Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Upon a Painted Ocean ❯ Return to Sea ( Chapter 8 )

Upon a Painted Ocean

Chapter 8: Return to Sea

"Who are you?" Ran asked quietly as he loosened the grip on his captive and slowly straightened, his eyes never leaving the dark-haired stranger. The hard metal of the pistol remained steady against his head at the movement as the barest hint of a mirthless smile graced the unyielding expression of its wielder. Odd, but Ran received the impression that anything more than that restrained emotion would have been entirely out of character for this man.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the longhaired redhead shift slightly and soon felt his hands being shaken off as his former victim rearranged his attire into some semblance of order. Ran ignored it, his attention still riveted on the cold gun pointed at his head and the equally cold man holding it.

"Who are you?" Ran repeated, his voice and gaze now becoming deadlier as his patience slowly evaporated.

"Not someone to be trifled with, Lord Fielding," the other man replied as he watched Schuldich saunter leisurely over to stand beside him.

"Nice to know you still care," the Valiant's crewman muttered during his approach. "I thought you'd forgotten about me."

"Quiet, Schuldich," was his companion's reply.

Ran watched the short interchange with a mild interest. "You have me at a disadvantage, sir." He summoned all his natural arrogance to the fore and stood tall as he spoke to the enigmatic man who could easily kill him with a twitch of the finger. Not a trace of fear or weakness showed. Sometimes, he surprised even himself. "You apparently know me, and regretfully, I am not able to reciprocate the courtesy."

At first, the young captain didn't think the stranger would respond. The tense silence that hovered between them was too thick for any action, broken intermittently by the anxious shuffling of the watching tavern patrons. But eventually, and surprisingly, the newcomer did.

"Crawford," the dark haired man said simply, and to Ran's relief, lowered the gun.

Situation diffused.

Almost immediately, Kit ambled over to stand by his captain, his usually jovial face replaced by one of seriousness as he sized up the new opponents. The redhead spared him only a brief glance before turning back to the two men standing before them.

"Crawford," Ran experimented the name on his tongue. He looked the man up and down, taking in the fine lawn shirt, and well cut leather breeches. "Am I supposed to know you?"

The dark haired man allowed himself a small quirk of the lips. "Fortunately for you, Captain Fielding, you don't. However, we do have a common acquaintance. I believe you know him … a young man by the name of Ken?"

If the words didn't cause a riot of emotions to flare within Ran, then the slight mockery in Crawford's tone and the fleeting flash of amusement in Schuldich's eyes did. Fists clenching unconsciously, Ran schooled his voice into evenness to conceal the anxiousness and desperation that threatened to surface.

"Ken? How do you know him? Where is he?"

Crawford didn't answer. Instead, he passed his pistol casually to Schuldich, who complacently took the weapon as he looked inquiringly at his captain. Ignoring the younger man's curiosity, Crawford reached into one of his pockets and easily found what he was searching for.

Ran sensed Kit stiffen beside him at the potential threat and he found it to be no small feat himself to maintain the impassivity that had served him so well in the past. Before he could precisely register what the dark haired man had retrieved, a tiny piece of gold had been tossed his way, its glinting luster somehow reflecting the weak glow of the tavern's dying candles. Catching it easily, Ran stared down at the ring sitting innocently on his palm - his ring, his signet ring, the ring that had been partially responsible for his recent situation.

Quickly, he overcame his momentary shock and stared accusingly back at the man who had thrown it. "Where did you get this?"

Crawford gave a barely perceptible shrug. "That's of no consequence. What's important now is that I am returning it to you as an honourable gentleman would."

Ran's eyes narrowed. "And what do you mean by that?"

A look of what could only be called strained tolerance grace the hard features of the older man's face. "The ring is rightfully yours now. Ken earned it."

Ken had earned it? How? Ken had …

The thought had barely settled into Ran's mind before he saw red. Fire, uncontrollable and wild, raged through his consciousness, greedily consuming every single trace of rationality that still lingered within him. Mind separated from body, he found himself lunging at the other man, the bland look on Crawford's face continuing to fuel his heated actions.

"Captain!"

Ran stopped short of contact, partly due to Kit's gruff voice and partly from the first mate's restraining hold on his arm. The redhead glanced down at the older man's tight clasp, the hand feeling like an iron band around his upper arm. He then moved his angry eyes upward.

"Let go, Kit!" The words came out more as a growl than a sentence.

"Captain, stop." Kit accompanied his calm, sane voice with a nod in Schuldich's direction.

Turning his head to the indicated person, Ran froze when he met the amused eyes of the other redhead … and the cocked pistol aimed his way.

Damn it!

Taking a step back, Ran extricated himself from Kit's hold and returned his attention back to Crawford, all the while trying to calm the impulsive urge to wrap his hands around the man's throat.

"Where is he? Where's Ken?" he forced out dangerously.

Again, the barest glimpse of a humourless smile tugged at Crawford's lips as he regarded the redheaded captain with steady, penetrating eyes. He closed the gap between them, and Ran, by sheer force of will, managed not to jump at him in response to the suffocating proximity.

"To be honest, Captain Fielding, I do not know where Ken is." The man was so close; Ran could feel Crawford's warm breath caress his face. "Ken has disappeared, so for now, it seems as though we are both on the same side."

Ran waited silently, hoping that other man would elaborate further. He wasn't disappointed.

"Apparently, Ken was taken last night down by the docks. By whom, I don't know." Crawford paused, his gaze holding the redhead's as a particularly feral gleam manifested itself deep within its hazel depths. Had he been a more sensitive man, Ran may have actually been scared. As it was, he stared stonily back, letting Crawford finish what he had to say.

"It won't hurt you to know that we are both after the same thing, Ran."

The fire inside him flared, whether from Crawford's words or the casual use of his name, he didn't know. But he managed to temper it as he watched the other man through hooded eyes.

"Ken is truly something, isn't he?" Crawford asked rhetorically. "So please take my next suggestion as the honourable man you are. I propose a contest. Between just you and me. The one to find him first keeps him. The other will concede defeat graciously and sail off without a prize."

Ran hid his incredulity well, the years of rigidly commanding the Redemption showing in his self-discipline. "You're crazy," he stated plainly.

"And yet, how can you refuse?" Crawford threw back. "We don't know where he is and regardless of what happens here tonight, we'll both end up searching for him. I'm merely increasing the stakes."

The younger captain didn't respond. He didn't know how to respond to such a ludicrous proposition. In all honesty, there was no denying what Crawford had just pointed out: the moment this confrontation ended, he would certainly start looking for Ken, and as much as he didn't understand the motivations behind it, he knew he just needed to find the brunette.

Seeing Ran's silence as a form of passive acquiescence, Crawford subtly signaled to Schuldich and began to walk away, his movements arrogant and sure as he scooted around the dirty rabble of the tavern like an aristocrat among a sea of lower beings. Ran watched the two men leave, somewhat stunned and unable to find his voice.

Then, the other captain stopped. Turning to his redheaded counterpart with an uncharacteristic gleam in his eyes, he said, "Oh, and Ran … May the best man win."

With that, he inclined his head slightly as if bidding the younger man a good day and continued on his way, Schuldich trailing in his wake. And like a fool, Ran stood immobile, disbelief, anger, and desperation warring for possession of his mind while his one link to finding Ken walked out the door.

(***)

Schuldich followed grudgingly but obediently as Crawford strode swiftly out of the tavern and toward the nearby docks. Early evening had given way to night now, the dark sky playing host to an inglorious moon as it shone weakly on the raven-haired man in front of him. Save for the brief exchange of the gun, there had been no communication between them and Schuldich didn't say anything to disturb the tranquility as they moved, preferring to soak in the events that had just transpired in the tavern.

Taunting and baiting that redheaded captain was one thing he had not expected Crawford to do; it was more his style of handling things. Still, as recent experience had shown, the older man had taken to being slightly erratic whenever that brunette Ken was concerned - a mystery he had yet to solve. The words from earlier that day continued to echo in his ears, evasive, enigmatic words that had not revealed anything to Schuldich whatsoever, no matter how deeply he had prodded.

/ "He is something I've wanted since before I can remember …" /

What was that supposed to mean? How could anyone want something that badly? Want was such a trivial thing, a flaw in the human character that opened oneself up to nothing but trouble. It was not as if one could not survive without getting what one desired; it was all an illusion, a collapse of the mind into a state of vulnerability that left one unguarded to an attack from others. If anyone had asked him, no one ever really wanted anything, let alone another human being.

"Schuldich."

He looked at his captain, wondering why the man had decided to stop when they were so close to the Valiant.

"What?"

"I thought I'd ordered you to look for Ken. Instead, I find you in a drunken brawl with the other redhead." Crawford's tone was calm and steady, but Schuldich had been around the man long enough to hear the carefully laced anger in the words.

Straightening up defensively, the younger man stared back. "I was doing exactly what you ordered, Cap-tain." He enunciated the title in a show of defiance. "You are aware of the amount of information that can be plied from soused tongues, are you not? I was merely biding my time when that man came at me from nowhere!"

Crawford didn't speak for a moment as he looked at his crewman's expression of indignation. And then, "Well, go find him then. And now more excuses."

"You're not serious, are you?" Schuldich blurted out in disbelief. "You weren't serious about that ridiculous contest you mentioned back there, were you?"

The older man stared back, unperturbed. "You've known me for some time now, haven't you, Schuldich? Have I ever not been serious?" When the redhead failed to respond, he continued. "Now go. Like I said before, if you refuse to follow orders, I'll have you thrown off the Valiant."

Schuldich bristled at the threat, his natural arrogance at odds with the number of orders that had been thrown his way recently.

"Aye, Captain," he grumbled mockingly, eyes flashing verdant fire at his own degrading subordination.

As always, Crawford ignored his crewman's disrespect of authority and took the younger man's words at face value. He resumed his walking then, leaving the redhead behind, but suddenly paused to add an afterthought.

"And remember, I don't expect you to step foot on board the ship unless you've made significant progress, understand?"

Schuldich simmered, but seeing no outright sign of disagreement, Crawford took it to mean that his instructions had gotten through to his crewman, and thus, promptly strode away.

The former stowaway watched the departing man with assessing eyes, his chained pride begin tugged at by Crawford in the threat that had been so carelessly thrown his way. It was not as if he couldn't survive if he left the Valiant. He would … easily … for survival was a game he'd mastered long ago. But the truth was, he didn't want - no, not that; he didn't feel like leaving.

Grumbling to himself, Schuldich turned around and walked in the direction opposite to the one Crawford had taken, retracing his steps from earlier and moving away from the ship he had made his new home. Struggling moonlight illuminated his path, it pale luminescence eerily reminding him of the attack he had encountered not too far away the night before. The conditions had been exactly as they were now, imagined shadows and illusory sounds constantly bombarding the unsuspecting mind. Schuldich forced himself to ignore this fact, preferring instead to concentrate on the task at hand, impossible as it was. His footsteps fell softly upon the wooden walkway, barely audible in the encompassing silence as he unconsciously exuded the stealth of which he had become so proud.

At first, he didn't notice it but as he continued the walk, his acute senses picked up a second set of footsteps, quietly echoing the rhythm of his own stride so as not to be noticed. Whoever was following him was doing a damned good job, skillful even, if he really thought about it. Surely, it couldn't be another ambush, not tonight of all nights, not when his head still throbbed from the last time, and he was in such a bad mood that murder was the foremost thing on his mind.

Deciding to get this over with, he stopped, and abruptly turned around. Sharp, green eyes searched the weak shadows cast by the surrounding ships, and a thoroughly annoyed brain cursed the lack of illumination.

"I know you're there," he said loudly. "So you might as well show yourself before I decide to become less friendly."

No response.

And then, a telltale squeaking of the boards alerted Schuldich to the emerging silhouette several metres away from him.

"It's me."

The deep, heavily accented voice, wizened and aged from years of living, sounded foreign to the redhead. Angrily wondering why the moon seemed to have gotten dimmer, he strained to make out the figure as it neared him: a short, slightly round stature, an almost bald head with a sprinkle of grayish hair around the fringes, a glinting, penetrating gaze …

Schuldich's eyes widened as realization suddenly set in. He straightened and cast his face into an expression of frozen apathy as he coldly acknowledged the now familiar man. "Wilhelm."

The man quickened his steps until he stood directly in front of the redhead. Wise, blue eyes carefully scanned the taller figure, as if to verify the identity of the person before them.

"Hi - "

"Don't call me that," the younger man cut him off. "It's Schuldich now."

Wilhelm remained silent for a moment, and looked to be mentally playing with the name. "Guilty?" he asked, puzzled.

An amused half-smile formed on Schuldich's lips. "Fitting, isn't it?"

"But …" the older man seemed to have troubled expressing his thoughts in english, but Schuldich humoured him by raising an inquiring eyebrow and waiting.

"But … Schuldich does not seem right …"

The redhead's empty smile widened. Eyes sparkling, he leaned down toward the shorter man so as to make his next whispered words heard. "Oh, no, on the contrary, it's perfect. All that blood on my hands and I didn't feel a thing. If I can't feel the guilt, then I might at least bear its name."

Still rather confused, Wilhelm decided to ignore the other man's words. "I have been searching for you for a long time. You are planning to return, no?"

Harsh laughter suddenly filled the night as Schuldich moved away from the older man. "Not in this lifetime," he answered when he finally managed to compose himself.

Wilhelm again seemed to be at a loss for words, and settled for just a careful scrutiny of the man before him.

Having had enough of this forgettable conversation, the redhead began to walk away. But then, an idea occurred. Looking back at the old, bewildered face, Schuldich grinned his wicked grin. "Wilhelm, I have something for you to do. I need you to find a kidnapped man …"

(***)

Cold … he was cold. And thirsty … he was so thirsty. His throat was so parched, he couldn't help but let out a small cough.

Unconsciously, Ken hugged himself to retain what little heat he had, but as prior events slowly flooded into his foggy, legarthic mind, he forced his body to ignore its current discomforts and relax. He did not know where he was or who had attacked him so it would do no harm to pretend unconsciousness until he had a better understanding of the situation.

Stilling his body, he opened his sense to his surroundings and relied on his hearing to tell him what his closed eyes couldn't. The rhythmic lapping of water greeted his ears, its lulling sound usually calming to the tensed nerves but presently, he felt anything but calm. The hard floor he was lying on lurched gently all of a sudden, and he automatically shifted himself to counteract the movement. However, in doing so, the familiar, yet condemning, rattle of metal fill the air around him like sweet, haunting music. It didn't take long before his muddled mind finally grasped where he was: in the hold of a boat, chained … again.

"Are you awake?"

Ken tensed at the soft words, although he didn't know why. It wasn't as if he had never been locked away with other slaves before. In fact, he'd been confined in the dank, airless bowels of various ships with so many other unwashed bodies that sometimes, the mere presence of a small crowd caused him to gasp for air. But somehow, he surmised, his time on the Redemption had made him forget all that. The Redemption …

"Are you awake?" the voice repeated, a heavy cockney accent tainting the question.

Ken slowly opened one eye to get a better assessment of his environment, and was surprised to see the hold illuminated, dim as it was. That in itself was quite a departure from the pitch black prisons into which he'd been locked before. The space before him was bare, no openings in the walls or cargo on the floor. But sitting huddled on the opposite side of the hold were two others, both looking like small shadowed shapes that were barely more than angles of light and dark in his blurry vision.

"Yes," he croaked, his voice cracking slightly from the dryness of his throat. Slowly pushing himself into a sitting position, he shook his head to clear the remaining cobwebs that still lingered inside, and then leaned back against the nearest wall. He winced inwardly when he heard his chains clink and glanced dispassionately down at the offending metal before returning his attention to the two others in the cabin. They looked young, boys who were perhaps three or four years younger than him. And they looked scared, one thin frame leaning against the opposite wall, hugging his knees and refusing to raise his head from its stooped position, and the other sitting against the corner as if he was trying to meld into the wood.

Ken turned to the one in the corner, guessing it was he who had spoken. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"I don't know," the boy responded quietly. "I was 'elping out on the dock, tryin' to earn meself a few shillin's and the next thing I know, I was wakin' up 'ere." His hand moved unconsciously to brush a few errant locks of dark hair from his face, the resulting rattle of his wrist shackles the only sound to echo in the ensuing silence.

Ken nodded, carefully assimilating the information. The boy's story sounded similar to his, yet it still shed no light on who had kidnapped them.

"And him?" Ken inclined his head to the defeated looking figure sitting across from him.

" 'e woke up just a little before you did."

And no doubt his story would mirror theirs, Ken concluded. He leaned his head back against the wall and let out a tired sigh. It seemed that fickle Fortune's wheel had turned once more, and he had been pushed to the bottom, a position he had become all too familiar with in the past. Why was it that he was always trying to claw his way back up? Why was it that fate always taunted him with the ambrosia of freedom only to take it all away without a by your leave? He was simply too exhausted from this never-ending cycle…

But he would survive. He always survived. That was his blessing … and his curse. Some considered it to be an inborn strength, but he preferred to call it stubbornness and pride, an unstoppable drive to show the powers that be he could overcome anything that was sent his way. No matter how tortured his mind and body had been, he had always managed to live through it. Thus, it would be no different this time around. And the first thing he had to do was forget his brief sojourn on the Redemption … and Ran … because if he wanted to retain his sanity in the days, months, and years to come, he would have to erase his brief moment in the sun from memory. He didn't need to know about, didn't want to know about everything he could have had, but never got.

The ship, her crew … her captain … they had been a dream, nothing more than a glorified illusion of something he could never find. The only thing that was real was the cold, hard metal around his wrists. Solid, substantial, permanent … this was real, not airy and fleeting like the brief happiness he'd experienced on the Redemption. She was not real. She was only a dream … she had to be, because if he believed otherwise, he would be putting his own survival - and soul - in jeopardy.

(***)

Ran repeatedly traced the outline of the ring in his palm as he stared out the window of his cabin. The Redemption was still moored and thus, the scenery he was presented with consisted of no more than the struggling afternoon sun gracing its scant rays on the drab townscape of the London docks. Bow legged sailors, young and old alike, mingled openly with the scantily clad, over-rouged dockside prostitutes, both providing the ultimate depiction of lower-end life. It was standing here, watching the lot that society had cast upon other human beings that reminded Ran of how much he had missed the ocean. Out there, no rules existed, no expectations were made, and no person was judged. It was nothing more than him and the forces of nature, a situation he much preferred when compared to the strictures of 'civilized' humanity. He was his own master, made his own rules. And damn anyone who dared state otherwise.

Thinking on it now, Ken had been right. He hadn't realized how deeply he'd missed the open sea. The vast blue skies, refreshing clean air, and endless reflective sea fueled within him a homesickness he couldn't describe. Yes, Ken had been right: that feeling, that sense of power over one's own destiny was something worth fighting for … was something worth living for.

And Ken …

"Where are you?" he whispered to himself, wishing some divine voice would answer him.

What had happened to him these past two months? Where was the man who had guided the Redemption through destructive storms and deadly open-sea raids? Where was the man he had been before Santa Domingo? That man wouldn't have cared if he lost a crewman, not this much at least. He wouldn't have ever put so much of his resources into finding one man. And he wouldn't have felt this twisting emptiness inside him whenever he thought of moving on with business as usual.

"Captain?"

Ran turned at the new voice. "Kit, I didn't hear you come in." He pushed away his maudlin thoughts as he watched his old friend approach. He carefully searched the first mate's expression in hopes of finding evidence that the man had good news. Good-humoured eyes and a semi-smile told him nothing much for Kit always looked to be in a pleasant mood.

"I knocked but you didn't answer so I let myself in," the older man explained.

"Any news?" Ran could barely hide the anxiousness from his voice. He felt something inside him lighten when Kit broke into a smile and nodded.

"Some of the crew and I poked around the docks this morning," he started. "It seems that two days ago, a ship left port bearing south by southeast. Now, that would not be worth noting but the odd thing is, this ship left in the dead of night with only a quarter moon."

Ran heard the unspoken connotation. For a ship to set sail during darkness either meant the crew was highly skilled or just plain crazy. "Do you think Ken was on that ship, Kit?"

The first mate shrugged. "It's a guess, but it's all we have right now. Besides, the night Ken was kidnapped matches the departure time perfectly."

The redhead listened to the reasoning, part of him - the new impulsive side - wanting to take the gamble, and the other part - the rational captain side - wanting to consider all plausible possibilities first.

"Captain, what do you want to do?"

Ran looked up into Kit's expectant face and for a moment, he could not answer. He was now faced with a choice he would have easily made two months ago without hesitation, but now … now, something was different. Not chasing after Ken was not even under consideration.

"How are our supplies right now?"

"Our hold is full, Captain."

"And the Redemption?"

Kit smiled. "She's ready to set sail on your mark. The crew has had her ready to go the moment they heard that Ken was missing. They miss him."

The young captain met Kit's smile with a small one of his own. "Then prepare to set sail, Kit. It looks like we're headed for the Mediterranean."

"Aye, Captain." The first mate gave him a small nod, his face glowing with approval as he turned to carry out the captain's orders. But before he left, he stopped to look at the redhead with fatherly eyes. "It's good to have you back, Ran."

The younger man was taken by surprise at the words, but it passed. Returning the older man's warm look, he said quietly, "It's good to be back, Kit."

(***)

"Did you find him, Wilhelm?" Schuldich stared detachedly down at the shorter man, his look of boredom effectively masking the anxiousness churning within him. The new arrival nodded as he approached, his dull muffled steps vibrating imperceptibly along the wooden walkway. They were meeting again where they had spoken the night before, the scene uneasily reminiscent of then as well: a waning moon making shadowed monsters of every object on the docks, obscuring all and leaving much to the imagination. The mundane predictability of these London nights were beginning to annoy Schuldich, but he easily recognized Wilhelm's figure now, and was eager to learn what news the man had discovered. Having been away from the Valiant since last night, the redhead was tired and cranky, a combination that did not bode well for anyone near him.

"Two nights ago, a ship set sail from here, heading south. Mediterranean, I think" Wilhelm explained, his words so heavily accented that Schuldich was tempted to ask him to speak in their native tongue. "Your man might have been on there."

"The Mediterranean?"

Wilhelm nodded. "Ja."

"Perfect." Storing the information away, the redhead smiled coldly and gestured for the older man to come closer as if wanting to share a secret. Wilhelm complied.

When he was near enough, Schuldich embraced him in a loose hug. "Thank you, Wilhelm," he whispered. And with that, the younger man dropped his right arm down between them and then jerked it upwards. The balding man's breath hitched, eyes widening as he tried to pull away but was stopped when he felt the taller man's left arm holding him tight.

Schuldich kept the fake smile plastered on his face as he drove his previously concealed knife deeper into the other man's chest, reveling in the smooth trickle of blood that glided down Wilhelm's chin. Imploring blue orbs stared confusedly back at him.

"Why …?" the dying man croaked.

The redhead looked as if the answer was obvious. Bending down so he could whisper into his victum's ear, he said, "Because it was only a matter of time before you betrayed me as well …"

Straightening slightly, he looked down to see Wilhelm watching him with surprise, but then, the full meaning of those words took hold, and his expression changed to one of sad compassion.

"Hi - "

"I said," Schuldich abruptly yanked out his knife, his sudden anger sparked by both the understanding in the old man's eyes and the hated name on his lips. "Don't. Call. Me. That."

Gasping and choking wretchedly, Wilhelm sank slowly to the ground, his sorrowful gaze never leaving that of his own murderer. But Schuldich forced himself to look away as the man succumbed to his final death throes. He didn't need to see this, didn't need to be reminded of a past he would sooner forget, didn't need to know about the compassion - compassion for him - that was dying on the dirty London dockside…

Tossing his knife down by the soon-to-be corpse, he turned away and began to walk back to the Valiant. He had a task to complete, and far be it for him to spare a thought for one dead man.

(***)

Something was happening above deck. Ken could hear it in the muted shouting and shuffling that penetrated as far down as the hold. He listened carefully, trying to make out the words from the screaming voices but it was to no avail.

"What's 'appening?" the dark-haired boy who he had learned was named Tim asked.

"I don't know."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the whole ship shook from a thunderous boom. Bracing against the wall to steady himself, Ken looked upwards, his theory now confirmed.

"We're under attack, or we might be attacking, I don't know."

A quiet whimper came from the third boy in the room as he huddled further into himself.

"What do we do, then?" Tim asked, fright and a hint of hysteria tingeing his voice.

"There's nothing we can do, not locked up and chained like this." Ken shook his shackles to emphasize his point. "We just have to wait."

The dark-haired boy nodded, ceding to the calmness he heard in the older man's tone.

Thus, they waited, occasionally pushing themselves against the wall to absorb the impact of the cannons and alternatively holding their breaths as echoes of clashing steel made its way down to them.

Ken fought against the images that surfaced in his mind, images of a god-like fighter who had dashed headlong onto a Spanish frigate, images of that redheaded warrior parrying and thrusting with his peerless sword amidst a horde of angry Spaniards.

The brunette closed his eyes and shook his head. No, don't think about that. He'd promised himself to forget, to erase all memory of his time on board that ship.

For what seemed like an eternity, the noise went on, and being trapped inside the hold with nothing to tell time save for the shrinking tallow of two candles, it may have even been days for all Ken knew. But finally, the screaming and the pounding stopped, leaving a silence that was almost deafening in its wake.

Sitting up straighter, the oldest of the three strained to hear what was going on above deck.

No luck.

After another brief wait, the hatch finally opened with a gust of cool, refreshing air. Ken breathed deeply to clear the staleness from his lungs and looked up to see what was happening. Almost immediately, he was blinded by the glaring sunshine, but noting no food was being dumped down like the last two times the hatch had been opened, he wondered what they was doing up on deck.

Before long, he heard virulent shouting and pained grunts coming from the hole. Blinking the residual spots from his eyes, Ken regained near normal vision just in time to see a small body being dumped unceremoniously into the hold, a dull thump and a rattle of chains marking the new boy's arrival.

"Damn it all to hell," the stranger muttered as he rolled slowly onto his hands and knees to regain his bearings. When he finally found some sense of orientation, he tilted his head up to stare accusingly at being so roughly manhandled. And that was when Ken got a good look at the boy: dirty blond hair that reflected the brilliance of the midday sun framed an almost angelic face, two clear cerulean eyes that reminded the brunette of the of the ocean on a fine, bright day shining in the light. And he was young … very young. But all too quickly, the hatch was slammed shut, depriving the occupants below of the fresh air and warm rays that would usually be taken for granted, and casting everyone into shadows once again.

The recent addition shifted into a sitting position and looked curiously around at the others. "Well, at least I won't get lonely," he said, attempting to inject some optimism into the situation.

Ken's lips quirked up slightly. "That's only if we feel like talking," he retorted good-naturedly.

The blonde smiled. "If you don't say anything, I'll have to do all the talking and then you'll be begging for me to shut up."

That elicited a small chuckle from the brunette. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Oliver Michael Ian."

Ken raised an eyebrow. "That's a pretty long name."

The boy continued to smile, his lightness of personality seeming infectious, Ken found.

"I know. A kid with a name fit for royalty, my friend always said. But if you want, for short, you can call me Omi."

(***)

Two days later …

Arithmetic had never been his favourite subject, Ran mused wryly as he played around with the coordinates on his charts. An odd thing for a captain to dislike now that he thought about it since the men on his ship relied heavily on him to safely navigate them through anything and everything. But the problem wasn't so much in the numbers and calculations as it was in the lack of destination.

Ran dropped his quill, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and sighed. He had no idea where he was heading, although he had acted otherwise in front of the crew when they had left port two days ago. For lack of a concrete destination, he had randomly picked southern France to be the next port, but from there, he didn't know where to go.

This was hopeless. He realized that in reality, Ken could be anywhere in the world while he, like a blind misguided knight, was chasing imaginary dragons and pretend witches. At that thought, he wondered when he had stopped believing in such tales: through the heavy mists of time, he remembered the stories his mother used to tell of far off lands, brave heroes, beautiful princesses, and happily-ever-afters. As a child, he had been so entranced by those worlds that he'd been adamant about finding his own happily-ever-after. But somewhere along the line, he had lost that dream, letting it subconsciously slip away with his youth as the harsh reality of life had taken over.

Losing everything one loves tended to harden a soul, he concluded as he sat up again to play around with his charts. He let the smooth rhythm of the ship soothe him, sensing the calmness of the clear, blue waters dance in perfect tandem with the accommodating grace of the Redemption. He had missed this feeling, this lulling trance of comfort and familiarity, and it was something he would not give up so easily again.

"Captain! You have to come see this!" Kit's sudden and rushed words caused the redhead to look up from his work. The first mate had only popped his head in the cabin for a moment and by the time Ran had stood he was gone.

Walking quickly out on deck and into the hot, afternoon sun, Ran looked around for Kit. As usual, the man stood on the quarterdeck, brass spyglass read at his arrival.

"What is it, Kit?" the young captain asked as he mounted the few short steps and approached the grey-haired man.

The first mate didn't say anything. He merely handed Ran the spyglass and pointed to his right, off the starboard. Taking the offered instrument, the younger man brought the glass up to his eye and looked in the indicated direction.

"What do you think it is, Captain? Spanish?"

Ran shook his head and lowered the scope. "No, it's too small."

"Corsairs?"

The redhead cringed inwardly at the thought. Encountering the infamous Mediterranean counterparts of the Caribbean pirates was not something he wanted right now. "Perhaps, but I can't tell from this distance. I'm in no mood to tangle with our European cousins, but it could easily be a ship in distress and I can't just abandon them out there."

Kit nodded, knowing very well the unwritten code of the sea. "What are we going to do then, Captain?"

Ran handed the spyglass back to his old friend. "Prepare to change course, Kit. But approach with caution. Make sure the crew is armed in case of an attack."

"Aye, Captain."

That decided, Ran went back down into his cabin and found his sword. As he strapped the weapon to his waist, he couldn't help but remember how Ken had helped him with it the last time he had taken the thing out. That man seemed to have permeated every corner of his life, his presence lingering in almost everything he said or did. Brushing off the sudden sadness that had suddenly descended on him, the redhead walked back on deck with a single-minded purpose: concentrate on the task at hand, not him … not Ken.

He had once heard that the sea was a harsh mistress, but standing on his ship at that moment as she cut a swath through the pristine waters, he could not fathom where such a saying had come from. Blue upon blue, the horizon stretched so far that it was not difficult for a man to imagine he was the only being in the universe. And Ran loved it, he loved everything about it … the possibilities, the openness, the freedom …

Before long, the foreign ship they had spotted earlier came into view, and Ran, driven by curiosity, ordered the crew to bring the Redemption alongside her.

Three large masts stood proud and tall as the unfamiliar sails flapped lightly in the breeze. Her hull was sleek and slim, adding to the graceful lines of her entire design. But whereas her appearance screamed elegance, it was her deck that drew Ran's attention.

It was empty. Completely empty.

"A ghost ship," he heard one of his crewmen whisper, and almost immediately, all the men made various signs to ward off the supposed evil. Ran couldn't blame them: sailors had always been a superstitious lot.

"She's dead in the water, Captain. What do you want us to do?" Kit looked inquiringly at the redhead, unsure himself of how to proceed.

"Gather several men for a boarding party," Ran commanded, his eyes never leaving the desolate deck of the strange ship. "I want to see what she carries in her hull."

The first mate nodded and shouted for some volunteers. Not surprisingly, there were very few. But with an efficiency that only Kit could exude, a small party of four was ready within minutes.

Wanting to solve this mystery, Ran quickly swung over the small gap between the two ships with the rest of his crew. Landing easily on the deserted deck, he sent each of the men to investigate different parts of the ship, reserving the captain's cabin and the hold for himself. The men left with their orders solemnly, in all likelihood as uncomfortable with the eerie atmosphere as he was.

After a little bit of scouting, the young captain finally found the hatch that led down into the hold. He yanked the boards open and left it as such so that enough sunlight would shine through and eliminate his need for a lantern. Feeling slightly apprehensive, he unsheathed his sword and slowly descended the creaking wooden steps into the encompassing darkness.

It took a moment before his eyes could adjust to the sudden absence of light, but as he moved deeper into the hold, he could make out a scattering of wooden crates stacked against the walls.

Strange. Why would a ship with cargo by drifting in the middle of nowhere without a crew?

The question had no sooner entered his mind than he head the unmistakable swoosh of a blade. Ducking and rolling instinctively, Ran swiftly righted himself and turned, sword at the ready. Violet eyes darted back and forth, trying to make out a human shape among the shadowed outlines of the various boxes.

And then … a flash of metal.

Ran parried, deflecting the blow down to his right with his sword. Before his unknown assailant could recover, he swung his own weapon up in the direction of where the unseen body should be, but was met with the sound of his own blade being blocked.

Whoever he was fighting was good. Extremely good.

After a few more similar attacks, Ran could feel the sweat slowly trailing down his forehead and his own breath hitch in his chest, the stuffy, humid air bringing him to the brink of exhaustion all that much faster.

This could go on forever, he thought. This faceless person was matching him in every move, parry for parry, riposte for riposte, and with the equalizing effect of the surrounding darkness, there was no quick way to decide a winner, especially if the offensive and defensive moves were acted on and reacted to only when it was close enough to see.

And then, it occurred to him. If he was this exhausted, then likewise could be said for his mysterious opponent. Forcing his breathing into being long and deep, he concentrated on listening for the other person's heavy breaths.

There! Off to his left!

Sword poised, Ran lunged, and missed. But he wasn't aiming for a kill: following through with his motion, he glided right by the stranger, the warm body so close, Ran could have sworn he felt his enemy's heat through the layers of clothing. Now knowing exactly where his opponent was, he struck. Kicking out his leg, his boot connected with soft flesh, the stranger stumbling backwards and into the steady stream of sunlight that shone through the open hatch.

The young captain was slightly shocked at what he finally saw of the formidable fighter with whom he'd been engaged. The man's naked shoulders and chest heaved heavily from the recent overexertion, but his hand still held tightly to the cutlass he wielded so well. Dried blood obscured half his face and plastered part of his shoulder length hair to his head, but what strands weren't covered glowed gold in the bright light. Yet what drew Ran's attention were the man's eyes - eyes of an unearthly, changeable green, a colour he had seen only once in the waters of an exotic lagoon he'd accidentally sailed into back in the Caribbean. And in those eyes right now burned a crazed fire that the young captain knew would be almost impossible to extinguish.

End Chapter 8