickler for having the book out for reference.
Virgil sat across from him, staying out of the way of the preparations, but watchful as John moved about the kitchen. Despite the heat from the flame as the alcohol burned off and the steak fried and browned in the cast iron, John wore a navy watch cap that slouched a bit in the back. He wore it forward on his head to keep his hair out of the food, and so light fuzz of his red hair showed in the back where the nape of his neck wasn't fully covered.
John added salt and pepper to the plate, followed by nutmeg and parsley, and sprinkled them into a pile of seasonings for the butter.
"Don't forget the thyme," Virgil reminded him.
"Ah! You're right." John's hand stopped on the way to pick up the round ball of butter, and instead he flitted through their seasoning and spice jars for the ingredient he hadn't pulled aside yet.
Once he added a bit of thyme, John rolled the butter so that it picked up all of the spices and topped it with a coat of flour. With that prepared it was simply a matter of waiting for the steaks to be ready for him to add the onions and the butter mixture.
"I can watch the steaks if you want to get started on the vegetables," Virgil offered.
John shook his head lightly, already reaching for the French beans for the ragout. "No, I got it, thanks Virg." He'd already cut the ends of off the fresh beans and divided them crosswise into thirds. Still watching the steaks, John added the beans to the pan so they could fry and brown in beef fat.
This recipe was also one of Virgil's favorites. The hints of beef would complement their steak meal, but the real flavoring came from the second set of ingredients once the beans were removed and the grease was drained. Butter, water, white wine, mushroom ketchup and additional seasonings would create a simmering sauce and reduce over the flame. The French beans would be added back in at the end, and with a final stir, it would be ready to serve.
As the aromas mingled, Virgil realized the two parts of the meal would finish at roughly the same time. That was another talent of their mother's that John apparently inherited – her innate sense of time keeping and multi-tasking.
Already suspecting the answer, Virgil asked, "Is there a reason you are going out of your way to cook our favorites?"
"Well," John mused, giving the meat a quick touch test with a knife, "this might be our last nice dinner in Eden. Scott's planning to leave in two days."
"The meeting went well then?"
John nodded. "We load up tomorrow. How do you feel about a trip across the Atlantic, Chief?"
He wished him well a job well done but didn't respond to the actual ask.
It was a good question though. How did he feel about traveling the ocean? Mostly excited. Perhaps a bit concerned about crossing into the wrong path of pirates or a British ship-of-the-line. But they were only merchants carrying rum, and ships traversed the trade routes all the time without issue. He trusted Scott to divert them before they would be overrun, and his family's skills of finding speed in her sails was nothing short of commendable either.
But then the weather could be volatile in summer; even up the coast there was risk of hurricanes.
"Virg." A hand waved in front of his eyes. "Hey. I can see that brain of yours thinking. We'll be fine. We're leaving from fairly far North." A stack of silver was balanced in John's grasp, and he held it out to Virgil as his vision refocused. "There you are. Everything's ready. Can you set the table?"
"Give them here." He busied himself with setting their dishes and cutlery. He folded their cloth napkins into cranes while he was at it.
"You know our 'bird has weathered many storms in the past."
"She has."
His current crane looked like a turkey. He undid the napkin to start again.
"And Scott wouldn't lead us into danger if he didn't think we could handle it."
"Aye, you're right about that." The crane looked much better the second time, though its head was larger than the others.
"It gives our return journey westward the likelihood of fairer winds, if not just a bit on the cold side."
"Thanks, I get the message, John. I'll stop worrying." He set the big-headed crane at John's place at the table and sighed when it toppled forward. He looked back up at his brother. John was leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed and a wooden spoon in one hand. His expression was impassive as he watched Virgil fret about the tight kitchen space. "Stop studying me, John."
"You still have no idea, do you?" That stopped him in his tracks, not sure what he was supposed to know, but ever so confused by the sudden laugh that came from his brother at his expression.
"What? John?"
In that moment, Gordon and Alan joined them in the galley with the usual clamor that announced their arrival. The latter clasped a fresh baked apple pie from town. John took the dessert from Alan's hands and placed it in the center of the table for later.
Gordon and Alan settled around the table, waving in the few sailors in their employ who'd followed both the smell and the sound of their commanding officers. With a thoughtful tilt of his head in Virgil's direction, John realized his older brother was still trying to process the last few minutes.
"Happy birthday, chucklehead," John announced with a fond roll of his eyes. "Chief."
When their Captain didn't show soon after, John sent Alan back up to the main deck to rescue Scott from the paperwork he'd no doubt surrounded himself with in his Cabin.
Virgil had to sit down quickly after John sprung that cannon ball on him. He hadn't realized at all that it was the fifteenth. There had been so much to do with fixing the ship and coordinating exchanges of their goods and keeping up with Gordon's medicines and exercises and still managing their shifts, he hadn't been keeping track of the days.
But John had been, of course; it was his job.
That evening the crew of the Thunderbird dined together, their bellies full of John's tasty fare and their spirits lightened with laughter as they shared the stories of their day, and in Gordon's case weaving together a fantastical variation to a mariner's tale that included the Kraken regenerating its formidable tentacles, even as the seamen tried to cut them down.
It would make a good sea song.
Virgil's heart was light with ale, his brown eyes aglow with an ignited spark – words came, rhymes, fitting into the melody he'd crafted that afternoon during watch.
"Mr. Virgil?" Scott. His Captain, his best friend, with whom he hadn't spent any time today. "I could use some tuning on my cello this evening."
"Aye, of course, Captain." He smiled. It was an invitation.
As the two officers stood, Hal and Benji offered to clear the table to give the rest of the family their time to continue celebrating as well.
"It's the least we can do for the meal you've given us, Master John," Benji acknowledged with a wink.
Scott led his brothers back up to the main deck, followed by John. Alan went next, carrying with him Gordon's cane so he could return it to him at the next level. Virgil went last after Gordon to make sure his brother did not stumble on the ascent up the ladder.
It had been a long day. As such, Gordon and Virgil were the last two to enter Scott's quarters.
Their three siblings waited patiently, standing expectantly in a row with John and Alan on either side of the eldest. Gordon was unfazed and immediately approached one of the conference room chairs, sinking into it heavily. He looked to Scott.
"What's going on?" Virgil quirked an eyebrow.
"We have a gift for you!" Alan exclaimed, practically bouncing on his toes.
"Virg," John continued. "This comes sincerely from all of us, in honor of your birthday, but also for a number of reasons -"
"Like saving my life," Gordon interjected. "And picking up my slack."
"You're not slack, Fish."
"Still."
"You've been working yourself ragged," Scott agreed. "Though that's on me." He marched over to Gordon and placed a warm, comforting hand on the back of his neck. "Don't disregard that you've been working hard too. To get better." Scott used the opportunity to ruffle his hair.
"Anyway, as I was saying-" John continued, unfolding the paper from his pocket. "– here are the reasons we wanted to show our appreciation. One: because you always keep ginger and mint well-stocked for us…"
Oh, Fates no. John actually had a list.
"Two: because you don't realize how amazing your art is."
He felt embarrassed heat flare in his face as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
"That's enough, John," Scott laughed, cutting John off before he started to share number three. "Can't you see you've messed with him enough?"
"Brother's prerogative," John said, stepping forward to hand Virgil the paper. He took it reluctantly, glanced down, and realized it was empty. "Three. Because we can."
"Okay, okay, okay, enough jokes. Can we give him his gift now? Scooooott."
"Aye, Alan, go ahead."
Alan led them over to the conference table, scampering around the side to pick up a large item with both hands and set it carefully on the surface. He nudged it slightly towards Virgil.
It was a shape Virgil knew well, the elongated case rounded on both ends but wider on the right and tapered on his left. Alan had presented it to him with the clasps facing his direction, so when he opened it the hinge would swing up to reveal the instrument inside.
But he had a violin already.
He almost said it out loud. But he wouldn't - not with the weight of his brothers watching him.
And there was something… now that he was able to process the ornate violin case in front of him and brushed his fingers over the firm, protective material, he felt it. An energized magnetism that trembled through his body at the possibility within.
It felt special. It felt his, already, even though he hadn't seen it yet.
He reached for the latches and flicked them open hurriedly. Inside was unlike any violin he'd seen. It also wasn't a violin, a bit larger in stature than his usual, basic fiddle.
Stradivarius be damned, the instrument was the most gorgeous he'd ever seen.
Crafted from rich maple and spruce, the earthy tones made the rest of her stand out, for part of her fingerboard and the entirely of her tailpiece were made of ivory. The image of their ship was carved into bone where the strings met at the bottom, and above - where his fingers would dance across the neck of the instrument – her design held additional carvings of their ship at sea, a lighthouse, the rolling waves.
"It's a viola!" Alan explained.
He knew that, but he beamed at Alan over the case anyway. The viola and violin shared three strings, though in place of the violin's highest E string, the viola picked up the lower register with the C. From his position, the nearest string was thick and round.
He gave it a pluck, and the resulting singular pizzicato note was broad and robust.
"The whalers," he realized.
"It was a commission," Scott confirmed. "From a number of artisans. We had this one in the works for a while. What do you think?"
He couldn't quite put the answer into words. He first picked up the bow, tightening the hair with a turn of the screw at the bottom. He set it to the side. With nothing short of reverence, he lifted the viola from her case and brought it up to his chin. He gave her a few more plucks, turned the pegs near the scroll slightly to adjust the tuning, then finally retrieved the bow and gave the viola an intentional stroke across her strings between the fingerboard and bridge.
This time the C note was solemn and syrupy, and he felt it vibrate deeply through his jaw and teeth, where the sea tugged on his heart to share more of the beauty made from her bones.
"I think he likes it," Gordon stated, his countenance strangely introspective as he watched Virgil discover the viola and her sound. Suddenly, he started tapping against the side of the table, not in impatience or from a nervous habit. It was a rhythm, an intentional one.
Virgil picked it up.
Fiddling was just a style of play in the first place. There was no difference between a fiddle and the violin other than how he played.
The viola could be a fiddle too.
John bobbed his head along as he poured wine for himself, Virgil, and Alan, and scotch for Scott and Gordon. Meanwhile, Scott brought out his own instrument, freeing his cello from the confines of her case.
"I was serious, Virg. I could use some help tuning."
Virgil beamed at him, waving the large cello over in exchange for the viola. Scott held the instrument like it was porcelain, knowing exactly the cost associated with the treasure, while Virgil placed the cello between his legs and tinkered with the pegs.
Alan lit the candles within the lanterns of Scott's room as the dusk faded to night and the moon rose over the Atlantic, her light shimmering white through open windows.
Eventually Alan fell asleep at the table. He was dragged out when Gordon also retired for the evening, feeling heavy even after his nap earlier in the day.
John joined Benji for the evening shift watch.
It was then just Scott and Virgil. Scott with the long depth of notes to support Virgil's lead through melody. The spirited mirth of the strings coasted past oak and over air where the ship and the sea listened, feeling the same anticipation for wherever the winds determined they'd take them on their next journey.
End Notes: Happy Birthday, Virgil (2021).
If you are at all interest, my tumblr includes a series of posts under the tag Thunderteers Verse Appendices, and its where I drop research notes. For the record, this baby has a ton of sacrifices to the gods of research and autosave in her veins.
