The Coastal Breeze’s crew had been successfully vanquished, though it had not been without cost. Five of The Splinter’s pirates were dead, with another six left injured. Break was among the wounded, having received a slash from a sailor’s knife that left him cursing and screaming. Lock privately noted that the slash didn’t have much strength behind it, but chose to not say anything after watching the viciousness with which Break delivered the sailor’s death blow. Not that you would’ve said anything regardless, his inner voice snarks at him. Lock chooses not to say anything to that, too.
After giving the ship a final sweep for living sailors, Break returns above decks. He scowls out at the crew aboard The Splinter, before shouting out, “Surge! Get your arse over here!”
Surge, a huge man that towers above the entire crew and wears a rust-colored surgeon’s apron, gingerly crosses over to the defeated vessel. A few men aboard begin to retrieve the scrap that was used to connect the two ships, with another few throwing down the ship’s gangplank to allow for safer crossing. Surge begins to sift through the crowd of pirates, separating those that need his care from the more superficially wounded. Lock silently moves to stand amongst the other injured pirates at Surge’s nudge. He can’t help but hope that the surgeon will at least provide him with some alcohol to help aid in numbing his injuries.
He watches in tense silence as Surge swiftly picks out one pirate, Mule, from the group of injured men. The poor fellow still has a blade lodged in his gut, and his blood is still oozing through the hand he has clamped over the wound. It steadily drips onto the planks at his feet, its quiet plops further fueling the already fetid concoction coalescing beneath him. Break scowls at both of them, holding a piece of cloth against his wound.
Surge quickly prepares himself to work on the Mule’s injury, offering him a bottle of spirits before digging through his medical pack. He gestures for the man to sit down with his free hand before using it to accept a rod that has been heated by the kitchen’s coals. He carefully keeps his hand wrapped around the padded portion of the rod, mindful to keep the heated metal far away from his own flesh. At a look from the surgeon, two members of the crew silently break away from the main cluster, like apparitions conjured by a chilling tale. They stand on either side of Mule, tense and silent.
He accepts a leather strip that the surgeon offers him, biting down on it. The injured pirate barely has a chance to recork the alcohol before Surge’s two assistants are prompted via grunt to take hold of Mule’s limbs, keeping them out of the surgeon’s way and preventing them from flailing. Mule grumbles at the restraint, but makes no moves to free himself. Surge reaches around to pick up the bottle, wordlessly putting it back into his pack after wiping off some of the blood that the deck had transferred to it. He sighs, taking a knee to properly examine the man’s wound. His expression slowly shifts from that of a scowl to a creeping grimace, eventually saying, “this is gonna hurt.” He taps his chin, silent for another moment, and then helpfully adds: “more than I thought it would.”
The next few minutes seem rather similar to stories Lock has heard about torture. The atmosphere is filled with Mule’s screams and curses, the air laden with the sound of sizzling flesh and the smell of burning meat and fat. Lock had thought the removal of the knife would be the painful part of the operation; though while Mule still bucked and shouted, the men holding onto him were able to keep him steady enough that it was over swiftly. However, the moment the rod was applied to Mule’s flesh, it was as if he’d been filled with the strength of fifty men. He’d bucked and writhed, causing Surge to swear loudly at him. “Be still!” He roared. “You’re going to get yourself burned!” Two more men had to rush out from the crowd of onlookers, using their extra weight to try and pin the lanky man down.
Mule continued to struggle, roaring and thrashing with pain for a moment before clumsily attempting to spit on the surgeon past the leather in his mouth. Surge snarled, the edges of his bushy eyebrows crashing together like a set of violently intertwining waves. He had leaned closer to Mule, and the pirate screamed as the rod was roughly pressed against his wounded flesh. “Do you want it to be done like this? No? Your squirming tells me otherwise. If you want this to be done right, then get a bloody hold of yourself and let me finish the operation!”
To his credit, the surgery was finished soon thereafter. Surge stands to his full, looming height with a groan, shaking his head at the now-whimpering Mule still lying on the deck. “Move ‘im,” he says curtly. The men who had been holding the pirate down swiftly gather up Mule between themselves and move him back towards The Splinter. Lock subtly gauges the reactions of the other pirates aboard, though it looks as if none are inclined to make any comments or disparaging remarks. It’s likely, he reasons, that those that paid attention to the procedure were now imagining themselves in Mule’s place, and how they would also need their own crewmates to help them.
Break steps forward, discomfort and irritation warring for control over his expression. He looks at Surge, the mate’s own cloth now moderately bloodied and still held to his side. “Took you long enough,” he snaps. “I need you to patch me up.” Surge casts a doubtful look over the other injured pirates, eyes lingering on a man who has a steady trickle of blood escaping through his fingers.
“Sir,” he rumbles. “I’d like to treat him first. He’s clearly bleedin’ heavy, and-”
“And I’m not?” Break demands, the disbelief in his tone betrayed by the wrath in his eyes.
A pink flush suffuses through the surgeon’s neck, but he keeps his tone neutral. “Sir, I’m worried for ‘im. I’m worried for you too, but-”
“Then heal me, Surge, now!” Break snarls, his outburst causing a stray gout of blood to squirt out from between his clenched fingers.
Surge looks between Break and the other injured pirates. He looks back at Break, the surgeon’s jaw clenched so tightly Lock worries he’ll crack a tooth. “Aye, sir.” Break slides heavily against the side of the ship before thumping against the deck. Surge crouches down to inspect the mate, his large fingers deftly poking and prodding the wound.
After a moment, he looks up from his work, his voice bearing the unyielding resolve of the hull of their ship. “I’ll need to seal it shut. I don’t have time to sew, not with everyone else waitin’.”
Break bristles, indignantly leaning back before getting to his feet. The seat of his pants are entirely soaked through with blood and seawater, but he seems to not notice how it drips down and splats back against the deck as he demands of Surge, “you won’t be burning me with that rod. Use your needle and thread.”
The huge man isn’t cowed by the mate’s demand. Lock nervously watches the tight set of Surge’s shoulders, worrying for a moment that he may level the mate with a devastating punch and begin the surgery on his unconscious body. It had happened before.
Surge opens his mouth, eyes darkened with anger, and-
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The Splinter’s captain takes the deck. Lock breathes a sigh of relief, watching as Captain Morrow’s rolling sailor’s stride shatters the tension aboard the ship, like the blade of an axe piercing through a wooden door. The man’s stocky build is only further emphasized by his mildly short stature, and his footfalls ring out like a mallet swung against a gong. Lock’s relief is short lived: as Captain Morrow turns his handsome, scarred face to examine his crowd of crewmen, the young pirate feels as if he’s under the scrutiny of a predator selecting a target for its next hunt.
The Splinter’s captain saunters across the deck of the seized ship, sheathed sword swinging at his side and his boots quickly becoming covered in bits of entrails and viscera. Lock suppresses a shudder as the man strides past him, resisting the infantile urge to run away and hide. His captain plants himself at the Coastal Breeze’s bow, turning around to face his waiting crew. The man’s previously broken nose crinkles oddly as he graces them all with a wolfish grin.
“Well done!” He cries. “Well done. Now- calm down! I will speak.” He pauses expectantly, allowing for the crew to quickly cease their celebration. He then resumes speaking, this time in a softer tone. Those on the outskirts of the crowd have to huddle closer to their fellows to hear their captain’s short declaration. “I want all hands to help seize the ship’s plunder and to bring it aboard The Splinter. Once everything has been moved, we’ll scuttle this tub.” He glances towards Break, seeming to notice him and Surge for the first time. Lock’s captain purses his lips, quietly adding, “Break, you’ll be overseeing the haul of the plunder. I expect that everything will run smoothly.” Captain Morrow offers a parting, rakish grin to his crew before turning around on his heel and heading back over towards The Splinter.
As the captain strolls back, Lock casts a quick look towards the mate, startled to see the open flare of anger in his eyes. However, the look is extinguished, replaced by a steady stoicism as he begins barking out orders for transporting the plunder between ships. He feels a chill run down his spine as the mate says his name. “Lock. You were one of the first to board, aye?”
Lock forces himself to look in Break’s direction, though he finds that he can’t meet the mate’s eyes. His brutish nature makes him quite intimidating, a distant part of him uselessly ponders. He can feel the mate’s eyes pinning him down, and a flickered look up to Break’s face reveals that to be true. The mate’s brown eyes narrow and Lock looks away again, listening as he loudly gulps down the remaining spirits in the bottle. Surge, who is standing behind Break and preparing his sewing kit, silently seethes.
“Surge has his hands full right now.” He pokes Lock’s chest with the bottle, pushing him back a step. “You were the first to board; you should be the first to bring the plunder back. It’s only right.”
Lock is silent for a beat, feeling his thrumming pulse angrily pressing against his broken nose. He remains silent, only capable of listening to his rapidly quickening heartbeat. He desperately hopes that the color of it doesn’t reach his face.
“He looks like he might’ve hit his head,” Surge mutters, without any trace of humor.
“Well, he wasn’t included first in your triage.” Break snaps. “So we can make him useful in the meantime.”
Surge sets his jaw and says nothing. Lock sees Break’s grin out of the corner of his eye, and smells his rancid breath a moment after. “Well, boy? Go!”
Lock scampers off to comply with the mate’s orders.
***
The Coastal Breeze’s creaks and groans of protest go unanswered as she begins to take on more and more water. Lock watches as the floating grave is slowly dragged under, its inhabitants no longer alive to protest their inevitable entry into Cric’s domain. He sighs, turning away from the porthole belowdecks. He knows that he should sleep, but feels as if the adrenaline from the battle is still coursing through him, contrasting harshly with the bone deep weariness that seems intent on permeating his every action.
Surge had eventually gotten to him, but the alcohol that he’d been offered to help numb the pain had been diluted, far weaker than it would have normally been. It was likely something commandeered from the kitchens, rather than specifically for surgery. Surge had set his broken nose- an agonizing process that left him on the ground, gasping and seeing stars- and bandaged up some other wounds that Lock was unaware were present.
The surgeon had been especially angry during the procedure. Lock hadn’t dared to ask what the reason for his foul mood was, but he could still venture a guess. Fortunately the surgeon’s wrath didn’t seem targeted towards him, though he privately felt as if the setting of his nose could’ve been done with a bit more care.
Lock rouses himself from his recollections of the healing and forces himself to trudge towards his bunk, pondering over the loot that The Splinter’s crew had seized. The captain and mates would be tallying up the lot of the plunder, and they would soon dole out everyone’s fair share. From what he saw of the haul, most of it would need to be sold off, as there seemed to be an especially high concentration of cloths and spices. He slides into his stiff cot with a grunt, not wanting to think about whatever seedy port they would stop by to sell their stolen goods at.
As he stares at the bunk above him, his mind begins to wander. He shifts uncomfortably, a familiar but not at all welcome feeling of tightness squeezing his chest. His body and mind had been subjected to too much today, and the stress of it all was now screaming to be left out but unable to find an exit. He finds himself digging his nails into his palm, debating illogical scenarios of what he would do if escaped Coastal Breeze crew members had boarded The Splinter in secret, or how he would escape if the bunk above him collapsed, or-
Or Break. He pulls his limbs tighter against himself, as if the mere thought of the second mate threatened to summon him. It was certain that thinking of the man conjured up the myriad of horrors he could potentially inflict upon Lock’s life. He takes in a shuddering breath, but it’s far too shallow. He feels like he’s been attached to an anchor, and that any slight movement will send him plummeting into the deep. What would be awaiting him down there?
Lock thinks of the men he had murdered today, of those few that had met their ends by his blade before. They would be awaiting him down in the depths. Their sea-claimed fingers would reach out to wrap around his arms; their flesh would have been turned into chum for the fish, but the little remaining skin and bones would be ice cold. Would their eyes still be in their sockets, or would he be accused by a faceless skull, one with a mocking grin turned towards him? They would ask him why he killed them, why he was here, and what had taken him so long to join them in Cric’s Depths. He would know that he deserved to be there with them.
He tries to hold in a whimper, but it escapes him. He feels as if his skin is too tight, like he’s moments away from bursting into flames. He fights the urge to scratch at it until his skin bleeds, until he tears it all away to relieve himself of this hellish feeling of being trapped.
He inhales a sharp, halting breath, trying to force air back into his lungs. He takes in another, managing to direct his feelings towards the potent sense of relief it brings rather than the feelings that spawned it. Breathe. Exhale. Breathe. Exhale.
He feels the terror slowly recede and manages to take a full, proper breath. The air around him smells of his acrid fear sweat, and it seems far warmer than it had been just a few minutes ago. He pushes his sweaty hair back and releases the stiffness his body had been desperately clinging to.
It’s as if he had been entirely evicted from his body. Perhaps he was only now inhabiting its shell. Why? He wonders hollowly. Why is this happening to me?
Images flash through his mind: of killing innocent sailors, scrubbing human waste free from toilets, freeing decks from blood and viscera, of being shoved, pushed and hit..
As he closes his eyes, finally succumbing to exhaustion, he thinks of the day. He was ordered to be the first to board, to risk his life for the sake of the second mate’s ego and proving that was something Break could order him to do. Sleep curls itself around Lock, lulling him and welcoming him into its embrace. He allows it to do so, though his mind continues to slowly plod along towards a truth that he had been hiding from.
Break had abused, tortured and demeaned him, as well as risked his life on multiple occasions. There was no real reason or motivation behind his actions, no larger goal. He simply allowed for his horrible, maleficent personality to dictate what he did.
The truth is revealed in one breath, and sleep claimed in the next: Lock wants to kill The Splinter’s second mate.
