Author's note: I'm still keeping tabs on Spain's character. This chapter took me a while to write. I'm certain that it is extremely easy to tell where I was struggling with my writing. The divide between forcing myself to write this chapter and finally getting around to a better part for me is apparent in the story. I'm so sorry for that! You can all look forward to finally seeing another canon character added to the story in this chapter. Also, please excuse some of the language I use in this chapter, especially around women. It's hard to stay true to the time period and be respectful to both sexes at the same time. Naturally, I selected staying true to time. Thank you very much for reading and please do enjoy!
Spain dried his feet before putting on his boots. Every once and awhile he cast a longing glance back to the sea. He shook the empty feeling off him; he'd be home soon enough. He strolled back to the carriage, taking his salted time. The servant opened the door for him as expected and they started off to the city. The journey to the docks was mercifully quick; Antonio had worried he would not have the time to collect what he needed for the voyage. He called for the driver to stop and swung out of the carriage door on his own before evaporating into the mass of people going about their morning chores. He did not wish for his servant to follow him.
When he saw that he was not in fact being trailed, Antonio moved freely through the streets, the way parting for him like the Red Sea before Moses. The people cowered at his feet and dared not meet his eyes as he commandingly made his way to the swordsmith's shop. Occasionally, with wild eyes, a daring person would glance his way, thinking he could not see. He did not need to. Already, by an innate sense, he knew when his citizens watched him. He'd allow them to stare for but a moment before his scanning eyes swept over them, startling their eyes back to the ground, and then smugly continue on his way. At last, he found the shop that he had sought. He rapidly forgot the games he played with his commoners and crossed the busy street to the local blacksmith. The wooden door on its hinges screamed and a storm of rust shuddered off as it fell from the step and rested awkwardly on the one below. He stepped lightly down the stairs to the sunken smithy's workshop.
"¿Hola? Is anyone there?" he demanded into the dark and dusty room. At first, nothing sounded, but the squeal of hot metal on water proved that there was some existence in the seemingly abandoned place. A dark figure melted from the background and approached Antonio warily. True to his title, the blacksmith had dark olive skin and black, greasy locks that were singed at the edges. His hands were rough and scarred, each meaty finger curling within itself like a peasant before nobility. "Is it ready?" Antonio inquired hastily when the man said or did nothing but stand in the silence. Gruffly, he nodded, then tossed a set of heated pliers aside to free both hands for a large case. He lifted unceremoniously it and set it before the other with a dull thud on the table. Like a child with a new toy, Spain eagerly thrust open the box to see his order.
It was the epitome of perfection. Crafted of a dark silver, the axe gave off what was like a devil-like black shine. He lifted it from the velvet case with wonder in his eyes, then allowed it to rest at his side, at a relaxed position. When held up from the ground, the weapon was but a bit higher than Antonio's waist, as he liked it, and when he swung it through the air, it sliced through like a feather. While perhaps not as well balanced in his hand as his cutlass, he preferred the axe without a doubt. He set it back on the protection of the plush velvet, then examined the blade further. At last, he allowed a smirk to be plastered upon his face.
"Perfect," he murmured to the blacksmith, "the crack is completely repaired. It has been reinforced as well, as I requested?" The man nodded, then held out his hand. Still in admiration of the axe, Antonio dropped a worn leather bag of pesetas as payment. He absently took it once more from the case and made his way out the back of the shop to the less-used streets, the axe seemingly swaying in the breeze.
He continued his stroll through the back roads long into the day, experimenting with the blade he now wielded. It did not sing as sword when sailing through the air; rather, it was silent, like the death it would no doubt bring. Where it connected to its handle, there were ornate designs and three rubies that had been supplied by he himself, from the loot he had last gathered with his crew. The steel it was constructed from held no scent save for the metallic tang; it would only pick up the salt smell after it had been out at sea. His eyes swept once more over the location where once the crack had been. A subdued anger seeped into Antonio's core as he recalled what had happened. The axe, of course, had always been his preferred weapon, ever since he first stole it off an island toward the north. Its original, smaller size had made it more difficult to locate in the shadows of the moonlit plants the night it was found. In fact, the brunette had only first noticed it after taking a fall over a stray root during a sprint away from danger. Upon picking it up, it was apparent that it was old, but not so much that it was archaic. It had many nicks and scratches and the blade was seemingly blunt; it felt unnatural and unbalanced in his hand. He used it to help him stand, then saw that the handle was only perhaps as long as his arm, whereas the typical sword was about the length of his leg and his dagger, the length of his forearm. Keeping his enemies an arm's length away while they could reach a leg's length would hinder him significantly; with any normal human, one misstep would mean death. For the nation, it would mean a great deal of pain and having to act as if he were lifeless. Consequently, he would miss the ship to take him home. If, somehow, he did reach his homeland again, it would be disastrous to come across his shipmates who would be under the impression that we were dead. All in all, Antonio could not see how it might assist him against his pursuers, but it was made with the intention of harming and that was enough at the moment. He stepped lightly behind the trunk of a tree, the road to his left and seemingly endless forestry to his right. He allowed his eyelids to shut as if he were merely taking a nap against the curve of the trunk and readjusted his sweaty grip on the aged weapon. As the sound of the rushing footsteps came closer, his heart rate grew louder as well. At last, when the obstreperous swords could be heard smacking against their owners' hilts and the labored breathing of a man who carried too much could be heard beside him, Antonio swung the blade from where he grounded himself. The force of the impact was carried up through his arm, past his jaw, and straight to his brow. A crack as dull as the axe's blade seeped like an elderly man's dying breath into the air and the smell of light blood from a ruptured artery heavied the atmosphere. For an instant, aside from the sound of the gruesome red fountain, there was silence; and into this weighted quiet Antonio stepped. His stance was aggressive and gave a harsh tug on the handle of the weapon, so to ready his weapon for an attack and give off a threatening air. It was a horrifying moment when the axe refused to come out from where it was buried at an upward angle in the standing corpse's collarbone and throat, but alas, with one more pull, the weapon slid out from its sheath and the body collapsed in the opposite direction. Antonio recognized the dead man as the first mate; the second as one of the disposable crewmembers; and the third, a boy, no older than fourteen. The sailor's anger was betrayed by easily by his far more apparent fear and the boy had fallen back and pissed himself. He was trembling far too much to lift himself from the ground in any form of defense. Antonio moved not; the mutinous, clever crewman whirled took off back the way he came as soon as the brunette did nothing, but the boy was frozen where he lay in a nightmare's stance, transfixed by the omnipotent pendulum of the axe. His mud-colored eyes were large and round like a nameless creature crawling upon all fours. It would be far better to silence the senseless boy, Antonio thought, than allow him to live. He had nothing to become, except a slave to crewmembers, who were slaves to the captain themselves. The brunette took a step closer to the immobile black child, who in return did nothing. Again, he tightened his grip on the axe, in preparation for the kill. Power had soaked up into the dull blade with the blood and he had the perfect opportunity to exercise it. Yet as he raised it, his eyes locked with the child's, and a new thought danced through his mind. He would not kill the black, he decided as his arm lowered; rather, keep him alive and knowing that he'd always be at Antonio's mercy. The axe had suddenly become lighter in his arms and he glanced down at it. Like a siren, it called to him; this would be the weapon to replace the useless old dagger of his.
He used it as it was until that particular voyage ended. When he next returned home, Spain had taken it to a cheaper smithy and had a cast of low quality but easily sharpened metal melted around it. He had been very pleased with it at the time; the axe was sharper, the hideous scratched surface was hidden beneath a shiny new one, and the overall blade was larger from its reinforcement. While heavier than he was accustomed to on one end, it was not difficult to get used to the new weight, for he practiced with it often. It was a shame he went through so many crewmen and so quickly. For a span of perhaps two to three years, the repaired axe worked wonders for Spain. He had a reputation for violence on his every whim and his two main enemies acknowledged him as a formidable foe. This, however, is what worked against him. A battle between all three adversaries at once had commenced; a planned battle, nonetheless. The other two captains had plotted against Antonio and declared an alliance, which, admittedly, was quickly broken. The axe had assisted him against them in the past, but he had never taken on both enemies simultaneously. As the war raged on around them, the two kept up relentless attacks on Antonio, leaving him to defense. The weapon cried in his hands, far more used to the role of attack. At last, a final blow was executed by the shorter of the two, and the cheap metal surrounding the original axe snapped, leaving its surface shattered.
The loss that day had been a devastating one for Spain, though more due to his ego and damaged weapon than loss of actual life. Underneath the crumbling metal's surface, one nick that had been particularly bad from the beginning had deepened, forming a crevice in the original weapon. Soon thereafter, Antonio and his crew returned to their homeland for a month, in order to recruit new sailors and supplies and to have the battle-axe repaired.
That month had drawn to a close and a new voyage would begin the next day. Antonio had lost track of time and forgotten to rein in his memories, as he did easily, and was surprised to see that the sun was already sinking along the horizon. He would be late for his appointment. Thankfully, the man knew his whereabouts, and knew he was close. He turned right at the next point, then trotted straight down the back alley until the clamor of the main road could be heard. After turning and following the busy road, the din of drunken laughter from both men and women could be heard under the ringing of church bells and the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. It was the unmistakable sound of a brothel.
Maria's Bar, Brothel, and Inn, it was called. It was Antonio's preferred place for a drink and a cheap place to spend the night before a sail, despite the somewhat blasphemous name. It mattered to Spain not; for, the woman who founded and ran the brothel could not help being named after the Holy Mother. He stepped in and to the side of the room. The laughter was now more prominent, as was the stench of human sweat, fluids, and ale. Spain leaned against the wall and hastily edged his way past the masses of people. He paused for a quick breath at the bar, then snagged the only unoccupied stool. There then sounded a more thorough, rowdy laugh than all the others and Antonio glanced over the counter just in time to catch a beer sliding his way. The laugh belonged to the heavyset barman, who may not have known Antonio well as a person, but recognized him and knew his favorite drink, which was sufficient for Spain.
"Haven't seen you in a while," he shouted to the brunette over the voices of all the miscreants. His accent differed from that of most Spaniards. He hardly pronounced 'S' and 'D' sounds and consequently, his patrons had trouble understanding him. Antonio, however, recognized it as the southern accent from Andalucía. He thought he recalled the bartender saying that he was from Sevilla once, in a chat long ago. Immediately switching his accent from that of a regular one to an Andalucían one, he replied,
"Ah, I have been well!" He closed his green eyes and took a swig of his beer. "Trade's been on the rise, which provides a multitude of opportunities for me," he continued, quite smug. He fleetingly imagined what he'd do when he got his hands on his enemies, then shook it off, preferring to be surprised by their reactions when they saw his new axe. "You? How's business been?" he questioned the other good-naturedly.
"Bueno," he replied, pride shining in his dark brown eyes. He'd helped Maria build the bar from the ground up and treated it like his child, as he had none that he knew of. "Yet," he dragged on with a peculiar tone, as if some fly were pestering him, "I've had an off-seeming patron recently." His eyes wandered off in a daze, before settling to observe a cobweb in the front corner of the bar, near the door. Curious, Antonio pressed him further.
"Oh? Just a foreigner that has one too many or something more?" The barman shifted his weight toward him slightly, then turned his head, and then his eyes, so that he was facing Spain fully.
"Yes, a foreigner. But she's been completely sober. From what I could see, pretty. She kept asking for you, actually. Been hanging around here these past couple days. She knows who you are," he cautioned the other. "Asked for Captain Hernández Carriedo." Alarmed, Spain met his eyes.
"What did you do?" he demanded of the bartender. His eyes flickered to the stairs that led to where the upper levels of the inn were, on the other side of the brothel. The foolish man confirmed his fears.
"Told her where your room is. Let her wait there for you." It was less than a second that the words had escaped the man's mouth when he stood, knocking the chair over, and shoved past the criminals, harlots, and hard workers alike, his eyes locked on the staircase that led above. As soon as he broke free from the drunken bodies, he dashed up the first flight of stairs, then the second. He tightened his grip on the axe as he'd done many years prior, though this time with the confidence of a practiced hand. It was near silent on this level; from directly below him, he could hear the sounds of the moaning prostitutes and their customers, and from farther below, the festivities of the intoxicated. The door on the end of the hall and to the right was the room he usually had when staying at the inn overnight. He approached it as stealthily as he could and when he at last reached the door, as he was turning to face it and his axe was in a striking position, his foot hit a floorboard and caused it to squeal under his weight. The wooden door nearly flew off of its hinges as it swung open swiftly, then hit the wall with what seemed a boom of thunder, and came to a shuddering halt there. A man that was clearly in an ill mood stood before Antonio. His dark brows were creased above his forehead and he bore no smile. He was, however, a familiar face to the Spaniard.
"Get in," snapped his first mate, Mamello, irritably, "and put that down." He gestured to the axe, then stepped aside, letting Antonio pass. The door let out a metallic clang as the brass lock slammed shut behind him. The room was dimly lit and it was hard to see, but Spain knew exactly what was in it. A single bed was at the wall opposite the door, next to a window that overlooked the main street, then the docks. There was a trunk at the foot of the bed, for storing whatever might be needed; in Antonio's case, it was used for his alternate wardrobe. Aligned against the wall left to the door was a chair and a writing table that usually had a candle in a brass stand; this was the only source of light in the room for the time being, as the curtains over the window were drawn shut. A hooded figure occupied the chair beside the desk. From the looks of the person's body and the information received before, Spain gathered that this was the woman sent up to his room by the bartender.
"Mamello," he addressed his crewmember almost icily, "who is this?" She tapped her foot, as if drawing attention to the fact that she was present and it was unnecessary to refer to her as though she were not there. He could not see underneath her hood; if she was a creature of beauty as the barman had stated, perhaps the man had just wanted his way with her before turning her away. He glanced at the exotic man for a moment. His tawny eyes darted from side to side and his dark brows furrowed together.
"I... don't know," he iterated, nowhere nearly as self-assured as he'd been a moment ago. Her foot tapped louder against the ground, in an attempt to suck the attention her way.
"Then why is she here?" he interrogated, raising his voice slightly. He received the same the reply from the African man. There was a harsh sound of wood scraping against wood as she rose from her seat, allowing her hood and cape to be cast aside. She was in no way how Spain had seen her in his mind's eye. She was not youthful and beautiful with a maiden's blush, but haggard with red-blotchy cheeks of anger. Her pale skin was dry and folded in on itself like a pile of ashes. Half-blind rocky eyes stared at him relentlessly in the most unnerving way. She was quite the ugly woman, yet she had one redeeming quality; her long, golden hair was akin to that of a field of summer wheat, the rarest color for the region Antonio inhabited. Her one virtue could have substituted for her many vices had she only managed a thin smile as opposed to a hideous scowl and a harsh tone to match when she spoke to the captain.
"I need your help," she said in the broken fragments of Spanish. She had a thick accent that Spain had never before heard. Rather than at the forefront of the mouth, her voice came from the center, or perhaps the back, of her pallet. He could barely decipher her words and knew not how he could, but he then realized that her accent was somewhat similar to that of a friend's. "I am old," the woman continued, "and all my sons have found good jobs as hard workers, except one. Allow him to be part of your crew." She did not beg; her tone seemed, instead, authoritative. His eyebrow rose to an arch and his mouth had made a small 'o', as if he spoke a silent question.
"And what skills does your son possess?" he inquired, considering carefully what was laid out before him. The poor woman need not know that the crewmembers, aside from the first mate whose position was filled by a trustworthy man already, were virtually slaves, what with little pay and the certainty that they'd eventually be taken from their crew as a prisoner and shouldered over to another man's ship. There was little guarantee that they would ever see their home again. The old woman answered:
"He pays good attention to detail. Artistic fellow, with his father's charm and my good looks. Used to spar with his brother, but usually lost. Brother was a cheater, he was. He's tall, too." By the time she finished the rehearsed monologue of a doting mother, both Spain and Mamello were near tears with their uproarious laughter.
"Come, woman," Antonio breathed between the paroxysm of chuckles, "surely you know my occupation? Cheating is the only rule of battle on the seas. This attention you speak of is easily found, but only used when someone is needed to climb up the crow's nest." She tried to get a word in edgewise, but he plowed over her objections like the high tide over the brittle sand. "Not to mention, a spyglass is easily found. And artistic? Useless. Not to mention, his appearance the way you describe it. A tall, pale man, virtually albino? He would be far too easily spotted." She attempted breaking through his continuous stream of criticism once more, but he was relentless. He put a finger up to signal for her silence. "To conclude," he said, the laughter now dead in the air, "if he wanted a job, he would do well to come request it of me himself, rather than sending his coddling bitch of a mother. If he has no bravery, then he is certain to die." With his raised hand, Antonio made a shooing gesture as one might signal to a pesky animal and turned his back. All he heard from that point was the opening and infuriated slam of the door. The old hag had left in a rage. "Good riddance," the captain commented to his grinning accomplice. In return he received a self-satisfied nod, then he bent at the waist as a sign of respect and announced:
"I am going to my room now, for some sleep before we leave tomorrow. Goodnight, sir." Antonio acknowledged the black man, but made no noise. The door closed more delicately this time and left Antonio isolated. He slid out of his overdone and fancy attire, leaving him in only his breeches, hose, and shirt. Aimlessly, he wandered to the window and peeked through the cotton curtains to the city below. No longer was it busy, save for a handful of drunks stumbling out of the alehouses and making their way home and the occasional pony and cart. Once as watched, Antonio thought he spotted a noble's carriage, but he saw that he was mistaken when it turned the corner by a lit store. That foolish woman had nearly panicked him, but he recognized that he ought to forget about the incident; for it no longer was of any importance to him what became of her or her seemingly useless son. Over the husks of loud chuckles from alcoholics, the trotting of a horse's hooves, and through the distorted glass of the closed window, Spain was convinced that he could hear the ever-soothing beckon of the sea.
Translations:
Bueno – Spanish – "Good"
Thanks so much for reading! I really appreciate the encouragement you've given me so far and the patience you have had while awaiting this chapter. I am really sorry this took so long! Any guesses to which canon character Mamello might be? If you figure it out and have a better name, I'd appreciate hearing it. And a note on Mamello's name. This story, while written in English, has the characters speaking Spanish the whole time. In Spanish, when there is an 'll' like that, it would change the pronunciation of the name to "Mameyo". For my purposes, I'm keeping his name spelled as "Mamello", but Spain is pronouncing the name as "Mamelo", true to its original sound. Thank you so much!