MRAU: The King and the Reaper
(This is the telling from this, @elleleh’s AU, and artwork, approved by her. Please go follow her for more of these beautiful stories and artwork!!)
***
A loud clatter of the prison door sent it's occupant shying away from the noise, and into a nearby corner. Shivering, the man looked akin to a stray dog, cowering in the filthy cell. The visitor stood tall in the dusty shadows. A dim red glow appeared at his lips, hinting at the sneer. The stream of smoke replaced the glow, and his expression was hidden once more. But it had been enough to identify the spectre.
“Reaper."
Purring, the scarred man kneeled before his captor.
"You know me."
"Of course. You're the second most feared man in these parts."
Cocking his head to the side, he let out a tsk.
"Second? Someone must have heard something." His face shifted from bravado to intensity, and he leaned in over the man. "Tell me."
Even as the man shivered and cowered away, he shook his head.
"Not even to you, Reaper."
Eye's squinted in frustration, and the glow from the cigarette in his mouth lit them up.
"You will tell me."
Resolute, the old drunkard stood surprisingly firm.
"Better death at your hands, than at his."
Removing the cigarette from his lips, he extinguished it under foot. As he spoke again, the smoke slipped from his lips.
"We'll see about that."
***
It was a cold night on the coast of northern Vale. A sound of fluttering wings startled a drunk man stumbling out of a nearby inn, and he turned to the source. Emerging from the black, a darkly clad man with a scarred visage, rose a brow to him. The charm at his throat glinted in the moonlight, and the scar caught the shadows unnaturally.
The drunk tried to look behind him, to spot the source of the sound, but the imposing figure stopped before him.
"Light?"
Shaken from his stupor, the drunk dug into his pockets, producing a lighter. Snagging the flimsy tool from him, the larger man puffed at his cigarette. Tucking the lighter back into the other man's shirt, he turned away. Without a backwards glance, he threw a parting statement.
"Your ass is hanging out."
Still confused by the interaction, he let out a 'huh?' before the words connected with the cool breeze he felt, and he reached for his belt loops to pull up what remained of his dignity.
Pressing deeper into the port town, Qrow took in the sights. There was only one ship docked at the port, he had confirmed, but it was obvious that most of the men were stretching their legs on land. A skeleton crew had remained aboard. But he hadn't wanted the sober crew tending the ship, he wanted the sloshed lowlifes that filled the less than reputable inns.
A breeze whipped down the road from the harbor, carrying with it a misting of rain- a warning of the storm to come. Turning up his coat jacket, its large lapel kept the almost freezing water off his neck. A large crash caught his attention, followed by laughter. He had found his target.
He made no attempt to hide his presence, opening the door with an air of certainty. The men within sobered immediately. One let out a soft curse, and they all straightened up. Qrow squinted after them, and after taking a puff on his cigarette, stepped further in and out into the brighter light.
The men heaved a collective sigh. He raised a black brow at their responses, but it was the man who let out the curse that his attention was most drawn to.
Stepping up next to his space at the bar, Qrow threw down a few lien.
"Seems you mistook me for someone else."
"Got that right, pal." The man sneered at him.
Qrow sat beside him. "Well, the least I can do is pay for a round of drinks for you all."
Gesturing to the barkeep, he bought them all another round, and himself a whiskey.
"Fair enough. Guess you're alright."
"That was a pretty strong reaction, buddy. Who's got you all running scared?" A disarming smile, and a hearty laugh was enough to embolden the young man at the bar.
Slurring his words slightly, his new friend rounded on him.
"Our captain. Terror of the seas."
Qrow parroted amazement.
"You mean you all sail with the Pirate King?" He forced a little bit of awe into the last few words.
Knowing that this man had most likely signed his own death warrant with those words meant little to Qrow. If you're crew wasn't loyal, they weren't your crew. The young man pressed on, pride filling his chest.
"Sure do! He's down at the harbor still. Hear he don't leave the ship."
"You hear?" The lanky man's heart sank- this might be another dead end.
"Well, I just finished my first 'tour' of the ports, if ya will."
Ah. Fresh blood, drunk on their success. He wasn't going to last long, with or without Qrow speeding up the process. Those types never did.
"So, then, I'd guess you would have to go to the ship itself to meet him, huh?"
"Good luck. He don't take to visitors kindly. And he rarely talks, let alone notices anyone but his crew."
A small doubt nibbled at his brain. Luck wasn't his forte, but he hadn't needed either type on his side yet.
"That's not a man, that's a legend."
The smaller man scoffed into his drink.
"That's only cause you haven't met him. See there was this stowaway, see..."
Plied with drinks and encouragement, the young man spun tales that even his other crewmates would have hard times believing, but within those stories, crumbs of reality were hidden. And Qrow was good at piecing together the crumbs.
An hour later, he feigned great exhaustion, and squared away his tab and lodging. Saying his farewells, he entered his room and locked it. Kicking off his shoes and removing his coat, Qrow flopped onto the bed, fully dressed. It was one less step he'd need in the morning.
His appointment was an early one.
***
It was still dark when Qrow arose, but the edges of the overcast sky were starting to redden. The ground was slushy under foot, and the eaves dripped icy water, with one particular drop finding itself between his coat collar and the back of his neck.
Growling at his luck, he pressed out into the dim light. A few men stood outside the doors of the inns, uttering insincere farewells to ladies of the night, while others stumbled away from their perches at bars, empty bottles in hand. A few years prior, the draws of the night might have been tempting, but now, he just wanted to get the mission over with so he could go home.
Pulling a cigarette from his coat, he patted at his pockets again for a missing lighter. Cursing it's absence, he stepped to a nearby lantern and made use of it's fire.
The crew were beginning their trek to the ship slowly, stumblingly, steadily, and Qrow quickly outpaced them. However, as he neared the dock, the crew grew steadily more sober, having manned the ship through the night. His presence was quickly noted.
A flurry of sword points and cocked pistols steadied themselves at his bemused expression.
"I'm merely an... ambassador, if you will, here to speak with the Pirate King."
The sky was steadily reddening behind the heavy gray clouds, casting it's unearthly pall onto the boat and it's alert crew. A sneering voice queried, unseen over the rails of the ship.
"What would he want to talk to you about, Reaper?"
A spindly silhouette emerged at the top of the deck, backlit by the bloody sky.
"From what I hear, you don't talk much."
Curling a corner of his lips, Qrow jeered at the oily creature at the top of the gangplank. His eyes lit up with a pull of his cigarette.
"Mainly because you're not the one I'm here to talk to. Besides," the imposing young man, leaned back, moving unaffectedly by the surrounding weaponry, "from what I hear, he isn't much of a fan of others speaking for him."
Shrugging, he pulled out another unlit cigarette, using the smoldering butt of his previous one to light it.
"But I guess that's your funeral."
***
The dogs had been slow in returning to the ship, and it's captain was not pleased. It had been a while since they had been back at Harbor's End, he knew, but the itch to be gone had been there since they had docked a week prior.
His face and fingers felt cold, and he was desperate for the heat of the flames to warm them again.
Absently, two days into their respite, he considered marshalling the forces to pillage the town, but talked himself out of the pleasure. He had resorted to obsessing over the condition of his ship instead.
So when, on the day of departure, the men were slow to return, his mood had further soured. The sky was aglow red, an ill omen, when he finally withdrew the curtains on his cabin. Growling, the King of Pirates ground the heel of his palm into the aching empty socket. All signs led to bad luck for the crew and it's planned setting off. He pulled a cigarette and lit it. It was going to be one of those days. If he didn't end up putting down one of the dogs before sunset, he'd be amazed.
And then he heard it.
That damned Dreg running his mouth. This Bird of Prey wasn't going to even make it to sunrise.
Speaking as with any sort of right to command. The captain didn't care to who or what about- he was tired of that slime on his ship.
The door opened without a sound, and he emerged on deck. Of the crew still at the port, all surrounded an unwelcome visitor, weapons at the ready. Dreg had not heard or seen him emerge, and his lips curled in disgust.
"... But I guess that's your funeral."
The visitor spoke with confidence, but sounded young. Out of clear sight angle, the only things ascertainable were the dark clothes and hair, along with a thin stream of smoke. He'd make short work of the interloper when he was done.
As he moved forward, the captain made no attempt to hide his footfalls. The rest of the crew noticed it, but Dreg pressed on, oblivious to his fate. Jeering, the dogs hooped and whistled, and the fool felt emboldened.
Unsheathing his sword, he drew up behind him even as he continued to seal his fate.
"I'm not going to waste the captain's time with a minion like you!"
Like a mouse discerning it's fate as a hawk's shadow falls upon it during it's last moments, Dreg spotted the imposing shadow fall upon him. Before he could turn, the Pirate King's sword slipped effortlessly through him. Trembling hands, the slimy cur turned to his captain, muttering out protests to an indifferent expression.
His words became distant, as his eyes rolled back into his head, and he slid off the blade. Crumpled to the ground, the captain used a boot toe to encourage the carcass to tumble off the gangplank and into the waters below.
The crew growled and hooted when the body hit the water. Pulling a cloth from his side, he wiped clean the blade before he would turn attention to the visitor, and the men turned their glee in the same direction.
Sheathing his sword, he turned his gaze to the young man, and froze. In the early sunrise, the charm around his neck glowed as red as the eyes staring back at him.
Steadily, he stepped down the gangplank, stopping a few steps away.
He took in the scarred visage of the man before him. For the first time in many years, the captain wasn't sure of what to do next. A pause passed between them, and the crew, expecting immediate bloodshed died down.
The Reaper knew who stood before him, and the King of Pirates held no doubts either. What time had passed for them both, for their titles to mean more than their names?
"Qrow."
A raven brow rose, waiting.
"You're alive."
To say he was surprised would have been a lie. And to blame him would be a greater one.
The young man withdrew the cigarette from his mouth and extinguished it under foot.
"I'm just as surprised to see you drawing breath," he paused, and Kite Branwen saw him roll his shoulders, before forcing out the final word. "Father."
