As I chip away at my novel, I find myself in need of both palate cleansers and exercises to know my characters better. Thus, I’m starting a new challenge for myself: Weekly writing prompts! Each week my OCs will dance to the tune of whatever writing prompt I find amusing. These are speed runs and they’re not beta read, otherwise I would never finish or post them.
This week’s prompt is by @creativepromptsforwriting
Creed almost misses him, weaving through the cumulous cloud of powdered wigs. In truth, he would have missed him, were it not for the company he keeps.
Captain Zechariah sticks out wherever he goes. It could be the narrow tricorn that went out of fashion a decade ago, his proud military posture, or the black cat lounging across his shoulder. Whatever the reason, Zechariah is obvious and therefore, so is Dr. Francis Johnson.
Creed grins and shoves through the bodies between him and the diminutive doctor.
The duo stop cold at his voice.
Zechariah gives Creed a stiff nod before glancing to the doctor. “Have you any desire for a dialogue?”
Johnson’s back is to Creed but the sailor can paint a picture of his face by his fuming reply, “I’ll be just behind you, Captain.”
The captain nods and leaves without another word.
“Creed,” Dr. Johnson says, turning at last with a positively deadly glare, “Glad to see you’re alive at least.”
“Come now, doctor,” he replies from a forced smile, “You know the Universe won’t do me in that easy. You either, it seems.”
“The Universe will do me in however it sees fit. I don’t fight it.”
“Really? You haven’t aged a day!”
“I’ve aged nearly four thousand days since last you clapped eyes on me.”
“Ah, that’s why I’ve earned your ire. Doctor, you must understand, time flows differently for a god.”
“Were you truly a god, wouldn’t time be at your mercy?”
“I’m not that kind of god.”
Dr. Johnson’s lips thin to a line. “Then what kind of god are you?”
“You could have written or sent a pigeon or shipped a bloody note in a bottle. I thought you were dead!”
“You were my friend. I sent word to every place you’ve lived and no one knew where you’d gone!”
“I didn’t know you worried so.”
Creed’s blood freezes at Johnson’s broken voice.
Tears hedge the doctor’s furious eyes as he concludes, “Yet you were nowhere to be found.”
“Johnson, I had no idea…”
“No, you didn’t. How could you when you ran off without saying goodbye?”
“I’ve regretted that every day—”
“Save it, Creed. I have no time for you.”
Creed’s body churns with incompatible temperatures as the doctor turns away. His cheeks burn. His palms freeze and sweat all at once.
“Hoy, wait!” His boots click on the cobblestones as he rushes to catch up, though the sound is lost to the crowd he wades through. “Johnson! Don’t leave! We’re shipmates!”
“We’ve not been shipmates for a decade,” he calls without turning back.
“We’re brothers then! Come on, we’re friends! You love me!”
He stops and glares over his shoulder. The look he gives stops Creed in his tracks.
“We’re no longer brothers-in-arms. I wonder if you ever truly considered me as such.” As the crowd swallows him up, his angry glare fractures with grief. It’s scarcely more than a whisper but every other sound dies away. All Creed can hear is, “I hate you,” echoing in his ears.
“Johnson!” Creed cries, nearly giddy as he hunkers beside the doctor. A splinter of ship zips by his hear.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
“What do you mean? This is my ship!”
“You’d be amazed how far the right attitude will get you.”
Dr. Johnson scrubs his hands over his face. “So you’re leading these villains then? I might have known.”
“I wouldn’t call it leading per se and — wait, villains? You attacked us!”
“Of course we did! Your ship is manned by Deathless!”
Dr. Johnson gives him a blank look.
“Are you quite mad?” Creed asks at last, laughter drown out by the impact of a canon ball. “You’re a mortal. What are you doing crossing wills with Deathless?”
“I don’t have time for this.” Johnson stands to a crouch and watches for a decent time to make a break for it.
“Johnson, come now. We’re not all bad. Why are you doing this?”
“Loyalty means something to me.”
“I’m loyal to you, doctor. You’re my best mate, you know that.”
“I don’t know anything about you anymore. Not since Theophany. I think I hate who you’ve become.”
Creed sits on the deck for some time after Johnson leaves, watching his ship dwindle to splinters around him.
“Johnson, what are you doing?”
The doctor’s trembling fingers, always pale, gleam with ghastly pallor against the dark handle of his knife. He doesn’t raise his eyes from the blade.
“Johnson, talk to me, please.” Creed holds up his hands and steps forward.
“Isn’t it funny how the things that kill us are so often the things that bring us to life?”
“This isn’t one of those things. You know Charon will take you straight away.”
“Of course he would. But Davy hates hitchhikers.”
“The veil gets awful thin when you’ve sent as many souls through as I have.” He digs the tip of the blade into his thumb. “Why did you leave?”
“I don’t know. Theophany wanted to see the world.”
“You didn’t have any say?”
Creed shrugs. “What say does an ant have when faced with a magnifying glass?”
“You never come when I need you.”
“You weren’t there an hour ago, you weren’t there a decade ago.” He digs the blade harder against his thumb. “Why is it your face I see every time I think I’ve reached my end? You can’t come for me. You can’t even breach the veil. The gods must think me a fool. I’ll hate you to the end of my days for leaving. Lucky for you, that won’t be long.”
Though Francis fights like a wild beast, he’s lost enough muscle that it’s scarcely worse than the claws of a kitten. Creed throws the much smaller man over his shoulder and tows him through the crowd.
Francis flails against Creed’s iron grip. “Fuck you, Creed, you selfish bastard! Take me back!”
“No! You’re killing yourself!”
“I can’t kill myself! No one will take me!”
“Well then, you’re making your life miserable.”
“It’s the only thing that makes life bearable!”
“You…you corkbrained puckfist!”
“Good god man, those swears went out of fashion centuries ago.”
Dr. Johnson falls limp against Creed’s back and grumbles, “I hate you.”
“Just a sip this time. Even a little broth will help.”
Francis sits with his back against the gleaming tile, stripped bare save for a long loose shirt, backed away from his most recent pool of vomit. He lets his head fall against it with a thud. “I think I hate you.”
He glares and purses his chapped lips together.
“I didn’t expect to be here with you.”
They stare out over the ocean together as the sky lights up with crimson and orange.
“Yes you did,” Francis returns, smiling at the brilliant sky.
“No, honestly. You’ve been mad at me for most of our lives.”
“Don’t be daft, I still hate you.”
Creed chuckles. “Come off it old man, we’ve always been friends, in a way. You just had to protest.”
“Of course I did! How else was I to save face? You stood against everything I believed in…until I realized the issue was my perspective, and your laissez-faire attitude.”
“Too bad we couldn’t have realized that sooner.”
There’s a faraway look to his eyes when he nods. “It would have saved a lot of trouble.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Even if I’m not, it’s a bit late now.”
“I’ve been scared my whole life. I’ve been afraid of hunger, excess, obscurity, popularity, brilliance, stupidity, existence, and oblivion. I don’t think I’ve the energy to fear any longer.”
Creed takes Francis’ hand.
“Aye. Until we meet again.”
There’s that searing blue again.
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