Chapter 9 : Heart of Glass

Ever since that fateful day a strange feeling had taken hold of him. He felt trapped, as though by some large malicious spider-web, forced to look out at the rest of the world while bound hands and feet. Immobile, helpless, numb—the sort of numbness that accompanies a horrible deed, a major decision, a confession.

But he had not made so much as a confession. Not even close. If anything, the talk with Lovino had simply been an explanation, a tying up of loose ends, nothing more. He knew he should be grateful. So many days he had passed, wondering if he'd ever see those hazel eyes again, touch that expressive face, hear once more that strong young voice that meant everything it said. It had been so long. So long. Had he not captured Lovino that day they might never have met again.

And yet, whenever he thought of them both—what life meant when both Lovino and Antonio were considered—an almost crushing sensation would settle upon him. He always regretted thinking, because that led to the obvious conclusion: nothing could ever happen between them. Antonio Fernandez Carriedo was a pirate captain and Lovino Vargas, no doubt, a wealthy landowner. It was only by chance they had reunited but perhaps it was better if they had not. Lovino didn't belong on this ship, or with Antonio. He belonged in Italy, beautiful Italy, among the shining spires of Venice; he could have been there, free, had it not been for the pirates.

The pirates who, incidentally, were still traveling at full speed to the City of Lights.

Perhaps—if Lovino decided to escape then—perhaps no one would stop him this time. He had his freedom to think of, his future, his family. He had so much to live for. So much Antonio could not possibly understand because he was a pirate, and pirates were a different people altogether.

His thoughts assailed him all the time and soon he began to lose interest in many things. Eating and drinking became secondary. His duties seemed suddenly meaningless. He found himself apathetic, blindly accepting, having lost his direction—unable to respond or reason or feel.

But what was absence of feeling to a pirate? Who had ever said pirates could feel, or had hearts to feel with, for that matter? And even if they did—those unlucky bastards—the odds were always against them. They were sucked down into the deep dark ocean quicker than anybody else.

El corazón del pirata no cambia.

The heart of a pirate does not change.

He knew the old sayings were always true. Who was he to argue against them? And it was no matter; because, for about thirteen years, he had completely forgotten what it meant to have a heart. To be sure, there had been a slight hesitation—a constricting of the chest—a small prick of guilt… or was it regret? It had happened when he beheld the looks on those wicked men's faces, the way some had tried to weasel out of death, the way some had pleaded, right before he'd lifted that cold blade in cold blood and slit their throats one by one.

Merciless.

And then it had come down to that last man. That final man, nameless to this very day, who had died unknown, alone. That very same man who had once lifted a struggling Toni over the crashing waves and laughed while sending the boy to his doom.

He had had blue eyes. Antonio remembered this well because even in their last moments, those blue eyes had watched him with absolute calm.

"Here's one who isn't scared of death," he had said, smilingly, to the villain he had bound in ropes. The man replied with the utmost gravity.

"You are right—I am not. I have never been less afraid of death in my life."

Antonio had pressed the knife to his neck, closer, noting how he did not flinch in the slightest. In that moment he rejoiced in his own power—such supreme power over another, helpless human being.

"Have you ever thought about Hell? They'll give you a nice warm welcome there, I'm sure—they should. For people like you."

"Oh, they will welcome me. You, as well."

"Me." Antonio scoffed and forced the blade deeper into exposed skin. "No, not me," he corrected, observing the blood begin to flow under the sharp edge. "Why would it be me? I merely sought justice. It was my right. And here I am, collecting what I came to collect. You are paying for the lives you took. It was meant to be this way."

"True," the man shrugged. "But think about it—you are taking lives too."

"For justice."

A snort. "Justice... but that is merely subjective. Anyone can call justice and kill someone."

"And it is by subjectivity, on behalf of my kin, that I kill you."

"In cold blood."

"Perhaps."

The man laughed—cheerfully, without a care in the world. It was as though death did not worry him, could not touch him, would not bother him in the least, debauchee and criminal though he was. At last he quieted—his clear blue eyes piercing into Antonio's with a chilling sapphire smile.

"Then you, my friend, are no different from me," he whispered. And before Antonio could react he had flung himself forward onto the blade.

Everything had been red. Antonio had seen red. Red sunset, red blood, red draping his knife and his hands and his clothes. Everywhere.

That day he had killed.

Three men in cold blood, one man by accident.

It amounted to four. Four acts of justice, four murders—what did it matter how they called it? His goal had been accomplished. He had gotten his revenge. He should have been satisfied, triumphant—but he had not been.

And afterward he had chosen to sail with the pirates.

And afterward he had killed even more. Killed in cold blood.

He knew where he was now—knee-deep in his twenties and knee-deep in vice and knee-deep in death.

Sometimes he would reminisce on his childhood—bitterly, almost unconsciously, but he would do it. He would remember that blissful, innocent time—how people had appreciated him, called him the light of the sun, praised him and told him he would go far.

Oh, but he certainly had gone far.

Very far indeed.

Eventually, Lovino in turn told him his own side of the story.

As Antonio had long suspected, he hailed from a family of nobles and had spent much of his life in luxury. Everything came easily to him; he never had to work because there was no reason to, he never had to worry about getting enough to eat or obtaining new clothes or any such concerns of the peasantry. It sounded like a perfect life—just like the life Antonio had long dreamed for himself.

But Romano, as he was known back then, lost his parents to some mysterious illness. With his siblings he was shipped off to live with their Nonno, Romulus Vargas, in a grand villa on the outskirts of Venice. It was from this strict and confining household that Romano longed to free himself. And he did so, meeting young Toni in the process—their escapades bringing them closer together.

After the Spanish boy's supposed death, however—and Lovino said little on this subject—he had withdrawn into himself, grown up in solitude, ignoring the trivial affairs of high society. His Nonno eventually passed away, lost out at sea, bequeathing to him the Vargas estate and much wealth. He did nothing with it. He lived alone, rejoicing in his loneliness; and he changed his name from Romano to Lovino.

This was the very same Lovino who had gone to Sicily the day the pirates arrived. The same Lovino who was captured, the same Lovino for a few hours after that—and then he had, subtly, begun to change.

Just as Antonio had begun to change.

Now an entirely different Lovino Vargas sat before him, having finished his story almost unwillingly. They sat together in the dark of Antonio's chamber, one small candle threatening to flicker out before them, buffeted by the relentless sea breeze.

Antonio watched him, still feeling he should keep silent, unconsciously expecting something more. He thought he detected some secret in the Italian's eyes, hovering on his lips, but Lovino said nothing. Instead his eyes traveled beyond Antonio to rest on the wall behind them.

"That's your sister, isn't it?" he said suddenly.

The startled Spaniard turned to look. He was met with the familiar picture in its golden frame—the picture of that beautiful, green-eyed girl smiling her all-knowing smile, the girl he had loved and missed over the years.

"Yes, she is," he answered. "Her name was Isabella." There was a silence; he didn't know what to say. They both remembered what he had said about her fate. "... I loved her very much," he said finally.

Lovino's expression held something like compassion.

"... I'm sorry."

"Don't be..."

"I am. I would've been the same way if I were you."

Suddenly something in Antonio's chest tightened and he couldn't go on talking, not about that.

"You have a sister too, don't you?" he asked instead. A nod came from the now-quiet Italian. "Brother?" he tried.

Another nod.

Their eyes did not meet. The faint candlelight painted two somber faces on the glass of the frame.

"Do you... love them, too?"

The question was natural; it had been on the tip of his tongue the entire time. And yet Antonio's voice seemed to turn it into something different. Lovino's eyes, shining golden before the dancing flame, connected with his. For the first time in five minutes he spoke.

"Yes," he said quietly, almost hesitantly. "Yes... I suppose I loved them."

Something wavered in his face and he averted his gaze; Antonio saw his hands were shaking ever so slightly. Gently the Spaniard reached forward and took them. The Italian did not respond. It was obvious that his hands had once been those of a nobleman, unaccustomed to work—but now they bore as many calluses as anyone else's, thanks to pirate-ship labor. Nevertheless Antonio caressed them, softly.

When he made to entwine their fingers together, something came over Lovino. Suddenly—as though losing his balance—he pitched forward into the Spaniard, his arms finding their way around Antonio's shoulders. He breathed harshly and did not speak and did not shift from where he stood. After a long moment Antonio moved to hold him. Not tightly and not loosely, but just right, almost the way he would embrace a long-lost brother, yet not quite.

Something stirred in his chest as he stood there with Lovino in his arms. Something welled up inside him, and he found words lingering on his tongue and his mouth opening to speak.

But he didn't. Instead he pulled Lovino closer and held him tighter and did not let go, because that was what any good friend in his place would have done.

That night he had a dream.

It was afternoon—a very bright and hot afternoon, particularly on the Trinidad because she had so few portholes, and he was going down to the galley to bother Lovino, out of habit. He felt particularly slow and sluggish in his dream, and it took him a long time to find the door he wanted. As soon as he did he burst through it without the slightest hesitation.

"LOVI!"

The Italian screamed and dropped his ladle and overturned his pot, spilling pasta all over the floor.

"What the FUCK, Antonio!?"

He could see Lovino was angry—actually, beyond angry—because his work had been interrupted and ruined. The food must really mean a lot to him, Antonio observed, without any particular remorse. Nevertheless he stepped forward to help clean up, and found himself rebuffed by the Italian's fuming face.

"I'm sorry," he said, because that was what anyone would have said. It was nice to watch the fury slowly dissipate.

"You had better be," Lovino growled. "Now fucking pick it up for me."

Antonio did so, and stood by while the Italian continued to cook. The new pasta smelled better and better, and it turned red when Lovino poured tomato sauce on top of it.

Red, he reflected dully. Almost as red as the Italian's cheeks. Red was such a pleasing color.

Without really thinking he leaned forward and slipped his arms around Lovino's waist.

"H-hey! What the hell are you doing!?" Lovino struggled halfheartedly. He shivered when Antonio moved up close against him. "A-Antonio, what—"

He had started pressing little kisses around Lovino's neck and up to his jaw. Soon he reached those delightfully red cheeks and kissed them, too. The Italian made a small suppressed noise and Antonio responded by capturing Lovino's lips with his own.

It was so sudden and so pleasant that he lost his head for a full thirty seconds. He couldn't stop kissing Lovino, couldn't stop holding him, couldn't. The Italian was so warm, his face so red, his lips so soft, and he moaned. An unknown urge came over Antonio, and he suddenly wanted to grab the Italian and devour him and never, ever let him out of his sight for the rest of his life. And then he felt himself being pushed away forcefully, his back hitting the table behind them.

"Wh-what the fuck is wrong with you!?" Lovino shouted, his voice shaking. There was real fear in his eyes. "What the hell do you want!?"

"I want you," Antonio's mouth said automatically, with a dull voice. The Italian backed away slowly. "I want you to be mine, forever and always. Only mine. Will you promise me that, Lovino?"

"NO!"

The emphatic answer pierced all the way through him, into his chest, breaking the numbness which had long gripped him.

"No...?"

"No!" The Italian was trembling, moving farther away with every second. "Never—not anyone like you! You're a pirate—and you have no heart! You will never learn to love, ever!"

He felt as though his heart stopped in that very moment. Lovino was still standing there, watching him, and Antonio must have weakened considerably because the Italian started laughing. Lovino was laughing at him. A loud guffaw that turned into a cackle and then his face began to change. It began to turn darker and fuller, the eyes narrowing and blackening and filling with malice, and at last standing before him was not Lovino Vargas but the old hateful woman Abuela.

"So, Cap'n, we meet again," she said spitefully.

"Wh-what—"

Antonio could not speak. The sight of her was enough to root him to his place with fear, and he did not know why. He did not remember doing anything to her. He thought he had not done wrong.

"Remember what I told ye, Cap'n? Remember how I fell an' died an' the blood spilt out on the groun'?" Her face leered at him; she grinned the evilest of grins. "I know ye liked it."

"Shut up," Antonio whispered.

"I know ye like blood, Cap'n. Don't lie."

"Shut up."

"I'll give ye some, since ye asked so nicely."

And she snatched a knife off the counter and plunged it into her chest. Her blood flowed freely—red red blood, splattering and staining the wooden floor and slowly, slowly spreading to his feet.

"Remember, Cap'n," she said softly, "there be a curse on this ship, a curse o' blood. And ye'll pay for it sooner or later."

"No!"

"There be a curse..."

"NO!" he shouted. "NO! SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—" Antonio no longer knew what he was doing; he dropped and curled up in a corner, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to protect himself from the redness that dripped and crawled toward him, that threatened to swallow him in its evil embrace.

"A curse of blood... A curse of blood!"

"NO!" he screamed, and that was when he woke up, drenched in sweat and tangled in his own bedsheets. He shook uncontrollably and he could barely move. For a long time he lay there, his heart pounding restlessly and his thoughts in shambles.

He had had many nightmares before but none could compare to this one. It was as though Fate were warning him—that he would meet a bad end sooner or later. A comforting thought indeed. Not for the first time Antonio wondered whether it might be better to quit piracy altogether. But he knew that even if he did now, nothing would ever make up for the ones who had died because of him.

The men who had murdered Isabella, he did not regret killing. Perhaps he never would. But the others—the innocent passengers on all those ships they had plundered, the captains of those ships, the villagers of Gallipoli and still others…

Abuela had been telling the truth, he thought with a shiver. It might not be long before he and the Trinidad's crew would have to pay for their deeds—just like other heartless criminals.

The only thing they could do now was be prepared.

A few days ago some scatterbrained pirate had proposed a celebration—an absurd idea in the extreme. But absurd ideas had a way of catching on aboard the Trinidad, and it wasn't long before stolen instruments were being dusted off, rusty singing voices retuned, and blades being sharpened for knife-throwing games. Most of the pirates were in high spirits; even Eduardo the stoic quartermaster seemed less expressionless than usual.

"Don't forget, we be needin' twice the amount o' food tonight," he reminded Lovino in what was probably meant to be a friendly manner. As it was he failed rather miserably. The Italian wasn't fooled; he could see the threat in his eyes.

Being the ship's cook was convenient in more ways than one, but sometimes the cons outweighed the pros. And now was one of those times.

Although the pirates themselves were looking forward to the festivities, Lovino could hardly join them. He knew exactly what they were celebrating—their successful little raid in Gallipoli (the source of their extra supplies, no doubt), and their high hopes for financial gain in Venice. They always hoped, but Lovino personally did not place much faith in them.

He also had another reason to be gloomy: no one had come to visit him in the past three days. Not that people usually did, but of course there was that one man whose name began with Antonio and ended with Carriedo, who particularly enjoyed barging in on him to bother him and hinder Lovino in his work. But he had stopped his visits, and last Lovino heard he had been feeling unwell.

The news had given him a strangely unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach, almost like worry—but of course he wasn't worried. Antonio could take care of himself, he thought uncertainly, and hoped he was right. Yet the queer feeling continued to gnaw at him. Lovino had still cooked all the captain's favorite food, and tried his damned best to send it up personally, but the other pirates had made sure that didn't happen.

He thought he knew what it was all about.

By the time the festivities began he had done his work and was ready to sneak up to the captain's cabin. He had already managed to exit the galley without anyone noticing. Then along the way he passed the mess hall and noticed a lone figure, dressed in his usual flamboyant doublet, sitting in the very back and leaning against the wall with a mug in hand.

Cautiously Lovino approached him.

"Hey," he said awkwardly. Antonio glanced up and finally saw him.

"Why aren't you with them?"

"I should be asking you that," Lovino retorted. The pirate didn't respond and shifted his eyes back to his beer. "What the hell's wrong with you? I heard you were sick. What did you do to yourself?"

Antonio did indeed look unwell. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked as though he had not been getting enough sleep. Yet his whole face held an unspeakable tiredness quite different from ordinary fatigue.

"I'm all right," he said quietly. "You don't need to worry about me, Lovi."

The uncomfortable feeling had wormed its way once more into Lovino's chest, and he tried not to let it show on his face.

"Like hell I'm believing that. Tell me."

"It's nothing."

Lovino sat down beside him and fixed him with his strongest glare. "Antonio Fucking Carriedo, it isn't nothing to me."

No, he wasn't worried.

Not at all, damn it.

For a moment surprise flickered in Antonio's eyes as he understood, but it was all gone in a second. "Lovino, you should leave."

"Why?"

"I'm drunk. Aren't you scared I might hurt you or kill you or something?"

His face was plain tired honesty, painful to see. Lovino swallowed hard, and from some internal urging, stood his ground.

"If you do then you're not Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."

Antonio smiled halfheartedly. "What if I'm not?"

His voice seemed to hang in thin air for a fraction of a second, and yet somehow an age. They stared at each other, one a Spaniard, one an Italian, as though they were seeing each other for the first time. And in a way, they were.

"Impossible," Lovino said finally, with the feeling that he had just made a weighty, irreversible decision. "Now give me some of that beer."

He found the barrel from which the Spaniard had obtained it and poured himself a drink. But while he was busy he failed to notice the look in Antonio's eyes. A look that was thoughtful and at the same time full of longing.

Three hours later the two of them were drunk—very, very drunk.

Lovino had draped himself across the table while Antonio had propped his feet up, teetering dangerously backward. Neither found his position ridiculous; each was immersed in his own thoughts.

"Hey, Antonio," slurred the Italian into the table. The Spaniard looked up sluggishly.

"What is it?"

"I'm sorry."

Antonio squinted at him, but from where he sat it was hard to see Lovino clearly, especially since the Italian's face was mostly hidden from view. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm sorry," Lovino muttered, his face flushed. "I'm sorry for that time… when I yelled at you… before I r-ran away. And for... punching you. I didn't mean it…"

"You did all that?" he asked, genuinely confused. He had quite forgotten. Lovino lifted his head to glare at him and thumped his fist on the table.

"I did, you asshole! Are you gonna forgive me or not!?"

"I forgive you."

"About fucking time."

Antonio looked up at the ceiling and sighed loudly. "I'm sorry too, Lovi."

The Italian's head shot up quicker than lightning.

"What the hell for?"

"For... kidnapping you. And making you work. And... all the bad things I did." His heart felt heavy, somehow. "Do you hate me for that? Or dislike me? Or anything at all...?"

Lovino blinked at him, very confused and very drunk. "Why the fuck would I hate you?"

"So you don't?" Even in his inebriated state Antonio felt suddenly hopeful. "You don't hate me?"

"You're... my friend." Lovino's voice seemed to struggle at the word 'friend.' "I don't think... friends... hate each other."

Antonio gazed at him for a long time, long enough for the Italian to become uncomfortable and distract himself with more beer. Very carefully he reached out and allowed his hand to touch Lovino's cheek. The Italian did not move away but he flushed bright red. His face was warm, almost feverishly warm.

"I don't hate you either, Lovi," Antonio whispered so that only the two of them could hear. "I don't hate you… I like you a lot."

And somehow that admission made him sad.

Beyond that point neither of them remembered anything else.

But when the first mate Emilio ran in and awakened them, Antonio had somehow ended up on the floor while Lovino was stretched out on the table. There was no time to worry about that, however, because the headaches assailed them immediately and the first mate was beside himself.

"Cap'n! Cap'n!" he cried, running to Antonio and helping him up. "I was lookin' for ye for such a long time—" He wrung his hands, looking incredibly nervous as Antonio finally raised himself to a sitting position and held his head. The pirate captain felt as though he had been pummeled with a sledgehammer.

"What is it?" he asked, and winced at the sound of his voice. "Is there… something wrong?"

"Diego at the crow's nest spied a ship off to the west. Still far away but it's gainin' on us. Methinks it's been followin' us for a while now. It's a large ship. Got the skull an' crossbones too, an' there's a mermaid at the prow…."

Suspicion suddenly took hold of Antonio.

"Is it… it can't be…"

"Methinks it is," Emilio said worriedly. "The Kirkland ship."

Immediately Antonio stood and rushed from the room.