Jonathon found himself hitting the deck with a heavy thud, his dulled sword clattering away from him. He made an effort to crawl forward to reach it but was stopped short by another, sharper sword digging into the skin along his neck and drawing a very thin line of blood. A wave of frustration and hopelessness whirled through him, as unsettled as the sea itself. As was usual every day, Jonathon was 'training' with Teague, the captain of the Misty Lady and the man who'd ordered for him to be kidnapped two years ago. The man was hardly kind at all, but at least Jonathon wasn't dead by now as Teague had so furiously reminded him time after time. Rather, he kept Jonathon walking on eggshells every day. One morning Teague might be patient and careful with him while that evening his temper would lash out and result in a bruised rib for Jonathon. Yet the thing that confused the boy the most was the fact that Teague would always, as much as his stubborn pride would allow, let him be to heal for a day or so before quietly (almost with a nearly imperceptible touch of remorse) easing him back into his training.

Jonathon had asked him once, when he was on one of his brave tirades, why he even needed to be trained or tested with sword fighting and the response he got back was rather sharp and final, so he didn't push it any farther. Apparently, even though Jonathon had received some training from his father's first mate, and was fairly good with the fighting, he still didn't know how to fight quite right. Or rather, how to fight like Teague wanted him to fight. And it was that entire idea that brought him back to the present. That and Teague's rough voice.

"Once again, yer caught off guard."

"Maybe if I didn' have to fight in such a stupid way-"

"It won' be stupid to ye when yer in a life or death situation. What'll ye do then lad?"

Carefully and gently, Jonathon pushed himself to his knees and wiped his sweaty hands on his dirty pants, scowling at the man now relaxing behind him. He twisted his head around to stare angrily at Teague before rolling back onto his heels.

"I'll run away. Seems much more plausible to me."

Teague frowned back to Jonathon, and for a moment he wondered if he'd gone too far with the man again. However, Teague simply snorted and shook his head, causing several of the trinkets woven into his hair to click together in their own simple language. Those dark eyes that mirrored his own, seemed to pull Jonathon up from his crouch and set him forward across the deck to his own sword. It was dulled and blunted on the edge so that he couldn't do much more than bruise with it, but it was still somewhat of a relief once Jonathon had it in his hand again. Reluctantly he turned back around to look tiredly at Teague and await what he had to say.

"Ye've got ta pay attention at all times lad. Ye never know when ye'll be cornered. I coulda killed ye twice just now… an' why're ye still lookin' at me like I'm tha devil 'imself?"

Jonathon cringed and quickly looked down. He hadn't realized he'd been doing that at all.

"Wot's on yer mind so often thas' gotcha not payin' attention?"

Jonathon lowered his head and stared fixedly at the ground. Images and sounds replayed themselves over and over again in his head. He could feel the rain soaking him to the bone. His arm was being wrenched out of place once more. He shook his head. There was no need to let Teague know it was the nightmare of a memory, continuously playing out in his head, of the day he'd been torn from his family. It would only hurt him more, physically by Teague and mentally by himself. A constant thorn in his side was all it was. But somehow Teague didn't need to hear Jonathon tell him. He knew.

"Why don't ye go put that away then go 'ave fun with yer friend."

Jonathon's head shot up at the quiet tone in the man's voice and he watched Teague walk past him softly. Carefully, Jonathon twisted around to watch Teague ascend the stairs further up deck and sheath his sword before speaking with the pirate at the helm. The familiar dull ache of pain began pounding through him again as he watched the appearances of the two men fade to the appearances of his father and his first mate. He lowered his head and allowed the shoulder-length black hair to fall in his face, to shield the burning tears that threatened to overcome him. He wondered if his father had even been told of his disappearance. He half hoped so, and half hoped not. If his father had been told then he would like to think he was currently looking for him. Yet, something warned him that he didn't want his father to know, because that would mean the man would be distraught with grief and that would make him more vulnerable to those pirates.

Jonathon winced at the tang of blood on his lip and lifted his head up slowly, turning to walk back to his quarters so he could return the practice sword. Gently he swiped his tongue across the cut on his lip where he'd absently bitten it before he began to walk slowly, back to the captain's quarters. He only stopped when he nearly ran headfirst into the door. He looked at it with a frown, uncomprehending, before he forced his mind to start working again and turned down the short hallway to the next door. Technically it wasn't even a hallway. Just a short enclosed space the length of two doors. Each one opened up to another room, specifically for passengers and guests.

He was never quite sure why Teague had him placed in the bigger of the two instead of with the rest of the crew below decks. But after seeing the crew's living space once, he hadn't been too keen to argue the idea. Slowly he pushed the door open and tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. The inside of his room was lit by a few candles, despite the fact that it was still light outside, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the bed at the far corner of the room. He crossed to it and bent to slide the sword underneath. The entire room overall was small, containing only the thin bed which was pushed up against the farthest wall, a dresser beside it with a mirror resting atop and a chest opposite the dresser.

Jonathon was just standing back up, his hand on the bed to help brace himself, when a voice startled him. He swung around, falling back onto the bed and let out a yelp causing the figure in the doorway to clasp his hands to his gut and double over laughing. The figure was shrouded in shadows making it hard for Jonathon to discern who he was, but a stumble forward brought him into enough light to make identification possible. A hiss voiced Jonathon's frustrations and he found himself giving the figure a glare.

"Honestly Billy? Ye had to scare me?"

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