The sun's rays fell like jaundiced limbs into the musty office air. James' forehead was set; sweat-laced marble furrowed with bitterly warring principles.
"Love?" he wrapped clammy fingers around a glass of whisky, leaving imprints of angst. "Or duty?" His voice was one of resigned musing, to say the very least. The matter was out of his hands now, utterly. The Dauntless had given chase several foggy hours ago, after which time had passed in undulations; bursts of clarity and speed, quickly followed by a misty lull that seemed to drag the very air down with it.
He imagined them bringing her back, a swashbuckling mermaid; cotton britches clinging slickly to her skin. Her hair would be arranged in damp, snake-like tendrils around her face, and then her eyes…bright hazel lamps…they'd dazzle in-
"Oh fantastic anger," breathed James.
It would light up this chilly room. He rubbed his hands eagerly, imagining such perfect warmth. He could taste it. Liquid gold.
A sudden knock at the door, and the taste vanished into ash upon his tongue. "Enter," he muttered sullenly. A pounding headache reigned at the back of his skull.
"Sir." A fat pink marine. Framed in the doorway, he looked like a baby piglet; his mad, dancing black eyes were tiny and sunken, folds of fat hanging delicately over them. James motioned him in.
Yet still the marine remained, anxiously twisting his tongue over his lips. He looked a little sick.
"Ah, A-Admiral. A fine afternoon, is it not?" He played for time, throwing every dice he could. Heaven forbid, should it land upon a six.
"Indeed," James replied slowly. He weighed the fat creature before him in a swift, calculated stare. Then, his back stiffened
"She's here."
He would've fallen, had the marine not darted forth, supporting his superior's elbow with a baffled anxiousness. "I don't q-quite think you understand…" the marine whispered, his tongue twisting even further. James was amused to see it made funny little ridges between his teeth.
"Tell me your name," he slurred lazily, stroking the neck of the whisky bottle. How pleasingly cool it felt.
"Partridge, but-"
"Bring her to me, Partridge. We're having strawberries for tea, freshly picked from the fields of Holland, no, that's tulips…" James trailed off sickly. He collapsed into a funny, angled pile against the window seat. "Oh be dammed man. Tell me."
"Lost," the marine stuttered desperately "I mean, the ship, Sir, she got lost…was lost, if you'll pardon me-"
He got no other word out; a violent vomiting noise broke him off. Shaking and leaning away from the window, James clasped against the wall with a white, clammy hand.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he fixed the marine with his longest of stares. 'Like a green, eternal tunnel' one of the Tortuga whores had called it, as they fell knee-deep into rapture several years ago.
"Sir?" squeaked the marine, visibly trembling now.
"I want a cutter prepared," James wheezed. "The smallest, fastest one of the water. Take it from whomever, I want her ready in ten min-"
"It was a maelstrom, Sir! I tell you, it'd be futile!"
A knife, glinting with fire from the sunset, landed a hair's breadth from the marine's collar. James pushed him roughly up against the wall, his deranged breath reeking of some maddened grief.
"She will come home. Now prepare the cutter, DAMN IT MAN!"
