boundless.

he waits. it's between one breath and the next that he senses the hand reach. it's less premonition, more experience of twenty-seven years fighting his way. dairo's fingers snap around the wrist of the pickpocket, tugging at their arm so they stumble forward. a smile spread, unamused and sharp across his face.

"you're next words will determine if you're fortunate or foolish. your choice."

Dutch watches the proceedings with interest from where he’s sitting, his expression relaxed enough to suggest he’s had a drink, but his gaze as sharp as ever. He has no sympathy for the squirming pickpocket caught in Dairo’s grip - you’d either have to be insanely arrogant or stupid beyond reproach to think you might get away with stealing from a pirate captain, and the price is the same for either sin.

Mary flinched as she heard more noise right outside the establishment. They were still in front of the window! She hoped that she would be able to sneak out, even if Dutch was not planning on being of any help.

"Twenty silver?!" Mary almost yelled, and would have if the soldiers were not currently chasing her. "I think I'd take my chances with that price" Mary tried to calculate how much extra money she had. If she wanted enough for safe lodging tonight she most definitely had less than twenty silver. "I can spare ten. That's it" She crossed her arms and gave Dutch a hard look. It was not like she actually had bargaining power here, but Mary hoped that her argument looked as though she did.

"Ouch," Dutch answers in that same, sardonic tone, "How cruel you are, to remind me of my shortcomings." It doesn't bother him as much as it should - the insinuation that he doesn't have a heart. He gave his up long ago, for the sake of survival, and it has served him well enough. That is what he tells himself.

"This isn't a charity, schat. If you wanted someone to help you out of the goodness of their heart, you might've gone anywhere other than a brothel," he points out with a shrug, settling more comfortably against the cushions of the chaise he's been reclining on. If the woman can't afford his help, she won't get it - it's really as simple as that.

where: backstreets of tortuga (near the sirens nest)

the last month or so had been hard for nico. he hadn’t known where to turn, who to trust. he hadn’t known how known if the next corner he turned would lead to his doom. he hadn’t seen his mother in too long and he had long since separated from his crew to keep them safe. he knew he would return but for now, it was better to stay away. he’d done his best to keep moving, to not stop. if he continued moving - hopping from island to island - then those who were looking for him wouldn’t be able to keep up. that was what he told himself, anyway. it had been a miserable existence…

and so back to tortuga he went. whatever paranoia he has felt off island was ten times worse these. the gallows seemed to constantly keep watch over him - taunting him, reminding him how close he had come to joining the many pirates there.

Navigating the back alleys that weave towards the Siren’s Nest is second nature to Dutch now. He is on his way home from the market when someone practically collides with him, and he neatly steps out of the way, eyebrow quirking upwards in annoyance. It’s then that he realises he knows the panting, ragged man, and his usual policy of not involving himself in the affairs of pirates will not hold up on this occasion.

where: the devils cask

this was adeolas safe space and the people who worked there were her family. they made everything that she had done to get to this position worth while. because if she got them, then it was a worthy trade. was there a little bit of guilt? perhaps. but it didn't seem to matter when they were around. and ned? ned was her favourite. there was very little that she wouldn't do for him and she hoped that he would know that. when it was just the two of them working together, there was a small sense of peace that adeola felt.

It feels almost inappropriate to be in such high spirits when misfortune continues to plague the island, but Ned can’t seem to help it. He hums dreamily to himself as he moves around the tavern, taking the chairs down from on top of the tables and setting them back on the floor in preparation for the coming day. To think, he’d been doing the exact same thing on the day of his reunion with Theia. Perhaps even this mundanity will hold sentiment for him now.

feather-light touch along broken skin, they lean forward. sniffs once, twice. "lucky, lucky," they murmur. no stench of rot coats the back of their throat, and the wounds have closed. they expected oozing puss, but the worst infections spared the new face before her. still, the wounds remain tender. fresh, in a way that time has yet to take root to heal them.

"any itching?" they step back, pouring a mug of ale over a rag. "i will need to make a new poultice, so don't spare any details or hedge your answer. withholding is a fool's choice, and no one takes kindly to a fool, hmm?"

Each careful pass of Kun's fingers over the ruined landscape of his back makes Ned flinch, even though they aren't really hurting him. It's instinctive - some part of him still expects the pain to be as bad as it was when these wounds were in their infancy, when he wondered if he'd even survive them. They're as healed now as he supposes they'll ever be, the grim lattice left behind by the cat o' nine turned shiny and pink with the passage of time. Kun is right - he is lucky. That is why he tries not to complain.

He stepped in close, boots crunching over stray gravel, and reached up toward the first swaying body. The hemp was rough beneath the blade, creaking like it might protest being severed. “Most times the dead don't care.” he said low, steady, “And the world doesn’t thank men for mercy. Most times, it eats them alive for it.” The rope parted with a sharp snap, and the corpse dropped heavy into Ned’s waiting arms. Doone crouched briefly, adjusting the slack weight with him, then rose to tackle the next. His voice carried quiet through the hanging hush. “But,” he added, almost to himself, “I suppose you think it's better to be eaten for mercy than remembered for cruelty?”

Another rope gave way. Another body fell. The gallows creaked above them, less burdened but no less grim. Doone worked without hurry, the knife sure in his hand, his face unreadable but his eyes sharp, watching Ned’s every movement as much as the swaying dead. “You keep at this,” he said finally, a note of warning in the rasp of his voice, “and sooner or later, folk’ll start calling you saint or sinner. Trouble either way with those.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth, quick as a ghost. The final body landed and Doone stepped down, putting the knife away. "What now Saint Ned? You wanna bury 'em? Say a few dignified words?"

It wouldn't be the first time Ned has been on the receiving end of such an assessment - at least with regards to his lack of sense. He's a fool, with a soft head and a soft heart, and he always has been. The development of a spine is new. "I might've guessed," he replies, the sound that escapes him similarly mirthless, barely a laugh at all, "No sailor worth his salt would go without." Of course, Ned is no longer a sailor, but the habit persists. He slips his knife back into the pocket of his threadbare waistcoat without argument.

With the extra pair of hands, the work goes along more easily, the two of them quickly settling into an efficient rhythm. Each body Doone cuts loose, Ned is there to catch and lay carefully on the wooden platform, doing his best not to disturb them overmuch. "Most times," he repeats, "But I've heard stories about restless spirits that wander the earth, unable to pass on because their last wishes havenae been respected, or because they hadnae been properly buried..." And that, too, seems a terrible fate: your body left to rot, while your soul is trapped.

Ned opens his mouth, ready to speak in defence of mercy, but Doone beats him to the punch, predicting his feelings on the topic without difficulty. "Am I so easy to read?" He asks wryly, though he already knows the answer. He's not a very complicated man. "Aye, I suppose I would say that. Without compassion for each other, we're no better than animals - and I'd sooner be forgotten entirely, than be remembered as a villain..."

Being termed a saint only makes Ned flush, understanding it as mockery rather than sincerity (though sincerity would have embarrassed him just as thoroughly). He heeds Doone's warning all the same, feeling suddenly very small - like a child, playing at valour. How many nights can he do this before he is caught? How long before his convictions are dwarfed by consequence? Perhaps it is folly, after all.

She ought to have felt triumphant, seeing her biting words strike true, witnessing the flinch that revealed the harm they wrought. But instead, she felt an invisible dagger twisting deeper into her heart, shattering the fragile pieces that had been slowly mending. It was regret that clutched her chest like a vice as words spilled, "The right thing to do is not always the thing that keeps you alive."

She sighed, fingers threading through her dark hair, stirring it into a wilder chaos as a desperate relief. Her body writhed with restless tension, yet remained uncomfortably rooted to the spot. “No,” she whispered, voice raw and uncertain. “You are not ruined, Ned. Not yet. But I fear…” The words trembled on her lips, choking with their weight. “That your closeness to me…” She faltered again, truth slipping like water through the cracks of her guarded heart. “If anything were to happen to you because of me… I have been the cause of your hurt once before, and I cannot bear to be the catalyst again.”

Her throat tightened as a tide of sorrow and guilt rose and crashed within her. “I saw one,” she breathed, voice ragged and hollow, “one of your crewmates from the Eunomia, on the docks.” Her gaze fell to the worn floorboards, heavy with uncertainty of what it meant, mixed with fear. “If that ship sails here, then...” She swallowed hard. “ perhaps I cannot be saved. But you… you might still be, if only you would keep far from me.” She had hoped her words would sound stronger, more resolute, but through the steel she attempted to show broke the war warring inside her. A desperate plea she dared not voice aloud: Stay. Don’t leave me yet. Even if I feel unworthy. Even if I am drowning in this chaos.

“I believe you,” she said, voice breaking like a fragile wave. “Believe the promise you made at our reunion, that you would give your heart willingly to me. And that… terrifies me. You are looking, but not truly seeing…” Her hands clenched at her sides, trembling, as if to hold together the shards of her splintered will. “I could never be worthy of such devotion. Never be worthy of your words, your touch, your kiss. - I am unworthy of everything you are.”

Her eyes flickered, haunted and wild, like a storm raging beneath their surface. She longed to reach out, to fall into the sanctuary of his arms, to feel his steady heartbeat against her own, to be held and rescued from the shadows that pursued her. Yet fear was a vicious undertow pulling her under, desperate and unsteady, whispering poison that she would only hurt him in the end. So she eyed his outstretched hand wearily, as if the memory of his hands, strong and sure, wrapped around her beneath the endless stars as she had slept, wasn´t seared into her mind. A memory that felt both ancient and achingly close; a fragile thread that almost lent her the slightst bit of courage. Almost.

Though the impression of Theia's words is still left, stinging, on Ned's cheeks, his compassion for her situation holds true. Fear is writ plain on her lovely face, lingering in the dark whirlpools of her eyes, in the pallor of her skin and the harsh set of her mouth. It does not absolve her of lashing out at him, but, at least, he thinks he understands why she has done so.

“Aye, that's true enough," he allows, "But is it not also true that some things are worth dying for?” It is so in many of the tales he favours, ones where men lay down their lives for gold and glory, for liberty or for love. Ned is not like those men. He is human, imperfect, weak, and willing to endure a great deal for the sake of living as easily as possible. Theia had changed everything, challenged what he thought himself capable of - afraid as he had been, her freedom was worth dying for.

“You are not the cause of my hurt," Ned insists, taking another step towards her as his blue eyes turn beseeching, trying to make her understand, “The only one to blame fae what happened is me. I kenned the risks, and I made my choice all the same, because nobody deserves the things that were done to ye." And he hopes to god he would've found the strength to make the same decision, even if it was some other innocent left to suffer such cruelty.

His expression turns grave when Theia mentions having seen his former crewmate at the docks, his stomach lurching at the idea that she's been in proximity with any of the men that sailed on the Eunomia - what if he had harmed her? "Aye, Hartman, I saw him too... he came to the tavern," he informs her, sounding troubled, "But I... I think he's here alone. He says he doesnae remember the ship at all, or me, and... I believe him, Theia. His temper's much the same, but otherwise... it's like he's been wiped clean." But her fears are not unfounded - perhaps Hartman's arrival on the island is a herald for worse things to come. He may not remember the Eunomia, but that doesn't mean it isn't out there looking for him, and if it does ever make port on Tortuga... it can only mean trouble for them both. "It's too late fae that," he says, "I don't want to go far from you. I want to be at your side, whatever that means."

He takes in Theia's trembling hands, the tempest that rages in her eyes, and all he wants is to pull her into the harbour of his arms, to moor and anchor her, if he can. He makes a move to do so, but stops himself at the last moment - it suddenly feels important that he lets her come to him. It's a choice. Her choice. He's already made his own. "I can see you, Theia," Ned tells her, his voice full of tenderness, "I only wish ye could see yourself."

He wishes he had the ability to describe how she appears in his eyes, has been trying to find the words since they met, but everything he's come up with thus far falls short of the truth. With his conversation with Dorian at the back of his mind, Ned knows he has to try anyway. So he does. "You are unlike any person I've ever known. I could travel to every corner of this world and never find another like ye. You are precious beyond measure - dear beyond measure - beautiful and strong and better than any dream, because you are real. You have my devotion, whether ye think yourself worthy of it or not." And it seems laughable that Theia should think herself the unworthy one, when she is everything and he is nobody - when he has nothing to offer except his heart. "Ye deserve to be cherished, Theia. And if I'm the one that gets to cherish ye... well, then I'm the luckiest man alive."

"The only way to find out what will become of us is to take a chance, to make a leap of faith and see what happens," he continues, knowing that it's a thin foundation to build a future on, "Fate can be cruel, but if it conspires to separate us again, I will wait until we find our way back to each other. I'd wait forever, if that's what it took. Just tell me that's what ye want." Tell me you want me.

“As for what I can offer? Well...” He leaned forward just enough that the lamplight cut a deeper line across the scar on his cheek. “Depends on what sort of hunger you’ve got...” His voice lowered, almost conversational, like they were two old shipmates instead of circling each other like sharks. The endearment made him grin a wicked twinkle “But here’s the thing, dropje. I’m not in the business of begging. If you’re still standing here listening at midnight to a pirate, it’s not because I’m so charming. Though I’ll grant you, I can be... It’s because you want something and it might be worth what I want in exchange.” Doone's voice was deep and rough but it was sharp and full of an undeniable interest. "So what do you want? Coin, a favour, secrets?" He gestured to the bag, "Something sweeter than what's in there?"

Surprise registers on Dutch's face to hear his native tongue spoken back to him, even in this small capacity. The man doesn't sound like a Nederlander - if he did, this conversation would never have survived past the first few words that had passed between them. This stranger grows more intriguing by the moment. “That's what they all say," Dutch replies with a light chuckle, taking one last, sauntering step towards him, the gap between them all but closed, "And I’m yet to meet a man I haven’t been able to prove wrong. But I won’t deny that you have piqued my interest - there will be no need to beg, if we stand to mutually benefit from our arrangement,”

He already knows what he will ask for, has been weighing the value of his knowledge against a hypothetical coin purse since the stranger expressed his interest in it, and he only smiles once his options are laid out in front of him. “Secrets I have in excess. If the channels between ships are your domain, words exchanged in the quiet dark are mine."

"I'm not a storyteller!" he rasped in annoyance, he didn't want to have to tell anything, he wanted to be told. He needed information, he needed to know everything. "Just tell me who I am! It doesn't matter what happened to me!" Though of course, five seconds later, out of anger, he was telling it. "I woke up on the beach, got washed up, and I was hurt, so yeah, pretty sure someone tried to drown me! You probably know who, eh? Did you? Is that why you're so frightened to see me!" He reached out again, trying to grab Ned.

“Oh.” It sounds lame, even to his own ears, but what else is there to say? Ned never imagined he’d see any of his old crewmates ever again, and now one is standing in front of him, professing not to know him at all. But that look in Hartman’s eye, the desperate hunger that matches his grasping hands, doesn’t seem like a thing that could be falsified. Ned believes him.

This time when Hartman reaches for him, Ned is ready, catching the other man by the wrist to stop him short. His grip is firm, but he doesn’t want to fight. He never wants to fight. “Enough,” Ned says, and it isn’t so much a command as it is a plea, “Look, I'm really sorry fae what happened to ye, Hartman, but I dinnae ken a thing about it, I swear. I havenae seen ye in two years, or more."

She flinched a bit as she caught the shadows dancing near the ledge. Mary was too exhausted to entertain sarcasm. Maybe she would have had a better response if her head was not swimming in panic.

If they ventured inside Mary would make it everyone's problem. She was not planning on being captured quietly, resorting to pistols and fists if she must. "For your sanity as well as mine" Mary faced Dutch "Let's hope they do not venture inside". She glanced out the curtains for a split second before asking; "How much would it cost for your help? Even if it was to just sneak me out the back?"

"A few hours? In a whore house? Without parting with any coin?" Dutch says with a scoff of laughter, "Tell me, is the fantasy world you live in very pleasant?" He supposes a different sort of person might agree to harbour the woman out of some sense of moral obligation, or solidarity with her predicament - not so, in his case.

When she asks what his help would cost, he considers it for a moment, quickly weighing up all the variables in his head. He has no interest in making enemies of any of the soldiers on patrol, of course - not when they could make his own life significantly more difficult - but he’s certain he can smuggle this woman out of the brothel without anyone becoming the wiser. All told, it seems like a fairly efficient way to make some money.

He frowned when the someone called back at him in a Scottish accent, and he easily placed the bartender. “You’re not what I expected when I saw someone at work here,” he whispered back loudly, worried soldiers might walk by at any point. “You’re aware that what you’re doing could end with you swinging from the ropes next, right?” 

He doubted Ned could get all the bodies to a plot to bury them on his own.

"Oh? Did ye think I was a soldier?" It's the only other explanation for his being here that Ned can think of - it doesn't cross his mind for a moment that somebody might seek to rob the hanging dead of their paltry belongings, or that he himself would ever be thought capable of doing such a thing.

He nods at the warning, steeling himself against the terror that roils in his gut. It has taken up a good deal of his thoughts these last few days, weighing the right thing to do against the outcome if he fails. "I know," he says simply, "But I hope not. I hope I can finish before trouble can find me..."