After a long while of gazing wistfully at his sea, the captain decided that it was best if he just slept the time off before rejoining with his love. He tore himself away from the window, but could not bear the thought of closing the shades. It would be like barricading him from the ocean forever. Of course, the very notion was ridiculous; one way or another, he would always return. He opened the trunk at the foot of his bed slowly, the pads of his fingers absorbing the feel of the worn yet supple leather straps. The wood planks it was constructed from were well rounded and smooth; it was driftwood, perhaps from the very bay Antonio had visited prior to his arrival in town. The occasions on which the case was opened were few and far between - for it was usually only the brunette that used this room - and accordingly, the faint perfume of the brine was still present. Spain inhaled the scent and allowed it to fill his lungs, his diaphragm, and his whole being all at once. In their dreams, the nation was sure, his citizens were about the open ocean, whether it was the fantasy of a blooming lady meeting a lost sailor on the shore and falling into a passionate love or an elderly fisherman picturing the days when he was able to provide for his family. So deep was his love for the sea; that with a breath, the very people he was could for but a fleeting moment feel what he did.

Antonio's hand snaked into the trunk, feeling for his robe. He could no longer see; what little moonlight there was did not trickle so far into the room and the sole candle had long since burned out. He was almost disappointed when at last he felt the cotton tunic. He was hesitant to close his only portal to his home. Antonio cursed himself for his cowardly feelings, stood from where he crouched, and consequently dropped the lid abruptly. The sound imploded into the space and left the tired man standing there for a long while. Peculiar how a noise of such high volume could only make a lonely room quieter in the end. Spain stripped himself in the prison while his jail keeper by the name of loneliness stared him down with violent, fiery eyes. He was no more comfortable wearing his sleep tunic than he was unclothed. Unable to make himself open the chest once more, he left his clothes strewn about the room.

His sleep that night was an uneasy one, as they seem to always be when one wishes for slumber to come. When he awoke, his entire body was covered in perspiration, no doubt from a nightmare he could not recall. The early sun was barely able to permeate the room, whose air now felt more solid than anything else. Antonio peeled the cotton gown off of himself quickly, then opened the trunk unceremoniously for his better wardrobe. Now in more of a rush, he threw on his thick brown hose; they had once been ivory in color, but years of careless cleaning and bloodstain had erased their previous shade. Then he tossed on his billowing, cream chemise and dark breeches over. He rummaged through the trunk once more; this time, he brought out a leather belt and red sash. He wove the two about each other, then tied them around the lower half of his torso. At last, for his final touches, he added his crimson coat that was lined with gold and cut off at the knee and a hat with a colorful feather. He put on his boots and snatched his axe, then stumbled out of the room, still in a bit of a sleep-sprinkled daze.

"You are late," Mamello castigated as Antonio shut the door behind him. His whole attire was dark, save for his yellowing blouse that was covered mostly by his own green coat. The man stood tall; like wandering in a forest night, one could not help but be aware of him. He was the invisible creature whose home was intruded; and it was impossible to tell is this animal was to attack or merely watch and analyze. Alert like a warhorse, it was apparent that he was no man to be crossed. His demeanor, however, was undermined by his dark skin and textured, cropped hair.

"Nonsense," Antonio countered. "You are simply too eager to go earlier than necessary." It was clear that he was being hypocritical, but graciously as possible, the first mate bowed his head, then fell in place behind the captain's right side as he strode down the corridors and stairways confidently. When the pair got to the ground level of the brothel, they went straight to the counter where the drowsy bartender was wiping away the evidence of the previous night's festivities.

"Buenos días," Spain greeted the hearty man politely. The man could not reply any more than a broad grin before Antonio tossed a bag of pesetas over to him. "For your troubles of keeping my room unused." The man appeared as if would protest, then the other flipped a coin from his pocket with a chuckle and added, "And for the beer from last night." He whirled out of the inn quickly, desiring to be gone from the enclosures of land. The sea was vast, wild, and took you where it willed; and there lay its appeal to many. Axe in hand and first mate in tail, he whirled about and exited the brothel without a word more. The sun had not yet fully risen and the people had not been aroused from sleep; for they were a people who rose with the first light.

Once out on the streets, Spain picked up a hasty trot, his pace barely contained from a full-out child's sprint by Mamello's reserved gait. Many shops around these parts were selling fish. While the fisherman had not yet returned from their trips that morning, the unmistakable odor was still present; so much that it had become part of the air itself rather than just a smell that could be cleared. The walk to the main docks, thankfully, was not very lengthy at perhaps a distance of six blocks. It was near a chapel where sailors prayed to God before a journey; though it served no purpose beyond that. Originally, it had been constructed as a place for the unholy men of the sea to repent before being hanged or reconcile with Christianity and then face their fate. Either way, it ended with death for them and the chapel did not serve the purpose for which it was built. Antonio, having already prayed to God for an adventurous voyage, would have ignored it if it were not for the fact that it marked where he and Mamello were to cross to the docks.

The docks were fairly long and not overwhelmingly busy at this time; of what few people were about, most were fishermen, though the occasional guard or soldier was present. Thankfully, none were near Antonio's ship, though it appeared just like that of a merchant's. Truly, it was one, but a hijacked one, nonetheless.

"¡Vente, mi chico!" called one elderly man to his son, "You are much too slow to have this profession, we must hurry and open your shop first." The son, a man of perhaps thirty, rolled his eyes and replied,

"Padre, I know how to do my job. You only came because of a dream you had in the night time." Spain allowed himself a quiet grin at their conversation, and then hurried his pace to reach the end of the docks, where his ship was held. The hollow sound of his boots hitting the wood was familiar and filling to him; at last, he was in the domain to which he belonged. He did not go unrecognized once he got to the pier's end. From among the many crates of bullet casings, oat flour, and oranges popped a young man, barely beyond boyhood. He had to arrive on time, in the sense that he was always early. His rather cheerful disposition was reflected in his lighter brown, sun-bleached locks and rich smile that contrasted oddly with his smoke and puddle eyes. The diligent young man jumped over the boxes, gave Antonio and Mamello a respectful bow, then greeted them merrily,

"Morning, Comandante, Señor Mamello. What needs to be done?" He addressed more the African man than Spain; for they were closer in relationship and rank. Mind wandering, the Spanish man took a moment to observe the crates. As he'd noted before, there were oranges, bullet casings, and oat flour; but along with those were some barrels of fresh water and some of cannons. The money they had pillaged earlier in the year had bought them tea leaves, coffee beans, and sugar; few luxuries that no doubt would not last long. In the last final crates were gunpowder and dried meat; Antonio thought he recalled his enemy calling it jerky. Mamello replied to the young man, Alonso Del Rio, Spain thought he was named,

"If any others have arrived, go collect them. When you have found all that have already come, I will begin an inventory check. The rest of you can carry the crates and barrels you can as I go. Load the remainder on to the crane. When José is here, I'll have him man it." He did not bother sending a glance in the captain's direction; they had been through the same process so many times that the words came instinctively to the dark man's lips. As he was aware that everything would be taken care of, Antonio whirled about, allowing his coat to billow out with sea breeze behind him and approached the gangway that led to the ship's main deck. As he stepped from the ramp, he for but a moment ceased to feel emotions of any sort. As he strolled the perimeter of the vessel, he allowed his hand to trail behind him on the sleek railing, the slight squeak of oil and sweat on polished wood sliding along with him. The pads of his fingers in contact with it sent sparks slithering through his bones and tendons. He slackened his pace as he reached the stairs by the chartroom and then with exceeding deliberacy, climbed them, all his weight resting on each foot's sole in turn as he rocked near precariously on each step's edge. He was cautious not to let the blade of his axe leave a line of chipped wood on them. Once he reached the top, Spain was reluctant to part with the railing, as one would be to leave their veins where they stood and continue on without them. At last, though, he released it, only to be drawn by gravity to the center of the pilothouse. His eyes drifted shut as he extended his arm forward and with a gossamer caress, swirled his fingers about the helm. His body swayed with the lullaby of the ship as it bobbed gently with the rising tide. With each breath came the scent of oak and salt, which then swirled about until it hit the roof of his gaping mouth and steamed out, unified as one in the air.

He knew not for how long he stood; it felt as though it could have been mere minutes, though logic stated that it must have been much longer, for when he finally awoke from his trance, the ship was much busier. Many more of his crewmen had arrived at this point and had nearly completed the task of compiling all of the supplies in the cargo hold, it seemed. Some, such as Alonso and José, were now even hoisting the sails in preparation for embarking. Alonso had taken note of Antonio's awakening from his stupor and called down to his captain from one of the masts,

"Fair winds today, sir! Are we following seas as well?" Even from where he stood much farther below the other, Antonio could see a good breeze whipping the light brown strands of his hair. José glanced down from the masthead, tuning in to the captain's orders and Mamello was swiftly at Spain's side.

"Aye!" he shouted back over the distance, "though only at first!" Alonso gave a nod of acknowledgement and turned away, an act that was mirrored by José. He beckoned to his first mate to follow him as he made his way to the chart room just below the helm. The room, while not particularly spacious, was of a fair size. Windows brought in the only light, for there were no candles lit this early in the day. Maps were strewn about on a table in the center with various devices used to measure distance. It appeared a bit more disorganized than usual, what with cupboards carelessly thrown open; though it was of no matter. Antonio was certain that José must have just been searching for a map now that he was aware of the destination. It was, however, an oddity that his compass seemed to be missing. Spain did little more than frown, however, before continuing to Mamello, "After we are out of the harbor, we'll bear down and let the wind carry us out of the bay. We'll stay on that course for a while; then we'll bank north around Portugal and head straight for the Azores. I've heard of a number of unusual acquisitions there that I plan on getting my hands on." The African glanced towards the maps and calculated quickly in his head.

"About a half month's journey," he commented, one brow quirked above the other. "Not terribly long." He picked up a stray tool and dragged it delicately along the map's parchment surface, being cautious not to tear it. The point of it came to rest between the westernmost islands of Flores and Corvo, and then drifted to the smaller northern one. A fleeting memory was painted in his dark eyes, and though the event did not take place on this particular island, Spain knew that somehow, the doubt had been reignited.

"Mamello," the captain began assertively, "do not worry. You are far to valuable for me to kill you as I once thought I would and you are no longer recognized by your old captain. You have aged quite quickly, after all. Besides," he said, his words now developing a nonchalant air, "I will not allow him to slaughter you on the count of mutiny." For a moment, as Antonio regarded his first mate, he recognized the trembling cabin boy that had once belonged to his enemy and witnessed murder, betrayal, and abandonment in a few short minutes, at Spain's hand, no less. Quickly, he forced it out of himself and took on an air of certainty. The Spaniard took note of the change and commanded, "Issue orders to the crew to tell of our departure."

"Aye, aye, Comandante," he replied before swiftly making his way out of the chart room. Antonio listened briefly at the door for the African man's voice. When he discerned it from the others, it sounded with an air certainty and he forgot what misgivings he'd had. Standing there, absolutely still, he allowed himself with a content smile to be lulled once more by the ruckus of preparations for their departure.

Too lazy to do translations. Google it. - Domingo P.