is love alive?

similar: three members of the same sex they find attractive.

—- “Goodness, that’s a very suggestive question. Er, well– I suppose I won’t lie. I… I find Genevieve D’Alessio to be rather becoming. And maybe it is the prolonged contact, but Lucille Blackwood has quite the pretty face, too. Finally, let’s say… Aoife Flanagan, as she has the kind of confidence that I very much admire in a woman. It’s those sorts of qualities that draw me to people. I hope that will suffices, though I confess it has never been a question of gender or looks for me; to me, the personality of an individual can be the most alluring and sensual part about them.”

( @piratexmama, @luce-blackwood, @aoifeflanagan )

confess in threes.

blab: three secrets they’re keeping.

—- “I like to think I’m an honest kind of person, but there are possibly things that people don’t know about me. Maybe this is the time to tell those ‘secrets’? So… lets start, I suppose. Firstly, I used to be a… lady of the night, shall we say? It seems as if many don’t know, or have forgotten. It was my profession for a number of years, I was a prostitute and dancer. That does lead in to another of my ‘secrets’– which I will get back to in a moment. My second is that another pirate from another fleet several years back– he proposed marriage to me. I was very fond of them, but our lives just… were not going in the same direction. I refused, but there is a part of me that wonders about them from time to time. I had more pressing issues, different priorities. Which brings me to my last little secret. I was nineteen, and I had a child; a daughter, but that isn’t really the secret. I feel most everyone is aware that I’ve been searching for her, for a very long time. In being here, in working on this island, however– I’ve… found her. I hadn’t told anyone just yet, as it’s been such an… overwhelming situation. I still can’t comprehend it myself, but Charlotte Abernathy is, without a doubt, my daughter. As I said, these aren’t really secrets. They are actually little tidbits that I just have not told other people. If I do think of any real secrets, then maybe I’ll share them another time. Who knows?”

( @charlottexabernathy )

confess in threes.

🔮do they believe in soul mates?

—- “Well-- it’s rather hard to believe in something I’ve not experienced. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. Maybe they manifest in different ways, different times... I’m not all that sure. I think I’m a tad beyond the age to be searching for any sort of thing, regardless. Even if it is quite the romantic concept to think about.”

relationship questions.

Lucille took in what the pirate had to ask. There hadn’t been much she had been told as far as living arrangements were regarded. Upon arrival, Luce had been instructed to go to the tall and impressive building that she later learned was referred to as the Tulach house. Teddy had helped fill some of the blanks when it came to what was happening. Still, Teddy did not possess all the details. Exploring had led the princess to gather some other information, as well as the knowledge that there were locations she, most certainly, wasn’t welcome. Still, none of it had done anything to clarify where the pirates actually lived and roaming around the island also hadn’t let Lucille wind up at either of the villas.

“I’m afraid the only thing a pirate bothered to tell me when I washed up these shores was: head this way until you stumble upon the big building,” Lucille paraphrased, for the content of the sentence she’d actually heard was far less polite. Luce had also explained her general lack of knowledge regarding those technicalities by using her hands as she pointed in some random direction to exemplify it. Normally, she wouldn’t have minded reproducing the exact words. However, the woman was civil towards her, such attitude coming from the English princess would have been uncalled for. “So, I had not had the chance to hear about the villas. It does seem like something tactically smart, to divide the general pirate population. Having all of you staying in a single place might make you all vulnerable in case of an external attack,” the brunette was logical about it, though she wasn’t certain why she was babbling. It was clear the pirate would know more about it than she did, it was evident, and they did not need to receive praise over their military strategy, she surmised.

“I do believe the beginning would be good,” the brunette found herself in agreement, her feet echoing as she trailed behind the woman, back to the bench where she’d first seen her sitting. Her ignorance was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, only a nuisance to the blonde pirate, however, she did not wish for this sort of helplessness, and she was just one way in which she would get the answers she required. “And, well, I’m here to listen. I believe it’s part of the reason why you’ve brought me here, is it not? So that we might get acquainted with one another and that I might know what I should expect from,” she started, then realized she had no idea how to finish that sentence. “This,” she concluded, her hand motioning in a circle that was meant to involve the island as she talked about the situation as a whole.

Plopping down on the seat, Lucille crossed one ankle over the other, her legs slightly bent to a side. Her hands were neatly placed over her lap, and she thought about the question, trying to gather everything she had been actually described. “After I was told to look for what I’ve later learned was the Tulach house, everything else I was explained came from small words with a few other pirates and what my friend Teddy has been able to disclose. At the canteen, I heard from a number of people how I was supposed to be nice, though the standards for it seem to vary and, therefore, it’s a little hard to pinpoint. Teddy was the one who announced there was someone responsible for watching over me, and that I would meet this person at some given moment,” Lucy recalled, and a small smile surpassed her lips as she remembered her assumption back at the time.

Sometimes a stereotype placed upon a group of people truly represented them, and as much as people liked to tease the Canadians for being such a polite nation, it had to be the English that always took home that win. There were always a few outliers here and there, but the lengths to which hospitality, patience and propriety were taken in the form and name of British civility were rather astounding at times. Even in a place where life and death could be construed as meaningless, with pirates and royals alike walking on eggshells, Guinevere still had as much of the English temperament flowing through her veins as the Blackwood princess did-- which was evident in her greeting, and her agreement to sort out what was meant to be sorted. The way the pirate often saw it, there were very few issues one couldn’t fix with a simple sit down and talk.

But, not everyone had that same level of control and the calm nature when it came to an apparent enemy, or even a friend. Some residents on the isle assumed themselves too important or busy to speak to the captives, or immediately thought of those they had taken were lesser. Lucille didn’t particularly need to describe it to her, but it gave her a better understanding of the treatment many of them received because certain pirates were too arrogant, narcissistic or cruel to act otherwise. And while nothing would please Guinevere more than to deposit the Blackwood family from the throne, she knew that those courses of action were like setting a timer on a bomb, but never knowing when it was actually going to explode.

Yes, some of the royals needed to be put in their place, yes, some of them were just as awful and insufferable in their behaviour as some of the pirates and yes, some of them needed to truly comprehend the gravity of the situation as it stood, but that did not by any means equate to the idea of them being worth any less than the people that had captured them. The truth was, while some did not want to believe it, that they were of exceptional value. And when the time came for negotiation or disputes, peace or war, they would be a sort of bargaining chip that those same, arrogant pirates would thank their lucky stars were kept around.

That was later, though-- this was now. And the older woman, even with all of her strength, could not help but sigh resignedly at the state that they had left this princess in, pinching the bridge of her nose for a long second before looking back up at Lucille. Uncertain, unsure, no idea of what needed to be known and understood. Guinevere leant forward in her seat, clasping her hands to rest them on her knees before she finally spoke. “I won’t lie to you: not a lot of royals are given many answers when they first arrive. It’s a... learn as you go, sort of thing. But, as there haven’t been many... special events, let’s call them, to help spread the messages we try to send out it can be a little bit of a struggle to for it to reach some of you. I am surprised your friend didn’t tell you all that much, though; forgive me if I’m wrong, but there is some form of solidarity amongst you-- isn’t there?”

She had to admit, the princess’ quick and interesting assessment of their living set-up produced a glimmer of intrigue from within her. It was clear that some royals had been taught how to strategise-- which she had expect, but to see it in action was even better and something to keep note of. Lucille Blackwood seemed to be a sharp one, and Guinevere was likely going to need to be wary of that throughout this arrangement. All the better to keep her just as sharp, she supposed. With that in mind, she decided it was probably better to keep the information that all of their most important members lived in the one place to herself, lest the princess conjure up any roguish ideas.

Charlotte’s heart stopped in her chest.

Hadn’t it? It felt like it did. She felt the blood running through her veins run cold at Gwen’s words. Charlotte Rosalie Abernathy, April 13th, 1991. Born twenty-eight years ago, six pounds, nine ounces, fifteen inches long. Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t stop staring at the woman before her with wide eyes.

She now understood. She now caught the little similarities between herself and Gwen. Same jawline, same mouth, the same long lashes. Why sometimes people mistook Charlotte for Gwen. 

“How do you know that?” she asked, but she knew the answer. As surely as she knew her own name, she knew the real identity of Gwen. 

Her mother.

After years of searching, Charlotte had found her mother without even meaning to. 

The festivities had lowered from noisy chatter to a watery echo by now, Guinevere completely unable to focus on anything else but Charlotte. She could see their shared features now, almost as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. It was as if she was meeting the younger woman for the first time again-- but in this instance, she had a sense of clarity. How she had managed to miss the signs before this was... absolutely astounding. She should have known. She should have guessed. She should have said something sooner. Why hadn’t she said anything?

There was no need to answer Charlotte’s question; they both knew who they were to each other after twenty eight years of separation. But that did not stop the older woman from speaking. There were plenty of things she had always wanted to tell her daughter and with the worry that she may not get the opportunity to explain herself ever again so prevalent in her mind, she had to start now. “You... were so beautiful, when you were born,” She began, voice straining while a bountiful amount of tears had welled up and had begun to streak down her face. “I didn’t want to let go--” Guinevere’s jaw had stiffened, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she tried to keep her chest from contracting violently-- she feared she may never stop sobbing if she allowed it. “I wish I hadn’t.”

What a lovely birthday it had turned out to be. Charlotte still couldn’t help but dwell on how stupid she could be to allow her mind to wander while cutting food of all things. She wasn’t dying for a piece of jicama, as tasty as it was. All she wanted to do was spend her birthday with Chase, maybe some alcohol. Toast something over the open flame and relax. Fate had other plans, it seemed. 

Brown eyes dropped in confusion as Gwen’s fingers traced the intricate Ryan scrawled on the inside of her wrist. Sometimes it slipped her mind that some of the pirates hadn’t known him. It was considered stupid to have the inside of her wrist done, due to its exposure to the elements, but her father had been her blood. 

She hissed when the antiseptic hit the open wound on her hand, the pain lancing through her nerves. “God fucking dammit,” she growled. She was going to have pictures of this day with a bandage on her hand. The chaste touch was something she hadn’t realized she’d missed. Just the act of someone touching her absently. Chase touched her differently with a level of affection and underlying devotion. “What a fine way to spend my birthday.”

At the comment of her tattoo, she cleared her throat. “I have a few. I lost my father almost eight years ago. I got it in his memory. He was murdered by a royal,” she said. It still pained her almost as if the pain was still fresh. “He raised me on his own and he did whatever it took to do so. I owe everything I am to him.”

Birthday.

It was Charlotte’s birthday.

She couldn’t even croak out a simple ‘oh’ as she looked up at the other woman-- Gwen likely seemed catatonic to her right now, frozen on the spot. And as if that wasn’t enough to send her reeling down a path of shock, her next comment about her father... Raising Charlotte and being killed. His name was Ryan. Yes, all of that information would just about do it. For a moment, Guinevere thought she was going to collapse right then and there. Her pulse was thundering in her head and her peripheral vision had begun to fade; this had gone way past coincidences, and well into the territory of what she had been wondering, hoping even, since she’d met the younger woman.

A lot of things were beginning to make sense, now-- her inability to act like a normal human being around her, the inexplicable feeling of being drawn to the other pirate and yet feeling downright afraid to have any sort of conversation, and especially the fact that while holding her hand there was some primal part of her that told her not to let go. But... how had she allowed this uncertainty to endure? Why? It was already torturous enough after twenty three years of searching to think about, was she really that afraid after all this time to end the suffering?

She hadn’t been prepared to find her daughter like this. Right under her nose, so to speak, hidden in plain sight. But in knowing that, she had to realise that she had done this to herself, too much of a coward to come out and ask the questions that needed to asked. Her grip on the younger woman’s wrist-- her daughter’s wrist, she numbly registered --had unconsciously tightened, as if she feared Charlotte might slip away from her, and disappear from her life once again.

Truth be told Gwen was afraid of a lot of things, standing there after piecing together the information she’d just turned over in her head... She may not want to know her. Charlotte may harbour a deeply rooted hate for her after twenty eight years of absence. Even if it was unwilling, she hadn’t been there for her daughter. She hadn’t been the mother she was supposed to be to her child. She hated herself for it, and certainly couldn’t blame Charlotte for ever feeling the same. Still, she had to say something. It was going to hurt, it was going to be confusing... but she couldn’t allow all of those fears to control her life-- she had an obligation to her daughter, to tell her the truth. So-- she tried, exhaling roughly and holding on to Charlotte’s hand for dear life.

Guinevere’s voice never trembled when she spoke, but it did in that moment, her eyes already beginning to sting.

And now she was spending her birthday nursing a cut on her hand. Fabulous. Charlotte had loved the bonfire since it started and just the act of being happy was clearly too much. Annoyed, she held her hand above her heart to stop the bleeding. At least Gwen was willing to help. Charlotte couldn’t help but feel relief for that. 

She’d noticed the odd way she reacted around her versus other pirates and if Charlotte had a lower self-esteem, she’d wonder if Gwen didn’t like her. It was peculiar. Charlotte held no ill will towards the other woman, instead seeing her as a source of relief. While some pirates were too sour and a living, breathing stereotype of their lifestyle, Gwen wasn’t, instead more…maternal wasn’t the right word. Gentler, perhaps. Charlotte was relieved for Gwen’s existence in that moment. 

“I wasn’t drinking,” she defended without asking. “I just…got distracted and my knife got away from me. All these years of wielding them and they suddenly decide I’m not fit to hold them anymore. Ironic, truly.”

Birthdays now held a sad memory for Charlotte. Every time April 13th came her way, she was reminded it was another birthday without her father. At night, she often pulled out the silly little card that had the music playing inside. The battery on the card had long since died, now Pocketful of Sunshine sounding like a demonic symphony rather than the bouncy little tune it truly was. 

Happy birthday, brave girl.

She’d been brave purely out of necessity. Growing up a pirate, she’d been exposed to the horror show of the world much sooner than most children. While some girls grew up playing with dolls, Charlotte grew up learning weaponry, fencing, self-defense, and the true meaning of loyalty. To Ryan, that was how he showed love. His display of love was to teach her how to defend herself, to keep herself safe when he no longer could. “I think cleaning it might need to come just before bandaging. I think there’s some Neosporin in that first-aid kit by the sink.”

Immediately looking up at Charlotte’s declaration, Guinevere might have chuckled under another circumstances. “I hadn’t thought you were, darling. Accidents-- they happen, even to the best of us,” Truthfully, she was her own sort of distracted. That day was not usually a day on which she celebrated anything; rather, she spent most of her time dissolving into tears, or sitting by herself in silence as she had been before. All she could think of was her daughter, what had become of her, where she was... It was a never-ending turmoil in her head throughout the day, and while she tried to distract herself from the torturous cycle, she could not even focus on a simple puzzle without her mind drifting.

With all of that tumbling through her brain, perhaps unconsciously or perhaps deliberately, she could not help but run her thumb across the tattoo on the younger woman’s wrist. With all of her efforts focused on finding her daughter, there was hardly enough room to remember the affection that she had genuinely felt for Ryan way back when. A mournful expression overtook her features, plain and clear for the other to see, as she savoured the bittersweet memories of the father of her child-- a good man if she’d ever met one, and a man she had much to thank for but could not ever do so.

When she realised what she was doing, however, the pirate blanched slightly while attempting to swallow the lump that was still in her throat. “I-- ...” A weak smile formed, the movement stopped, and she almost couldn’t look Charlotte in the eyes. “I should get that cream-- just a second,” She was simply providing a soothing touch for  the other woman, Gwen firmly told herself as she recovered the cut with the rag and moved back to rifle through the first aid kit. It was a normal thing, nothing to be embarrassed about-- and certainly nothing to choke on her words over.

Retrieving the Neosporin and a few antiseptic wipes, she returned and placed them with the rest of the items, tearing open a wipe with her teeth as she inspected the sealed bottle. “This’ll just sting for a moment,” Guinevere reminded as though she wasn’t speaking to a grown woman. With the practiced speed of any pirate having to patch others up on the go, she cleaned and bandaged Charlotte’s palm with barely any pause and an accuracy that told of years at sea, struggling to keep even her crew in one piece. “’Tis but a scratch, my dear-- you’ll be just fine.”