#iridiscent

Although the haunting presence of Constantino had long abandoned the ship, and the now free men got themselves to clean up the battle's aftermath as best as they could, there were still traces of him that refused to abandon El Aquelarre. They clutched his ship in desperate tugs of subtlety that made even the most skeptical of men to turn his eyes in discomfort at the sight.

The key Peter gave him opened nothing else but his personal headquarters. The foul smell of rotten herbs and other revolting odors, greeted those brave enough to peek inside El Brujo's memoirs and personal safe space.

An assorted variety of glass jars full of things Miguel couldn't name even if his life depended on it, nested snugly in a fine dark wooden shelf, the tags with their content long faded from the constant use. But their smell either burned his nostrils, or seduced him enough to tempt him to open the jars and their contents. However logic and his common sense, prevailed.

His brain told him to not delve into things he couldn't comprehend, despite the title of a non-believer. As contradictory as it was, he believed in mermaids, cause he had seen one, but his mind still refused to acknowledge magic in any sort of form. Miguel didn't believe in anything he couldn't see.

He didn't believe in invisible things that controlled his fate at whims. He believed in choices and their consequences. In facts, things he could count and feel, not legends that varied their version everytime someone spoke them out loud, to inflict fear in those hearts that still debated in whether to believe or not.

"Shit..." Peter murmured, nonplussed and severely uncomfortable upon the hideosity that stumbled before his nervous eyes. Miguel followed his line of sight and his stomach churned with such a heavy discomfort, that bile menaced to rise up in the back of his throat.

If the jars with the unknown and fetid smelling ingredients made him queasy, these ones in particular had him nauseous.

A couple of brown eyes floated within a jar, and by the looks of the tender and still colored tendons around them, Miguel took his best guess that they were a fresh addition to the madman's lurid collection. The tongue came next, it made him marvel and scrunch his nose in disgust upon realizing how long the organ actually was.

Other vital parts remained sealed in crystal clear jars. His red eyes menaced to pop out of their socket as he stepped back when a heart, a human heart, beat despite no source of life attached to it. As if someone had squeezed enough to give the last show of spark before the unsettled pirate.

"¿Qué mierda?..." The captain murmured, disturbed, with his fist clenching in a meek attempt of keeping his composure, as Peter pulled him away from that specific shelf, equally perturbed if not more. (What the fuck)

The rest of the men had been long gone as they couldn't stomach whatever horrors they had witnessed. Some ran away to alleviate the sudden and gnawing discomfort into the sea.

Hobie's morbid curiosity was sated and crushed as soon as he also saw the beating organ. For a minute he truly believed he had inhaled too much tar smoke to the point of it messing with his perception.

"What kind of bloody madman was that git?" The lanky and pierced man spoke as he searched through the least rotten herbs, hoping to find something that would calm the burn in his wounded arm. Carrillo had thrown him on the jagged and piping hot splinters, earning him a couple of mean scrapes and burns.

"Someone that truly believed he had powers but was merely a delusional murderer." Explained Miguel as he wiped his nose from the pungent fragrance of a sickly sweet-smelling stick.

"Woah, woah. Don't touch anything!" Peter warned but Hobie huffed, rummaging through the various baskets of greens and bones.

"Relax, mate. I'm looking fo' aloe, my arm burns like hell. These santeros and shite use them to cure wounds. So he must've a piece somewhere."

"Constantino isn't a santero. He's a palero!" One of the men grumbled darkly in a thick accent, pointing at the sigils scribbled and painted through the room's walls with caution. Patipembas* drawn in every surface El Brujo's managed to. The man grabbed Hobie's hand as soon as it hovered over a rusty bucket full of sticks and human bones."Don't touch that!" (*Sygils used in Palo)

Everyone stilled and their skin crawled as the man made a cross sign over himself and the rest. Hobie just quirked a brow, confused and frustrated. His respect for religion had gone south for good a long time ago.

"What? Just'a bunch of bones and-"

"Shh! Shh!" The man reprimanded him, "It's not that. It's an nganga.*"

There was a collective round of 'a what' from the men gathered, even Miguel who looked at the man with critical and confused eyes. Palero, Santero, brujo, all were the same deceivers for him. However, the pirate had to admit that the symbols and elements reminded him of the rites Adia sometimes participated in back in the hacienda, behind Guillermo's back. Even Fermin had his own customs before sailing.

"A Nganga. It's the central piece of the ritual. Without it, there is no rite." Explained the man as he pointed the grim object. "They're receptacles for the nkisi.* (*Spirits)

"Ya speak as if we're actually understanding, Oba." huffed Hobie, equally upset and spooked at the eerie aura the various wooden carved statues, heavy with a bunch of indented nails, oozed from the corners of the makeshift altar.

The man in question rolled his eyes. "I was a palero." Oba rolled up his sleeves and showed small scars in the shape of crosses in some parts of his arms, "Salazar wasn't. He didn't get scarred. I searched whatever left from his body."

"So all of this is for shit and giggles?" Miguel frowned

"No, no." Oba shook his head, he wouldn't be past his mid twenties, "All these things are part of rituals, captain. But bad things happen if you practice Palo without a Tata's* permission. It's not for everyone."

"Tata?" Peter repeated with a light giggle, the word too funny-sounding to ignore, yet his brain turned hazy with the confusing terms and information the more Oba talked.

"*A Palo priest. You think they let anyone in? No. If you aren't allowed in, is cause your spirit, fate, everything in you does not match the principles of Palo Mayombe. And what happened to Salazar is the proof! He used Palo for his own benefit without permission. You don't mess with the mpungu* and leave unscathed." (*Gods)

"A'ight. Got it, none touches this place." Hobie grabbed the so needed piece he was looking for and smiled, "Startin' now."

"I'd leave this place if I was you-"

Miguel however had stopped paying attention, too busy and enthralled at the sight before him that the rest turned a blur of muffled voices and shapes behind him. His eyes, remained a bit too long on a precious blue colored jar, within, the most enchanting, large, and iridiscent scales he had ever seen rested at the bottom along the same pearl that caused a fight back in the docks against Edward Low, surrounded by a thin layer of flesh, as if it was forcefully pried away. A couple of crimson droplets tainted them.

A surge of disbelief and rising anger ran through his being. Constantino had dared to pluck tiny parts of yourself as a wretched souvenir for his atrocious museum of horrors. These findings only cracked even further his skeptical walls, leaving room for doubt to seed in. What if Salazar had actually gained some sort of power to bind you? How did he find you? More importantly, how did he trapped you?

If anything, Miguel believed Olivares was insane to the point of feeding himself with lies and legends that supposedly granted him authority over the unseen and unknown, nurturing that delusion of being a messenger of the dark magic he devoted himself to.

Miguel had heard rumors about Salazar being a paranormal confidant and consultant to none other but royalty. It wouldn't surprise him if people recurred to these practices in exchange of something. A selfish wish in quid pro quo of something so sacred as a life.

Black candles that adorned the rest of the shelves were half consumed, some flickered faintly with the little breeze seeping in, dried herbs and dessicated little crawlers remained haphazardly through the altar, the small skulls that Miguel hoped they didn't come from where he imagined, laid either broken in pieces or whole through the table, marked with melted black candle wax and more sigils engraved onto them.

Oba kept explaining the Palo's functions to Peter, that somehow regretted in prying further on the gruesome details on how Olivares had tarnished the reputation and the usage of the religion to his wretched whims.

But in truth Miguel couldn't care less about it, his synapses were working the information in his brain, making sense of so many things he had seen back at the bilge. Like the missing scales in some parts of your fin, the scratches and holes in it, he didn't have to imagine who dragged you inside as his eyes wandered briefly over Carrillo's charred body.

Hopefully the shaman back at Isla del Sol, would help. He didn't know what would she do, but her intervention was a must, curiously, the shaman was the only one that somehow had gained her ounce of respect from the pirate, cryptic and annoying as she was.

Miguel had so many questions and so many unsolved reproach surrounding your mere existence. So many why's and little answers left him sighing and his shoulders tensing.

None of those answers would come if he didn't take you to the capable hands that undoubtedly would mock him for his initial skepticism. He held the key tighter on his hand, and threw it in his pocket. A sudden rush of panic coursed through him upon remembering something important.

Mierda

His hands palmed deeper into his pockets, alarmed as panic rose once more, but as quick at it came, it disappeared when his hands touched the fine chain of the locket, crunching softly under his caress. His lips exhaled, relieved and his eyes closed for a moment. He'd definitely need a better place to keep it before he mislay it for good. He couldn't afford to lose Gabriella again.

"You okay?" Peter mumbled, watching him through wary eyes. The initial discomfort had made everyone uneasy, but Miguel seemed particularly affected, some of his color had drained from his rich cinnamon flesh.

Miguel nodded, watching the milieu for a moment. His men worked, some pushed the bodies out the board, leaving a soon to be gone trail behind. Others, searched through the bodies and wiped the human gunk out the way. Many washed the blood, ashes and gunpowder soiling the dark planks of the deck.

Freedom wasn't exactly pretty, but as long as it remained in their side, the circumstances of it's origin mattered little. Some of his crew even wore merry smiles as they cleared up the deck in high spirits, chanting even despite the gore surrounding them. Celebrating a well deserved fresh start after years of imprisonment and whipping.

Nostalgia flooded his brain with memories of his old crew, but the bitter recollection of some of them holding a resentful glare as they marooned him, had marked his trust and shook the core of his morals. Guarding his trust from those new in his presence.

Miguel only hoped the sea would also be a steady ally as his knees quivered, the elegant wounds Olivares gave him, and the battle's weight on his shoulders, finally caught up with his stamina, depleting it completely. Sending him to stagger next to a now concernedmerchant.

"Hey!, Hey, pal. It's ok, I've got you." Peter muttered as he hooked one of Miguel's heavy arms over his sore shoulders, before he could collapse completely. Some splinters still remained into the captain's skin. "C'mon." Peter hauled him to lean over him, "Need a doctor over here!"

It was the last thing Miguel heard before letting darkness and the ache in his body to claim him.

Papa

Faint blurs of a smile smudged behind his eyes, glimpses of those gorgeous brown eyes he inherited her, stared back at him, with curiosity and a smile that disarmed him every time he came home after weeks in the sea. They blinked, expectant.

Papa, wake up!

The peppering smell of tar became a bit too much for his senses, overwhelming him as the smile disappeared, morphing into this gruesome row of bleeding, sharp teeth, devouring a familiar man. Elliot.

His heart leaped in his quivering ribcage while the half eaten man reached to him, begging with his semi devoured hand to stop the munches on the bleeding carcass his body was turning. But before what was left of his hand touched him, the yellowish row of human teeth sprawled before him in a cruel smile.

Shapes and blurred motions jumbled together in the shape of none other but Constantino, plunging with a forceful thrust his rapier deep in his chest as he cackled. Unleashing the revolting smells that mutinied in his overwhelmed senses.

Miguel's eyes blinked so hard and fast he saw lights dancing before him, his hand immediately clutched his chest. Heaving breathlessly.

"Cap's awake!" Shouted Oba, squeezing the excess of water from a rag.

Miguel on the other hand, rushed, although with uneven steps, towards a bucket. Emptying the unhealthy dose of discomfort the nightmare gave him. The smells, Contantino's cackle, and the rough careening from the ship didn't help his nausea.

His body glimmered with the thin layer of sweat from the quick fever that took over him. Leaving his brain a puddle, his mind in shards and his lungs demanding for air. Much for his dismay, the same oxygen he breathed and coursed through his body, was plagued with  the scent of some herbs he and his men found back at Olivares' altar.

Oba, the palero, or so Miguel recalled, brought him a goblet with water.

"You talk in your sleep." The young man pointed with a concerned stare as Miguel gulped down the contents. The coolness of the vital liquid quenched not only his thirst, but also the persistent and burning sensation travelling up and down his throat.

"Drink this." Oba offered a small shell full with a green-ish liquid, "It's not poison, that's fo' sure." He chuckled, and Miguel drank, only to spit the sip he had gotten with a soured face.

"What the fuck is this?" He grumbled, disgusted at the flavor, and Oba pursed his lips, supressing a laugh

"Burdock, oregano, cedron, and cinnamon. You got a fever, Cap. And turns out Olivares had a good bunch of medicine hidden under the altar." Oba offered the concoction again, and Miguel didn't have much choice but to drink it in a go. God or the universe forbid him to get sick. Not when he was so close in getting the answers he needed.

Another violent wave shook the room, and Oba held onto the bed frame. Peter, Hobie, and a small group of men entered, all keen eyes set on him, expectant of their new course.

The herbaceous smell remained on him, as little pecks of a green paste adorned the cuts El Brujo's had given him.

"You need to follow your own advice of keeping yourself alive, pal." Chuckled Peter as he offered a clean chemise to the pirate. "The men were scared you didn't make it."

Miguel huffed and wore the piece of clothing, covering the bandages and healing wounds from curious eyes. He stretched; some muscles popped back to their rightful place.

"Oba." Said man stared at him, "How much medicine do we have left?"

"Enough to get by until next docking, cap."

"Were the injured men treated?"

"Yes, sir."

Miguel nodded approvingly as he secured the belt around his hips; his new weapons, which had rested next to his bed, were now sheathed on each side of him.

"The sea is still angry, sir." One of the men mumbled, a bit fearful.

"Righteously so, we keep throwing Spaniard trash in it. How many men are there left in total?"

"Total twenty. In good condition fifteen."

"Five injured and fifteen good... Difficult but doable." Miguel mumbled as he weighed his options. "Just beg we survive the storms, and trouble doesn't find us." With a roll of his shoulders, he stepped out of the room ready to see the task ahead through.

He wouldn't leave the men's hope hanging, not when their help was vital in completing his own goal. Selfish, perhaps, but it was the only way available for him at the moment.

He truly couldn't care less what the men did once they docked, as there were always willing daredevils ready to risk their lives for a good feel of life, money, and adventure. He'd get more. Besides, he'd understand if most decided to never come back, as a peaceful life on land was too tempting to go back into a hellish existence aboard a stolen ship.

The salty air filled his lungs vigorously, sparking the all-too-familiar commanding voice he used. Captain O'Hara gathered the men and divided the tasks. Hobie was in charge of the canons and explosives along with another group. Oba indisputably got the title as the doctor. Others dispersed into smaller but still important tasks.

However, one of the challenges piled up in his list made itself present as a thunderous boom echoed through the quickly greying skies. He'd have to teach as much and fast as he could on how to manipulate the sails, ropes, and rigs to those remaining. A properly timed movement could mean the ship's and it's inhabitants salvation.

He sent the most skilled men in climbing to the masts and instructed them through teaching the most basic of functions. Miguel barked orders and instructions, despite the soft breeze hardening by each second.

The ship shook and groaned at the wave's restless pace.

"Batten down the hatches!" Miguel barked, and some just looked at him confused.

Dios mio...

"Fuck," he grumbled, shaking his head; it'd be a miracle if he actually made it alive. "Tie everything down! A fucking storm is coming!"

The men quickly scurried to secure everything in sight. Ropes flew here and there, and orders kept flowing, sometimes drowning under the rattling thunders.

Miguel moved through stations, making sure the knots on the ropes were tight; he'd have to keep simple terms for the men under his command, despite the experience in him fighting to escape his mouth.

A wave sent the galley tipping violently to the left. Some men fell, and others held tightly to the secured canons. But Miguel knew this was just the beginning. He had seen storms so violent it felt as if he wouldn't live to tell.

But this one in particular was dark, grim, and violent. Doubt beat for a second in his heart as his eyes didn't find a single trace of blue in the clouds, just endless grey and black, darkening by each passing second. A booming thunder cracked, illuminating the men briefly.

"Waves on sight, cap!" One of the men up in the mast yelled, and Miguel's Adam's apple bobbed.

Giant waves weren't his favorite; in fact, they frightened him, but there was no time for fearing as it was only one way of standing against them. Without wasting a second longer, he ran towards the steering wheel and turned El Aquelarre face to face with the upcoming wave.

"Are you mad?!" Hobie's unsettled voice rang behind him as he held onto whatever surface he could grab. "That wave is gonna kill us!"

"I'm saving us!" Grunted the pirate as the galley groaned and trembled under their feet. His hand clutched the steering wheel with all the strength he could muster. "Tell everyone to hold tight, and when the wave hit us, crouch!"

The thunder cracked and whipped the sky, letting a flashing spectacle of blinding lights to rule over for a second, enough time for some men to lose their grip in their anchors and fall down, rolling onto the moaning and quivering deck.

" No, no! Hold on tight!" Roared Miguel, Peter found his own secure heaven within the base of the main rigs, his hand stretched over some of the fallen men, aiding them to take a hold.

The angry winds blew, stretching the sails in their full might, pushing El Aquelarre faster and forward to it's newfound enemy. It was as if Aeolus purposely blew over, messing with Amphitrite's calm, awakening her once appeased wrath, reminding her of what Zeus' offsprings had done to one of her children, and the trembling ship was caught in the middle of a family feud.

"Take cover!" Yelled Miguel from the top of his lungs as the unforgiving rain began pouring. Whipping flesh and every surface it could reach with stinging and gelid splatters.

The men watched horrified as the ship's tip groaned as it rose against the tidal wave, slanting back, menacing to turn upside down. Yet Miguel stood his ground as best as he could, for a second the wave's height and gravity swooped him off his feet, only to force him down, again on the slippery surface, nearly tripping over his own feet.

The screams of a man falling down against the captain's quarters doors made him turn his eyes elsewhere before he caught the gruesome sight of a lose canon falling on top of him, crushing his body. One less men.

How many more would he lose to appease the sea? He didn't know and refused to believe such thing or act like Constantino. It was just weather, a terrible weather that was costing his men.

El Aquelarre shook and the captain's eyes widened on the loud crack echoing through the ship as soon as the fore and bowsprit touched the enraged sea once more. They had survived the first wave.

The sea conceded them a moment of peace, but in truth it was only preparing to charge once again.

"Tie that cannon down!" roared Miguel as he struggled to keep the course steady, but the wheel had stuck, making the ship to detour to the left. "Fuck!"

Peter didn't think twice and rushed, next to Miguel's side to try and unstuck the steer.

"It's fucking stuck!"

"No shit, Parker!" Grunted Miguel pulling back with all his might, "if we turn completely to the left, we'll die!"

"Then fucking pull back, pal! I don't want my wife to contact me from the living just to scold me for being an idiot!"

With a growl Miguel pulled as the ship leaned upwards once more, the rushing footsteps alerted him as Hobie joined the pulling party. Their combined efforts managed to release the wheel in a rough spin.

The captain managed to hold the steer and pivoted the ship straight before it turned completely to the left, and have the wave tumble the ship completely.

Part of the cold and unforgiving waters doused the deck, wiping some men from their spots and dragging them to the board, another fell down to the sea, leaving him with a crew of thirteen.

"Puta madre, ya cálmate!" (Chill the fuck down)

Squawked Miguel angrily to the sea, letting his frustration to run unfiltered, chastising like he would with his old lover whenever she got too whiny and childlike over the littlest of things, just for the sake of annoying him. And much to his relief, the sea listened, albeit reluctantly.

The waters slowly lost strength despite their irritation, whipping the rear of the ship in a final resentful protest, sending everyone to lurch forward. Miguel stumbled against the steer as Hobie and Peter crashed against the steering wheel's board.

It was a little price to pay for their peace. The foreign cheers and claps echoed though, celebrating another day of staying in this earth. They had survived.

For how long though?

Miguel sighed and passed a hand over his face. Although one problem had been scratched off the dangers list, so many more were to come. Other pirates, pivateers, English navy, more storms and waterspouts were next. All of them potential risks to take into consideration.

Hopefully Amphithrite's ire had sated with the offering of Constantino himself, or maybe it had caused the opposite effect and it unleashed the enormous waves towards them. The captain didn't know anymore. But Miguel was certain he needed to remain alive until Sunny Island came into view. And given the compass' direction,  half a day of voyage remained.

Contradictory as it was, he was glad his old crew marooned him nearby the Havana. Circumstances always seemed to favor him. The day had started and they already had survived two of the biggest waves he has seen in his life. Although his mind was too temped to ask himself what else could go wrong, he limited himself to be grateful enough to live for a couple of  hours more.

Never in his life he'd feel more relieved as soon as the only man with a little experience at sailing, screamed those words he longed to hear.

"Land A'hoy!"

He took the spyglass from Hobie's hands and took a peek, as if reassuring himself the man in the mast wasn't lying. His lips stretched in a relieved smile as soon as he saw the familiar multicolored flag with a black circle in it, waving proudly through the touting wind.

Finally his nerves would stop tensing and making a mess out of his thoughts at the near miss he had in the remaining voyage. If it hadn't been for Olivares' ship, with the Spaniard flag, they all would've ended up on a ship with a course to England, awaiting trial and hanging for piracy.

But fate had twisted ways, to make even his most despicable allies to aid him, one way or another.

"Tie the canons! Rise those sails, prepare for docking!" Barked the captain.

Some men couldn't help but give each other a heartfelt hug, others cried and cheered upon seeing the distant dock.

"Anwé!" Miguel called and said a young man peeked his head from the mast's post.

"Aye, sir?"

"Get me that flag down, boy."

Hobie smirked, barely containing his excitement as the ship soon approached to dock.

A wave of pride ran through Miguel's chest upon seeing the shock and disbelief in the other sailor's faces as the black ship, emerged from the sun's dying golden rays, like a black hole materializing before their very eyes.

Naturally the rest of the pirates readied their weapons as the ship docked. It wouldn't be much when Sheng Hyun, Toussaint and Xavier made their appearances, alarmed that a foe galley arrived. Salazar was a known privateer to anyone that ended up in Isla del Sol. And now, much to everyone's disbelief, Miguel rose the bloodied Spaniard flag high.

"Mon dieu" Mumbled Toussaint, widening his eyes at the realization. And if it wasn't enough proof, Miguel stepped out, wearing one of Contantino's rapiers on his hip, Hobbie wore Olivares' famous black feather hat.

"¿Q-Qué hiciste Miguel?" (W-What you've done?)

Asked Xavier, recognizing right away the hat. Miguel didn't know if it was concern or excitement in his purest of forms that the fellow Spaniard pirate experienced.

"Un enorme favor a todos. Where is Tlali?" (A hell of a favor to all of us.)

"She's on her hut. She's meditating, you know how she gets when she gets interrupted while doing so!" warned Edward.

"I need to see her-"

"Can you forget about her for a second? You fucking killed Olivares! O-li-va-res! You know what that means?!" Xavier shook Miguel by the shoulders as he took the infamous rapier in his hand, smirking with evident delight as he rose it in victory.

"Constantino Salazar de Olivares... is no more! ¡¡El Brujo está muerto!!" (El Brujo is dead)

The uproar was nearly defeaning, as all pirate gathered that listened, cheered and roared upon the news. Their hunter, their living nightmare in the shape of a devilish spaniard man devoted to spirits and gods, was gone.

Miguel took Edward and Toussaint to a more quiet place and spoke "My men helped. I just weakened him enough for my crew to deliver the final blow."

"Still, you do realize who you fought against, didn't you? Don't be modest, O'Hara. It's not suitable for a demon to be soft."

Miguel chuckled and shook his head. "Many won't even get on that ship again, and truly, I can't blame them after the hell we faced. Could you tend to them? Treat the ill and feed them all?"

"It shall be done." Nodded Edward, "Any man that brings us peace will drink and eat at our table."

"Before you give them women," he pointed at Toussaint with an accusatory finger, "The white man with a stupid-looking face and English uniform, is married and with a child. Don't bother him." Warned Miguel as he made his way towards the shaman's hut.

Toussaint lifted his hands in defense with a mischievous smile on his face as he saw Miguel leaving. "Understood, my friend. No women for the white boy."

Miguel's steps rushed, and soon he began jogging towards the hut; he saw the ever-familiar smoke spilling out the makeshift chimney of the shaman's home.

"Tlali!" He called, "Tlali!" Miguel barged in through the coral and bone curtain, only to find incense's smoke filling the space. "¿Dónde se ha metido?" (Where did she go?)

He searched in the two bedrooms but found nothing but freshly picked spines from a fish's leftovers.

Qué maña de desaparecer, Dios mio. (what a freaking habit for disappearing)

Miguel surrounded the hut to see if she was somewhere else, but to no avail. His steps guided him back to the dock, surely he will find her later, but hopefully alone.

The sun finally died behind the orange hues, torches were lit along the way, some stray dogs followed him, earning some quick pets from him, before returning to the ship. The men were gone, leaving a black yet elegant carcass behind.

He'd think about what to do with it later, and the little museum within. He was sure Tlali would do something useful out of it. Even the merchants. But right now his mind was focused in a single target, reaching to you.

He didn't know how you were, and hopefully that storm didn't shake your tank too much.

His steps turned left, right, left again, and twice to the right, specifically on that hidden passageway he found. The sea was so calm he could barely feel it moving. He stopped here and there to see if there were any lagging men that rather the comfort of the ship's barracks than the outside. But thankfully, they were all gone. Even Peter, Hobie, Oba and Anwé.

Miguel went through the passage, lighting up the faroles in the way, creating a dim atmosphere, as he made it to your room, but stopped in his tracks.

The iron and coppery smell was so pungent he took a step back; a sniff echoed behind the door. Usually the bilge water had other unpleasant smells, but not copper, much less iron. His heart's pace quickened as he rushed towards the door.

The heavy object behind the wooden door wasn't an obstacle for him to push with all his might, only to hear a deafening and skin-crawling breaking. Glass was breaking.

No...

He pushed enough to push himself in, and nothing but darkness and muffled silent cries received him. He quickly searched for where the blue resin stones were, nearly tripping at the musty ropes haphazardly placed around, but eventually he found it. The only thing standing after the storm.

Miguel took the resin stones and clashed them together, earning a flickering blue hue that barely reached beyond his feet. The resin stones were wet; hence, they didn't produce much flame. But the light was enough to point out something he had missed the first time he was in this place. A farole etched to the wall, Miguel took a nearby stick and tore part of his chemise to wrap it around the makeshift torch.

Then, lit it up with one of the hall's faroles and returned. As soon as he also lit up the lone lamp, a column of fire spread through the ceiling, following a straight pattern until it reached a round giant lamp that immediately blazed with fire, and for a minute, Miguel wished to be blind, to have a heart of stone, and to be immune to the sight before him.

Your tank was broken.

The floor, usually humid, was now wet with a sticky and fiery copper smell, and his eyes didn't take long in identifying the source of it. His legs quivered as his eye followed the crimson trail leading up towards a fin. Your fin. 

Maldito perro... (fucker)

His mind rumbled with the several insults it came up with when referring to Salazar. Miguel’s chest stirred with a grievous feeling he wished he could erase from within, because that’d mean feeling free of guilt. If he would’ve released you sooner, you wouldn’t be under the several pieces of glass splinters, wounding your body. You would be safe and sound, a bit beaten but still safe and in one piece. Not like this.

Shame no longer mattered in your features; it only left a place for a quietness so still and dead, Miguel could hear his own heart beating through his ribcage until a soft, painful moan crushed it.

Your head laid on top of the tank’s shard-less edges as the rest hunched and curled against it. A wooden beam had trapped your torso, unabling you to move. From what he could gather, he supposed the beam fell on top of you when the tank collapsed. The hook Carrillo pierced through had torn through the base and sliced it remorselessly in half.

The storm

He blinked, remembering that lurid crack that rumbled through the ship. It hadn’t been the ship’s carcass breaking as he initially thought, but your tank. The storm had been powerful enough to send the glass container tumbling over and crashing across the floor. 

Your clawed hand twitched, and Miguel approached warily; his hands trembled, but the need to remove that hefty-looking beam off you was a must. Even if you survived, he hoped you wouldn’t munch over him like you did with Elliot. 

Scared, and with anxious hands, he pushed the rotting beam off your body, earning a deep and loud wheeze from you that instantly turned into a deafening wail as soon as air filled in your lungs.

Miguel covered his ears from the acute ringing in his eardrums and began picking up other debris that had fallen over you, clearing as much as he could from the troubling sight. As soon as his hands grazed the scales in the midsection of your tail, his skin crawled upon hearing you, or rather your fear mixed with anger, loud and clear.

“Get your wretched hands off me!” 

He stopped, like time, like his breathing and every single thought running rampant in his brain. Was he dreaming? Was this a joke from the universe he had yet to understand? So far he was told that mermaids didn’t talk, that the sole purpose of their mouths was to lure men to their inevitable deaths with heaven-like chants. Not talking. 

Not giving him a simple yet meaningful order as you tried to crawl away from him with a primal fear oozing from whatever surface it could escape, like the blood within your veins. His mere presence caused such a terrible and obvious turmoil within you that he had to gulp down with difficulty the overgrown lump in his throat.

Realization finally fell in the pit of his stomach like a heavy brick, packed with a myriad of emotions he couldn’t properly sort. Not only were mermaids real, but they also cried, bled, and talked. 

You could speak. 

And hated him.

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