The music was well played. It was fast and it seemed fun to dance to, but unfortunately you could not partake in the festivities since you were sitting with your wrists in chains again on the sand, looking out at the crowd while Arthur sat above you on one of the kegs, his feet propped up on some driftwood one of the men had found. The men were enjoying themselves, dancing around and drinking to their hearts' content. The fire danced, sending shadows across the beach. Although you were in the Caribbean, the night was rather cold, and so the fire was comforting; it was just too bad you were too far away to feel it's heat. You shivered, wishing you had your coat.

You hadn't put it on the night they attacked you––you hadn't thought about it. And now it either lay at the bottom of the ocean or had dissolved into ash from the flames when the ship sunk. Scowling, you looked up at his smug face as he took a swig from his mug, his cheeks rosy from the alcohol. He saw you from the corner of his eye, "What? Something wrong?"

"Your face."

"In all seriousness, love."

"Wha' are we celebratin' for?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Then wha's all this for?"

"Nothing, as I said before. There's nothing wrong with having a bit of fun now and then, is there?"

"You weren' in a very 'fun' mood before."

He frowned and set down his mug, "You're right. I wasn't."

"Wha' was the bad news?"

He stood up on the drift wood and began to pace a bit, seeming to be internally debating over whether or not he should tell you. He finally muttered, "Antonio..." His eyes narrowed and his words were bitter. The name alone seemed to change his mood sour.

"You keep sayin' tha' name. Antonio... is 'e tha' famous Spanish captain, the one sailin' the––"

"Yeah, that's him."

"...Is 'e your rival?"

"Gee, whatever gave you that impression?" Every syllable was dripping with sarcasm.

"Well then, wha's the problem? Wha's goin' on?"

"He's one thing. However, have you ever heard of Francis Bonnefoy?"

That name didn't sound familiar, but it was easy to pick out where he was from based on the name, "No, but assumin' 'e's French, I fink tha' automa'ically makes 'im a target for the bof o' us."

"You're right, he is French. That frog is another pirate captain, a quite formidable one just like Antonio. Then there's another. His name is Lord Gilbert Beilschmidt of Prussia, and unlike Antonio and Francis he has a full navy at his command."

"And these three are all some'ow connected togever?"

"That's right. I could handle all of them if they were alone––although it would be quite difficult to handle Beilschmidt's navy by myself––but it seems that they've gone and made a mockery of Britain." He grabbed his mug and chugged down the last of the rum before slamming it down on the keg, "Damn them! Three of Britain's enemies––three of MY enemies––have formed an alliance! How the bloody hell am I going to go up against all three of them, with a navy to back them up!"

"Why is a lord joinin' up wif a bunch o' pirates?"

"Specifically because of me. That Prussian bastard has a grudge against me because I sunk a German ship not too long ago that had his brother on it. So now since he wants to get his revenge, he's gathered up two of the best pirates around that already hate my guts and have formed an alliance." He sat down on the driftwood and put his hand to his face in frustration, "What the bloody hell am I supposed to do? As great as the Santa Rita is, she's not built to take on a whole navy."

You didn't know what advice to offer him; it sounded like it was a quite a hopeless case. But it didn't matter, as two silhouettes broke from the riotous crowd and joined the two of you.

"Hey, (Y/N), come with me!" Alfred grabbed your hand and pulled you to your feet before you had any time to disagree, "Let's dance!"

"Are you sure you can dance wif tha' wound o' yours?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine, it's just a little––"

"Alfred, leave her be. She's not dancing with you," Arthur stood up and addressed you, "Sit down."

"Why not!"

"She's going to sit here, she's not a guest, she's a prisoner. She's just lucky she's not sitting alone in the hold right now."

"...Didn' wanna be 'ere in the firs' place..." You muttered, but he didn't hear.

"But––"

"No."

Alfred looked at you, then back at Arthur, and then a smile crept onto his face, "Alright, then YOU come with me!" He grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him to his feet, dragging him into the dancing crowd. "Hey! Alfred, stop this, let me go!" You watched them disappear among the moving bodies, highly impressed with Alfred's strength.

Matthew stood next to you, smiling, "He needs that. Well, do you want to dance too?"

"I-I... Well, I..."

"It's real easy. Here, Alfred got these from Arthur's quarters before we all came down here," He jingled a ring of keys in his hand and picked out the key for your chains, unlocking them and letting them fall to sand. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the crowd just like Alfred had done. It was quite crowded, flashes of shadow and color flying by you as the men dashed by in their drunken stupor. It was a sea of faces, the only one your recognized was Matthew's in front of you as he spun you around, smiling and laughing.

Before you knew it, at the pace of the fiddlers, you were passed off to someone else. You didn't get a chance to see his face, because you were passed off again, and again, until you had lost all sense of direction and your head was spinning. Finally, a face you recognized grabbed your hand and spun you around.

"Scott!" You exclaimed, relieved to at least know one of these men. He grabbed your other hand and twirled you around, "Evenin' love! Oh, it looks like I won't be with ya much longer. Someone else wants ya. Bye now!" He turned you around and released your hands, and you were caught by Matthew again.

"Oh, Matthew... I'mma gettin' dizzy... you mind if––"

He put his finger to your lips and smiled, then took your hand again. The music sped up, reaching the climax of the piece, and as it grew louder, Matthew handed you off once again, "Last partner!"

You tripped, stumbling forward, attempting to catch your balance; but you ran into someone, an all too familiar crimson coat. You looked up, and both of you glared at each other in disgust, "You!"

He snarled, "What the hell are you doing here! Why-how did you-who let you out!" He was smacked in the arm, and you both looked over to see Alfred and Matthew dancing. Alfred shouted, "Start dancing you two! Song's almost over!"

"I am not dancing with her!" He protested, but both Alfred and Matthew shouted, "Just dance, will you!"

You were quite shocked when Arthur's gloved hands grabbed yours roughly and began to push you back into the movements. He was a bit clumsy, and his scowl only added to the air of awkwardness that surrounded the two of you. Although you were trying so hard not to show any signs of enjoying yourself, a smile crept on your face; when he looked directly at you, you tried to fight it.

He spun you around several times at the very end of the song, carefully avoiding the other men in the crowd, and then caught you a little before the last note. You hadn't noticed before, but you were out of breath, panting heavily as he held you. You looked at him and he at you––and he was breathing just as heavily––and before you knew it, he had let go and you were in the sand.

He turned around and spat on the ground, "Damn wench," pushing through the sea of men to return to his mock throne. You picked yourself up and snarled, "Bloody git."

You dusted the sand off yourself, and you didn't bother to look up as you brushed your knees when Alfred and Matthew came over. "You two planned tha', didn' you..."

"What? Us? No. Here, come with us, this way!" They grabbed you and pulled you through the crowd as it settled down, the fiddlers done for the night. The men were turning to drinking, settling down on the sand around the fire. You stumbled and squeezed through, losing Alfred and Matthew at one point. Although you were momentarily panicked when having lost them––after all, you were in the middle of a sea of drunk men––you quickly found them, who were just as panicked. They finally pulled you to the center of the mass, where the bonfire was. It was surrounded by all the kegs of rum, and there were plenty of men tripping over their own feet to get to them, mugs in hand, some of them still half full with the alcohol sloshing around and spilling down the rims.

Alfred and Matthew grabbed three glasses, filling them to the brim with rum. They sat down in front of the bonfire, a spot in between them, and patted the ground, holding out one of the glasses, "Here, sit!"

"N-No, I really shouldn'––" You began, but then you looked around yourself. It seemed it would actually be smarter to join them, considering they were the only sober ones left around you and you trusted (if you could call it that) them just a little more than the rest of the crew. On top of that, it was a bad idea to fight your way back through the crowd; after all, it had been hard enough to get where you were with Alfred and Matthew's help, let alone getting back yourself surrounded by people you didn't know.

So, although fighting with your logic, you sat down and took the glass from Alfred, taking a sip slowly. You three didn't talk much, but instead drank, the boys more quickly than you. So quickly, in fact, that Alfred was already done with his first glass before you had even reached half of yours. It wasn't long before Alfred was slurring his words, and soon he tipped over the edge, going into fits of rage and then laughing hysterically, leaning on you, dancing around in a drunken stupor and tripping, and then finally falling over, glass still in hand, on his back. He gave one final shout of, "I'm the hero!" before falling asleep where he fell.

"...Seems 'e doesn' 'ave the stomach for it." You said, glancing at the sleeping boy and taking a sip, still working on your first glass, "Or at leas' the brains t'take it slower."

"No, that's just Alfred. Arthur always tells him to slow it down too, but he never listens."

"Wha' 'bou' you?"

"Me? I drink, but just not at the rate at the rest of them," he gestured to the sleeping masses around you, "It takes me a really long time to end up like Alfred." He smiled and drank from his own glass. You nodded and sighed, swirling the alcohol in your own and taking a large gulp; it was going to be a long night.

The fire had been put out, a good bit of the kegs finished, and most of the crew laid where they had fallen in a drunk sleep; however, you were still awake though, unable to allow yourself to close your eyes out of precaution, untrusting of the men. You sat with your arms around your knees, staring at the dark and still slightly smoldering ashes, some of the wood still left either unharmed, blackened, or half-eaten by the flames. Rubbing your wrists, you stood up, cold again. You figured that maybe you could find someone's coat and borrow it for the night.

Casting shadows even in the dark of the night, the moon shone brilliantly, the reflection dancing on the surface of the sea. It provided the light you needed to search for a coat, something that seemed impossible to find amongst the dozing crowd. You stumbled over sprawled out arms and legs, tripped over discarded mugs and glasses, and stepped on a few fingers, all while looking down at your feet in search for that one article of clothing.

Eventually, you found yourself standing in front of the lapping waves, farther up the coast than before because of the tide. The ship's masts were dark towers thrust into the sky, the massive black silhouette of the Santa Rita was silent. The only sounds were the waves brushing the sand as they rolled in, the wind in the tropical forest behind you––farther up the beach––rustling leaves and branches, and the ever present obnoxious snoring of the crew.

You turned away from the ocean and back towards the men; you spotted the rum keg and drift wood, but you couldn't find the king that had sat on the throne. You thought perhaps he had gone into his quarters on the ship, but after inching closer, you spied him with his head propped against the wood, hat beside him and his arms folded on his chest, sleeping. Satisfied with knowing where he was, you stepped backward to continue looking for a coat, but froze when you heard the sharp rattling of metal under your foot.

He stirred slightly, but Arthur did not wake, and you sighed in relief, heart pounding. Beneath your foot, half-covered with sand, were the chains that had been around your wrists with the keys. He had forgotten to put them on before he had left you with Alfred and Matthew.

Then the chains gave you an idea. Leaving them be, you crept towards Arthur again, keeping as quiet as possible. You crouched down, approaching with much caution until you were right next to him. On his right side was his flintlock, just what you needed; it was quite a difficult task to remove it from his belt without waking him.

After many small heart-attacks (he kept shifting in his sleep), you managed to free the flintlock from his waist and carry it safely in your arms away from him. Extremely happy with your success, you ran to the rope ladder and clambered up as fast as you could, the pistol stowed away in your belt. Making sure to be quiet while on board, you entered the captain's quarters and immediately found the pile of rifles, grabbing two, a bag of gunpowder, and a handful of medallions before leaving. You deposited them with the flintlock into the cockboat and climbed in, grabbing the rope and this time making sure you weren't being watched on the deck.

The descent to the water went smoothly, and a little jolt of relief filled your chest when the keel of the little boat pressed against the waves. Stepping out of the boat into the shallow water, you pushed it out until it was deep enough to start rowing. You could see your surroundings better, the sky going from a deep black and blue cluttered with stars to a misty grey. You estimated it was about four in the morning.

It was a long process, but you finally got a good momentum, digging the oars into the silver water. Even after a minute or so, you felt like you had gotten nowhere. You grit your teeth and held the oars tight, "Come on y'damn boat, move."

It glided across the water, but it would always stop short, and so again, you rowed violently, but this time you genuinely felt it stop, hitting something hard. Frustrated, you pursed your lips, rolling your eyes, "Now wha'?" You looked over your shoulder but then immediately looked away, groaning and holding your head, "You've go'a be kiddin' me. I's still tha' shallow, eh...?"

"And just where do you think you're going?" He growled, and you sunk a little in your seat; he was pissed.

"Jus' ou' for a row. Couldn' sleep 'n all, so I––"

"Shut it. I've had enough of you. You're nothing but a pain in my arse and toy for the others––"

You snatched his flintlock in the boat and cocked it back, but while you had done that, he had put his foot up on the edge and pushed down; you hadn't realized this until it was too late, and soon you were in the water, the cockboat capsized. After kneeling in the water––the water only coming up to your waist––and gasping from taking a gulp of the salty liquid in shock, you held up the flintlock, eyes narrowed.

Arthur laughed, "And just what do you think that's going to do now that the gunpowder is wet?" But his laughter was cut short as his smirk flashed to a scowl of hate and he grabbed your soaked hair. He pried the pistol from your hand and tucked in his belt before punching you in the stomach and pushing you into the water by your neck as you folded from the blow. You reached for anything, trying to come up from air, seeing nothing but shimmering light and darkness all combined in the watery punishment.

Your hands touched the sand at the bottom, and you managed to pull one of your legs underneath you to push up. The two of you struggled, you fighting for air and him for your death. Eventually you managed to come out of his grasp and push up, struggling to feel the cold night air fill your lungs again.

"Le' go o' me!" You coughed, digging your nails into his wrist as he reached to grab your neck. You stood up as much as you could, trying to hold your balance as he began to overpower you. The morning sun crept over the horizon and the flash of his flintlock at his waist caught your eye. Struggling to keep his hand in check as it inched closer to your throat, you lunged for the weapon with your left hand and pulled it away. You flipped it to have a grip on the barrel and smashed it down on his head; the impact left him dazed and he retracted his hand, feeling his forehead. He grit his teeth when he saw the red liquid on his fingers.

"You little––" He never finished the statement, falling back into the water and sitting there, head in his hands, "My head..." he groaned.

"Are you calmed down enough?" You asked, doubled over while trying to regain your breath. Your lips curled into a sneer, "You deserved tha' blow... I 'ope you know you're a righ' foul git."

"You're not worth any of the trouble you give me," He mussed his hair and checked his forehead again. He forced himself onto his feet, wobbling a bit from the movement of the water.

"You know I wasn' expectin' you t'stop jus' from tha' blow. Tha's no' the only fink messin' wif your 'ead now is it? Drank your fair share o' rum las' nigh' didn' you?" You smirked, "Tha' mus' be why you're in such a pissy a'itude this mornin'. Your personality is bad enough wifou' the 'angover. Dunno 'ow your crew stands you."

You expected a retort, some sort of insult, even violence from him, but he didn't respond. Instead he looked out at the horizon, dumbstruck by what he saw. He lunged for the cockboat––which had drifted a good bit away––and flipped it back over, "Find those rifles!" he commanded, "Damn it, find them!"

"Wha'? Why? An' now you're askin' for me 'elp?"

"Dammit, just find them!"

"Why?"

He snarled at you and pointed to the horizon, "Just look what's out there. Just look! Dammit, they've found us already!"

You squinted at the sun, and far out in the distance were small ships, black masts shooting into the sky in large numbers; it wasn't merely a few ships––it was the navy.

"Is tha'...?"

"Yes, you idiot, that's them, that's Antonio, Francis, and Beilschmidt. They have no mercy for British pirates and don't think they'll be any more lenient to you because you're a prisoner. They'll sink the ship, they'll sink all of us, and whoever survives they'll catch and kill. They won't––and don't––care. If you want to live, you had better do as I say because otherwise I'll kill you myself. Now find those damn rifles and get back to shore!"

"Your ship is––"

"You think I don't know that! I have two options right now, either careen her and basically have them catch up to us or set sail now and be slower than hell. We're careening her, we're going to put up a fight. Once you've found the rifles, get everyone up. Tell them to get their arses moving!"

Although you disliked being told what to do, with your life hanging in the balance, you groped in the water for rifles, feeling in the sand. Your hands came across a few of the medallions, and you scooped those up and hid them in your trousers without him noticing. After a few minutes you managed to find the two rifles and the bag, but the bag snagged on the barrel of one of the rifles, the gunpowder pouring out into the water.

"Ah, damn..." You muttered, trying to clog up the hole, but it was too late. Arthur wasn't going to be too happy if he found out, and so you finished dumping the bag and tucked it in your shirt so he wouldn't see. He was several feet away, pushing the cockboat towards the shore. You waded after him, muttering under your breath in frustration.

"Get your arses up! Wake up! You hear me! I said wake up! Where's Alfred and Matthew! Start scraping!" Arthur shouted, screaming at the top of his lungs; he pulled the boat up on shore and wrung out his shirt, which was soaked along with his trousers and boots, "Now's not the time to be whining about your headaches! Drop the rum and grab a knife!"

The men, groaning and complaining about being woken up so early, wobbled to their feet, some unable to even stand. He shouted again. "Did you hear me? I said to start scraping! No one gets breakfast until we're off the beach and into the deep again! We've got the Spanish, French, and Germans on our arses and if we don't get moving now we might as well surrender."

"Arthur!" Matthew pushed his way through the crowd, followed by a groggy Alfred, "What's going on?" You stood behind Arthur, still holding the rifles, soaking wet, water running down your face from your hair. You desperately wanted the morning sun to warm you up.

"Antonio. Antonio and Francis are just on the horizon with the German lord. You see all those ships, Matthew? I want you to find Scott and tell him to count all of them and find out if there are more than just one Spanish or French ship. I wouldn't be surprised if they managed to bring along some other pirates from their nations."

"R-Right." He plunged back into the crowd, leaving Alfred behind. The blue-eyed boy yawned and rubbed his eyes before taking his glasses out of his shirt pocket––Matthew had put them there the night before to keep Alfred from smashing them in his sleep.

"I'm starving..." Alfred mumbled, and you opened your mouth to say something, but Arthur beat you to it, "This isn't the time to be thinking about that Alfred. Take the cockboat and attach it to the ship again. When you're done, careen the ship with the others. I'm estimating an hour before they get here."

Alfred kind of nodded, but he wasn't entirely paying attention. Arthur grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yelled, "Did you hear me!"

"Yeah, yeah, I heard you. I'm going." He muttered, ripping Arthur's hand from his shirt and fixing it before stalking off toward the ship. The rest of the men were doing the same, complaining and grumbling and confused. Arthur grabbed your arm and dragged you along through the crowd until you ended up at the spot where he had been sleeping, his coat and hat still there. He picked them up and shook them out before putting them back on despite his wet clothes.

Then he picked up the shackles in the sand and pocketed them with the ring of keys. You were pushed toward the ship––he was encouraging you to walk on your own––and told to climb the ladder.

"Am I no' gonna scrape wif the res' of'em?"

"Go."

You had difficulty climbing up the ladder as you were still holding the rifles, and almost fell on top of Arthur once or twice when you lost your footing. Once you reached the ledge of the ship's cap rail, you tossed the rifles over onto the deck and climbed over yourself. The morning sun cascaded onto the upper deck, casting a large shadow on the main deck. Unfortunately, the sun on the deck was so little that before you had time to warm up waiting for him, he had climbed up onto the ship himself and clasped the cuffs around your wrists. He dragged you into the shadow and reached for the door to the crew's quarters, pulling it open and muttering about being cold quickly under his breath to himself. Although you didn't catch much of what he said, it was clear to you that he was implying he needed to change.

He stopped talking to himself and pushed you through the entryway, prodding you along with his flintlock in your back, although it didn't mean much else but an empty threat. No sunlight passed through the doorway, and the darkness of the ship felt more enclosing than ever, dank and cold. You shuffled down the quarters, into the stairwell and onto the gun deck. It was silent inside the ship. The only sound came from the irregular beats from the knives and tools against the wood of the hull outside, from the tapping and shuffling of your boots and his, and the soft creak of the wood beneath your feet.

You descended the next stairwell into the lower hold, the flintlock in your back not missing a step. It was even darker, the only light coming from the dim oil lamp near the galley. You expected him to push you inside the door and lock you in, commanding you to make breakfast, but instead he steered you toward the brig at the fore of the ship, his elongated gait picking up the pace as he grew impatient. The light faded as you traveled farther and farther into the hold, the maze of crates and barrels and spare sails towered above you, and piles of ropes and sacks tripped you as you walked.

Finally you reached the very fore of the brig, the wood curving upward, the walls damp and covered in mold and filth. On the port side of the brig were three cells, the iron bars rusting and black with mold. One of the cells had chains about halfway up the wall, a rotting wooden bench beneath them; this was the cell he pushed you in. You struggled, grabbing either side of the doorway and refusing to be pushed through or to let go.

"You came this far willingly and then put up a fight at the very end?" He kicked the back of your knee, making you collapse; however, you still tried to hold on to the bars. He groaned, frustrated with your sudden stubbornness. He put away his flintlock and instead pulled out a small dagger that he pressed upon your lower back, the sharp tip digging in slightly and drawing blood. The struggle was over––he had a useable weapon and you had nothing. You let go of the bars and shuffled inside, feeling a slight pressure on your back as the blade threateningly brushed your shirt yet again.

He followed you inside and motioned to the bench. Reluctantly, you faced him and sat down, feeling the damp wood expand and sink under your weight, the splintering wood cracking and groaning. He grabbed your wrists and chained them up and put away the dagger. The chains were short enough that you could no longer reach him nor walk away from the bench, but they were long enough that you could at least rest your hands on the bench.

"I should've put you here in the first place. I've grown too lenient with you. You will continue to make our meals, but this is where you will spend the rest of your time. Oh..." He reached in your pocket and pulled out the medallions you had taken earlier, "Don't think I didn't notice this." You grimaced, the corner of your mouth twitching. He stared you down, pocketing the coins before checking the other pocket, "Let's see what other things you might have taken from me..." There were three more coins in the other pocket, and then he spotted the edge of the gunpowder bag sticking out of your shirt. He pulled it out and opened it, and upon finding absolutely no gunpowder left, he slapped you across the face, "So now you've lost me a bag of gunpowder. You're worthless, you've lost me more than I've gained from you."

You kept your mouth shut as he turned around and slammed the door behind him, locking the cell and promptly leaving the brig, disappearing through the doorway.

Alone in your cell, time seemed to slow. You supposed you could get some well deserved sleep, after having the spent the entire night awake, but it was so musty that when the air invaded your lungs you went into a coughing fit. You were uncomfortable sitting up for sleeping, and your cheek still stung. Your eyes said sleep, but the rest of your body said no.

Left staying awake, minutes felt like hours, and an hour felt like a day. And after what felt like two days, the hull began to creak, the keel groaning as it scraped across the sand. It seemed that the Santa Rita was setting sail yet again.

Yes, although it sounds Spanish, there is a reason behind why Arthur's ship is called Santa Rita. I will be highly impressed if you can tell me why it's called that. Also, I'd like to point out that during this time, any beverage was better than drinking water due to awful conditions, and so no matter what age you were, you would most likely drink some sort of alcoholic drink, which is why when heavy liquor like vodka came out, there were so many drunks because they drank the same amount that they would a normal alcoholic drink like beer; so for those of you who are assuming Alfred and Matthew are too young (though I haven't given you their ages) to be drinking alcohol or think it wouldn't fit with their character all that well, this is the reasoning. Thanks so much for reading!