Blood of the Liberated

[Captain Del]

As I promised, Crest

Yes, this chapter is a little longer than the others, but that doesn't mean it's full of fluff! I hope you all get the chance to enjoy it, so, without further adiue....

Lion Heart

John rocked back and forth in his hammock below the deck in the empty hull, sobbing on and on as he cradled himself. The visions of the deaths of all of his friends and family still haunted his mind - he continuously thought of their cold bodies left behind, so ruthlessly disposed of without care. He had been crying for so long that he could feel the muscles in his face straining themselves, making it more painful to show emotion as he went on. But he did it anyway - he intended to keep crying until his tear ducts dried themselves, and beyond that, until he cried all the blood left in his body. He didn't care what anybody else thought, because everyone that ever mattered to him was gone.

Captain Rutherford paced back and forth in his quarters, skidding his feet along the wooden floor. He rubbed his hands through his sweated hair, as he contemplated what he had gotten himself in to. He was recollecting back to his youth, when he wanted to be a blacksmith. But he gave in to his father's pressure, and joined the Navy, a choice he knew he could never undo. He felt angry, as though he had thrown away his life to feed somebody else's cause.

"GOD DAMN IT!" Rutherford shouted sporadically. "JONES, tell that rat to shut his trap or we'll drop him off in the waters.

Two soldiers stood erect in his room, at attention as the shaggy man battled with himself. The taller of the two tilted his head and winced at the order. "Aw, Cap'n, but 'e's just a lad. Can't ya have any m-"

Rutherford spun around at the soldier. "Either you or him, make your choice." he growled.

Jones quaked in his boots. The two soldiers saluted the Captain, ushering an affirmation, and then turning on their heels to walk out the door.

Rutherford let out a heavy sigh as he walked back to behind his desk, where his chair sat. He plopped down in it, and leaned it back, rubbing his forehead in agony as he tried to rid of his headache. He could feel all the pressure he was under floating straight up to his forehead, nearly suffocating him. He felt like he was finally at peace, when it was shattered by a call for his name out on the deck. "Oh, what now..." he sighed.

1

John rubbed his hands viciously at his eye sockets, drenched from the constant flow of tears. It wasn't so much the fact of death that got to him, as how she died - alone. He could have only wished his mother's last few moments could have been with him by her side. It sent a shiver down his spine, the thought of ever dying such a cruel and laughable death.

And on top of that, was the feeling of loneliness. The only people he had known in his life were either gone, or missing - his mother dead, and his father likely off somewhere to be left for dead. It was a scary thing, having the mercy of your fate in the hands of somebody you hardly knew. But even scarier, was the fact you couldn't escape it; nobody that you could run away to, to help you. He was alone in the world, for the first time in his life.

His ears perked up to the sound of a loud racket coming from the deck of the ship, like the pounding of a few dozen men running about for no reason. He could hear the sound of two men exchanging conversation back and forth, though it was casual - no screaming or yelling out of place. Intrigued, John got up from his hammock, and slowly crept towards the small staircase at the end of the room that led in to the world above.

As he slowly crept up the staircase stealthily, on both hands and feet, he was able to poke out his vision across the deck of the Galleon. He saw double the size of men he did as before - two large crews of Navy soldiers, each standing opposite one another in groups. To the right, Rutherford stood, back straight, hands folded sternly behind his back. And at the forefront of the other group, was a man about a few inches taller, but nearly identical in size. He was decorated in thick, heavy clothing - a long, black long coat, a Navy uniform seized under an assortment of medals, and at the top of his head, a ridiculous looking Commodore's hat, which looked more of a tall white mow-hawk than it did a hat.

Rutherford stepped forward, an intimidated look on his face. He saluted the man. "Ahoy, Edward..." he gulped.

The man opposite him scoffed a little bit. "That's Commodore to you, Howard. What's the matter, too ashamed?"

Rutherford tilted his head down a little bit. "Not ashamed, sir.."

"Please. Show yourself a little respect for once." The Commodore chuckled as he looked around the ship. "...At least, more than your crew does to this ship. What say you? Still enjoy your time gallivanting around the Channel?"

Rutherford looked up. "Much less of gallivanting, I'll tell you that. One of the ports - St. Joseph's - was attacked yesterday, by a group of Spanish pirates."

The Commodore's eyes widened a little bit, but his face still looked as though he didn't believe him. "Attacked, you say? Why would a group of Spaniards attack such a small po- hell, why were YOU heading to that port?"

"We were sending back a prisoner aboard a ship of the same group. He was abducted from St. Joseph's a few days before the attacks, and I assure you I'm not lying about that."

The Commodore raised his brow a little. "A prisoner aboard a pirate ship? Nonsense - if you have such an exploit, than prove yourself!"

Rutherford nodded, and turned to the small group of soldiers behind him. The two of them closest to him instinctively walked past him, heading straight towards where John was hiding. The boy became alert, and tried to flee back down the stairs, but before he knew it, he felt two sets of large hands grabbing each of his arms, and pulling him up out in to the sunlight. John kicked his legs, ordering the men to let go of him, but they paid no heed - they simply tossed him in the direction of the Commodore.

John caught himself before he toppled over, and almost straightened himself before he remembered where he was. He slowly turned around, to face the boasting Commodore. The man scanned his vision up and down the bruised and cut boy, trying to make sense of it all. The Commodore flicked his arms out, to push his sleeves up his arm, and then crossed them before his chest. "And what is your name, boy?"

John was still in too much of shock to talk properly. He sheepishly petered out "John.. B-Balnette..."

"Hmpf." The Commodore turned to Rutherford. "And how do I know you simply didn't take one of your own crew mates and simply rough him up a bit? Come now, brother, I know better of your techniques than this."

Rutherford protested. "I would never do such a thing! Can't you tell that he's much too young to even know how to handle a sword!"

The Commodore took that as a challenge, laughing. "Oh really now? Then I guess we'll just have to prove that." The Commodore walked in a circle, waving his hand at all of the soldiers across the ship's deck, instructing them, "Back, the lot of you, back!" As all the soldiers lined the outskirts of the deck, the Commodore turned back around and walked in between Rutherford and John, who stood in the center of the ship. He reached at his side, and pulled out a long, shimmering saber, plunging the point of it to stand it straight up in the wooden floor. He then walked backwards, smiling. "Have fun, gentlemen."

The two of them just stood there, frozen, unsure of what to do. They looked back at the sword, and then back at one another, deciphering the match in their own way. Rutherford knew that he would end up killing a boy - and John knew that if he fought, he would be killed.

Suddenly, Rutherford became enraged. The anger that he manifested towards his brother slowly began to exhilarate towards John, like a raging bull pounding to be released from its cage. His muscles became tense as he gritted his teeth, pushing his legs forward in a tremendously intimidating pound. He reached out his arm and plucked the saber right out of the deck, clenching his grip around it, and advancing on the boy.

John started to stagger backward, overcome with fear. He tried to put his hands out, to mean he meant no harm, but he was afraid the man would simply cut them off with the smooth cut of a sword. He contemplated just letting Rutherford take the blade to him, to end the miserable existence his life had become. He wanted all of the pain to go away - a life of sorrow surely must be worse than death itself, he thought.

Yet as Rutherford brought back the sword to prepare to stab the boy, all of John's mindsets switched away from that. He felt as though surviving his mother was now his mission in life, one which he planned not to fail. He quickly side-stepped the blow, just barely dodging it as Rutherford plunged the sword forward, almost impaling the pale soldier before him. John back-pedaled away from the Captain, as the man pulled back his blade and set his sights back on the boy.

As John continued thinking of ways to get himself out of this situation, he felt his back walk in to one of the Navy soldiers behind him. He whirled around in shock, but felt the man roughly push him in the chest, throttling him back to the center of the little arena they had formed. The soldiers that watched all laughed in unison, as though it was an amusing show to them - John felt as though they were laughing at his suffering.

John spun around yet again, to keep his eyes back on his opponent, but his eyes became overpoweringly watered as he felt a dull, yet thundering pain right in his stomach. He clutched at his body and crumpled down to the ground, trying to coax away the pain that the Captain's blunt punch had caused. He rolled on to his side for a brief moment, but Rutherford delivered a stern kick to him, rolling him over on to his back.

John ended up looking straight up at the man, who stood right over him. He still had the long sword in his hand, that gently brushed against John's side as he laid there, motionless. John tried to escape, but he could barely move - the pain had numbed his limbs.

The Captain let out another dream, and tossed the blade out of his hands, across the deck. He then nearly jumped down to the boy, sitting down on his chest and nailing his fists down in to any region of John's body he could manage to reach. John let out shrieks and cries of pain, begging the man to stop, as each fist pounded away at his face and chest. He tried to squirm free, but he felt prisoner to the world, as though it had forsaken him to be its rag doll. Each blow was a drilling thud, which made him slowly lose the feeling in his body. He could slowly feel himself dying, and he was angry at the world, because it was watching.

Finally, Rutherford knocked out a final haymaker, an upper cut straight to John's jaw. As his teeth pounded against one another in a streak of pain, John could fill his mouth filling with his own warm, flowing blood. He spit out on the deck in coughs, as Rutherford got up from the boy, feeling victorious even after brutalizing a child. He tapped John with his boot again, rolling him on to his side, so John could face the deck.

John's hearing and sight became a blur, a slow-motioned painting with no defined edges or endings. He could only just make out the panels of the wood floor, the boots of the soldiers opposite to him. But along with that, was a large pair of blue boots, that slowly walked itself over towards the shimmer of a saber that sat on the deck. When he reached it, the man put his boot behind it, and kicked it, sending it sliding across the deck, right towards John.

John could feel the hilt of the blade perfectly stop right at his outreached hand, at the tip of his left arm that rested down on the deck. His eyes widened as far as they could go, though it wasn't much, in excitement. With any remnants of strength remaining, John pushed his body with a hop off the ground, and landed his palm right around the hilt of the blade. And as he rolled over, the sword heavy in his pain-ridden arm, he saw the flurry of a figure trying to rush at him once more - and with little time to lose, he acted.

He pushed his arm with all of his might upward, the blade's path stiffening and stopping only a few seconds later. John let out a heavy breath of relief, as the blurred lines of his vision slowly began to sharpen. All but a few blinks was it took to see what he had done, and he gasped at the sight.

John had run the saber right up through Captain Rutherford's stomach and diaphragm, spilling blood down in an easy stream as it pattered on the deck. The Navy man's body swayed back and forth, his eyes unmoving and his arms slunked downward. He let out a soft breath, before his knees gave in, and he fell backwards, hitting his head down on the deck with a loud clamber.

The entire ship broke out in gasps and whispers, before the Commodore raised his hand for silence. He walked slowly past John, towards the fallen body of his younger brother, soaked in its own blood. He stopped, to let his eyes run over the sight. He was at a loss for words for a moment, but solemnly nodded at the end of it. "A lion-hearted warrior we have among us.... men... help Mr. Balnette back down the stairs. The rest of you... get rid of it."

As John was helped up slowly by a group of soldiers, his numb body being helped back down the stairs, he heard the splash of a heavy, lifeless corpse being tossed overboard, to be hidden in the waters of the British Channel.

~~~~~~~~~~

Even more death and destruction!

Love it? Hate it? Be sure to tell me, mates - thanks for reading!

[Crestshot]

You have the taste of blood in your mouth, don't you Delmaria? I'm wondering if you can go one chapter without killing someone, though I will admit, I was not a fan of Rutherford, but that was the point, aye? Reminds me of Kat a little though... anyway. You're building up little John here very well. He'll definitely have some things haunting him as he gets older.

[Tiberius Fireskull]

I love the characters you have in this story. Quite realistic for the time period. Brutal and uncaring. Obsessed with their image. I love how John just sticks out. He's the different one, the underdog you could say. Although with every chapter he changes just a little bit, slowly rising, and inevitably he will be at the top.

Continue writing, I am curious as to what John will become.

[Captain Del]

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!

[Tiberius Fireskull]

He rub his hands up and down his body, to try and gather some warmth,

I do believe that should be "He rubbed his hands. With that grammar mistake, I hate this chapter.

Lol, I kid. Very good. Not much to say, but I really like Commodore Rutherford. An interesting character he is... so is John of course, but Rutherford is an interesting one... I can't wait to see what he does with John next.

[The Stealthy Pirate]

I noticed something: The ship is called The Darkskull.


Great chapter mate!!

[Crestshot]

Hey nobody died! I'm kidding Del. I think what interests me most about this chapter is the Commodore's interest in the boy, even after he's killed his brother. I mean, yes, he may be fantastic and have that instinct for war, but he still killed a member of the man's family. I feel like that will creep up on him sometime... but I can't be sure.

[SEAKING23]

Love it Del

[Robert Ironcastle]

I'm impressed Del.Definitely going to follow this story.

[Captain Del]

The First Horizon

Days slowly began to turn in to weeks aboard The Darkskull, as it continued to plow through the humid and murky waters of the English Channel. Every day seemed to become a little brighter as time went on, the days becoming warmer and the sunlight sustaining itself for just a little longer each afternoon. John could not tell whether this was a sign of his future clearing before him, or just simply the affects of heading due south - either way, he welcomed the change in atmosphere. He had never been outside the damp and boring climate to which he had assimilated to.

John slowly began to mingle in to a spot amongst the crew. He began to memorize names, appearances, preferences, routines, and ranks among the vast crew that the ship had to it, so that he could make it feel as though he were fitting in. And to that much effect, it did - by learning who everybody was throughout the ship, he was given the same respects by his fellow shipmates. And while he was still subject to the constant harassment and mockery that came with the job of a swabby - the animal noises, the kicking of his equipment as he tried to go about this work, and the usual unnecessary spit or slap - it came with a lighter sort of dignity, as though they did it not out of punishment or disliking, but simply because it was protocol.

Whenever John found himself without much work to be done aboard the ship, which was usually in the late afternoon when the ship's activities began to quiet, he would not lollygag like the rest, playing cards or lying about, but instead put himself to practice. He would take the cutlass that Commodore Rutherford had given him out from its hiding spot, under the farther stack of utility barrels behind the staircase, and practice his motions on the deck of the ship, off to the side where he would not be a bother, nor gather any attention. He began to learn how the blade moved in his hand; how to properly hold it to keep it from wavering as he cut, how to follow through and pull back his swings, and how to steady his balance by putting the right amount of weight on each area of the foot. It took him at least a week to get to the hang of it, but once he did, he knew he could begin to deviate from the basics, and learn the ways of a sword like a real soldier.

It was on one particular evening when John was working on a few variations of the traditional hack-slash-cleave method did Commodore Rutherford watch silently from the helm, accompanied by his long-time friend, who he had served alongside with in many campaigns by the British, First Mate Roberts. The two soldiers watched silently from across the ship as they watched the teenager repeat through the same pattern over and over, slowly gathering force and speed, and then repeating back at beginning of the sequence. Rutherford commented, "Do you see what I see in the boy, Hugh?"

Roberts returned the Commodore's comment without turning away his vision. "What do you mean, sir?"

"He's driven, my friend. Not like the drive that comes with any warrior, the need to serve his country, but something higher than that. It makes him.... stronger."

The First Mate tilted his head a little bit, as though he were questioning the Commodore. "Commodore, are you trying to imply this simple boy would be put to use someday?"

Rutherford took a heavy sigh, looking back over the ship. "Not so much as put to use, as being useful."

1

April 23rd, 1702
Martliona, Basque Country, Spain
Sometime before noon

"Yes, there, the third one past the small beach. That one should be his." Commodore Rutherford pointed out across the bow as he spoke to Roberts, the First Mate guiding the schooner through the crystal clear waters of the warm port. John could feel the hot sun radiating on him as watched over the railing of the ship, gazing out at the port that waited before them.

The port circled around them as they proceeded through the curving bay, which seemed more like a river than a bay as it narrowed upon you. Small docks poked out of the base of the areas around them, which were the arms of the port. The entire city around them was not dominated by large, beautiful buildings, or crowded living quarters. Instead, it was hilly land that was led through by dirt and stone roads, connecting plain, spaced out stone homes that lived amongst the vast amounts of trees, plants, and other greenery. The town gave off the feel of a warm, delicate countryside, yet still maintaining a calm sense of economy with its abundance of full, yet quiet docks. In itself, it was like a perfect harmony between urban meccas and nestled villages, so pure and cultural that it felt as though you were looking at a painting of the rural regions of the most serene European countries. It left the entire ship in awe at its magnificence, particularly John - he had never seen anything remotely close to such a marvel.

The ship docked itself at the dock the Commodore had pointed out to Roberts, at the very end of the channel. The crew went back to their business as usual, John trying to concentrate on waxing the mast, yet so distracted by his surroundings that his eye kept wandering over the banister of the ship, to scan his eyes over the port. The Commodore walked down from the helm, and within twenty minutes, had managed to get a small group of soldiers to proper themselves, uniforms and weaponry tidy and in place. He whispered something to them, which John couldn't make out despite his efforts to ease towards them, and then prepared to lead them off the ship. But as his small militia ferried out in front of him, he caught eye of John.

"John, boy, how’s about you take the trip with us?" The Commodore turned his head just as he prepared to step down off the ship. John turned around, his face showing signs of inner struggle, of whether to accept the offer or not.

"Oh.... no, Commodore, I'm sure I'll just get in the way. I'm much more useful on the ship." He reluctantly said, rubbing his hands slowly up and down his sides as he looked downward. He wanted to go with the Commodore, but felt he would get in the way of things.

"Nonsense! C'mon, you'll be just fine." The Commodore waved his hand, beckoning John towards him. Trying not to act overly excited, the boy put down his tools and walked over to the board that descended off the ship, where the Commodore was going down.

The small group of soldiers, the Commodore, and John ferried themselves up the low, stone dock, which was odd in comparison to all the wooden docks that were parallel with it along the little cove of the bay. The docks were empty, despite them being lined with ships and boxes. The silence was only monitored by the chirping of birds or bugs, but there were so few that they could not be pointed out in the vegetation that waited in the port, nor be heard so profoundly.

They marched up from the short dock up a dirt road that led up the crowning hill that met them right as they hit land, twisting up to where it began to curve over not too far up. They passed a few small cut outs of the road that led towards homes, quaint and tidy on the side of the street. They passed rarely any people, and when they did, it was either a young child, or an older woman, carrying baskets on their heads, bags in their arms, or so forth. They weren't in any sort of hurry, regardless of their age - they were quiet slothish, actually, like they wanted to take their time with their walk.

The road they followed took them far from the bay, continuously up the hill that flattened, steepened, and slanted at random points through the journey. After a good twenty minutes of well-paced moving, they could look out towards the docks from where they stood a good height from which they had covered. The path had finally flattened, and they trudged onward, assured by the Commodore they were almost there.

After making a sharp left, the crew was able to walk along a narrow, covered, dug-in-the-ground path, with the hill descending out towards the waters steeply to their left, and in the same equivalence upward on their right. There were large gaps in between the ferns that were at their left, which let them look out towards the water, them noticing that they were now walking along side it, instead of away from it. They gasped in awe of the beauty of the view, so natural, yet homely and serene.

Finally, they reached two large yellow, stone pillars from which the road converted from wild and dirt to kept and stone. From behind a large fountain that sat in a small unwalled courtyard was a large mansion, wider than it was tall. The face of the building was lined by twenty glass windows, six on the first floor, and seven on the two floors above it. It was decorated lightly with twinning vines that ran down the sides, and small carved stones running as the cornerstones. But while the soldiers focused on the beauty of the home, John had his eyes caught on something else. On the side of the house facing outward towards the bay, a small balcony stuck out from the second floor. Light silk curtains flew in the wind outward, as they skirted by a lean, tall figure, looking out to the waters. It was shadowed, but nevertheless it caught John's eye, and would not let go.

John was then drawn back forward where the rest of the group proceeded, around the fountain, up a few small stone steps, and to the front of a thick, dramatic wooden door. Commodore Rutherford reached out a hand and knocked on it, waiting a few moments until the door was finally answered by one of the servants of the household - obviously, a slave. He was dusted up in almost regal attire, the proper jackets and ruffles, but you could tell by the soulless look in his eyes that the wealth he was draped in was but a mask over his real emotions.

Before the slave was given the proper opportunity to ask any questions, a shout came from the inside of the house, which could not be seen past the small creak in the door. "¿Quién está ahí?" a deep male voice echoed, as the apparent noise of footsteps against echoing marble came closer and closer to them. The slave was pushed aside by a large man, around six foot four inches. His face was very robust and stern, looking almost as thought it would feel like sandpaper if you rubbed your hand against it. He had no facial hair except for a small patch of fuzz on his chin, sitting neatly under a shimmering red ring on his lower lip. He was dressed in no so much proper attire, as it was that which was meant to boast his richness - a heavy, Spanish leather long coat, a gold silk vest laying over a royal-looking lined shirt, with bright red pants. And at the top of his head sat a wide brimmed hat, brown with a golden feather, and two Spanish pieces of eight balancing on the edge ever-so slightly.

When the gruff man caught eye of Rutherford, he let out a smile and outreached his hand to shake the Commodore's, them both laughing happily. The man spoke in an almost maniacal Spanish accent, "Ah, Señor Rutherford, pleasure to meet you again."

"The pleasure is mine, Señor Avaricia!" Rutherford responded, patting the man on the back as they proceeded to step inside.

2

April 23rd, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
2:30 PM

John on looked on the two men as they casually talked back and forth in the center of the room. They stood in a large living room on the second floor, with a high ceiling and white wooden walls with gold lining along the sides. It was lavished in tables, cabinets, and other furnishments of materials ranging from marble and granite to simple wood. The floor was covered by a soft, white carpet depicting the Spanish Coat of Arms, with a small sitting area in the middle of the room where two couches, two chairs, and a small table cloaked over by a large map sat. The outside of the room was lined by the soldiers of Rutherford, as well as the servants of Avaricia, all standing neatly at attention.

"I personally don't agree with any of this succession nonsense - if the king just so happens to be interjecting in to both lines, then let it be so, hmm?" Rutherford scoffed as he threw his hand back.

"Oh, but it's so easy to say that as a man of the British flag. I would dare not have myself intermingled with those vile Frenchmen - I've had them stab me in the back much too many times to even consider being ruled under the same throne. I would not dare." Avaricia shook his head.

"Alas, it might be so. Either way, as long as I'm not called forth to supply anything, it's fine by me. So, shall we get to those maps?"

"Sí, sí." Avaricia leaned forward to point at the maps. "I suspect the bandits are somewhere around *here," in a small cove along the coastline just a few kilometers from here. There's only one entrance, which is the mouth by the beach - hence, I'd abstain by approaching it by boat."

John let his eyes wander around the room, becoming increasingly bored by the conversation at hand. He looked at all the carvings and details of the room, but they too became drab by the second pass over of the eyes. He felt lost, until he looked over to his right, and caught eye of a small wooden door just a few steps away. Noticing it's position, he took to it as an escape, and eased against the wall, slipping to the door, creaking it ever so slightly open, and dashing through it, silently closing it behind him.

He found himself in a fore room, farther to his left and his right, than forward, where there sat a wall of glass doors in between stone arches. One of the doors, the one right in front of him, was open, leading out on to a sundrenched balcony - and there, over at its end, stood the figure he had saw earlier. It turned around to face him, and he nearly stumbled back in surprise.

It was a girl, roughly around John's age. She was beautiful - sun kissed, Spanish skin giving away to an elegant yet attractive face, that almost smiled at you even though she wasn't. She had sparkling brown eyes, with long, black hair, that fell in waves like the ocean down to her shoulders. She wore a light nightgown, suggesting she had not changed since when she woke up. Even without any makeup, John could not attempt to take his eyes off of her - she was stunning.

"I assume you're one of my father's acquaintances, yes?" She turned back around, to look back over the bay.

John walked forward. "Perfect English - I thought you were Spanish, though?" he asked.

"Don't let my father's regrettable intelligence give you the wrong image of me, sir. I'd much rather limit myself to reading and writing than to swashbuckling, trading, and all that." she snapped.

John walked up next to her on the balcony, and she turned to look at him. He almost had to look away, the light radiating off of her face. "What do you mean? And who would teach a woman to read and write in this county?" John was perplexed.

"I taught myself, thank you very much. And the books? I received them through my father's trade."

"I don't so much care about the books, as I do his trade itself."

She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Ignorant as they all are. How do you think we could acquire so much with so little? My father gets what he wants by hiring others to do the work for him. He's almost like a crime lord - a pirate lord, if you will."

"Pirates?!" John gasped. The thoughts of his parents suddenly rushed back to his mind; by the possibility Rutherford was conspirating with the man who brought about their demise.

"If you think we're the ones who attacked that little town in England, you're mistaken - we're much too above that, even though I consider pirates below everything." She shook her head.

"How did you....?" John began to step back, becoming even more intrigued by who this girl was.

"I always read my father's letters before he does - not like he can read in the first place. I knew of your arrival most likely before you did." John chose not to answer, just looking wearily at the girl. When she realized she had created a more-than-awkward atmosphere, she stood straight up and grabbed John's hand, shaking it. "Maria."

"John." He nodded.

Soon, a loud clamber of footsteps came from inside, suggesting that everything had been finished. "I suggest you go back to your Commodore now - and best of luck."

"What do you mean?"

Maria looked at John, running her eyes up and down him. "You'll see. Go."

[The Stealthy Pirate]

OoOoh! Good Chapter Mate!

[Robert Ironcastle]

Cliffhanger!OOOOHHH!

[SEAKING23]

Great chapter!

[Captain Del]

Thanks, mates!

Sorry this took so long - not only was this chapter quite long, but it came at a time where I had very little time to type. However, I finished it - and so, without further adieu:

Pirate Eyes

April 24th, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
10:58 PM

The crickets chirped in the background as fireflies swam through the humid night air, flashing in a hidden but prevalent pattern. They danced in between the lush vegetation that surrounded the small courtyard, now drenched in the thick darkness of the night. The babbling of the fountain chuckled next to the cackling of the torches, lit a flame and held up high by the group of men in the square. The crew of Navy soldiers stood in a circle around Commodore Rutherford, who watched over all of them as he waited outside the doors of the large mansion.

John sat on the edge of the fountain, extremely anxious and in wonderment as to what was going on. The ran his hands on the stone of the fountain, ever so often reaching his hand back to splash a little up on his hands to keep them from going uncomfortably dry and harsh. He kept in the lap of his unwashed swabby cloths his old, rusted, chipped cutlass, which he looked down on under the dim firelight.

No instruction had ever been given to him as to what was going to transpire. The past few days he has been nearly isolated from the crew, sent to simply wash and wax as his few sailors walked about on the dock, talking and whispering under their breaths. They would hurry on and off the dock in varying groups, looking like they had to get somewhere, but John was confined to the ship, never being allowed to even step on to the dock. Whatever they had planned had been restricted to soldiers - originally, at least.

It was after a half hour of waiting the doors to the mansion opened, all the men who waited in the courtyard halting their whispers and correcting their posture. John stood up as though to follow the others, as Commodore Rutherford stepped up a step to meet Garcia. The man stepped out from behind the shadows of the home, wrapped in an evening robe. He had a small pipe poking out of his mouth, that let out small plumes of smoke as his raspy lungs breathed in and out. He took the pipe out of his mouth and shook Rutherford's hand, as the Commodore spoke. "Everything is planned out as we collaborated, Avaricia. I anticipate that we'll be able to make it over there in a few hours."

Avaricia hesitated for a moment, before nodding. "Bueno, bueno. I apologize for not allowing you and your men to use my horses," Avaricia said as he strutted down the steps from the door, "but it would cause too much of a noise anyway, yes?"

The Commodore shrugged as he walked forward to stand next to Avaricia. "I'm sure we won't need them anyway. There's no need to use them if we can march there in good time."

John felt something lightly hit his back as he stood far from behind the group of men. Startled, he jumped forward a little, before turning around to see what it was. Off to the side of the fountain, poking out of the courtyard, was a small, narrow path leading in to the woods. A slender figure hurried down it, but turned its head as to make sure that John would follow it. Plagued by interest, John looked over his shoulder to check to see if nobody was looking, and then scurried halfway around the fountain, towards, and down the path.

It was a short dirt path, so tight that the leaves of the trees practically covered your path, only letting through if you brushed right through them. It became dark as John stepped down it, the noise of from the courtyard silencing itself as he progressed from it. It was only after about 10 meters of walking or so did the path come to an end - a small, circular area, with nothing but a bird-bath in the middle of it. There were two old, raggedy wooden stools sitting in front of the bird bath, though one of which was already occupied.

Maria sat quietly on top of the small stool, her right leg folded over her left. Her hair was braided down behind her back, letting the moonlight shine on her royally beautiful face. She wore a blue light silk night gown, that sat from her shoulders all the way down to her feet. Her face was mired with concerned, as she motioned with her hand towards the other stool, right in front of her.

John slowly walked over to the seat, and stood next to it wearily, before choosing to quietly sit down. When he was comfortable, Maria leaned in towards him, and he did the same. "Please tell me you realize what you're getting yourself in to." she asked, worried.

"What do you mean?" John questioned.

"Oh dear..." she gulped. "My father isn't exactly being as honest as he seems to be. Please, just, don't go to where he's leading you all too."

"And where is that? I'm the most clueless fool in this town, so I should have a right to know by now."

She looked over John's shoulder, back down the passage to the small cove that sat in, before she continued. "I overheard the Commodore and my father discussing this sort of cave that lies on the beach east of here.... I only know of one such as it near here, and I doubt it's where you want to be."

Just before John could ask a further question, a few murmured shouts began to call off in the distance. Faintly could be heard Garcia yelling about for Maria, over and over, his voice deep and angry. Each time he yelled, it grew louder, as if he were closing in on them. Maria instantly dove her hands down in to a pocket in her dress, and fiddled out a very small square bundle of cloth. She grasped John's hand vigorously, stuffing it in to it and closing his grip around it. "Just hold on to that. When they ask you, show them that."

Just as she finished her statement, Avaricia came bursting in to the small area. He turned and looked to Maria, barking "DIOS, MALDITA SEA MARIA! ¿Dónde has estado?!" He violently walked over to her, grabbing her harmfully at the arm before kicking the seat out from underneath her. She panted in pain as she stayed off the ground by the painful grip of her father, before being pulled up to a standing position and thrown over towards the entrance to the enclosure. She stumbled forward, catching herself on a small stone spire that stood at the gate, before running back towards the mansion in fear. Avaricia followed after her intently, shouting in his native tongue at her.

1

April 25th, 1702
Northeast of Martliona, Spain
1:30 AM

The night sky was clear as it was deep and dark overhead as the group of men creeped down the long, sandy beach. The waves of the ocean slowly caressed the sands as they purred underneath the strong aura of the moonlight. The beach they walked on was long, the lush vegetation of the forests to their right a length away from the hushed sea at their left. They felt almost exposed, although it seemed as though there was nobody around them to watch them.

John's heart raced in all sorts of directions as he stood at the back of the pack of soldiers, his light, rusted sword held firmly in his hand, dragging along at his side. The light and exciting prowess of adventure quaked his heart, but at the same time, the intensity and bleakness of fear swelled over him like a tremendous, crashing wave. The light specks of sweat under his arms and on his back measured the toll the moment was taking on him, and he was unsure if he was looking forward to what was to come, or not - then again, he was still unsure of what this elusive moment actually was.

"Sssh...." Commodore Rutherford whispered from the head of the group. He stretched out an arm, and pointed diagonally from the crew. In the distance, the stone mouth of a cave poked out roughly behind a light cover of vegetation over the entrance. John's eyes widened in anticipation, knowing that the time was nearing, as all the soldiers began to slowly grab at their bayonets. Rutherford made an ushering motion towards the cavern, and began to pick up the pace.

Standing before the silent mouth of the cave, the group stood in wonder, mystification, and fear. As they stepped inside it, their buckled shoes rung in an echo throughout the cave. It was a small-sized cave, only one sizable room consisting of it - from the entrance, the ground led down a small decline in to a shallow pool of water, which was the main floor of the room. Small cliffs and hills ran along the side of the cave, where a few random boxes and crates netted down on the rock sat looming, as if they were abandoned, with no purpose. A flat bedrock sat in the middle of the room, in the middle of scatters of beams of moonlight that poked through the ceiling on the room. The entire cave was vacant - no noise, no motion, no signs of life.

John tried to control his heavily shaking breathing as he stepped down behind the Commodore, who had progressed on to the flat altar of stone in the middle of the cave. He looked around the room, scanning for something that may point out something strange or unusual. The Commodore scoffed in disgust as he threw up his arms, turning back to his crew. "Would you look at this? Seems the rats scurried out from under us."

"Don't think of yourself so highly, Rutherford." Garcia's voice called out. The crew turned to see Avaricia standing in the shadow of the moonlight, high at the entrance of the cave. His horse neighed behind him as he took a few staggering steps down, before stopping. He smirked at the crew, keeping his hands down at his sides.

"Garcia, what is the meaning of all this? You told us the pirates w-" just as the Commodore was about to complete his statement, Garcia scratched from his side a short-barreled pistol, pointing it out from his side and shooting it random, a plume of smoke rising from its tip. John, startled, nearly fell backwards, as the images of his past began to revert back to him - the guns, the cannons, the smoke, the fire, all filling his mind.

Rutherford stepped back, beginning to realize what he had gotten himself in to. Garcia clapped his hands, and then panned one of them over the view of the room. Like magic, the room began to rustle - water began to shift, rocks began to move out of place, and the loud clutter of footsteps rose up. Men of all sizes rose from the shadows and behind rocks, gruesome, grizzly, and ugly in appearance as they all glared at the crew of soldiers mischievously.

The entire crew seemed distraught, but none more than the Commodore. He stared at Garcia with not a face of fear, but disappointment. The Navy soldier's began to slowly raise their bayonets, preparing to defend themselves, but Garcia shot out another bullet. "You best have your men lower those guns, mate."

As Rutherford made the motion, and the crew of men waveringly dropped their weaponry, the Commodore shook his head. "Why, Garcia? I thought I could confide in your trust?"

"Trust is a feeble thing, Commodore. Not something you should hand around on a silver platter - and that's what you did with me." As Avaricia spoke, the pirates began to come down, encircling the crew by standing around the flat rock, in the water. "You brought your needs to the doorstep of a man you knew was a criminal, all for politics. You are the disappointing one here, Rutherford."

The Commodore sighed heavily, looking around him, at the men, at the pirates, and at the entire landscape of the room. When he turned his vision back to Garcia, his face was not of fear, or strength, or determination - no, it was of resolve. Rutherford shrugged, before throwing his hand down at his side, grabbing a pistol, and shooting the pirate that stood directly in front of him squarely in the nose.

The entire cave was immediately thrown in to chaos, as soldiers and pirates alike dove to the ground as a flurry of bullets and explosions rocked out in to the room. John landed a few feet away from where he stood, down on his stomach, with his cutlass still in his hand. He threw his hands up over his head, trying to look around as to where to go. Men ran back and forth across his vision, some of their boots nearly stampeding over him. He tried to scamper to his feet, but every shot of a gun made him cower in fear, with the thought of accompanying his mother coming with it.

Finally, he felt the back of his shirt being pulled up, and he felt his body being picked up off the floor, and nearly rolled in to the water. His body thudded in to the shallow waters, wetting his entire body as the water ran up through his clothes. He felt a knee hit beside him, and he turned to see Commodore Rutherford on his knees, bent over to communicate with John. He pointed out across the cave, to which John followed with his vision. A small rock beckoned to him on the outskirt of the room, which sat just out of the length of the firefight.

John immediately pushed up to his feet, and still in a crouch, sprinted towards the rock, keeping his hands on top of his head to guard himself. He didn't stop for a moment to think, rest, or put any caution in to his action - instead, he was driven by a single kick of adrenaline, which turned in to a wave of decisive action. As he placed his hands on top of the rock and hurtled over it, the Commodore in tow behind him, he could feel an exhilarating feeling inside of him, as though the fear that once overpowered him was turning itself in to courage, the need to feel the fury of battle in his blood.

Rutherford panted heavily next to him, looking down to the cutlass that John still had wrapped in his hand. "You're sure you know how to use that, boy?"

John nodded at the Commodore, closing his eyes so he could steady his own breath. Although Rutherford was skeptical, he had no choice but to approve of it. "Alright, then. Whenever you're rea-"

Before the Commodore could even finish the sentence, a wild blade crashed over the top of the rock, clanging loudly as its tip landed right in between the two of them. John dove off to the side of the rock as the blade swung towards him, quickly scraping himself up to a stand position as he tried to gather himself. His body still stumbled forward, himself nearly tripping over his own feet before he finally caught himself on the base of a small cliff.

John turned around to see a massive, thick man, tossed around in tattered, dirty cloths ripped at the arms and knees. His bald, obese face glared with the upmost severity as he played with a wide, clumsy blade in his hand. He started marching forward like an elephant, pounding his feet in to the water as he came closer and closer. And he grasped the sword with both hands, preparing to deliver a punishing, horrendous swing, John frozen, unsure of what to do. He began to doubt whether his abilities after only a few weeks of practice would pay out in actual battle, and for a moment, thought that it would be such a pathetic way to die. Yet as the moment bore down upon him, his mood shifted.

John side-stepped the swing off to his right, ducking as the blade came up from behind him, over his head. The mammoth grunted under the force of the shot, nearly turning completely around as it came about him. John turned around to face the man, and almost instinctively took his cutlass with him, driving a light cut in to his opponent's side. It felt like his blade had hit a rock wall, but it had driven in to the leathery skin, leaving a small trickle of blood as John jumped backwards in shock.

The pirate screeched in pain, grabbing at his side as he turned around to see what had cut him. He locked his eyes on John, and roared a terrifying battle cry, taking his longsword in his right hand and brandishing it above his head. John took his blade and guarded it in front of him, as his enemy chopped down his sword, clanging against the small rusted cutlass. John's arm jerked down with his blade, but he sprung back upwards as he rebounded to make sure another swing wouldn't clock his head off. The giant picked back his sword and swung again, but the boy twirled by it, spinning just as the tip of the sword nicked his arm. John coughed in pain as he stopped himself, but he took a deep breath and tried his best to ignoring the warm, throbbing pain.

The pirate was now become frustrated, his cut becoming more aggravated every time he twisted or turned. He threw his sword across the room, launching and taking out the leg of one of his fellow crew men, and began to charge at John with his huge, bare fists. John pointed out his sword as a way to possible cast away the man, but the brute outreached an arm and slapped the sword right out of John's hand, it landing vaguely in the murky waters of the cave. As John tried to look to see where it went, a stern hand punched him right in the chest, knocking him backward.

For a brief moment, as he landed on his back on the floor, he flashed back to that terrible moment back aboard the ship, where Captain Rutherford came down upon him, punch by punch. He could feel himself being degraded once more as he remember the blood running from his nose like a faucet, his senses knocked out of him and his body rocked with fear. That horrific sense of hopelessness tried to break itself back to him, badgering the corner of his mind - but this time, he chose not to let it control him.

In a snap of rage, John ran to his feet and threw himself at the behemoth, flailing like a wild bobcat as he punched, slapped, and scraped where ever he could reach. He gripped his hands around the neck of the man, holding him off the ground due to his extreme height, and then used his freely-swinging legs to bring up his knee in to the open cut, thrusting it harder and harder with each blow. He could feel the man struggling to stay alive, but with a final plunge of John's knee in to his side, the pirate's body gave way to pressure, toppling over. John unlatched himself as the man fell back on to the ground, falling like a tree in the forest as he slammed to the rock-hard ground, unconscious.

John's sense of accomplishment filled his pain-ridden body, making him feel less of a boy, and more of a man. He felt like cheering in joy because of his own private victory, before he heard an unexpected sound - a third, loud, thundering pistol shot, that silenced the room.

John turned to see Commodore Rutherford bent over on his knees, clutching his chest as he heaved in pain. In front of him, Avaricia towered, his pistol lying at his side. He didn't look as though he was happy with the victory as he was stern, like he felt Rutherford deserved to be punished. "You should have known better... your kind will NEVER touch my brethren again!" Avaricia shouted. He looked around the room, feeling the eyes on him, and ran back up the entrance of the cave.

John hurried over to the Commodore. "Sir, SIR!" John shook him. "Sir!" He was furious with fear, not wanting to lose the only person left in his life that could watch over him.

The Commodore shook his head, gasping in pain. "It's alright boy... I'll be fine..." he wheezed. "Ta-- take my gun...."

John shook feverishly, reaching to the Commodore's side and pulling out a long, crafted pistol. It was of a beautiful Italian designed, small angels etched in to a metal plate on the side of the gun. John looked at the Commodore, who automatically nodded in approval. "You'll need it..." Rutherford gripped the boy's shirt quickly, taking a final breath. "Make me proud, son...."

The Commodore's body collapsed forward, landing off to the side of John. John looked at him, wishing it was all still a dream - the man who he thought to be his new father, was dead. John jerked his head around, to where the exit to the cave was. "GARCIA!" he roared in a violent, hoarse voice.

2

April 25th, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
4:55 AM

John ran to the foot of the mansion, his body aching from the long, frantic run. He felt as though he was about to collapse, the lactic acid feeling like a cobra made out of barbed wire was strapped to his legs. He knelt down at the side of the fountain to rest himself, catching his breath and letting his legs relax. He tilted his head up to look at the mansion, the face of building coated in nothing but darkness. The windows were locked, the torches were burnt out - the only thing that was out of order was the door, which was flung wide open.

John staggered to his feet, pedaling towards the house, up the stairs, and in to the large doorway. He clasped a hand down on the dark wood door frame, which separated the outside world from the foyer. It was a wide, circular room, with a marble floor with a spiraling design that spun its way to the center of the room. At the other end of the room, a staircase huge the cylindrical rooms ran along the room to the second floor, that loomed overhead in the lack of light. His feet caused a loud echo as he slowly progressed across the room.

He inched up each step one by one, trying to see if he could catch a glimpse of what waited on the floor above him as we came closer to it. As his right hand ran along the wooden banister on the inside of the staircase, he slowly moved his left towards the Commodore's pistol, which he kept in the holster that he took from Rutherford's body as he ran out of the ongoing battle.

He stepped out on to the second floor, which opened to a large carpeted room that was a large hallway, wide and expansive like a hall that ran far back in the mansion. Its walls were lined with mirrors and paintings, with doors to other rooms lining the sides. At the far end of the room, the last door to the right was open, a small table that sat next to it thrown over with shards of glass near it.

John crept down the hallway, trying not to make a sound as he went step by step. He raised the pistol to align with his face, it beginning to shake a little with his nervousness. He had never used a gun, nor even held one before now, but he knew that he would have to use it sooner or later.

Just as he was about to round the door, a loud thud came from behind him. John spun around, pointing the pistol in the direction of where it came from, but it did not meet Garcia's face - it met somebody else's.

Garcia held in front of him his daughter, her mouth tied with a bandanna and a long carving knife to her throat. His face was vicious, as though he was ready to slice her neck even if John did nothing. John was stunned, watching in horror as Garcia gripped Maria tighter. "Put the gun down, boy." he growled ominously quiet.

John slowly lowered the pistol, his face filled with caution and worry. "Okay, okay - just let her go."

"That SWINE Rutherford things he can infringe on everything we've been doing - him and his god damn, self-righteous country. Just a lot of fat, imperialist pigs is what they are. If I ever have to see another British flag in my waters, I'll set fire to London myself!" Garcia roared, each jerk of his arm moving the blade closer and closer to Maria's jugular.

"Easy, easy. Just let her go." John said, keeping his hand still around the pistol's handle, in the event he would have to use it. Whether he would use it correctly, however, was still in his mind.

"NO!" Garcia barked. "All my life I've been pranced over at the hands of those British rats, trying ring their greasy palms around my country." His voice shivered, like he was horrified. "One blood spilled on the floor will be just the beginning...."

At that moment, Maria jolted her leg, kicking Avaricia in the shin. He untensed his hands, allowing for her hands to shoot upward and pry his dagger-hand away from her. John outshot an arm, grabbing Maria, and tossing her behind him. As Garcia tried to lunge forward to latch back on to her dress, John rocked his head with an uppercut from the hand that held the pistol, knocking him back a little. The pirate stumbled back, landing on his knee before a small table with a vase on top of it. Before he could think, John took the pistol, raised it, and shot it at Garcia's forehead.

John was unsure of what happened in the few seconds between when he shot the pistol, and the realization that he had shot it. The room was silent, all except for Avaricia's wild screaming. John's eyes focused on what he had done - the bullet had missed the pirate's head, and instead, shattered the vase that sat aligned with his face. Aside from a few small shards that had plunged in to the side of his face, a large piece of glass had shot up in to his left eye, leading a river of blood streaming down his face.

As John stood there, caught in a daze, Maria grabbed his hand, tugging him as they ran through the hall, down the stairs, and out of the mansion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Think this story ain't true? Go speak with Mr. Avaricia yourself in-game

Be sure to comment and review mates! Thanks for reading!

[SEAKING23]

You should write a book, Del. No joke.