Thank you both - glad to see I've found myself a few dedicated readers
This may be a bit on the long side, but you might just find it worth it - either way, you decide. So, my mates, without further adieu....
Begone
The fire burns, stinging and swelling his skin as he pushes further and further in to it's mouth. It consumes him, the thick sparks and ashes cutting deep in to his face. The blood stains on his cheek, on all parts of his body, but goes no further - the blood, too, is eaten.
The ashes, burnt wood, and debris crumple and crack under his feet as he runs at a heightening pace through the desolant void of devastation, the blood in his body boiling under the immense heat that sends a rapture through his spine. If he who feels like dying shall be dead, he was buried.
He tried to drag his feet further, but the supreme blazes that he walked through finally cut him down like a small sapling in the wake of a great cleansing wildfire. His legs buckled, giving out and slamming his bare chest down on to the ashen floor, scraping and cutting his body by the coarse objects defeated as he. He could feel his body going numb, his skin melting from his bones, and his veins whipping and exploding against his skin as if a final punishment against him. All hope had been lost, and he let his body lie there, waiting to be consumed.
"You're dead to the world..." the voices in his head whispered. "You are the forsaken, the downtrodden, God's damned abomination on this blackened earth... Your ashes will be consumed." The voice repeated over and over. It was not a foreign voice, but his own - and it raged and ranted at him, kicking his mind and beating the very existence from his heart. He tried to cry, but the hellfire would simply steal them away.
"Begone..." it whispered, as a final farewell. "Begone as you are..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
April 8th, 1702
Aboard Commodore Edward Rutherford's Ship, The Darkskull
1:20 AM
John's eyes opened slowly, as if he was awaking at any other moment in time. Except all was not normal - his heart raced faster than any gust of wind, and his body shivering uncomfortably in a cold sweat. And not only than, as he had forgotten his surrounds - a dank, dreary, darkened ship's hull, filled with hammocks upon hammocks filled with the sleeping bodies of unclean, rugged Navy soldiers.
He sat up, turning his head wildly all around him, to make sure nothing watched him in the night, and then he leaned back in to his blanket, to try and hide himself. He was breathing heavily, try to calm himself. He closed his eyes, and opened them again, hoping that his situation would somehow change. Yet, it did not - he was still in the dreary ship, surrounded by militaristic men, and still haunted by the ghosts of an ill past behind him.
As he tried to drift back to sleep, he felt his hammock begin to rock firmly. He quaked in fear, unexpecting it. He almost thought for a moment it was the death he faced in his dreams, lingering outside of his mind to come and drag him off. But as he saw a rim of light poke out, the creature that shook him became illuminated - it was a young, scrawny looking Navy soldier, holding the lantern obnoxiously close to John's face. "Com'dore wans'a see ya, mate."
John was ferried quietly through the hull, past the snoring and sleeping men that lined the entire room. He looked around at all of them, wondering the horrors each of them had experienced, and how they were able to suppress them far enough to sleep soundly at night.
The boy and the soldier walked up to the moon-lit deck, a cool, stiff air blowing in their face. It chilled John to the bone as he walked back down the large schooner, stepping over ropes, barrels, and all sorts of things which crossed his path. He rubbed his hands up and down his body, to try and gather some warmth, and he walked faster and faster behind the soldiers to avoid the eerie night.
They finally reached the small wooden door at the end of the ship, which the soldier easily creaked open. John stepped a little forward, in to the doorframe of the open room. It was larger than Rutherford's quarters, but other than that, it was nothing special. Normally a man such as a Commodore would lavish himself in the finest spoils of war, but apparently not he - all that filled his room was a desk, about three simple chairs, and a few cabinets, dressers, and other pieces of furniture that sat next to the few yet large windows in the room. And in the center of it all, was the Commodore himself, still fully in uniform. John stepped in to the room, and heard the soldier close the door behind him.
The room was briefly filled with a silence, as like it was with moon light, until the Commodore spoke. "Surely you haven't been getting much sleep, as I haven't. But that's understandable, given your current situation." The man sipped from a small silver glass, before walking around, behind the desk. John noticed he was much more formal and reasonable now than he was before - whether it was the restlessness which he fought with, or simply the calm of the night, he couldn't tell. He sat down in the chair behind the desk, and ushered the boy to sit in the chair before it.
John was wreary because of the past experience he faced with the Commodore's brother, but nethertheless took the seat. He noticed, as the Commodore began to speak, that he liked to sit the same way as his brother when in a chair. "I assume you don't plan to be spending much time at sea when you find a piece of dry land, but, I would prefer if that didn't happen."
John was perplexed. "What do you mean, sir?"
"You have some very... good traits in your blood, as demonstrated by what we saw today. Now, whether or not that dissepated as soon as it spilled out on the deck, and on our doctor, I do not know - but you must realize you have a gift. And not many people are gifted in the art of war."
John's eyes bugged for a moment. "War? Oh, I assure you, I'm in no means-"
The Commodore leaned forward on the desk, a stern look on his face. "Boy, trust a man who has experienced it first hand. I've never seen somebody take such a beating and still forge on as you - the closest I've seen to that is the French army." He chuckled to himself. "Either way, I want people like you aboard my ship, regardless of your age."
"You're asking me... to join... the Navy?" John tilted his head, scratching it. "Well... I'm not sure..."
"Would you rather us drop you off in the next slum port, or what?" The Commodore stated gruffly.
After a brief moment of reflection, John sighed heavily, and nodded his head, knowing that it would be his only option of survival. The Commodore clapped his hands, overjoyed. "Excellent! We'll be heading over to a port along the Northern coastline of Spain, known as Martliona, within the next few days. It's just a few kilometers from the border between Spain and France, and a key point along the Bay of Biscay. We'll be meeting with a group of Spaniards - good Spaniards, I entrust you - where we will go over a few, "plans," of sorts. In the mean time, however, you need to be... prepared."
1
April 8th, 1702
Aboard The Darkskull
Noon
Commodore Rutherford paced back and forth in front of John, who watched him intently, waiting for instruction. His dingy swabby clothes flapped in the wind, pushing on from the clear blue, bright skies of the morning. Around them, from where they stood in the center of the ship, the crew ran back and forth, trying to manage and keep their ship tidy and orderly. John tried to keep his eyes on the Commodore, not allowing for the immense chaos around him to consume his thought.
The Commodore walked to boy's side, looking over his posture. When the boy's head turned to see what he was doing, the Commodore wiped out a hand and turned it back to where it was watching. Without saying a word, the Commodore drew some sort of sword to which John couldn't make out from the corner of his eye, and began to use it to prode John at with lightly. Ever area he brushed the blade's tip with, came an instruction. "Shorten your stance - straighten your back - tilt your chin - hands at your side - and stop fidgeting, too."
Once the Commodore had corrected the boy's position, he walked in front of him, standing only a few feet away, and looked up and down, to make sure everything was as it should have been. John took to note the sword the Commodore was holding - a sparkling steel cutlass that glistened against the sun's rays. Yet the Commodore grabbed at his side yet another sword - another cutlass, only much less impressive. It was old, rusted and gray, cut and dull. It looked more heavy than it would be efficient. The Commodore took the blade and handed it to John, stating "It's yours. Let's hope you can use it."
The Commodore then turned around, and walked up a few feet to one of the masts of the ship. It was clean and smooth, obviously shaven down to remove any cuts or bruises to it. Rutherford went down to his side yet again, pulling up a small dagger. He leaned his face close to the pool, raising up the blade close to his face, and began digging it in to the wood, obviously inscribing something. He was in the way, however, which prevented John from seeing what.
Suddenly, John had a vision. He saw himself plunging his old, rusted cutlass in to Rutherford's turned back, jutting in to his spine and collapsing him to the ground in a hurtle of his own blood. He saw himself laughing and clapping in joy, as the soldiers from across the ship grabbed at their guns, shooting John in a fury at the back of the head.
John snapped back to attention as the Commodore stepped out from in front of the mast. He had crudely inscribed in to the mast the word "PYRATE," to which he seemed proud of. John could tell Rutherford was not the kind to be that learned, and usually he would make a comment as such - but not now.
"Alright boy. Show me what you can do." The Commodore scoffed. John looked down at his blade, then at the Commodore, and then back at the mast, unsure of how to approach this. He took a few steps forward, slowly raised his sword, and dove forward, attempt to lunge at it. However, before his blade could make contact, the Commodore swatted John's down with his own. "WRONG." The Commodore stepped in front of him, and raised his blade, beginning to cut in to the mast with powerful, decisive, diagonal cuts, over and over. "Find your pattern, don't go in to battle like that. Fighting is like your heart, because it is part of your heart - without a repeated pattern, you'll die."
The Commodore stepped out of John's way, so he may see the mast. Yet this time, the mast looked different. In it's cuts and bruises, John saw a face - the face of the pirate who abducted him, the face of the pirate who killed his mother, the face of the pirate who his father fought with, and in between them, the face of the devil. They laughed at his misery, knowing they had done that too him.
The boy instantly erupted in rage, taking his blade and mightily striking swing after swing in to it. Wood flew towards him as he screamed, digging in the weapon in his hands wherever he could. He watched the faces slowly disappear in to the wood, becoming fainter and fainter in ever flash. His teeth gritted, his eyes clenched, and his soul yelled forth a battle cry of sheer power, meant to blast out any fear left inside him.
He threw the sword to the ground in front of him, throwing his hands to his face, and screaming out whatever he could. The entire ship watched in silence - all except for the Commodore, who once again nodded, smiling.
~~~~~~~~~~`
Well mates, tell me what you think. Love it, or hate it, I always love seeing comments on here.
Thanks for reading!
