Burning my skin won't kill the witch

Madam Sibella scoffed and Elliot caught a glimpse of her rotting teeth in the flickering candlelight. “This ain't a fucking punishment, you stupid dog!” Elliot flinched. No matter how many times she used that nickname, it never got any easier to hear. “As of about forty minutes ago, you ain't me fucking problem anymore!”

Forty minutes ago? What was she talking about? Confusion clouded Elliot's features. He wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to shield his exposed flesh from the cold and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He didn't understand. One moment, he was sound asleep atop his wooden mattress, and the next, he was being shoved out the door and into the rain.

Elliot opened his mouth to speak again, but that's when the realization hit him. His eyes went round as saucers and his frantic breathing ceased for a beat. “N-No,” he mumbled. “No, no, no, please! You can't do this!”

Madam Sibella smirked at the sight of his panic. “Yer eighteen now, boy. The law say you ain't mine anymore and I won't have you taintin’ this house any longer.”

“But that's not fair!” Elliot shouted, several stray tears mixing with the rainwater on his face. He crawled a couple steps forward until he was nearly at the porch again, desperate for a reprieve from the relentless rainfall. “Fletcher's twenty-one and you let him stay as long as he wants!”

Madam Sibella's smirk fell and her eyes darkened. An icy shiver scurried down Elliot's spine and he couldn't tell if it was from the rain or his former guardian's frosty glare. “Fletcher's worth his weight!” She shouted. Elliot flinched again, a soft whimper slipping past his lips. “He's got a job that helps pay for the rest of you wee brats! He helps to carry me heavy shipments in! Fletcher's earned his keep!”

Elliot was trembling now, the frigid rainwater soaking him to the bone as his tears fell free. “P-Please, Madam Sibella. I-I can w-work t-too. Just-Just give me a chance, please!” He begged.

Madam Sibella cackled at that, her heavy laughter flickering the candle's flame. “You?” She exclaimed, eyeing his small, emaciated form. “What could you do?”

Despite the cold night air, a heat crawled up Elliot's neck and onto his cheeks. “I-I could c-clean. I could help entertain the-the younger boys. P-Please, just-just have mercy. I have n-nothing. You can't l-leave me out here. Wh-What am I s-supposed to do?”

“Not me problem, boy. Get a fucking job, why don't you? The brothel's always lookin’ for new whores, I hear.”

Elliot gasped. His trembling lips were parted in shock and he wound his arms tighter around himself in an attempt to shield his shivering body from view. “You-You can’t s-say that to me.”

“Ain't like yer good for anything else! Now get the fuck off me property!” Madam Sibella shouted.

Elliot flinched, but he didn't move. “Madam S-Sibella, I-I'm b-begging you—”

“Fletcher!” Sibella shouted into the house. Elliot gasped. “There's a rat on me porch!”

Elliot scuttled backwards a little, but not before a large, hulking man appeared in the doorway. The man was shirtless and his blond hair was cropped all the way to the scalp. He had a nasty scar trailing from his eyebrow to his chin and his icy blue eyes zeroed in on Elliot instantly. His lips curled up into an ugly, crooked grin, flashing his missing teeth in full display.

“Get rid of it for me, would you?” Madam Sibella said. Without sparing Elliot a second glance, she maneuvered around Fletcher and disappeared into the house.

Elliot's stomach twisted into a knot. He scrambled to his feet and attempted to run, but the slick mud sent him tumbling back onto his hands and knees before he could make it three steps. Elliot whimpered and sobbed as a large hand tangled itself in his sandy-blond locks and hauled him to his feet. The boy whined in pain as Fletcher dragged him into an empty alleyway not far from Madam Sibella's.

“P-Please!” He begged as Fletcher shoved him against a stone wall. “P-Please, Fletcher. I-I'm s-sorry. I just—”

“Quiet, mutt!” Fletcher's booming voice commanded as he pushed Elliot to his knees. Elliot wept. Fletcher harshly shook Elliot's head from side to side with the hand tangled in his hair, laughing as he did so. “You're fucking lucky Sibella ain't selling you, Córdova. She could make good money off a pretty face like yours.” He tightened his grip on Elliot's hair, bringing the smaller man's face ever closer to his groin, despite the boy's struggling.

Elliot whimpered and thrashed against the tight grip in his hair.. “P-Please, n-no! Please don't!”

Fletcher chuckled as he pinned Elliot's head against his thigh and carded his fingers through the boy's rain-soaked hair. Elliot sobbed, squirming and punching while Fletcher laughed. “You poor thing,” Fletcher mocked. “Tell you what, mate. I'll come by and visit you at the whore house someday. Maybe then I'll give you the honor of letting you swallow my cock.” Fletcher roughly threw Elliot to the ground and pressed a foot to his back to keep him there. Elliot whined. “But until then,” he continued. “Don't show your pretty face here again, mutt. Or I'll sell you to one of the merchant crews at my dock. They're always in the market for a pretty little thing to join them.”

Elliot sobbed, his shoulders shaking. The boot between his shoulder blades kept his face pressed firmly into the mud.

When Fletcher finally removed his foot from Elliot's back, it was only to deliver a swift kick to his ribs instead. Elliot yelped and curled in on himself, shielding his head with his arms while the rest of his body trembled and shivered. He didn't know how long he lay there, but by the time he finally looked up from the protective cage his arms had created, Fletcher was gone.

Elliot sniffled and pushed himself into a sitting position against the stone wall at his back. He hugged his knees to his chest in order to fully conceal himself beneath the overhang of the building behind him. It did little to shelter him from the rain, but it was enough.

As Elliot sat there, eyes fixated on the muddy ground, the full reality of his situation started to catch up with him.

It was his eighteenth birthday.

He was homeless, penniless, and without any friends or family to turn to. He had nothing but the torn, muddy clothes on his back.

Elliot hugged himself a little tighter. Madam Sibella's home for boys had never been kind to him, but it gave him a roof over his head. It gave him consistent meals, as lackluster as they were. Now he had nothing.

Elliot couldn't help the burning rage that boiled over in the pit of his stomach. Fuck Madam Sibella! Fuck Fletcher! Fuck Port Iryss for treating him like this, for leaving him orphaned and unwanted.

Hot, angry tears welled in his swollen eyes. He was cold, tired, hungry, and completely alone. There was no place in the world that wanted him and no person that cared enough to remember his name. As far as the world was concerned, Elliot Córdova was nothing but a ghost.

…

In Captivity

“Looking good, mutt,” a deep voice commented, followed by a quick slap to Elliot's raised backside. Elliot flinched and suppressed a whimper. The slave was on his hands and knees, vigorously scrubbing the gun deck in an attempt to rid it of the leftover gunpowder residue. He hated the fact that he was starting to recognize the voices of the crew. He hated how familiar he was growing with his buoyant prison.

Elliot didn't even have to look at the man to know who'd spoken. It was the ship's navigator, Hess. Elliot's face burned red-hot and he wordlessly returned to his scrubbing. That was, apparently, the wrong choice, as Hess's fist tangled itself in Elliot's hair and wrenched his head back. Elliot squeaked, his neck straining against the angle at which Hess held him.

“I'm payin' you a compliment, rat! What say you?” Hess growled, his long salt and pepper hair threatening to brush against Elliot's face. In any other circumstance, the navigator may have been considered attractive. But his grimy skin, stringy hair, and overgrown scruff took away from his more desirable features.

Elliot choked on the air in his lungs. His scalp was burning and his eyes began to water. “Th-Thank you, S-Sir,” he choked out.

Hess grinned and released the slave. Elliot's head fell forward and he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to catch his breath. “Good boy,” Hess praised before moving on to continue his duties.

Elliot bit down hard on his tongue until he tasted blood. He hated this. He didn't know just how long he'd been aboard the Serpent's Wrath, but he hated every inch of this ship. He hated every slimy member of the crew, every degrading nickname they called him, every little touch. He hated all of it. He wanted off of this ship, away from these revolting pirates. He wanted to go home.

Elliot lifted his eyes just enough to peer at the open ocean through the gun ports. There was longing in his eyes and a deep ache in his chest as he watched the sun glint off the tips of the waves. He wondered how long it stretched, if it truly was as endless as it looked. He wondered if the sea could hear his screams, if it pitied him. He wondered if the ocean would welcome him, wrap him in its arms as it drew the breath from his lungs and lulled him into a tranquil slumber. He wondered if the sea would spare him. Or grant him the mercy of a peaceful escape.

That's when he saw it, a sliver of hope cresting over the horizon. An island. He didn't know if it was a hallucination borne of his exhaustion, but the lightest glimmer of hope ignited in his chest.

The gun port was about one square meter wide, and Elliot was sure his small frame could easily slip through. All he would have to do is swim to that island and he'd finally be free of this place.

The sound of wood banging against wood stirred him back into reality. Elliot flinched and turned his gaze over to the other end of the gun deck, where Hess was swiftly slamming each gun port shut. Elliot's heart began to race as his eyes returned to the port in front of him. His opportunity was slipping. He had to get out of here, even if it meant he'd never get home. But he was terrified. He didn't know what would come after, if he would survive or if darkness would swallow him instantly. He just needed to escape, however that would look. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want to be a slave anymore. Freedom was right there. All he had to do was—

“Who the fuck said you could stop working, slave?” Hess shouted.

Elliot flinched again, his eyes finally lifting to meet the navigator's. Hess stood only a few feet away, in front of the gun port directly beside Elliot's. The boy was out of time. If he didn't do this now, he'd never taste freedom again.

Despite his emaciated state and the chains around his wrists, Elliot had always been fast due to his small stature. It didn't even register in his mind that he'd started moving until he had maneuvered around the cannon and dove into the water.

The warm air falling back to allow the frigid ocean to wrap around him was a shock to Elliot's system. The bright, vibrant light of the sun broke beneath the surface of the water, the shards dancing in tandem with the gentle ocean waves. The sound of Hess's panicked screaming was snuffed out, replaced with the gentle hum of the open sea.

Elliot felt weightless. Every move he made was in slow motion. His long braided hair danced with the current, as did his torn poet's blouse and maroon petticoat—his former barmaid's uniform. Even his heavy iron shackles, which normally served to remind him of gravity's constant presence, offered absolutely no resistance beneath the surface.

Elliot had never been a strong swimmer and it wasn't until he attempted to kick back up to the surface for air that he realized his grievous error. The chains around his wrists didn't allow for much movement, which made maneuvering through the water that much more difficult.

When his head breached the surface, chaos assaulted his senses.

“There he is!” Someone shouted from above. Elliot craned his neck to peer upwards, using his bound hand to block the ruthless sun. Dozens of crew members were leaning over the side of the ship, pointing and staring at him with expressions that Elliot couldn't see.

“To the longboat!”

Elliot gasped. He didn't have long. He peered over his shoulder at the stretch of land that suddenly looked much further away. He didn't have a choice.

Elliot kicked and paddled as best he could, his chains yanking relentlessly at his wrists. He dove beneath the surface, hoping to hide his location from his pursuers, but he could only do so for so long. He forced himself to remain submerged until his lungs ached and his head began to swim. Gasping desperately for breath as he surfaced, Elliot kept his gaze firmly planted on the island, which, to his dismay, didn't look any closer. He dove again.

Each muscle in his limbs was on fire and still the island looked no closer than when he started. But he knew he had no other choice than to carry on, lest he face the punishment of a lifetime. He continued his routine of diving beneath the waves, swimming until he could feel his consciousness slipping, and coming back up for air. Over and over and over for what felt like hours. Elliot couldn't make out any shapes beneath the ocean, just the endless blue abyss and the blurry refractions of light splitting at the surface. The next time his head broke the surface, a fist tangled into his dripping locks and wrenched his head to the side, tearing a yelp from the boy's throat.

“Going somewhere, slave?” Hess hissed through clenched teeth. Elliot blinked the stinging sea water out of his eyes, giving way for a longboat captained by two serpents to seemingly materialize beside him. Hess glowered at him.

Elliot didn't have time to respond before the second pirate grabbed him by the arms and attempted to haul him into the longboat. Elliot screamed and thrashed, fighting with all his strength to break free, but the sea had sapped all of his energy. From the pirates’ perspectives, the boy's desperate attempt to free himself was nothing more than a pathetic wriggle at best.

Without issue, the pirates hauled their prize out of the water and into the longboat where Hess made quick work of restraining him while the other man rowed back to the ship. Once the adrenaline of his escape started to wear off, Elliot's exhaustion crashed into him like a wave against jagged rocks. All he could do was stare at the gargantuan ship that, to his horror, was no more than a dozen or so meters away.

As the longboat began its short journey back to its mother ship, a devastating realization brought burning tears to Elliot's eyes.

Escape was never a possibility. The ocean had toyed with him. It had taken his greatest hope and presented it to him just out of reach. It was close enough to see, but still much too far. He never had a chance. This was always going to be the outcome.

…

Elliot whimpered as he was unceremoniously deposited back on the deck of the ship in a sopping heap. His drenched, translucent clothes clung to his skin and shivers wracked his small body.

“Well, well, well,” an unfamiliar voice said. Elliot's head snapped up, eyes wide as he gazed upon the stranger towering over him. It was a woman, which confused Elliot more than anything thus far. In the few days he'd been aboard the ship, he had never seen this woman before. In fact, he hadn't seen any women since his final shift at the tavern. He'd assumed the crew was made up entirely of men. Then again, he'd hadn't seen much of anyone since they left Port Iryss. He'd been spending an awful lot of time in the brig lately.

The woman was tall, though that could've been attributed to her heeled boots and the fact that Elliot was kneeling at her feet. Her hair was the color of the sea and it lay in a pattern of long, wavy strands and tightly woven box braids. She had two thick braids framing her face that were adorned with silver jewelry, a stark contrast to her midnight hair and skin the color of oak. Her left eye was a warm, deep brown and her right resembled that of the sky, though it was impossible to tell if that was natural or simply due to the large, jagged scar running through it.

Elliot froze, terror seizing control of his heart. Was he on the right ship?

The woman smirked and chuckled at the way his face paled, but she didn't say a word to him. Instead, she shifted her gaze over to the men stepping out of the longboat. “Fetch me the captain,” she instructed.

“Aye,” one man said before scurrying off to the captain's quarters, leaving Hess to linger behind the slave.

The woman looked back down at Elliot. Her gaze was like ice. If Elliot wasn't already shivering, her gaze alone would send chills down his spine. He tore his eyes away from hers, desperate to escape them, but to no avail. He could still feel the weight and the chill of her gaze on him.

The woman lowered herself onto one knee, the other acting as an armrest while she took in the sight of him. “You must be Whitlock's latest acquisition,” she said, her voice like soft leather. “I've heard much about you.” When Elliot didn't respond, she scoffed. “Scrawny little thing, ain't you? You've a name, boy?” Elliot still didn't speak, which would normally earn him a good backhand, but the woman simply waited for his answer. Elliot still had no intention of giving one, and Christian's sudden entrance gave him the excuse he needed not to.

“Hess!” The captain shouted, footsteps reverberating through every plank of wood on the ship. Elliot flinched in tandem with the planks as the captain grew closer.

Hess stepped out from behind the slave and approached the furious captain. “Aye, Capt—” a sharp smack rang through the air as the captain's fist collided with Hess's face, sending the navigator tumbling to the ground.

“You let my slave escape on your watch?”

Hess clutched his nose as he righted himself. “Aye, Captain, but I got him back—”

“I gave you one job, Hess! One!” the captain interrupted. “And you couldn't even do that. What use have I for you if you can't keep an eye on one little slave?”

Hess was speechless, but the way his face blanched betrayed his fear.

“Calloway?” the captain said. The woman stood to her feet and brandished a blade from her hip. The captain said nothing as the woman twirled the blade between her fingers before slicing cleanly across Hess's throat. The navigator wobbled backwards, hands clutching the oozing slit across his neck. Blood spurted out of the gash, dripping down Hess's lips and between his fingers as he stumbled on shaking legs over the side of the ship. Choked gargles and gasps were cut off by a sudden splash as the ocean accepted her gift, dragging Hess's body to the depths in the wake of a trail of red.

Elliot couldn't breathe. It had happened so quickly and there was no processing what he'd just witnessed.

When Elliot finally shifted his gaze from the droplets of Hess's blood on the deck, he found the captain's eyes searing through his skull. If the woman's gaze was like ice, the captain's was fire, and Elliot couldn't shake the feeling that he'd be joining Hess in a matter of moments.

The captain's glare shifted from his slave to the gathered crew. “Seems our guest hasn't quite grasped his role here.” Christian's voice was deceptively calm, given the way his face contorted with rage. After gracing each pirate with a single glance, his gaze landed on the woman. “Remind him of his place. And make sure he doesn't forget this time.”

The woman smirked and Elliot's blood ran cold. “Aye, Captain.” The captain spared one last glance at his slave before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the captain's quarters. The woman's gaze fell upon the shivering slave at her feet. There was a hunger in her eyes that Elliot was far too familiar with, a level of bloodlust that sent icy tendrils down his back. She didn't take her eyes off of him as she said, “Tie him to the mast.”

Hands wrapped around Elliot's upper arms, curling beneath his armpits and around his waist, one even tangling in his hair, in order to drag him from his puddle and haul him over to the mast. Elliot screamed, fighting with all his strength to avoid whatever was about to happen to him, but exhaustion had already settled over his body once the adrenaline had worn off. His limbs were practically useless.

Why Whitlock wasn't overseeing his punishment, Elliot didn't know. But this woman, whoever she was, terrified him. She'd killed Hess in less than a second without hesitation. If the bloodlust in her eyes was any indication, Elliot wouldn't be walking away from this in one piece.

“I don't believe we've been formally introduced,” the woman said as she began her slow saunter over to Elliot. His hands were quickly relieved of their shackles, only to be wrenched behind his back, coarse rope wound tightly around his wrists. Elliot sobbed, heart pounding relentlessly against his ribcage. “Name's Na'Krisha Calloway. But you, little thing, will refer to me as Sir and nothin’ else. Savvy?”

Elliot could barely hear her over the pounding of his own heart. He hadn't registered that she'd asked him a question until her blade was at his throat. Elliot gasped, neck straining to avoid the dagger still dripping with Hess's blood. “I asked you a question there, darling. You ain't ignorin’ me, are you?”

Elliot shook his head as much as he was physically able, tears steadily trickling down his face.

Calloway smirked, but her eyes narrowed. “I'm gonna need a verbal answer from you there, love. Show me that you heard what I said.”

Elliot gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing against the sharp blade. “N-No, S-Sir. I-I'm not ignoring you, I-I s-swear.”

She dug the blade in deeper, drawing a sharp hiss from the slave. She leaned in so close their foreheads were nearly touching. Elliot could feel her steady breath against his cheek as she whispered. “The captain may be your master, but I am his first mate.” Elliot's stomach dropped. “You will treat me with the same respect you show him, slave. Savvy?”

Elliot whimpered, tears stinging his bloodshot eyes. “Y-Yes, S-Sir.”

Calloway's amused smirk shifted into a pleased grin. Elliot's heart slowed ever-so-slightly as she retracted her blade, only to trace it down his collarbone, bringing it to rest just over his chest. Elliot squeaked. He braced himself, tensing every muscle and squeezing his eyes shut as he awaited the pressure of the blade plunging into his heart. Instead, the dagger fell away, slicing cleanly through his shirt instead and exposing his chest for all to see.

Elliot whimpered and curled up as tight as he could to maintain any semblance of dignity, but to no avail. With his hands so tightly bound, he had no means of protecting himself from the prying, hungry eyes of the crew.

Na'Krisha grinned at the way his cheeks reddened and the soft quivering of his lower lip. She could see why Whitlock had chosen this one. He really was a precious little thing.

Elliot gasped at the feeling of Calloway's cold touch near the base of his hips. She traced lines across his bare skin, a trail of goosebumps rising in her wake. Elliot's skin tingled wherever she touched him, and despite her gentleness, there was an anxious twitch to her fingers, like the urge to tear him apart was becoming more difficult to suppress. She drew shapes into his skin, trailing upwards until she reached a spot directly over his heart. She tapped it once, twice, and drew a circle around it with her finger. “Right there,” she whispered, meeting Elliot's eyes with a look of pure, unsullied bloodlust. “Light the iron,” she commanded, her eyes staying locked on her victim's.

As the crew scrambled to obey her instruction, Elliot's stomach shriveled. He still didn't understand what was going on, but the excitement in the woman's eyes wrought fear into his own. “P-Please,” he mumbled, because he had nothing else to do but beg. “Please, h-have m-mercy.”

Calloway chuckled and raised her hand to gently cup his tear-streaked face. Elliot flinched, but the touch was so gentle that the boy couldn't help but lean into it, which only made the woman smile wider. “You poor, sweet, stupid thing,” she said in a voice that, under any other circumstances, would almost sound comforting. “This is for your own good. This way, you won't ever forget who you belong to.”

Elliot didn't understand. They had tied him the wrong direction to be whipped. If they were planning to slice him up, she wouldn't have put her dagger away. He didn't know what light the iron meant. What was about to happen to him?

That was the question he'd meant to ask, but fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't have to. A pirate he'd come to know as Paxton entered his field of view, carrying a long, glowing branding iron.

Elliot's mind went white.

The glowing image at the end of the iron was that of the serpents’ insignia; a human skull flanked by two hissing snakes.

Elliot screamed and thrashed against his restraints as Paxton happily handed the branding iron over to Calloway. “Sir, please don't do this!” He shouted. Though his pleas seemed to go unheard, Elliot didn't stop. “Please, I'm begging you! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!”

Calloway inspected the iron as she sauntered back over to the bound slave, looking wildly entertained.

Elliot sobbed, his sore muscles straining against the coarse ropes as she brought the iron closer. “P-Please, Sir! I-I'm sorry. I've learned my lesson, I-I swear! I-I'm just a s-stupid slave. I wasn't thinking. Please!”

Calloway took a moment to look him over, as though genuinely considering his pleas, before drawing a circle with her finger on the spot over his heart. “Stay still, pet. If you mess this up, we'll have to cut off the skin and try again.”

Elliot wept, his knees struggling to hold his weight. There was no escaping this. She was going to brand him like cattle, burn the serpents’ insignia into his skin so no one would ever question who he belongs to. After this was done, he would well and truly be owned.

Elliot squirmed and thrashed, though he knew there was no chance of escape. Calloway was directly in front of him, the deck was crawling with pirates. Even if he did somehow slip his bonds, he had nowhere to go from there. Despite that, he couldn't stop.

Na’Krisha giggled at the boy’s pathetic attempt at resistance. As entertaining as he was, the iron was cooling quickly and she didn't have another second to waste. “Paxton, Reynolds, hold him still.”

“Aye, Sir,” the two men said in unison. Each of them took hold of one of the boy's arms and wrestled him still, though the poor thing continued to cry and wiggle, as though he had any chance of escaping. It was adorable.

Once Elliot was sufficiently immobilized, Calloway hovered the iron over the spot she'd chosen. “Ready, slave?” She asked.

Elliot violently shook his head. “N-No, please—” Paxton's hand clamped over the boy's mouth, keeping his head pressed flush against the mast as Calloway leveled the iron. Elliot whimpered and moaned against Paxton's palm, brutally awaiting the agony that was only seconds away.

As if on command, Calloway pressed the glowing iron squarely over Elliot’s heart, pushing in as deep as she could, as though trying to puncture a hole in the boy's chest.

Elliot was deaf to his own screams, the intensity of the white-hot pain replacing each of his other senses. His skin sizzled and seared, nerve-endings burning alive as his skin formed around the shape of the insignia. The pain was worse than he could've ever imagined, overloading his senses and shutting down every other part of his brain until all that was left was pain. Burning, agonizing, relentless pain.

The iron was pulled away after no more than five seconds, but the slave screamed for at least ten before his body went limp.

Na'Krisha's eyes roamed over the flawless insignia seared into the boy's chest. The skin was glossy and an angry shade of red, but the image was beautiful. She examined the artwork she'd created for another few seconds until the slave began to stir.

Na'Krisha grinned, a sense of pride swelling in her chest as she stepped back and motioned for the semi-unconscious boy to be relieved of his bonds. Almost as soon as he was untied, the boy's knees buckled, sending him tumbling directly into Reynolds's waiting arms.

“Take him to the med bay,” Na'Krisha commanded. “He will remain there until he's healed, or until the captain requires some stress relief. Until then, should any of you lay a hand on him, you'll be returnin’ home without it. Savvy?”

A chorus of affirmative grunts rose from the gathered crew as Reynolds and Paxton both worked to haul Elliot's limp body down to the med bay. Na'Krisha watched until the boy disappeared below deck.

In all the years she'd known Whitlock, she had never before been on board with his desire to possess a slave. In her mind, they were dirty and useless and nothing but cargo that needed to be fed. She couldn't control the captain, unfortunately. So when he told her he'd picked up a slave from that tiny coastal village they'd stopped at for a booze restock, Na'Krisha had been more than pissed off. A slave was an investment that the crew simply couldn't afford.

But after seeing the boy for the first time, drenched, shivering, and kneeling submissively at her feet, she couldn't deny the slave's appeal. He was tiny and adorable, and the sight of him triggered something within her, something that longed to tear him to pieces and watch him helplessly writhe in pain.

Needless to say, she couldn't wait to play with him again.

-

I will be posting picrews of Na'Krisha Calloway soon. I'm a little bit in love with her.

I hope you enjoyed this!! This ended up way longer than I expected it to be, but it changed directions like three times while I was writing it. I'm pretty happy with the end result though! My next chapter will be a post-rescue chapter. So those of you that have been itching for some comfort for my boy, don't worry. Its coming.

If anyone else has any requests for things they'd like to see in my pirate au, feel free to send me an ask!

Taglist:

@phoenixpromptsandstuff @ofclrosewriteswhump @whump-queen @melpomenelamusa @hueningplushie @paperprinxe @neuronalwhip @written-in-the-stars135 @ieattoenailsforlunchlikearealone @lolrpop @butterflywhump @writing-for-gold

At last Abril dragged in a deep breath and became First Captain again, if an unsteadier captain than usual. Rainier kept a hand on her arm. “He was in the gaol?” she asked Leander in clipped tones. “For how long?”

“The guard didn’t know. I’d guess since soon after the last battle. He’s- he’s been there a long time.”

“Good,” Abril said curtly. “Why didn’t anyone tell you he was captured?”

Leander sighed. “In all honesty, Abril, I think they forgot. There was so much happening in those days. Each man probably assumed someone else had told me and didn’t bother any more about it.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Why does this feel like an interrogation?”

“Because it is one. What are you going to do with him?”

“He’s sick. And hurt. And nearly starved. I’m going to have a healer look at him.”

“Not what I’m asking.” Abril stepped forward and put a finger in Leander’s chest- not jabbing him, just making sure he felt the pressure. “Long term, Leander. What are you going to do with him?”

Leander opened his mouth to answer and realized he had none. He hadn’t thought about it, and when he did think about it, no reply came to mind. He couldn’t keep Emauri chained in the spare bedroom for the rest of his days, but he couldn’t send him back to prison. He couldn’t welcome him into the court; the nobility would be outraged that one of their own had been left to rot in gaol and the common folk would be outraged that he wasn’t still there. He couldn’t find work for him- it was obvious even without a healer’s advice that Emauri would never again be as he had been.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

Abril’s hardened face softened a little. “I wanted you to say it,” she told him. “You think with your heart, Leander. That’s good. But you have to think with your head, too. Rainier and I try our best for you, but you are Lord Protector. The blame will always fall on you.” She became captain again, standing straight and tall, planting her feet. “Right. You don’t have a long term, so we’ll focus on the short term. Rainier, ask Master Brindle to come see the- the prisoner.” Leander could tell she’d wanted to say much harsher words.

Rainier nodded and took himself off to the healer’s tower. Leander went to the window at the end of the corridor, staring out at the lightening sky. It wasn’t quite full morning.

“I’m sorry, Abril,” he said.

He heard her sigh behind him. “When I had nightmares, I used to tell myself that it was all right because everyone in them was dead. I still have them. I’m in the Tarasque house. It’s dark. There’s blood. The baron stands over me with a knife. Emauri holds the lantern for him. They’re both laughing.” Her voice trembled in her throat. “I remember the baron telling me that what he was doing to me would be nothing compared to what he had in mind for you. When they put us up on that wall and tried to make you surrender- I’ve never been so afraid in my life, Leander. And he was there. He was there and I thought he was dead and now you tell me he’s not only alive, but living in my home.” She was Abril again. Leander wished she’d be First Captain. The First Captain never sounded like she was going to cry.

“I couldn’t leave him there, Abril. I know who his father was. I know what they did. I still couldn’t leave him. Part of me even wanted to, but- I can’t know that a man is suffering and let it continue. I had to put a stop to it.” He wrapped his hands around the stone of the windowsill and watched the sun and thought about a pitch-black prison cell.

Abril said nothing else. He knew she was still there, but he didn’t turn to look. They stayed silent and waited for Rainier to come back.

When he did, he had a look of grim satisfaction on his face. “Where’s Master Brindle?” Abril asked.

“Not coming,” Rainier said, flat and cold as steel.

“Why not?”

“He says he won’t treat a traitor.”

“You told him?” Leander felt the first flash of anger rather than guilt. “Why?”

“I thought he ought to know. I swore him to secrecy first. He said he’ll look at him if the Lord Protector commands it, but he won’t waste his medicines and things on a kingsman.” Rainier shrugged. “He was a soldier in your army, Leander, you can hardly blame the fellow.”

“And the town healers will talk.” Leander glared at Rainier. “Fine. If Master Brindle won’t treat him, I’ll send for Master Atticus.”

“Master Atticus is still alive?” Abril blurted.

“He lives at the edge of town now, keeps himself to himself and doesn’t advertise his practice much. But he’s alive and well, and he’ll come for a summons from the Lord Protector.” Leander turned back to the open window and silently added I hope.

————————————————————————

Leander sent a messenger with a sealed letter to Master Atticus and went to his rooms to wait for a reply.

By the time one came, it was early afternoon and he was nearly out of his mind with impatience. He’d thought of going to see Emauri again, but he had eventually decided he’d stepped on Rainier and Abril’s toes heavily enough.

He didn’t see Abril for the rest of the day. Rainier’s stopped by his room at midday to tell him, in severe tones, that he was going to look in on the prisoner. Quietly, Leander asked him to give Emauri water, and pretended not to see that Rainier was carrying a chain.

“He wouldn’t drink,” Rainier reported, coming back empty-handed. “Got it down his throat. It wouldn’t stay there.” He shrugged, as if it made very little difference to him. “I have a guard posted.”

“Thank you,” Leander told him, sincerely, and thought he saw Rainier’s eyes warm just a little.

Just as the shadows started to lengthen, Leander heard a horrific bwooooo sound on his balcony. He jumped nearly out of his skin and hurried to see what on earth was making it.

The ugliest pigeon he had ever seen sat on the railing. It had one eye that looked outward and another that stared straight up into the sky. Its feathers were ragged and in some places nonexistent, and its feet were an absurd yellow. There was a note tied to one of them. When it- somehow- managed to look at Leander, it said Bwooooo, and held out the leg for him.

“Um- thank you,” Leander said, untying the note. The pigeon preened its patchy feathers.

Leander unrolled the note. It was a scrap of parchment, with a single line of writing in a bold, elegant hand.

The note read, You are an idiot.

Leander read it four times. “This doesn’t say if he’s coming or not,” he told the pigeon.

Bwooooo, said the pigeon unhelpfully, and soared off the balcony and very nearly into the opposite roof before it straightened itself out. Leander watched it go, feeling as if he couldn’t fly straight lately either.

A short while later, a serving boy rapped at the door to tell him that there was a strange man in the main hall. “Do you know him?” Leander asked.

“No, sir,” the boy answered, “but he’s got a pigeon.”

Leander sent for Rainier and Abril, and they went together to receive Master Atticus.

The old healer was a tall, thin man with a hooked nose and long ink-black hair that did not dare wave in the slightest. He wore a long robe exactly the same color as his hair, even in the hottest months, and Leander had never once seen him smile. And, sure enough, the scraggly pigeon sat on his wrist with the exact same sour expression on its beak.

Bwooooo, it said, when it saw Leander.

Master Atticus turned and saw him.

“Thank you for coming-“ Leander began.

“You are an idiot,” Master Atticus told him.

“So your pigeon said.”

“Oh, yes.” Master Atticus turned to Abril and held out his arm. “Let Atticus the Younger out the door for me. He’ll make his way back to the house all right.”

Abril stared at the pigeon, then at the healer, then at Leander. “Atticus the Younger?” she asked.

Master Atticus raised one eyebrow and looked at her. Suddenly the name seemed perfectly fitting. She took the bird- who protested with a Bwoooo- and hurried off. Rainier hid a laugh as a cough.

“So you’ve taken some poor wretch out of that gaol and you think I can heal prison fever,” Master Atticus said, turning back to Leander.

“Can you heal prison fever?” questioned Rainier.

“Of course,” Master Atticus replied, finishing it off with his customary “You idiot.”

“There’s a lot more than that to heal,” Leander said. “He’s nearly starved, and there are many injuries, and he’s too ill even to hold down water. And- I feel I should tell you who he is. His name is Emauri Tarasque. He and his father were two of the old king’s most loyal men.”

Master Atticus looked at him.

Leander shifted his feet awkwardly.

Master Atticus continued looking at him.

“What?” Leander asked.

“Does the fact that he is a king’s man have something to do with treating his injuries?” Master Atticus said.

“Master Brindle refused to do it because of it.”

“Brindle began his career treating cows and pigs and ought to have kept at it. Does this man’s loyalty somehow affect my treating him?”

“Well- no, I suppose not.” Leander glanced at Rainier for help. Rainier lifted his brow in a don’t look at me sort of look. “I- thought you should know, that’s all,” Leander fumbled.

“I am a healer,” Master Atticus said, biting off each word in his mouth as though he thought Leander was slightly dim. “I heal people who need it. I do not particularly care whether a person who is sick or injured is one of the idiots loyal to you, or one of the idiots loyal to the old king. I only care that the person is sick or injured and I have the ability to help them.”

Abril came back inside- pigeon-less- just in time to hear the last sentence. She and Rainier exchanged a look that Leander did not care to dwell on. “He’s upstairs on the third floor, in the spare bedroom with a guard by it,” Leander told Master Atticus.

The healer produced a large bag from somewhere under his bat-like robes and swept up the stairs without waiting for an escort. “I shall need some fresh water,” he called to them.

The three of them stood there, staring at each other.

“What a loon,” Rainier said.

Leander shrugged. “As long as the loon knows how to heal. Come on, let’s fetch that water.”

——————————————————————-

They hauled two pails of water up to the third floor and found Master Atticus standing outside Emauri’s room, storming at the guard who also stood outside it.

“-see that I’m a healer, with your hideous head stuck so far up your culette! Now let me in, you misbegotten spawn of a beetle’s buttocks-“

Holding back a laugh, Abril waved at the much-affronted guard to allow Master Atticus to pass. The healer swept into the room in a very offended cloud of black.

“Do beetles have buttocks?” Abril whispered to Leander.

“If they don’t, I’m not going to tell him,” Leander whispered back. He was glad that they seemed to be friends again.

He moved into the room and immediately found himself the new target of Master Atticus’ ire. The healer flung a hand toward the bed where Emauri lay. “What in the name of the father of fire do you think you’ve done?”

Leander could not see any obvious mistakes. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve put furs on him! Godsbelow, you had some sense when you were a shepherd, where’s it all gone?”

“He’s been locked in a dark, cold cell for years,” Leander replied, a little stung. “I wanted to make sure he was warm.”

“By loading him up with heavy trappings? When he hasn’t yet managed to keep down a sip of water? You’ll have him sweating out what little he’s managed to hold onto, and he’s not strong enough to go without. No, take those away. A light blanket will do. Even that’ll be a good deal warmer than that hole you told me of.” Master Atticus strode to the bed and flung the furs back.

The room went silent. Even Abril gave a little gasp of dismay on seeing her enemy’s condition.

The blue tunic was soaked through with fever-sweat, and Leander thought some darker patches might have been blood. The bruises and cuts stood out stark against Emauri’s pale skin, and the badly healed break in his leg seemed almost worse. His breathing had changed; shallow and even before, now it was shallow and ragged, rattling in his lungs. The hair spread out on the pillow was stringy, dark with sweat. He was clearly still unconscious.

“Who chained him?” Master Atticus demanded, pointing his chin to Emauri’s better leg.

Rainier had kept his word- one end of the chain was latched around Emauri’s painfully bony ankle, the other around the bedpost. “It’s staying,” Rainier said firmly.

Master Atticus accepted this, setting his bag at the foot of the bed. “At least you had the mind not to put it on the bad one,” he said half under his breath. “I’ll do what I can for him, but he’s too weak to stand much. Leave that water and clear out, the lot of you. I work best alone.”

So they cleared out, the three of them, and left Master Atticus to his work.

He called them back in as darkness was setting outside. He was washing his hands in a basin, and Leander saw that the water was tinged pink. “I cannot reset the leg today,” he told Leander bluntly. “I would have to break it again, and the shock would likely kill him. I wonder if it might not be better, overall, to leave it as it is.” He shook his head, returning to the bedside. Emauri lay just as he had been, his breathing slightly better, the soaked tunic exchanged for a pair of dove-grey linen pants. His back had been bandaged, and there was a wet cloth laid across his forehead. He had still not woken.

“Certainly a fever has set in,” Master Atticus continued. “I gave him a tincture of elderflower, and a poultice on his chest for the weakness in his lungs. He must sweat it out. Keep a cool cloth on him, and make sure he gets plenty of water- even if he coughs it up, keep giving it to him. I will return in two days to see how he is coming along.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the best care,” Leander promised.

Master Atticus shut his bag. “No, you won’t.”

Abril and Rainier frowned.

“You will follow the instructions I’ve given and no more than that,” Master Atticus said. He stepped back from the bed, his expression pinched. “I know you all too well, Leander. You have an unfortunate addiction to being the hero and to being lauded for it. And since this man is in no condition to be singing your praises, you will doubtlessly want him to be well quickly so that he can do so. You will ply him with the best of everything- bread and meat from your own table- to return him to health as fast as possible. And in doing so, you will kill him.”

“How could feeding a starving man kill him?” Rainier broke in, and received a withering look for his trouble.

“Because, Captain,” Master Atticus drawled, “when the body has been used to the coarsest fare, and precious little of that, for years on end, a sudden surfeit of rich delicacies comes as a shock to the system. Not unlike the shock that occasionally comes to your system when the brain you supposedly carry between your overlarge ears manages to produce a coherent thought.”

Rainier, like Leander, was well used to Master Atticus’ biting tongue and only looked a little insulted.

Master Atticus turned to the bed again. “So,” he said. “You may give him a little thin broth and some cool water, but no more than that. You will kill him if I am disobeyed. Am I quite understood?”

“Yes,” Leander answered. “You are.”

Master Atticus picked up his bag and made to exit. “Oh, and leave a candle lit in this room.”

“What will that do?” Rainier asked.

“The candle will provide illumination, Captain,” Master Atticus replied dryly. Then, a bit more gently, and addressed to the unconscious figure on the bed, “When one has been in the dark for so long, he will treasure a little light.”

——————————————————————————

The room was painted a bright gold by the light filtering in from the window, casting everything within it into a soft glow that was almost ethereal. Even the carpet beyond the threshold of the space underneath the bed was lit, drawing Sariah's eyes like a moth to a flame. It was hard to believe it was real, that there was real, actual sunlight pouring in through a window of all things not three feet in front of them. Part of their mind is convinced it's a dream, or a hallucination cooked up by whatever drugs Sir had pumped into them that day.

But no, there was no ache in their veins or bruising on their elbows. No strange, sluggish, pitter-patter of their pulse or pounding in their ears from some unknown concoction forced into their bloodstream. There was just Sariah, curled defensively under the bed why hadn't they been forced to use it yet? and the sunlight dappling the carpet three feet from the edge of their muzzle.

It takes a bit of shimmying to get closer to the edge of the shadows marking the threshold of the space beneath the bed, weren't beds meant to hurt them? why put them with one and then not use it? but they manage. They're almost frightened to reach out, some small, quiet part of them terrified this was some trick, either of the drugs or from Sir. But oh, Sariah hadn't felt sunlight in so long…. The tremors wrack their entire frame as they reach a singular hand out, jolting as they make contact with the sun-warmed carpet. Amazement has their ears dropping in awe, before perking up fast enough for the tips to smack the underside of the bed as they sink their palm further into the material.

Sharp, blackened claws rest ugly and ragged against the plush material, the tip of their tail flicking happily where it's curled at their side as they soak in the warmth coating their skin. Gods… when was the last time Sariah had felt warmth like this? years and years and years and years ago It's amazing, it's wonderful, it's-

It's-

It's too much.

They pull their hand back like they've been burned, scuttling back further beneath the bed, gods, why hadn't they been forced to use it yet? why abandon them in a room with a bed of all things-, darkness surrounding them on all sides once again. Warmth and sunlight and soft plush carpets aren't what Things like them deserved. This- it's a trick. It must be. It has to be. Maybe… maybe it was a test? to see how well they could behave without a handler watching over them? Maybe maybe, maybe that was it. Maybe it was a test, and they were meant to stay away from the light and the warmth they so desperately craved because Things like them were meant to stay in the darkness.

So they curl up tighter and close their eyes and block out the sight of bright bright bright sunlight warming the floor three feet away from them. they could be good, they could. they could pass this test and prove they're good and finally show Sir they could listen. Their air is tainted by leather and musty heat floating in from just beyond their reach and they ignore it, ignore it, ignore it as the gold fades to pale white and the hours stretch on.

It's not until large hands, gentle and furred and inhuman like their own reach out with soft promises that they were safe that they finally uncurl peak out past the threshold of the bed with terrified eyes. The words don't make sense, nor does the care or concern lacing the voice of their fellow... Thing? how strange, for a Thing to wear glasses. weren't such things just for people? But he keeps speaking in a gentle voice that they were safe and he was kind and that they didn't need to be afraid. Which must be a lie because they were never safe. They were dangerous, and a monster, and a Thing that needed to be kept in its place, but-

But-

But Sariah wanted to be safe. Sariah wanted to believe that this fellow inhuman Thing was telling the truth. Wanted to trust that the clawed hand held out to them was as kind as it seemed. a fellow Thing wouldn't hurt them after all, not like a human would right?

Sariah wakes just like they do every night since their 'rescue', curled up under the too-big bed provided to them as they choke on a shuddering inhale. Their claws spring up to grasp at their face, confused about the lack of leather scenting their air as their tail coils around themself. Where was-

Right, their muzzle, they didn't have it anymore. They needed their muzzle. They didn't- without the muzzle they didn't know what was and wasn't allowed. Were they meant to speak? To beg? To open wide and mind their teeth? They don't know, they don't know, they wanted the comfort of knowing. The lack of it just made the anxiety buzzing under their skin worse.

But they hate the muzzle. They hate it, but the muzzle was a rule, an in-built order to keep their mouth shut and be good. At least with their muzzle they knew what their handlers wanted from them. They knew what they were meant to do.

After all, what were they meant to do with this much freedom? They didn't know if their sounds were meant to be swallowed or allowed to ring out, if they were supposed to part their lips or beg pretty the way they were taught. they wanted to know. At least with their muzzle they knew what was expected from them.

Maybe… maybe it was lost. Or needed to be replaced. Yes, maybe it just needed to be replaced. They could replace their muzzle. They could be good. they could be good, they could be good, they could be good, they could be good- It isn't hard, to call the mist to their palms and build leather beneath their fingers, years upon years with the material around them burning its structure into their mind.

Brushing their claws against the back of their head and dragging them across their cheeks, thick leather slowly forms under their claws and over the bridge of their nose. The heavy weight of a padlock rests at the base of their skull, and with the leather digging into their skin they can finally breathe.

The ache is familiar, comforting in a way that leaves them sick but at least it's the kind of sick they know how to deal with. Finally, the suffocating weight of anxiety that had been sitting in their chest dulls down to something they actually know how to manage. they hope their new handlers will be happy, they've been good, right? Falling back asleep is easier this time, the feeling of their own cold breaths hitting their lips lulling them to sleep as they tuck their tail around themself. they were finally being good.

Cold, weak breaths hit the leather sitting a few millimeters from their lips, the concrete smooth and cold beneath them as they lay prone on the ground.

Sariah had fucked up again, their correction leaving them nothing but a bloody mess on the floor.

Their muzzle was digging into the old scars along their cheeks and nose, the pain melding with the rest of the agony washing over them. it hurts hurts hurts hurts- The soft whine of pain dies in the back of their throat as Sir look down on them though, the sound of his dress shoes stepping across the concrete making them shake.

"Have you learned your lesson this time Sariah?" They don't try to answer behind the muzzle, not interested in another lesson on how demons didn't speak. their name meant he was still mad

Weakly, they nod from their place on the ground, horns scraping against the concrete floor as they keep their eyes averted. Somewhere above them Sir smiles, crouching down to roughly pat the leather over their cheek. "Good daemon. We'll see how long this one sticks." Tears spring to their eyes at his words. they hate the relief that bubbles up at the lack of their name.

I can be good though! Sariah wanted to yell, hot trails slipping from their eyes along the edge of the muzzle. I can be good I can be good I can be good-

It wasn't true though, and they both know it. Sariah was never good, they just had stretches of good behavior before they inevitably fucked up enough to need correction again. they hated being corrected-

. . .

They're dragged back to their room by their tail, their current handler uncaring of the sharp ache the action leaves in the base of their spine or the bloody trail it leaves in its wake. The heavy metal door shuts with a thud as they're thrown inside, landing with a muffled yelp on their broken broken broken ribs.

Sariah drags themself over to their little cot, wheezing as they pull themself up onto it with a sob and collapse. Every inhale was another spike of agony as they were unable to stop their breath from shaking.

Despite that, they try to keep their breathing shallow, lying flat on their back despite their desire to curl into themself and disappear. They'd tried doing that once when they were younger and nearly punctured their lung.

What they can't stop however, are the hot tears that spring to the corners of their eyes and slip down to their hairline, desperately trying to bite back their sobs so the pain wouldn't get worse.

I'm sorry. It's the only thing they can think as they sit in agony and wait for their ribs to start mending.