A/N: Another drabble from the Broken Compass. The prompt was "wait."
There is always a breath before cannons fire, before sails fill with the winds of battle and the shouts of sailors snap at the salty air.
Even the sea cannot stand to watch grown men grin like boys at the satisfaction of slitting a throat, the crows of accomplishment at leaving a foe to its cruelty.
The great men, the truly great ones, the mad captains and the commodores and the nobles and the ones who are naught but legends, can all sense this moment, and breathe with the sea, take the seconds before the first shot pierces the air, before wood splinters and bone crunches. A smile will often play upon their faces as they feel the whole wide earth stop for a moment—and wait.
