AN: I've neglected so much work by working from home and being tempted to write this fic than well… work. I love my job but I'm pretty sure I am screwed if I don't work a little this weekend.
I spent a little time reworking some of my planning doc and I've revised this fic to have 17 chapters and an 18th being the epilogue. I do not have any plans to make a third one, no one would probably read it anyway. However, I can tell you that 11 of those chapters will have some form of smut in them.
Without further ado, please enjoy the next installment of War of Pirates, the sequel to Dashing Pirate Rescue!
P.S. This chapter is extremely dialogue heavy.
War of Pirates
Chapter Three: The Rightful Captain
Several hours ago…
She wasn't sure how long she had been crying — unaware of the exact moments her tears subsided, dissolving into quiet hiccups. The feathery down of the pillow underneath her head had captured the remaining tears on her face, and she breathed in the saltiness staining the pillow case as she gasped a few lingering sobs into its cold embrace.
With a few more gulps of air to still her trembling body, she managed to shift her weight onto her side. She blinked rapidly, adjusting her heavy blood shot eyes to the spot where the door was.
There was a pit in her stomach that couldn't be quelled as she stared expectantly at the door, hanging on the minuscule chance he might change his mind and return to her. Minutes ticked by in the dull roar of silence when at last she had come to the straddling conclusion that he had meant every word he said.
The realization was crushing, her heart clenching in her chest and an empty ache rising in her belly. It would be the first night they've spent apart since they were wed, and the acknowledgement of that fact was an unbearable poison to swallow.
For the next hour she laid quietly on the bed, wallowing in the mess she had made. She felt the overwhelming feeling of guilt creeping over her, covering her like a second skin. What she had done was reckless and diminished the trust they had built with one another. In a single thoughtless action, everything had come crumbling down.
What made the taste of this even more bitter on her tongue was that the events had occurred on the eve of his parting. The thought she wouldn't have a chance to redeem herself and recapture the broken trust was almost too much to contemplate.
However, there was the matter of his misguided attempt at keeping her in the dark about his mission that weighed heavily in the back of her mind. He wasn't completely victimless in all of this. He made his choice and he chose to put his needs before those of his family.
Her face grew hotter the more her mind lingered on his betrayal until she could feel her fingernails making crescent shaped marks into her palms. It was that deception that had her shaking with rage and banishing every trace of wrongdoing from her lexicon.
What had transpired between them this evening was HIS fault!
She was a wonderful wife and dedicated mother. How dare he make her feel anything less than! It was Killian who had taken upon himself to leave his family under unknown circumstances. What could be so important that you have to abandon your family and face the possibility of certain death?
She scoffed at the thought, rolling onto her back to stare vacantly at the ceiling. If he was going to survive whatever laid ahead then he would need her help. And by the Gods, he would survive or she would raise him from the dead just to kill him herself!
Placing both hands on the bed, she heaved herself up from the mattress with a slight grunt and swung her legs over the bed until her feet hit the floor. Her brows furrowed in determination and she exhaled deeply before rising from the bed and taking off toward the adjoining wash room.
She stopped in front of the mirror, glimpsing at her reflection and she turned her mouth down in destain for what was staring back at her. Her long blonde curls had released themselves from her updo and thin strands of hair stood in angles around her face. Her cheeks were pink with heat and her eyes swollen from crying.
With a huff, she slammed her hands down against the counter, condemning her appearance. She craned her neck and began wrenching the pins from her hair, sending them scattering across the floor below. Once free from their hold over her hair, she shook her curls back into place and inspected her reflection in the mirror, which wore a thin smile.
"Better…" she murmured to herself before catching the glint of jewels in the mirror. Looking down she noted the gleaming jewels on her fingers and the glittery bracelet adorning her wrist — those would need to go.
One by one she slipped the rings from her fingers, finishing with her wedding band and the accompanying betrothal ring. She didn't want to leave them behind, but she didn't want them to get lost either.
Emma removed the hair from her neck and fiddled with the dainty golden chair around her neck until the clasp gave way. Grasping her wedding ring, she pushed the metal through the chain and proceeded to put the ruby garnished ring on after it — both taking residence against her bosom with her locket.
However, there was something missing. She had no token of her son. Emma tore off from her vanity and set off to the bedroom where her writing desk was. Thrusting open one of the drawers, she found a miniature of her son. Beaming down at the image in her palm, she admired his cherub-looking face and his dark features.
"I'm sorry Liam," Emma whispered before dropping the item on the desk and reaching for the letter opener. Stabbing the side of the frame, she began to slip the portrait from its box until at last it was free. The frayed edges were then cut away and reshaped to fit the empty side of her locket and she secured the portrait inside.
Returning to the washroom, she scrubbed her face and hands, removing the soiled rouge from her face and the salt embedded in her fingernails. She let out a shallow breath and set out to undress herself, plucking at the laces of her corset until it fell away. Emma removed the last vestiges of her royal status and then went over to the wardrobe.
Pushing open the doors, she crept through the darkest corners of her wardrobe until her hand closed around a familiar fabric. She felt a current run through her at the familiarity of the material and sighed longingly before plucking the garment from her closet and throwing it on.
Heart hammering in her chest, she pulled a drawer open and collected a flowy white linen shirt from inside and put it on then secured it to her person with a black leather corset belt, which rested beneath her ample bosom. Lastly, she threw on a pair of black leather boots that finished just below her knees.
She rummaged through the room, throwing items carelessly into her pack, which she tucked onto her back and hid it underneath a long dark green traveling cloak. The only other accessory on her person was the leather sword belt circling her waist — a pistol on one side and a cutlass sheathed on the other.
Before she left her bedchamber, she sat at her desk and penned a letter to her parents expressing her regret at having left without a goodbye. She apologized to her son, who at the formative age of two, wouldn't understand the reason for her absence. She simply told the boy that she had gone to bring daddy home safely.
Night had fallen long before she made her escape from the castle, dipping in and out of corridors so she wasn't seen by the palace staff. She kept herself low to the ground, blending in with the darkness as she rounded the stables.
Retrieving a horse from the royal stables had been easy, the challenge was getting it out of the stable undetected. With a hand on the reins, she walked the horse away from the stables with a quiet trot until they were out of earshot.
Grabbing the scarf around her neck, she pulled it up over her face and mounted the steed. She placed a leg on each side, her boots sitting firmly in the stirrups, and kicked him to urge him forward.
She galloped away from the castle, seeking out an unguarded back exit from the castle grounds and headed into the forest, letting the moonlight guide her toward her destination. It was an hour long journey to the port town where the Jolly Roger was moored, but she made haste and reached the docks before the sun came up.
After abandoning the horse outside the edge of town, she crept her way through the sleepy port town toward the docks. There was the formidable ship, rocking gently in the waves, her towering white sails greeting her. It was like coming home. In that moment she faintly understood how Killian felt to be away from her.
He was right — It isn't home until you just miss it.
Now…
"Ha!" Killian uttered the command as he squeezed his calves around the horse's muscular build to usher the creature forward.
Killian rode at full gallop, his body hugging the saddle and his hands clasped tightly around the reins as he tore through the thick brush of the forest at a brisk pace. He had ventured into the forest to stay off the main roads so as to not attract attention.
Whether he liked it or not, he was a recognizable figure in the kingdom. While he lacked a formal title, his marital connection to the crown had garnered him the recognition of a pseudo prince consort among the kingdom's inhabitants.
His sudden presence hadn't gone unnoticed by the kingdom's population, especially the courtiers, who probed him with pique curiosity. To appease their lust for answers, David had carefully curated a false persona to explain his newfound status.
To those who knew him intimately, he was Captain Killian Jones of the Jolly Roger, a fearsome and formidable pirate captain who just happened to be married to the princess royal and father to the kingdom's heir.
Those who visited court referred to him as Lord Killian James, who bore a false title tied to a made-up estate in a kingdom that never existed. When any suspicions were raised, David would explain it away by referencing a place on the map none had ever ventured into.
They were easily appeased — it was far easier to accept a lie than understand the truth. David would surely commit himself into an early grave if his subjects knew his demure daughter was sullied by a pirate and had a child out of wedlock.
It had been every pirate's dream to live a life of luxury and grandeur — every pirate save himself.
At times he felt like a caged animal on display for other's amusement and a puppet used to keep up the crown's image.
He had protested vehemently when it came to keeping up appearances, wanting nothing to do with court life and everything that accompanied it. He wasn't fond of sitting on the privy council, posing for family portraits for hours on end as the painter tried to capture his likeness, sitting on a cushioned seat next to his spouse at royal events, or joining Emma on the dancefloor at balls.
That wasn't entirely true, he did enjoy that last bit, especially when she allowed his touch to linger far too long than what was appropriate in the presence of an audience.
Moments where he was put on full display had him yearning for a life back out on the ocean's salty tide. A life when rum was his main source of refreshment and stale bread was on the menu. An existence that was held together with few conveniences, planks of wood, and a sail.
He longed for the quiet respite of the calm swell of the waves lapping against the wood of the ship underneath a full moon. He craved the camaraderie of his crew, desired the company and conversation of his officers, ached for the thrill of exploring a far off land, and hungered for the intrigue that could only be found in a port town he would never be able to recall the name of.
He was also desperate for the taste of blood, the pungent smell of death clinging heavy in the air, and the vigor of thrusting his blade into another man's flesh. His heart thrummed in his chest at the promise of bloodshed.
Killian stirred the horse onward, headed due east. The horse's hooves beat against the dirt path, kicking up a thin dusting of brown sand that clung to his hair as it ran swiftly. For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and inhaled the fresh air and reveled in the sensation of the breeze kissing his skin.
While it didn't come close to being on board his beloved ship, it did possess a certain satisfaction akin to the one experienced out at sea, isolated by no borders except the vast expanse of the ocean.
For years, the Jolly Roger had been his only home — the only one he needed. That was until a certain vexing blonde haired princess walked into his life and turned it on his head.
Killian stiffened astride the horse, which swayed slightly at the sudden loss of contact, as his thoughts drifted to his true love and the family he had left behind to face an unknown threat to a kingdom he swore no fealty to. While he didn't possess a personal motivation to see the continuation of the kingdom, he had a duty to protect his wife and son.
Then there was the pesky condition of his unwritten marital contract that he was obligated to fulfill. The stipulation that mandated a royal matter be taken care of by a band of pirates rather than the royal navy.
It was a subtle reminder that he had left everything he knew behind to maintain a life he never envisioned for himself. The events had played out like an unrigged game of dice where he was always the winner or the loser, depending on your fondness for a royal existence.
When it came to Emma, he had won time and time over. She was an unrelenting prize in his otherwise stale life and while cumbersome at times, Liam was a welcomed addition. In fact, he was probably the only unpredictable part of his day, which had been planned by the minute.
All the positive aspects of living at the castle had been tainted with the events that had transpired over the last several hours.
Clenching his jaw, he curled his fingers into the thick leather of the reins and kicked the horse with the side of his boot to bring it to a staggering speed.
The encounter between himself and Emma had left a foul taste on his tongue. What she had committed him to was egregious and on the eve of his departure no less. She could have consulted him before taking their fates into her own hands, but then again, he didn't do much to stop her.
No matter how precarious their position was, he had enjoyed the sublime sensation of claiming her with his seed. He had thoroughly missed burying himself deeply inside her and releasing himself within her silky depths. His restraint had wavered, verging on insanity in a single instant, noting that they would both be responsible for the outcome of their coupling.
Grinding his teeth together impatiently, he pushed the horse forward, trying to get lost in the deafening sounds of the horse's steady stride rather than his haggard thoughts.
He had woken that morning with the intention of making amends, not wanting to depart on a sour note. But she hadn't even bothered to give him the courtesy of seeing him off. How spiteful did one have to be to deprive your better half of a descent goodbye? It was the least one did for someone they presumed to care for.
He closed his eyes, drowning in shame at the state he had left things between them and made a mental note to write to her before they left port. He would be remiss if his last words to her were muttered by her father, she deserved far better than a mumbled "I love you" from the disgruntled royal, who'd love nothing more than for him to perish in battle so he didn't have to deal with a wayward pirate stalking through his castle.
However, his death would leave Emma a widow, his son fatherless, and his possible unborn child with no memory of his existence. It wasn't a life he envisioned for his family, no more than what his life had become with them.
I have to fight. I have to win. I have to come home. For them.
The horse came to a halt before a bridge and bucked back, lifting Killian off the ground.
"Woooo," Killian chided, patting the horse on its mane to calm it down. "Settle down girl," he lilted softly.
Without removing his hand from the horse, he cast his eyes across the bridge suspended over a river. The sound of the water flowing down the rocks was relaxing to the ear and he inhaled, holding in his breath before releasing it in a long exhale. That's when he caught the familiar whiff of salty brine drifting from just beyond the town visible ahead.
Killian instantly perked up and dug blindly into his pocket for his spyglass. Retrieving it from his pocket, he brought it to his mouth and used his teeth to fully extend it. With a firm grip on the metal, he pulled it over his right eye and squinted into the magnifying glass.
Setting his lips into a thin line of concentration, his eyes roamed across the town with its gabled roofed buildings and the steady streams of smoke sweeping up from the chimneys. Peering out, he could see the cobblestone pathway leading out to the beach and followed it until he reached the pier.
The pier was bustling with traffic from foreigners, traders, and fishermen looking to take part in the town's lucrative market. But there out of the corner of his eye, he made out the telltale signs of a towering vessel. Although the whites in the sails were hazy and the red, white, and blue stripes that decorated the pristine wood were less defined underneath the lens, he knew he was staring at the Jolly Roger.
"Aye," his lips curled into an adorant smile. "Hello, love. Soon you'll be back in my loving arms," he whispered, praying his voice carried its way to the ship in the distance, letting her know that they would be reunited soon enough.
He spared her a few more glances before lowering his spyglass and returning it to his coat pocket. "She's less than a mile away," he ascertained, petting the horse who trotted anxiously in place.
Narrowing his eyes on his destination, he lifted himself slightly from the seat and brought the reins down hard, forcing the horse into a healthy sprint. Killian bucked astride the creature, his body bouncing against the saddle with every movement. Determination was coursing through his veins as he neared the edge of town, his pulse vibrating with anticipation serving to drive him forward.
Killian slowed the horse down as soon as its hooves made contact with the cobblestone lining the streets of the town. The horse trotted leisurely through the streets, guided by its master. At the sight of the docks, Killian reined the horse in and leapt off in a single bound, his feet hitting the ground with an audible thud.
There moored in the harbor was the Jolly Roger. Her freshly mended sails were whipping in the wind, her heavy masts newly painted, and her rigging replaced for the journey ahead. It was as if she had primed herself for his return, primping her appearance for his seduction and satisfaction. She was more magnificent than he had remembered.
Without tearing his eyes away from the Jolly, he maneuvered the horse over to the hitching post and secured it before unloading his gear and threw it across his back. Slack jawed, Killian's feet moved toward the ship as if on instinct and was interrupted by one of the harbormen chastising him about leaving the horse.
"Sod off, would ya?" Killian murmured, his mouth still agape at the splendor of his ship and tipped the man with a single gold coin bearing his father-in-law's bust.
Ignoring the young lad's response, Killian's feet carried him to the pier and down the wooden walkway until he reached the Jolly. Breathing in a sigh of awe, Killian placed one foot in front of the other onto the gangplank. He took his time on the inclined plane, basking in the heavenly scent of wood and drawing the sea air into his lungs.
Killian exhaled longingly when his feet made contact with the deck of the ship and he swayed slightly, overwhelmed by the feeling of being on board the Jolly Roger for the first time in nearly a year.
"Captain?" The dutiful voice of his first mate drifted into his ears. "What? What are you doing—" the plump man stuttered, his eyes wide in surprise at his appearance.
"Ah, Mr. Smee," Killian acknowledged, dropping his bag with a thunk. "Make yourself useful," he gestured to the bag with his chin.
Without muttering a word, Mr. Smee placed a hand at the back of his head to secure his signature red cap and bent forward to pick up the captain's belongings. Killian strode past him, paying him no mind, and immediately began inspecting the vessel for signs of wear and tear sustained in his absence.
Killian tugged at the rigging, testing the tautness in the rope's knots, stroked the masts for signs of splintered wood, and checked the pulleys for rust and found nothing. She had been well cared for and was left in the same condition as when he last saw her.
"Well, well, well," a familiar voice cat-called from behind him. "Well if it isn't the bloody prince consort of Ithria."
Killian's lips curled into an amused grin and he turned slowly to see none other than his second in command.
Madden regarded him with an arrogantly raised eyebrow. "To what do we owe the pleasure, your grace?" He asked, sweeping himself into a flamboyant bow that would be dissected for science if anyone in polite society had witnessed it.
"You bastard," Killian roared in laughter, punching the man in the shoulder, sending him tumbling onto the deck.
Madden tucked his legs into his chest, laughing uncontrollably.
"Idiot!" Killian jested, kicking the floorboards next to him. "Did you have that planned?" Killian asked, short of breath in his state of absolute glee.
"Yes," he wheezed, wiping the tears from his eyes. "It was so worth it though," Madden gasped, trying to control his breathing in the wake of his laughter.
"Bloody arse," Killian teased, bending forward with an extended hand to help the man recovering from his brush with hilarity.
Madden accepted his hand and was helped back onto his feet by the rightful captain of the Jolly Roger. "Come here, mate!" He raised his arms to receive his friend.
Killian closed the distance between them and stepped into his grasp with a hearty chuckle.
"I've missed you," Madden said, squeezing the man in his arms.
Killian smiled in response and clapped him on the back, standing awkwardly waiting to be released.
A pair of feet stopped in mid stride behind the pair and stepped back, tilting his head in confusion. "Oh, for christsake," he scrunched his face in mock repulsion. "Get a bloody room you two."
Madden peered over Killian's shoulder to see the face of Bradley, the boatswain, his face twisted into a perfect caricature of disapproval. Madden's face split into an amused grin and spat, "Love you too, Bradley."
Bradley sneered and rolled his eyes, retreating away from the pair embracing one another, muttering a string of broken curses under his breath.
"Ah, he's just jealous I beat him to it," Madden said, patting Killian on the back before pushing him away to get a good look at him.
Killian chuckled and shook his head, "I have never and will never embrace that man. He rarely bathes," he twisted his face in disgust at the memory of the revolting smell the boatswain carried with him.
"He says it wards off his enemies," Madden recalled.
"He may claim it's a military tactic but It's bloody disgusting," Killian shook his head, fighting off the urge to gag.
Madden clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his chuckles and leaned forward, collapsing against Killian with a hand on either of his shoulders. "Ah," he breathed out, collecting himself before taking a hard look at the captain.
Upon seeing the dark circles under Killian's eyes that had nothing to do with the smudged coal that lined his eyes, he cocked his head to the side and winced. "Speaking of disgusting, you look bloody awful."
"Aye, I didn't get much sleep last night," Killian provided, swiping a finger underneath his tear ducts to relieve some of the stress on his heavy eyelids.
Sensing Madden's keen instinct for reading Killian like a book, the pirate captain quickly added, "I was far too excited to sleep in anticipation of this very moment."
"Mhm," Madden nodded skeptically, but dropped the subject. "As soon as I got your raven I loaded up the crew and sped here. What's going on?"
Killian glanced around at the lingering faces of the crew loitering around on the main deck and then returned to Madden to say, "Not here. Round up the officers and meet me in my quarters. We have much to discuss."
Madden nodded in understanding and watched as Killian made his way across the deck and slipped below deck to the captain's quarters.
Killian breathed out a long winded sigh when the door slammed shut behind him, his back arching against the door. Looking around the room, everything was as he had left it. The observation was staggering to say the least, considering Madden had been occupying it for the last year. However, the former quartermaster was nothing if not meticulous in his cleanliness. It was something he had always admired about him.
His eyes fell upon his bag near the bed, and he pushed off the door to unpack his belongings into the trunk situated at the foot of his bunk. He had packed lite, traveling with extra articles of clothing, his travel kit containing a cask of soap, brush, rag, and other necessities, a spare pair of boots, a leather journal, his flask, a miniature of his wife and son, and a few weapons tucked inside his leather boldric, the main one being his prized sword he won in battle — the very same battle that had momentarily claimed his life.
Running his fingers over the glinting metal sword, he sighed wistfully, thinking back to a time when he would give anything to be with Emma.
He was drawn from his thoughts with a knock at the door followed by a creek. "Killian?" Madden wondered, ducking his head inside the cabin.
"Aye?" Killian craned his head to look at him as he folded a clean black linen shirt and set it on top of the bed. "Come in," he allowed, turning around to see the officers, one by one, file into the room.
"Close the door Mr. Smee," Killian commanded his first mate as he crossed the room to settle himself against his writing desk.
He regarded each of the faces before him with respect and pride as he leaned forward, crossing his arms over his chest. The door closed and Smee rushed over to join the other officers, who waited in anticipation to hear why they were called off course.
"Let me be the first to say, welcome back captain," Mr. Smee acknowledged thoughtfully.
Killian scrunched his face in distaste for the eager comment. "Shut up, Smee."
"Shutting up sir," Mr. Smee sat back on the floor, letting the higher ranking officers have a seat at the table, and quickly closed his mouth.
"I'm sure you are wondering why I brought you all here," Killian announced and watched the men trade speculative glances. "Be aware that what I'm about to say is not to leave this room. Is that understood?"
"Aye, captain," they answered in an off-key chorus.
"The kingdom of Ithria is under attack and we've been tasked to put an end to it — swiftly and quietly," Killian disclosed to a singular groan emanating from the corner of the room.
Killian scowled at the reaction and glared at the man who dared to have it. "Is there a problem Mr. Finley?"
"Aye," Finley said resolutely, holding his captain's stare. "Why the hell should I lay my life down for a royal?"
Finley's words were followed by nods and murmurs of agreement among the officers in attendance.
"You will be handsomely compensated," Killian reassured them. "The king has spared no expense—"
"If he is so bloody wealthy, how come he can't hire someone to do it?" Bradley chimed in.
"He is. He's hired us," Killian answered the pointless question with a groan of frustration.
"It still begs the question as to why we are meddling in royal affairs," Randell, the sailing master, pointed out.
"In full disclosure, I made an agreement with the king when I married the princess—"
"Jesus Killian!" Madden groaned, scrubbing his hands down his face.
"He's screwed us. He's bloody screwed us," Bradley muttered to himself.
"Pirates are not indebted to royals!" Finley roared. "We've spent years running from royal swine just to find ourselves at their mercy and doing their dirty work while they sit back and do nothing!"
"Enough!" Killian screamed shrilly, effectively silencing the men. "You are not obligated to fulfill this request. It's my request to fulfill. But let me bloody talk before hanging me out to dry!"
Killian released a shaky breath, steeling himself in preparation for disclosing everything he knew. "When the king accepted my proposal for Emma's hand in marriage, it was under the terms that I could carry on a life of piracy part-time as long as we kept our business outside the kingdom's borders. In exchange, he wanted an unnamed favor to be paid at a later date and came to collect a few weeks ago…"
"This is absolute horse shit," Bradley scoffed.
"Mr. Bradley, I will seek your opinion when I've asked for it!" Killian barked, demanding his silence so he could finish.
"That marriage contract is what has kept you all on the payroll this entire time. Her dowry has paid for every salary, barrel of rum, prostitute, and voyage you've been on in my absence. The dowry has bankrolled all of it," he confessed. "Make no mistake that money is mine, you're under my employ, not his, but that marriage contract has been the reason for your existence up to this point."
"Now, I am not asking you to swear fealty to the king. I've only agreed to fulfill my obligation and protect my wife and son in the process. I wouldn't be doing this under any other circumstance, I'm asking for your help in ending this…"
The room fell into a deafening silence with some stewing where they sat and others contemplating the consequences of their decisions.
Madden was the first to speak. "Kilian, you know I'd follow you anywhere. You have my allegiance."
"Thank you," Killian acknowledged his sacrifice with a nod. "Who else?" He prompted, scanning the room for one man's willpower to crumble. He knew if he could get Finley and Randell on board the rest would fall into place.
"I'll join you captain," Mr. Smee volunteered.
"Mr. Smee," Killian nodded with his chin before settling upon the faces of his master gunner and master sailor. "What do you say Mr. Finley? Mr. Randell?"
"You're walking a fine line here," Randell warned. "You know what will happen if they get wind of this…"
"I'm aware. That's why we need to keep this quiet," Killian reminded him. "Are you with me?"
"Is the royal cunt really worth all this?" Mr. Bradley piped up, his choice of words sending a growl from Killian's lips.
"Don't get your leather in a twist," Bradley rolled his eyes. "What I mean to say is this would be the third time I've laid my life down for your princess and her family. Is what you're trying to desperately hold on to worth it?"
"How dare you ask me a question like that!" Killian shouted, drawing the knife from his boot and lotting it over the trio sitting at the table. "I've died for my family!" He screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he embedded the dagger in the table. "I would die for you, too. Every last one of you. I've been prepared to trade my life for yours every time we've engaged a ship in battle. Don't you ever forget that!"
Bradley tossed a glance over toward Madden who gave him an encouraging nod. "Aye, captain," Bradley agreed. "I'll join ya."
"Do I have your commitment Mr. Randell?" Killian probed, arching his brow. "I can't do this without you…"
"Fine," Randell gritted his teeth. "You've worn me down," the sailing master relented.
"Aye, me as well," Finley surrendered closely behind him.
"Then it's settled?" Killian presumed, eyes flitting about the room in search of protest. Finding none, he corrected his posture, standing up straight.
He revered the men before him, his eyes fixed and his lips set in determination. "We depart tomorrow. We must make preparations and see that the ship is in good working order," Killian asserted. "Madden, Randell, join me on deck. You all are dismissed."
The officers dragged themselves out of the captain's quarters with a litany of grumbles and muffled complaints, but accepted their plight nonetheless. Killian released a long sigh, his shoulders sagging with relief, when the last man left his cabin.
He took a few moments to collect himself before returning topside where Madden and Randell stood over a single wooden table and a map splayed out on top of it. Upon his approach, Randell lifted his head and asked, "Where are we headed, captain?"
Killian rounded them and pressed his hands against the table. "My instincts tell me that the men responsible for the attack on the village are on their way to Blacktrie Bay," he traced the journey to their destination from their current position with his finger.
"What makes you think they are headed there?" Madden wondered curiously.
"The town they ravaged was a merchant village known for fine fabrics," Killian certified. "There is only one place in the vicinity of this kingdom that deals in such luxuries."
"Blacktrie Bay," Madden and Randell said in unison.
"Told ya," Killian said, the corners of his lips tugging into a self assured smirk.
"Blacktrie Bay it is then," Randell affirmed. "I'd wager it would take us near three days to reach the port," he assessed, glancing down at the map as he did his mental calculations.
"We won't be making port," Killian told him.
"Oh?" Randell lifted a questioning brow in response.
"Pulling into the harbor would draw far too much attention. I recommend we take a small crew out to the shore and stake out the bazaar for any signs of the fiends who did this," Killian suggested, scratching his beard as he contemplated the proposed plan.
"Are you sure that's a good idea? It would leave us vulnerable to an attack," Randell pointed out.
"Have I ever been wrong before?" Killian asked and Randell shook his head in reply. "Then why question me now?"
"Aye. Aye," Randell relinquished his concerns in favor of moving forward with the idea. "If the plan is to not draw attention, I recommend we position ourselves out of high sight, but close enough to the harbor to prime ourselves for our next course of action."
"Excellent," Killian commended, patting him on the back. "I think the most efficient route would be to-"
"Ah-hem," the sound of a throat clear drew his attention away from the task at hand.
"Who the bloody hell is this?" Killian gestured, distaste evident on his tongue as he inspected the man in front of him.
"This is our new quartermaster-" Madden began to say before he was interrupted by the man in question. "He was on duty during our meeting," he cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Charles Mallory," the man extended his hand in a gesture of goodwill only for the ship's captain to cock a wayward eyebrow, narrowing his gaze on the man's hand as if offended by the offer.
Killian crossed his arms over his chest, purposefully keeping them at length from the inferior quartermaster. "Madden, may I speak to you for a moment?" He requested with a crook of his finger.
Madden let out an exasperated sigh and followed Killian out of earshot. "What the buggering fuck is that?" Killian gestured to the disproportionate human being passing himself off as a capable leader.
"Aye, that…" Madden acknowledged awkwardly, cringing slightly as he viewed his successor from over his captain's shoulder. "I can explain that," the former quartermaster scratched his sideburn awkwardly, extending the silence between them to avoid the question.
"By all means. Don't stand on ceremony," Killian prompted impatiently.
Madden sucked in a breath, holding it in, then blowing it out in exasperation before answering, "There was really nothing I could do. He had the votes, Killian," he explained, trying to reason with the irritated captain.
"Seriously?" Killian asked incredulously, his eyes wide in disbelief. With lips pursed, he directed his eyes back at the imposter.
Standing at a mere five feet and seven inches tall, the new quartermaster would prove to be most imposing to a woodland creature rather than an enemy. His features were far more bookish than intimidating, and upon further examination he appeared to lack the upper body strength required to dispatch a foe.
Charles Mallory, was a thin man, trying to compensate for his small stature by holding his head up an inch or two higher than what was appropriate. Anytime he was in the presence of someone above him, he had the worst habit of puffing out his chest to seem far more competent than he ought to be.
To Killian, he was a little more than laughable. He looked as though he hadn't seen a single day in combat, would probably stab himself with a sword simply by unsheathing it, and was grossly aware that his boots were two sizes too big for his feet causing him to walk with an awkward gait. No doubt, a single drop of rum would knock him straight off his unsteady feet.
He was decidedly ordinary, yet strangely put together for someone who spent most of their time aboard a pirate ship. His tan-colored trousers were pressed and mended to great suspicion, his boots shined, the shiny brass buttons of his waistcoat glinting without a single flaw in the metal, and his long auburn locks tied loosely with a black ribbon at his lower neck.
It was far more than Killian could fathom.
"I know," Madden agreed with an outstretched hand of defense. "He certainly wasn't my first choice."
"Choice?" Killian stressed the importance of the word. "He shouldn't have even been an option." He leaned in, lowering his voice into an authoritative gravel, "What the bloody hell is he doing on my ship? With a build like that he could barely scale the rigging let alone pass muster! You expect me to believe he can lead a crew? He isn't even suitable enough to swab the deck."
Madden stood like a deer in the headlights, taking his captain's abuse, inwardly nodding his head at every passing insult because it wasn't anything he hadn't already told himself about the man.
"Say what you want," Madden interjected. "You and I both know we can't change what's already been done. Rules are rules. The men love him. You want to keep order on this ship then you keep him."
"Is the plank still in good working order?" Killian asked suggestively.
"Killian-" Madden scolded.
"He's dead weight. Do me a favor and just keep him busy. Give him a menial task and keep him out of my way," Killian instructed his lower captain.
Madden flung his hands up in defeat and inwardly cursed his new role as babysitter. "Mallory," he called out for the quartermaster, trying to hide his tone of annoyance and discontent for the man.
"Thanks, mate," Killian gave a hearty laugh and clapped Madden on the shoulder before returning to the table on deck to finish charting their course.
Killian hovered over the map in front of him, his necklace dangling over the table as skirted the chart divided across the sprawled out parchment. "What are your thoughts Mr. Randell?" He inquired, peering up at the man who stood over him for approval.
"Mhm," Randell hummed in thought as he gazed down at the map before them. "It might be more efficient if we went east before heading north. We might catch a better tailwind," he proposed. "Allow me?"
Killian stood back, making room for the man to slide in. Randell placed himself at the edge of the table and gathered the pencil from behind his ear, licking the tip, and taking it to the map.
The captain watched attentively, studying the master sailor's movements of the pencil's light trail on the page. When finished, Killian's eyes met Randell's and he nodded his approval. "I think it's a smart move on our part. Good work, Mr. Randell."
"Mr. Smee?" Killian barked out his order. "Can you fetch the boatswain?"
"Aye, sir," Smee accepted the responsibility but was interrupted once more before he took his turn to leave to complete the task.
"Don't stray too far Smee, I'll need you to accompany him into town to see to it that the shelves are stocked. You'll also need to round up the crew early tomorrow morning to receive the cargo. The king has spared no expense and has a generous delivery arriving at dawn," Killian told him.
Smee nodded and bowed in response, tripping over himself to do the captain's bidding.
"You should really get some sleep," Madden suggested much to Killain's jargon. "You look like hell. Did you get any sleep last night?"
"You know, fatherhood," Killian yawned, side-stepping the nature of the other captain's question with a casual answer.
"No," Madden asserted. "No, I don't."
"Then perhaps you're the lucky one," Killian smiled thinly before reaching for a water pitcher and pouring himself a liberal glass, downing it in a single gulp.
"Something on your mind?" Madden observed keenly, recognizing the emotional baggage weighing him down.
"It's nothing of consequence," Killian replied, waving the other man off to drop the subject. "Ugh," he relented, slamming the glass down on the table with an audible thud. "It's Emma…"
Madden cupped his hands over his ears and began singing the first sea shanty that came to mind to drown out the noise of Killian's speech.
Killian glared at the other man's childish behavior and kicked him in the shin, sending him stumbling forward. "You asked! I answered! Are you going to listen or not?"
"If you think it will help you get a little relief … Honestly man, you look completely knackered," Madden observed, gesturing to his captain's appearance with his hand.
"Gee. Thanks," Killian deadpanned before licking his lips to start unpacking the events of the previous night.
Madden listened intently to the other man, lending a discerning ear while whittling away at a small piece of wood with the sharp end of a knife in the hopes that a shape might emerge.
"I can't say that I envy your position," Madden offered, shaking his head with mirth. "If you had asked me a few years ago if I ever thought the fearsome pirate captain Killian Jones would —ever settle down I would have laughed. But now-"
Madden's eyes widened as he searched for his next few words carefully. "It's plain to see you've changed. Your family has changed you for the better," he spoke plainly. "Before she walked into your life, you were hardened and jagged around the edges. You've softened. But most importantly, you've found the person Liam had always wanted you to be…"
Killian paled at the mention of his fallen brother and swallowed thickly. "Don't remind me," he murmured. "I live in near constant reminder of my brother's veracity of being an honorable man," he supplied, his thoughts drifting back to the boy who had adopted Liam's stubbornness and righteousness — all the traits he lacked.
"Your brother saw the best in you and he would be proud of the man you've become," Madden asserted, honesty shining in his muddy brown eyes.
"I feel like I'm constantly at war with myself," Killian mused in frustration. "How does who I am on board this ship contend with life as father and husband? They can't cohabitate … That part of myself — it's all any act. A sham that I've gotten rather adept at performing. I'm a bloody fraud," he admitted.
"Killian, you're not-" Madden attempted to placate his thoughts.
"Aye. But I am," Killian affirmed. "When this opportunity fell into my lap, do you know what I felt?"
Madden stilled, clenching his jaw as he waited for the answer.
"Relief. I felt relieved," he admitted. "The dutiful father and loving husband role … It's unnatural. Here? I don't feel displaced, this environment is as second nature to me as breathing. I don't have to be anyone but myself. Here, I don't have to live up to impossible expectations, and I command respect and authority for more than just who I'm married to."
"This," Killian spread his arms out wide, surveying his surroundings. "I earned this … This belongs to me. It's what I know. It's who I am, it's in my blood, running through my veins," he roused, his tone bitting and admonishing. "No one. And I mean no one. Will ever take this from me," he finished with a long exhale, his shoulders sagging with the enormous weight that had been lifted from them.
"I'll always be your trusted confidant and I'm amenable to lend an ear, but have you spoken to your other half about this?" He proceeded to ask, already knowing the answer to his question, but thought better to ask anyway.
"I couldn't," Killian breathed out and exhaled through his nostrils. "She remains blissfully unaware and I'd like to keep it that way. I refuse to be the reason for her unhappiness…"
"Did you ever stop to think she might be feeling as you do? You barely knew each other before you tied the knot and welcomed a child," Madden recalled, trying to play devil's advocate.
"I'm sure she doesn't. In fact, she wants another child. She made that abundantly clear when she coerced me to finish inside her the other night," he confessed, his eyes burning with a mixture of guilt and disloyalty.
Madden went wide-eyed and his jaw went slack at the admission. "That doesn't sound like-"
"I once thought as you did," he admitted, a choked noise bubbling in his throat that he failed to release. "But now I'm uncertain of what she's capable of," he shook his head in dismay, tilting his head to catch the sight of the setting sun over the sparkling blue water.
For a brief moment, Killian allowed himself to get lost in the thrall and promise of being out in the open water. Closing his eyes, he hummed pleasantly as he breathed the salty sea into his lungs.
He was remiss to tear his eyes away from the scene, but retracted himself to finish his lingering thought, "Truth be told, this errand couldn't have come along at a better time. I've missed this."
"It's always been here, awaiting your charge. I was just here to fill the void left in your absence," Madden assured him, drawing a wistful smile to the pirate captain's lips.
"Aye," Killian agreed, yielding himself to his baser nature and abandoning his domestic responsibilities, picking up the mantle of the captaincy where he had last left off.
He paused for a moment, taking a few seconds to steel himself before diverting the topic of conversation to something far more productive. "Come on, we still have much to discuss before we depart in the morning…"
"We must finalize the route, conduct a headcount, oversee a thorough inspection of the ship to make sure she's ready to set sail, take a full survey of our supplies…" Killian began running through his lengthy list aloud, his voice still gravely and pained as he ignored the implications of their talk.
"Killian-" Madden interjected with a curious brow.
The sound of Madden's concerned voice reached his ears, cutting through the noise in his head and ceased his ramblings.
"You're going to be fine," Madden told him sincerely.
Killian appeared bewildered at the unsolicited statement and leaned back against the table. Crossing his arms, he regarded his second in command with an unflinching stare. "I haven't the slightest idea as to what you're referring…"
Madden's eyes fluttered shut and he hung his head. Scrubbing his hand down his face, he sighed in aggravation at his captain's reluctance to meet his advisement. "Aye," he dropped the topic, much to his dismay. "What are your orders?"
"That's more like it," Killian expressed his approval with a roguish grin.
"The cook is planning the menu for the next few weeks, instruct Mr. Bradley to meet with him to finalize the meals," the captain conveyed. "You can also put our new quartermaster to work by sending him to round up the men from the taverns, I'll need them fresh faced and ready to work first thing tomorrow. Surely our new friend can manage the most rudimentary of tasks…"
"Anything else?" Madden inquired.
"I'll need someone to stop by the distillery to procure refreshments for the voyage,"
"I'm sure Mr. Smee will be delighted to run that particular errand," Madden suggested. "Is there anything I can do?"
"Get together with Finely to assess the condition of the cannons and report back with your findings," Killian requested.
"Is that all?" Madden asked.
"You're dismissed Mr. Madden," Killian released him from his presence, his tone emotionless and distant amid their earlier discussion.
Against his second in command's advice, Killian neglected sleep, remiss to leave the ship's preparations to anyone else but himself.
To fight the sting of fatigue gathered in his eyes, he had knocked back a few glasses of rum, letting its spicy taste settle in his throat and warm his belly. He had worked himself throughout the night and into the early morning hours without as much as closing his eyes for a brief reprieve.
Very much in his element, Killian oversaw the inspection of the rigging and sails, categorized the weaponry alongside his boatswain, and signed off on the cook's menu. He also busied himself about the ship, meticulously assigning tasks to his able bodied crew while the others rested in anticipation for the day ahead.
Madden awoke early the next morning from the officer's quarters, blinking rapidly at the sight of the sun cresting over the surface of the waves. He was unsurprised to find Killian in the same spot he had left him the night prior — hovered over the supply logs.
The former quartermaster surveyed the contents strewn across the table, eyeing them intently until he stumbled on a leather bound book he didn't quite recognize. Upon further inspection, he noted the royal crest hammered on the cover and he flashed his eyes toward Killian's in recognition.
"It's the inventory and the capital we are using to finance this expedition — all at the expense of the crown," Killian answered Madden's unspoken question.
"Do you think it wise to keep a record of that, especially on such formal stationery?" Madden challenged, lifting a brow in concern.
Killian narrowed his eyes, glaring at the man above him. "Do you think I'm daft?"
"No, captain," Madden responded to his authority in a more formal manner.
"Then why are you questioning my methods?" Killian sneered in irritation, his eyelids encasing his hollow eyes sagging with sleep deprivation. "Not that I owe you an explanation, I need to keep a thorough record book to justify any additional expenditures should the need arise."
"I should also have you know that this book is for my eyes only, and will be safely locked away from prying eyes," he added for good measure. "Now, why don't you make yourself useful. The king is sending a discreet delivery and it's due to arrive any moment. See to it that everything is loaded quickly and quietly," Killian instructed, observing the man in provocation to see if he would comply with the command.
"Aye," Madden agreed before tearing off in the direction of the gangplank where several subordinate crewmembers assembled themselves to collect the delivery.
A man true to his word, the king, his father in law, had sent a generous assortment of food, including fruits and cured meats, blades, rifles, muskets, cannon balls, and meade. The supply was generously topped off with two sturdy chests filled with unmarked royal gold — the kind that couldn't be traced. It would be there to finance repairs, accommodations, and other endeavors related to the mission.
"Everything has been brought on board and loaded into the ship's cargo hull," Bradley reported.
"Excellent. Yourself, Mr. Smee, and Mr. Madden have done a fine job," Killian commended. "Spread word that we are to depart at half past seven. Everyone will need to be at their stations."
"Aye, captain. I'll call on Mr. Randell to gather his crewmen and ready her for departure," Bradley informed his captain, who nodded assertively in approval.
Upon the officer's retreat, Killian's eyes bulged to shake the sleep from his features and rubbed his hand down his face in exasperation. As soon as they put a fair distance between themselves and the town that belonged to his affiliated kingdom, he could finally close his eyes for a well deserved rest.
One of the cabin boy's rounded him with a pitcher raised in his hand and he nodded toward the captain for permission to fill the empty glass. Killian nodded his consent and almost as quickly as it had been filled, the amber liquid was being downed to quench his insatiable thirst.
By daybreak, the Jolly Roger's crewmen were scattered about the ship. They stood prone and positioned in their respective roles, eagerly awaiting the captain's orders.
Standing at the edge of the forecastle, Killian cast his eyes out at the state of the ship and the crewmen aboard in appraisal. Taking a deep breath, Killian steeled himself, and descended the stairs onto the main deck. The rightful captain of the Jolly Roger, strode across the main deck with purpose, neglecting the stares of his crew members as he passed them on the way to the quarter deck.
Bunching the leather of his pants at the thigh, he took the stairs one step at a time. He persevered, his commanding footfalls leading him across the quarter deck where the empty helm sat waiting for him to take his place.
Rounding the helm, he let his jeweled encrusted fingers caress the wood of the wheel, his hands stroking the spokes appreciatively until he came to stand behind the steering mechanism.
Curling his fingers around the spoke to his right and the spoke to his left, he took possession of the helm. Curling his lips in concentration, he glanced up at the horizon and silently mapped out their heading when he was approached by his sailing master.
"The crew are at the ready. On your word captain," Mr. Randell nodded his head.
"Mr. Randell, give the order to weigh anchor. Let's take her out to sea…" Killian said resolutely, an auspicious grin playing at his lips and his body teeming with anticipation.
"Weigh anchor," Mr. Randell directed his sailing crew to an echo of 'weigh anchor,' as the message traveled to those manning the anchor.
The anchor was hoisted from the water until it was pulled taut above the waves, signaling Killian to proceed with the next step. Taking the wheel firming in hand, Killian expertly began to maneuver the ship away from the dock.
Once the ship sat idle in the water, Killian instructed Mr. Randell to raise the mainsail. Under the captain's order, the mainsail was unfurled, the thick linen fabric flapping in the light breeze.
Setting his sights on the mainsail above, he tilted his head in appraisal and then righted himself. "Release the jib," Killian nodded his head toward his sailing master.
Mr. Randell once again executed the command and the fore and aft sails joined the mainsail.
Killian could feel the ship jerk with the force of the wind catching the sails, but they would need to be adjusted. "Trim sails and prepare to deploy the square sail," the captain decreed sharply.
"So early?" Mr. Randell questioned.
"Aye," Killian said with certainty. "With it, we should catch a fair drag that should take us out of the bay faster. With speed on our side, we can distance ourselves from the town and give us a head start. Once we are out of the town's purview we will drop the sail and lead her out to sea," he proposed.
The sailing master nodded in agreement and shifted to convey the order. "You heard the captain. Trim the sails and on my order deploy the square sail!"
At the sound of Mr. Randell's direction, Killian could hear the controlled effort of his crewmen below him as they worked tirelessly to adjust the angle and tension of the sails by modifying the ship's rigging accordingly.
With the sails adjusted, Mr. Randell sounded to the crewmen below to deploy the square sail. The crisp white square-cut fabric was released, and as predicted caught a steady wind, which curried them out of the harbor and out into the bay.
Killian glanced up toward the towering masts. His face split into an eager grin and he let out an exuberant laugh at witnessing the sails inhaling the wind, sending them hurtling through the bay as planned.
It took them several minutes to clear the shallow bay that flowed out into the ocean. They had saved them nearly an hour by fortifying the sails. It did help to have a capable sailor at the helm, conducting the operation.
Even though he had outgrown manning the helm with the height of his rank, he still enjoyed taking command of the ship in a literal sense. After being away for so long, he needed to feel the rush of navigating the ship with his own two hands and to feel the vigor and freedom in his lungs that only came with steering his beloved ship.
"I'm sorry to have ever doubted you," Mr. Randell said, mystified by his captain's choice but accepting of the result.
"There is always a method to my madness. You'll do best to not forget," Killian remarked, steering the ship casually. "Send for one of your helmsman to take over, aye?"
"Aye, captain," he responded without skipping a beat.
Mr. Randell had recruited one of his most promising sailors to take over for the captain.
Killian forfeited his control of the ship's wheel, entrusting it to the helmsman, who steered it toward their destination. Turning to Mr. Randell, Killian said, "Log our progress. I want a detailed account of distance, location, and speed."
"Captain?" The sailing master raised a curious brow.
"I'm retiring for the day to attend to other matters. Madden will be here to oversee operations and I shall check in at nightfall," Killian told the man before releasing a drawn-out yawn.
Mr. Randell's eyes widened in recognition, focusing in on the dark circles rimming the captain's eyes. "We won't disappoint you."
"I knew I could count on your Mr. Randell," Killian patted the man on the back upon his retreat from the helm.
Without muttering a word, Killian dragged his weary body down to the main deck and managed to slip below without notice. With another wide yawn, he trudged toward his cabin, his weighty strides causing him to grimace.
Upon reaching the door to his cabin, he thrust open the door and stepped inside. Turning his head in the direction of the grand window spanning the far wall, he winced and shielded his eyes against the onslaught of the sun beaming up from the water.
With an annoyed exhale, Killian raised his knee and swung it backwards, connecting it with the door and slamming it shut. Rubbing his exhausted eyes, he carried himself over to the bed and plopped down on it, falling face first into the embrace of the feathery down of the mattress.
He hadn't even bothered to remove his boots. Instead, he gripped the throw blanket resting on top of his bunk and pulled it over his head with a grunt. In mere moments, he had succumbed to his fatigue and the cabin was filled with his faint snores.
That's where he stayed for several hours, only to be aroused from his slumber by a heavy fist at the door. Killian groaned at the sound, twisting his face in aggravation, as the knocks persisted.
Taking a deep breath then releasing it, Killian kicked the covers off his body to find himself inside his pitch dark cabin. Tilting his head to the side, he could see the moon light flitting in through the window, indicating the hour, but lacked the specifics.
Swiping his hand down his face, he allowed himself to adjust his eyes to his surroundings and there was another thoughtless knock stemming from the door. "Oyi! I heard you the first time, mate! I'm up! I'm up! He declared, his voice hoarse from sleep.
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sprung up from bed and pushed the blanket aside. With a heavy yawn, he raised his arms above his head, stretching his achy muscles before rising from the bed and trudging over to the door to greet the person on the other side.
Placing his forearm above the door, Killian leaned forward and turned the handle, causing the door to creak open. Standing in the doorway was none other than his apprehensive first mate, a lantern held in his hand to illuminate the corridor from which he came.
"Mr. Smee," Killian acknowledged, scratching the stubble lining his jaw.
"My apologies captain, but I was instructed to wake you when-"
"I know. I know," Killian said briskly, effectively cutting off the smaller man mid-speech. "Tell Mr. Randell, I'll be up to dismiss him shortly."
"Aye, captain," Smee saluted, the last word muffled behind the door that had been slammed shut in his face by his impatient captain.
Hanging his head limply from his shoulders, he padded over to the wash basin and proceeded to splash water on his face. He gasped, the cold water a shock to his system that awakened him into alertness.
Killian cupped his mouth, removing the remaining moisture from his beard, then flicked his fingers to rid himself of the droplets of water. He dabbed his face with his shirt, which was soiled with sweat and sea water, before reaching for the hem and thrusting it over his head in one swift motion. Taking it in hand, he balled it up and tossed it carelessly on the floor.
He walked over to his trunk and pushed on the hinges to pull it open, revealing an assortment of clothing in his favored color palette. Pressing his lips together, he reached in and produced a similar black shirt and then shoved his head through it. He slipped his arms through the sleeves, and fanned the shirt out so that it hung loosely away from his body and rested just below his crotch.
The last thing he did before returning above deck was grab his weapons, which sat beside the bed in the event they were attacked. Thrusting his sword belt over his shoulder, he collected his revolver and placed it in the gap at the back of his leather trousers.
When Killian emerged from below deck, he was welcomed with a few lanterns flickering in the moonlight. As he passed, the crewmen discontinued their tasks and stood at attention as a sign of respect.
The captain didn't acknowledge them, choosing to focus on the wooden table in the distance with a single lantern on top and a man pouring over the logs.
Killian rounded the table and slammed his sword belt down upon it with an audible thwack to capture the attention of his sailing master.
"Captain," Mr. Randell inclined his head toward the captain.
"You called on me," Killian reminded him gruffly.
"Aye. I'm ready to take my leave for the evening," Randell alerted the captain, the ink leaking from the pen poised in his hand and onto the open page of the log book. "I was just finishing my notes…"
"Any observations I should be aware of?" Killian lifted a singular curious brow.
"Nothing to report. We seem to be making excellent progress. Although we have significantly slowed with the low tide," Randell provided, shifting his eyes toward the calmness of the ocean.
"That's to be expected," Killian noted. "And the hour?"
"Half past nine. The crewmen on duty will be turning over within the hour," Mr. Randell reported before directing Killian's attention to the helm. "I plan on keeping young Benjamin, here, at the helm until the early morning hours."
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," Killian tilted his head, inspecting the man behind the ship's wheel.
"Benjamin, captain," the boy nodded his head sternly, never taking his eyes off of the horizon before him.
Killian shifted his eyes toward the man's feet, taking in his stance, and trailing his eyes upward toward the boy's eyebrows, which were knitted together in concentration. "Good form helmsman," he admired and Mr. Randell nodded his head in approval.
"Thanks, captain," the boy voiced, continuing to hold his position at the helm.
"I assure you, the ship's in quite capable hands. I trained him myself," Mr. Randell reassured his captain.
"I'm sure of it," Killian agreed. "Turn in for the night Mr. Randell, I can take it from here," he dismissed the hard working sailing master, who bowed and then took off toward the officer's quarters below deck.
With his fingers caressing the edge of the wooden table, Killian rounded it and found himself in front of the open log book, which contained a detailed summary of the event's he had missed.
Just then a gust of wind blew up from the waves below, the breeze heavy enough to flip the pages of the leather log book open to an earmarked page that had been filled sometime in his absence.
Narrowing his gaze, he bent forward and inspected the contents. He recognized the hand-writing as Madden's near unintelligible scribblings. Most were meaningless ramblings of the usual seafaring adventures. However, one entry in particular stopped him cold.
Killian's face paled, his eyes roving over the page to decipher its context. Placing his hands underneath the bounded leather, he picked it up and pressed himself closer to the pages.
April 15th —
While docked for routine maintenance at Pelican Bay, I encountered Captain Quill Ambrose, the Black Scourge himself. He regarded me curiously from afar, nursing his rum in the tavern. I returned his inhospitality in kind, keeping a fair distance from the deranged sea captain. While I observed him, he seized the knife from the table and stabbed the wood. I haven't the slightest doubt that this was a veiled threat.
A short time later, after they'd left I got up and freed the knife from the table. Underneath was a piece of parchment that had been pierced by the blade bearing a skull and crossbones born of blood red ink that ran from the seal.
It was the bloody calling card of the—
"Captain—" A grating voice came bounding toward him.
Lifting his head, his suspicions were confirmed when he saw the unmistakable silhouette of the new quartermaster hurtling toward him. Killian gritted his teeth in aggravation at the interruption and barked out in warning, "You dare disturb me!"
"My apologies captain. This is urgent!" Mallory insisted, stepping out of the shadows and into the lantern light.
Mallory wasn't alone.
Killian cocked his head to the side, surveying the struggling figure shrouded in a dark-colored cloak.
"I caught this one hiding out in one of the store rooms while I was inspecting the hull," Mallory announced, flexing his shoulders in a boastful manner that set Killian's teeth on edge. "It would appear we have a stowaway," Mallory declared, releasing the squirming captive and pushing them down onto the deck.
The body crashed against the deck with a thud, the cloaked figure's knees hitting the floorboards and their hands thrust out in front of them as if posed in a worshiping and submissive fashion. Perhaps, already begging for his mercy and forgiveness.
"You, sir, have made a grave mistake and you'll pay with your life for that error," Killian growled.
Blood singing in his veins, the dreaded pirate captain gripped the sides of the table, catapulting himself on top of it. As he slid across the table, his hand closed around his sword belt and he jerked the dagger from its sheath. In the matter of time it took someone to breathe, he was on his feet.
With a single step, he closed the distance between himself and the cowering figure before him. Killian's lips curled into a snarl, and he seized the man by his cloak and hoisted him to his feet.
Seething, Killian angled his blade against the man's throat, reveling in the thrumming pulse bulging underneath the cold steel. His hand stilled at the back of the stowaway's head, gripping the hood of the cloak in his fingers, which were teeming with eager recompense.
A sly and callous smile graced his lips and he yanked the person's head back savagely. "Let me look upon the face of the man who was either very brave or unwittingly daft enough to sneak aboard my ship!"
Flaring his nostrils, Killian ripped the hood from the man's head to reveal a creamy face, a set of emerald green eyes wearing a fiery gaze, and a head full of untamed blonde curls pulled into a leather thong that rested against her shoulder.
"Hello, my husband," Emma smirked, her eyes shining with mischief at the promise of being reunited with her lover.
AN: I just want to take a moment to thank the 5-6 people still reading this fic. While I've been writing again, and that's been super nice, I've been really discouraged by the response I've been getting, which is almost nothing compared to the last fic I wrote. It's difficult to see everyone else's fics getting some sort of response when you know you've put a lot of work into what you're writing. It's hard to compare a fic with chapters that are 3K to 5K to a fic with 10K to 15K word chapters. Not everyone likes that, not everyone likes the tropes I write, not everyone likes unfinished fics with few updates. I get that. It's just upsetting to be ignored and overlooked when I know I'm putting out something well-rounded and fairly original. I just don't know if there is an audience for the writing I'm doing anymore.
Don't worry, I'm going to continue writing, but it may just be for me. Maybe I'll try and change it up and write a few chapters before posting in a more regular fashion. I'm not sure. I'm happy to be writing again. I've picked up Rate My Professor last week and I'm working on this one while my head is screaming at me to write the last four chapters of Forbidden Fruit. I have so many WPs and I want to finish them all, but those are my priorities. Maybe I'll finish in another 10 years (that's how long I've been writing for this fandom)?
If you have an author you really like or a fic you come back and reread every so often, let the author know because that means a lot to them. Sometimes you'd kill to be someone's favorite anything…