The air smelled of salt as Gangrel allowed himself a moment to breathe, pausing in his work. Nearly two weeks had passed since the pirate ship had weighed anchor, and he'd been working the entire time, from before dawn until well after sundown. The feel of being at sea was the only thing that brought him a measure of peace on the reeking barge the pirates called home.

"Oy! Maggot! Who told ye to stop workin'?"

Gangrel bit his tongue and returned to his task-swabbing the deck-with renewed energy. It was dull work, but it kept him away from his abusive crewmates, at least most of the time.

Working under Zanth was no holiday: the captain did nothing to stop the brawls that often erupted on deck, leaving the former king more work to do than before. Atop keeping the ship clean enough to live on, Gangrel had to keep account of all weapons on board, use his limited healing skill in the med cabin, and complete every repair job on the ship. The last was particularly humiliating because he was expected to fix torn sails more than anything else, and the Mad King could not sew a proper stitch to save his life.

"Maggot! Ye missed a spot! C'mere and clean it up!"

I almost wish those das't shepherds would butcher these clowns, Gangrel thought bitterly as he moved to the opposite side of the deck-the side he'd finished half an hour ago. His arms ached from the never-ending tasks assigned to him, but he held his tongue, never complaining. Better to suffer in silence then to be beaten for whining.

"Maggot!"

Gangrel immediately snapped to attention upon hearing Zanth's rough voice. His captain was the only one who could elicit this fast of a reaction, and Zanth knew it. The pirate took his time to walk across the deck space between them, savoring his feeling of being in control of the red-haired man.

"We'll be in port fer a raid tomorrow morning. So get yer maggoty hide into tha' armory and sharpen the blades. An' gods help ye if there's on dull edge left on the entire ship."

Gangrel replied with a stiff "Yes sir," and put the mop and bucket away in the supplies closet. Making his way belowdecks, he dodged the shoves and jeers of his crewmates and slipped into the armory.

The room held an impressive array of killing instruments-an physical ode to steel-and the Mad King exactly how many there were and where they all belonged. He took a whetstone and surveyed the shelves, trying to decide where to start. Sighing, he pulled an axe from it's place and began to sharpen it.

He's be in here for hours, he was certain of it: fifty axes, thirty swords, and nineteen lances with dull edges needed honing. All his job.

To his credit, Gangrel was a fast worker; spending years on the battlefield had given him plenty of weapons experience and practice at sharpening blades-more than enough skill for the mundane task before him. Even the smoothly curved edges of the three Levin swords the pirates held posed no challenge to him. Perhaps he did not need to use the whetstone on the latter of the weapons-they were, after all, not designed for cutting-but his orders had been explicit. Not one dull edge.

The task took until well into the night. Gangrel's stomach grumbled from lack of food, but he continued to run the whetstone across steel, taking the opportunity to stop thinking and allow his hands to repeat the motions over and over. The insults that usually rang in his ears at all hours quieted to be replaced by the scraping rhythm he created.

He had to finish the work by lantern-light, but once he was done, he walked out to the galley. There was no food to be found aside from a crust of bread and half a strip of jerky. Taking the food, he walked to the deck and leaned over the railing.

The salty wind brushed through his hair, stinging his face with sea spray. He allowed his tense form to relax as he watched the waves, taking a bite of his miniscule dinner.

The swaying of the boat didn't bother him in the slightest; if anything it was helpful, giving some constant factor into the chaotic mess of an existence he had left. The meager portions were gone in a few bites, but they quieted his stomach. Gangrel ran his fingers along the gold chain around his neck thinking as he watched the water move against the ship's wooden hull.

For the first time in a long while, his thoughts ran farther back than his days on the throne, running instead to the slums where he had been raised. That time and this were more closely related than anyone could have thought: he was at the bottom, the most hated of anyone. Again.

Gangrel turned his thoughts off. No, he would not go back, not even in a moment of weakness. He had sworn that when the crown had been placed on his head. The same crown that rested upon his brow at this very moment.

"You pathetic dastard," he said aloud. "You can't go back. You're not a king, you're less than a man. You died weeks ago. You're worth nothing."

Words that would have pierced deep once now barely held any meaning to him; he'd heard them so many times repeated in his mind that he'd stopped fighting it, and accepted the truth.

Zanth looked at the piled of perfectly sharp weapons with a critical eye. He would never say it aloud, but the maggot had surpassed his expectations in almost every way.

Behind him the crew whispered, wondering what their captain was thinking. The maggot waited silently, standing at perfect attention, awaiting further directions.

"Grab yer weapons, lads!" Zanth called. "There's spoils aplenty to be taken!"

As the pirates swarmed forward onto the weapons pile, Zanth walked to the red-haired man, pulling him aside.

"What are ye playin' at, maggot?" Zanth growled. Gangrel looked at him blankly.

"Nothing. You gave orders, I followed them."

Zanth grunted, dissatisfied. The man before him did not say another word, his jaw clenched tight. The pirate captain scowled and turned back to his crew, all of whom were awaiting the order to go ashore. As the boat was slowly emptied, Zanth gave the cabin boy his final orders.

"The ship does not move from this spot. And it better be cleaner than when we left it, or I'll lay the whip on yer miserable hide."

Unseen by the crew, Gangrel smirked to himself. Let the barbarians go kill themselves trying to grab something glittery. He might be a terrible excuse for a human being, but they were all idiots. And if the lash fell, he'd welcome the chance to feel something again. Even punishment would be a nice change in his miserable world.

A/N: I am starting to lose confidence in my writing ability; whenever I read someone else's story about the Mad King, it seems so much better than mine! And I'm not even sure where I'm going with this. I haven't gotten any brainwaves on this, except for the last chapter-which I can't write until the rest is done. So, not really expecting any updates on this soon. Sorry! :(