Chapter Text
Tommy runs away on a night as cold as death.
It’s deeply unusual weather for the middle of August. He shivers, pulling his thin pajamas more tightly around him. When he’d left the palace in a flurry of anger, he only had time to throw a few things into a satchel. Upon further inspection, he’s woefully unprepared for the cold weather.
The things he has: several shirts and a pair of long trousers. His knife. The locket that Dream gave him for his fifteenth birthday.
The things he’s noticeably missing: a cloak of any sort. Money. Maps. The list goes on and on, and Tommy wants to kick himself for his lack of forethought. Dream’s sure to flood the city with guards once he realizes Tommy’s gone—every inch of this place will be crawling with emerald-green uniforms.
Tommy dislikes his chances in a manhunt.
His only option is to get out of here. Preferably to a warmer climate—somewhere where he won’t have to sit in the streets shivering his ass off. The thought seems to warm him from the inside out, like he’s taken a long swig of coffee.
Tommy’s footsteps resound against the cobblestones as he trudges down a nameless alleyway. It’s late—there’s hardly anyone about. He averts his eyes when he sees people wreathed in shadow, desperate to stay hidden from their gazes.
What a prize he is. Prince of Manburg, and heir to the throne to boot? There’s practically a price tag hung around his neck; Tommy can feel its ugly weight like a noose.
He tries very hard not to think of the way Dream will react to Tommy’s absence. Dream’s behavior is predictable—painted in the gallery of the past. Angry words, sharp blows, blood that trickles from Tommy’s nose. Panting breaths when Dream finally turns on his heel and leaves Tommy to his own devices.
No, he thinks, even as his feet move on autopilot. No, that’s over, you’re safe—
For the moment. Every second he hesitates is a second’s head start for the King’s Guard. For Dream. Tommy has no time to reminisce—nor to regret.
He quickens his pace.
Before slipping out of the palace window, Tommy had given very little thought to his destination. The majority of his plan relied on actually escaping the palace underneath the cloak of the night—he’d never considered where to go afterward.
Tommy’s shoes hit a brick wall and he glances up from the ground. As if on autopilot, his feet have led him to the quay. The scent of salt and wet wood reaches his nose, and Tommy’s eyes trace the line of ships bobbing in the harbor, their masts tall and proud.
From here, he can see the palace up above, built into the cliffside; the lighthouse and the flame of its patient keepers across Manburg Bay; the tin rooftops of the city.
His city.
“Oi! You! Get down from there!”
Tommy practically jumps out of his skin. He turns on his heel with the haste of a frightened animal to face the man who yelled at him.
“I’m not—”
“Yer not allowed to be hangin’ round here, boy,” the man sneers. He’s well-built, with broad shoulders and a handlebar mustache. Even standing on the docks below the rock wall, he still seems to tower over Tommy. “Run along now.”
And even though Tommy bristles at boy —he’s not a child, not a child, not a child —he tips an imaginary hat to the gentleman, says, “Ta,” and promptly hops off the wall. The man’s shouts follow him like smoke as he sprints away from the quay, grinning like a maniac.
But when his eyes drift back to the masts, standing straight like soldiers in a line, he gets a lump in his throat and thinks, here I go.
Onto the next adventure and all that.
—
It turns out that stowing away on board a merchant ship is much harder than it sounds.
For one, there are still people about. It must be one- or two o’clock in the morning—Tommy feels utterly exhausted. There’s an ache deep in his bones that’s far more than just physical pain. He wants to fall asleep and never wake up.
But there’s no room for weakness—only haste—so he pushes himself forward, despite the way his muscles scream. Pacing the length of the docks, pulling his thin nightshirt further around him. The wind has turned into a biting chill, wrapping around his ribs in a frigid embrace.
He picks the first ship he sees without a guard on deck: a sleek vessel that’s tied up on the south side of the docks. She’s intimidating, that’s for sure. Painted on her side in small, white letters is her name: Cassandra.
It’s fitting.
Tommy’s luck seems to stretch further than he’d first thought. He makes it up the gangplank, across the deck, and down into the hold with no problems. Everything is eerie and dreamlike—the gentle snores of sailors reach his ears as he creeps past several hammocks.
Finally, he tucks himself into an empty crate in the darkest corner of the hold and pulls the lid shut. It’s dark, dingy, damp, and it smells like piss down here. He hates it.
Hours pass. Tommy can hardly breathe. Every muscle in his body screams as he tightens his hands into fists. His limbs ache from being pressed into an awkward position for so long.
What must be several hours later—he can tell by the gentle hue of sunrise, squinting through several slats—there’s an audible commotion. Peeking through the gaps in the sides of the wooden crate, he can just about make out two pairs of heavy boots. Footsteps echo throughout the ship’s hold in a slow, steady beat.
Tommy’s shaking. There’s an awful taste in his mouth—something bitter with fear and trepidation. It feels like he’s being hunted down by Death herself.
He might as well be.
“Can I help you, gentlemen?” A voice that’s cool with faux politeness fills the space. It sends shivers down Tommy’s spine. There’s raw power in the words—he thinks this man could crack him open like a peanut. “You seem to be a little bit lost.”
There’s a snarl. “I’m a member of the King’s Guard—”
“I’ll have to stop you right there,” the first man continues. “Unless you’ve got a search warrant, I don’t think it’s legal for you to be here.”
A telltale beat of silence, then: “Fine. Don’t suppose you’ve seen the prince lately?”
Tommy’s blood runs cold in his veins.
There’s a burst of dry laughter that resounds against the damp walls of the hold. “Why the fuck would I?”
“He’s missing,” says the guard, his voice muffled by Tommy’s crate. “Little kid, about yea high? Blond as fuck? The brat ran off sometime last night, which means the King is freaking out.”
Amusement colors the sailor’s words. “I can’t say I’ve seen him around.”
“There’s a bounty on the kid’s head.” The guard sounds extremely pleased with himself. “Five hundred gold pieces.”
“And you think I want the Crown’s dirty money?”
A sharp inhale. Tommy closes his eyes and silently prays to whichever deity is listening, every muscle in his body stiff with anxiety.
Prime Herself must hear his plea because there’s the sound of a cutlass against its sheath. “I’m not going to ask you again, gentlemen,” says the sailor. He must be Cassandra’s captain, Tommy thinks. The man is unafraid of the Royal Guard, almost to a fault. “Leave my ship.”
“These docks are owned by the King,” says one of the guards, his voice dipping low and angry.
“And this is my ship,” drawls the captain. “So why don’t the two of you take that royal stick from up your arse and bugger off?”
There are grumbles of discontent, but the guards acquiesce. Much to Tommy's surprise—he listens to the sound of boots clunking up wooden stairs. Raised voices reach his ears, a few shouts of fuck off!!!! and a singular oi that makes him grin.
A moment passes.
“Well,” says the captain to himself. His voice echoes through the hold. “That was easy.”
Then, he turns on his heel. After the footsteps have long receded, Tommy realizes: he’s alone with the weapons, the rations, and the rats.
—
The rats prove surprisingly good company for a royal stowaway.
After the Cassandra first sets sail, Tommy finds it difficult to adjust to the swaying beneath his feet. His feet are used to the steadiness of earth, so he lurches around the hold for a few days until he can catch his breath.
Tommy finds out very quickly that the crew stores their food down here. He digs into a crate of hardtack—even if the shit is rock hard, he still needs energy. He washes the biscuit down with a swig of lime juice that tastes as foul as it looks; coughing, he retreats to his corner and settles in for another long day of rest.
There’s a strange lethargy in his veins that wasn’t there when the Cassandra left Manburg. Most days, he ends up curled into a ball, staring at the ocean between the boards of the ship and wondering what the hell he’s doing. Dream’s locket ends up between cold fingers. He tries not to stare at the picture inside too much and desperately fails.
(It’s a portrait of Tommy and Dream together, Dream’s elbow resting on top of Tommy’s blond hair as they both smile for the artist. When Tommy looks at it for too long, his insides feel all fuzzy and confused).
Everything changes in the blink of an eye.
As best he can tell, it’s evening, about a week after Tommy first got himself into this predicament. He’s absentmindedly chewing on hardtack as he attempts to play draughts with a few spare bits of wood. Tommy sets the biscuit down on the wood a moment before he hears heavy boots above him, and his eyes widen as he scrambles to fit back into his crate.
Fuck, he hates the small space. He barely manages to pull the lid down before the footsteps are drawing nearer and he’s met with the sound of voices. Two men, arguing in low tones.
“Listen, we can’t help every arse that comes our way,” the first guy hisses.
“He needs our help!” The second man’s voice is flush with anger. “We can’t just ignore them.”
“My answer is no .”
“Your answer is bullshit.”
The first man inhales sharply. His voice grows louder and louder until Tommy can make out the shape of his boots through the slats of the crate. “You can’t bully me into changing my mind, Jack.”
There’s a scoff. “It’s only because Phil’s involved, isn’t it?”
“Watch your fucking mouth.” The first man’s voice—who Tommy now recognizes as the infamous captain of the Cassandra —goes low with authority. Tommy shivers despite himself.
“I’m right.” Jack’s grin is audible.
“You’re fucked in the head.”
“Sure,” Jack says, sing-song. There’s the sound of him clapping the captain on the shoulder. “‘S what you keep me around for, innit?”
“Kindly fuck off,” the captain bites out, but there’s less heat to the words. He receives a bark of laughter from Jack and the sound of receding footsteps.
Tommy, still stiff with adrenaline, waits for the captain to follow his sailor. His limbs are aching from being pressed into an unnatural position for far too long, and his stomach is feeling uncomfortably empty.
But there’s nothing. He’s met with silence, broken only by the silent sound of the captain’s breath. The man is waiting, like a predator stalking its prey in the night.
When his blood runs cold, Tommy thinks, oh fuck.
“Sometimes, I hate being at sea,” the captain says suddenly to himself. Tommy has to resist a flinch. “There are far too many pests that like to steal the crew’s rations, eh? Nibble on our biscuits, drink our freshwater. Rats and such.”
The captain steps closer to Tommy’s crate. Tommy thinks he’s honest-to-God shaking now. “Of course, we have our methods of flushing them out,” the sailor drawls. “Rat poison. Traps with slivers of cheese. But that takes far too long, doesn’t it? No satisfaction in a job half-done.”
There’s the crunch of something underfoot. Tommy thinks, fuck, fuck, fuck, because he’s pretty sure he left half a piece of hardtack on the floor. When he squints through the gaps in his crate, he can just about make out its shape beneath the captain’s boot.
“Now,” the man says, standing directly in front of Tommy’s hiding spot. “I think we’ve got quite a large rat on our hands.”
And the lid of the crate lifts up and away in one fluid motion, revealing Tommy in all his filthy glory. He gasps out in surprise, scrambling back as much as he can, but it’s no use. The captain catches him by the scruff of his tunic and lifts him into the air.
“Fuck off!” Tommy bites out, each word soaked in terror. Fuck, he feels like he’s about to cry. “Put me down, prick!”
“A very large rat,” the captain says, looking his captive up and down. It also allows Tommy to scrutinize the other man for the very first time.
In the dim light of the ship’s hold, his eyes catch on curly brown hair, a thin, bookish nose, and lips that twist into a darkly amused smile. There’s a scar, too, that stretches across the man’s face. It splits the right side of his smile, trailing above and below his eye neatly. The mark stretches nearly from his jaw to his forehead.
This captain is dressed rather plainly, Tommy thinks, for a merchant. Apart from the tricorn hat on his head—which has been embellished with gold stitching along its edges—there’s nothing else that sets this man apart from the other sailors. He’s wearing roughspun clothes, with a compass looped around his neck and several rings stacked on his fingers. As Tommy fights against the captain’s grip, the metal jewelry digs into his skin.
“Not a rat, then. A stowaway,” the man says, sounding pleased with his catch. He leans in close, grinning madly. “Got you.”
“Put me down,” Tommy repeats. To his horror, the words come out as more of a sob. “Please.”
And to his surprise, the man does. Tommy’s feet hit the deck beneath him and he staggers at the force of standing on his own two legs. A yelp escapes him before the ship’s captain reaches out to steady Tommy once again.
This time, when Tommy feels cold fingers grasp his chin, he swallows thickly. The motion pushes against the captain’s grip, and Tommy's body goes completely tense with fear as his gaze is directed up, up, up .
The man grins, low and amused, and something coils in Tommy’s stomach. “I’m willing to make a deal, little stowaway,” he promises, his voice dipping low. “I won’t hurt you.”
There’s awful honesty in the words. Tommy thinks it might be worse than a lie.
“I don’t believe you,” he says, lacking any sort of surety. His voice feels just as unsteady as his legs.
“I would never hurt a prince, ” the man says, his eyes and voice both mocking. Feeling like he’s been slapped in the face, Tommy curls in on himself a little bit.
“I’m not a prince,” Tommy mutters.
“You blinking well are,” the captain says. “It’s your face on those posters. Besides, you look the part—all golden hair and big blue eyes.”
“Thanks,” Tommy says quietly, with no enthusiasm behind the word.
The man’s bark of laughter sounds wildly amused. “Look, sunshine—I told you. I’m willing to make a deal.” He hesitates, examining Tommy with a careful eye. There’s scrutiny in every inch of his gaze. “What’s your name?”
“It’s on the posters, dickhead,” Tommy snaps.
“I want to hear it from you first.”
A beat. So he’s going to drag this out, is he? “Tommy,” he says. “My name is Tommy.”
“Hello, Tommy,” the captain says softly, and fuck—Tommy should not enjoy the way his voice wraps around the vowels like that. It’s a dangerous thought. “I’m Captain Soot, but you can call me Wilbur if you’d like.”
Tommy reels back as if he’d been struck. Wilbur Soot. Wilbur fucking Soot. The name is stupidly familiar. He’s spent years poring over posters with Wilbur Soot spelled out in block letters. Bounties advertised for a man who has made a fortune escaping the law.
“You’re him,” Tommy whispers. “The pirate.”
Wilbur grins, roguish. “I prefer smuggler.”
“Pirate,” Tommy hisses in a breath of frustration.
He doesn’t know how he missed it. It’s blatantly obvious. Each clue adds up one by one: the Cassandra —though it’s a common enough name for a ship. The way that the Captain had been so desperate to set sail. His clothes: plainer than a merchant’s, but nicer than a regular old sailor’s.
Wilbur eyes him with a smug little grin. “There it is,” he says. “That anger. Aren’t you just a little pillar of righteousness?”
“You steal things,” Tommy bursts out. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. Every word is jumbled with anger. “Burn down villages. Kidnap people. You break the law!”
Wilbur gives him a long, slow look that leaves Tommy feeling raw. “Says the stowaway.”
Tommy grits his teeth and glares up at the pirate. His heart thunders in his chest. “What do you even want from me?” he bites out.
“Join my crew,” Wilbur says evenly, “and I won’t throw you back to the King.”
Tommy scoffs. “Are you fucking insane? I’m not joining your crew, boss man.”
“I’ll tell Jack to chart a course back to Manburg, then,” Will says, and he has the fucking audacity to drop Tommy onto the floor. Tommy goes flying and hits the wooden deck with an oof.
“No—wait,” he says quickly. “Please.”
“Five hundred coins could buy a lot, you know,” the pirate muses. When he steps forward, his heavy boot rings out against the floor, and Tommy scrambles back. Prick . “We’re a bit strapped for cash around here.”
“Don’t send me back there,” Tommy says—begs. He’s shivering. “You can’t. You can’t. ”
“Then you’ve only got one choice, haven’t you?”
Tommy wants to cry.
“Do we have a deal, princeling?” the captain— Wilbur —asks, with a smile like fire.
Tommy manages a deep breath, takes Wilbur’s hand when he offers it to pull Tommy up, and says, “Yes.”
And it’s the word that seals his fate.
—
“Yield.”
When Tommy gasps for breath, his Adam’s apple pushes against the sword at his throat. “Prick,” he manages as he tries to catch his breath.
Wilbur grins at him sickly-sweet as Tommy drops his weapon onto the deck with a clatter of metal. “You’re favoring your right side,” he says. Thankfully, he backs off, allowing Tommy to reach down and grab his borrowed sword with a clumsy grip. Its weight is foreign in his hand. “Try to keep an eye on your left.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you keep trying to run me through on that side,” Tommy grumbles as he rises to his full height.
Wilbur darts in and knocks Tommy’s forearm lightly with the flat of his blade. “Stop complaining,” he says. “Again?”
Tommy gives a curt nod. “Again.”
And then they’re off. The sound of their weapons crashing together fills the sea air as the two men spar. Tommy’s breath comes hard and fast with the heat of the sun and the exertion of fighting.
He doesn’t last long. All too soon, Wilbur’s blade is at his throat and his back is pressed against the railing.
“Yield,” Wilbur says again, frustratingly smug, and Tommy shoots him a glare.
When Cassandra’s captain had first offered to teach him to fight, Tommy could’ve scoffed. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to use a sword—far from it. Dream used to spend hours sparring with Tommy in the palace’s courtyard. He still sports bruises from their most recent fight.
(Don’t think about Dream, don’t think about Dream, don’t think about Dream—)
Even though Wilbur’s reputation is built on sly negotiation, Tommy has heard from the crew about the man’s pure skill. Wilbur is a force of nature with a weapon; seeing it in action is frightening just as much as it is addictive.
It’s been a month since Tommy slipped out of the palace in the dead of night. Three weeks since Wilbur held him by the scruff of his neck and goaded him into becoming a part of the Cassandra . A week since the two of them started training together.
It seems, Tommy reflects ruefully as he drops his sword, that a week has made no difference at all. He’s still as clumsy as ever.
“I’m hungry,” he tells Wilbur, deadpan. “Are we done yet?”
It earns him a surprised bark of laughter. Wilbur reaches up to brush his hair out of his face and Tommy is struck by the note of joy that lights up the captain’s eyes. “Why? Scared I’ll thrash you again?”
“No,” Tommy defends immediately. Thankfully, his stomach growls right on cue.
“Let the kid eat dinner, Will,” calls a woman from across the deck—Niki something or ever. Her hair is a bright flash of pink across the deck. “Prime knows you don’t feed him enough.”
“Off with you, then,” Wilbur sighs, and he motions for Tommy to scurry on his way. Tommy blinks long and slow, but Wilbur is already sheathing his sword and glancing back at Niki. “The fucking nerve.”
Tommy grins despite himself. After three weeks spent in close quarters with Wilbur, he’s well aware that the man means him no harm. There’s a difference between the ice-cold anger that the pirate uses to threaten the royal guard and the teasing tone of banter.
He satisfies his stomach with a supper of hardtack and freshly caught fish. Once he’s finished, Jack tosses him a piece of fruit; Tommy barely catches the orange with a curse underneath his breath.
“Eat up,” the man says, grinning. Tommy flips him off and digs into the fruit with filthy fingers.
His nights aboard the Cassandra have gained an odd sense of routine. Every evening, he fights with Wilbur, eats supper, and then watches the sunset over the water. When Tommy retires to his hammock—strung across the deck with thick ropes—he’s properly exhausted. His lungs are sore and his mouth is dry, but he’s happy.
It’s the happiest he’s felt in a long time.
Every night, before Tommy and Wilbur settle into their usual dance of blades, they talk. Wilbur pores over maps at his desk while Tommy settles on the captain’s bed and provides colorful commentary. Inside Wilbur’s cabin, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of them.
Wilbur slowly becomes Will, a man with a laugh like honey and wit like fire. His fingers are always stained with ink from his fountain pen. He wears shirts that are too big for him and coats that trail to the floor. Every word that leaves his mouth is flush with gold; every smile he gives Tommy is filled with the warmth of the Southern Hemisphere.
Will would light Tommy on fire if he could, and Tommy doesn’t think he’d fight it.
They debate over just about everything. Tommy is thrilled to find out that Will loves arguing just as much as he loves writing in those journals of his. Captain Soot adores the sound of his own voice, and it winds around Tommy’s neck like a noose.
One night, it’s an argument over the due process of law. The next, it’s a rambling analysis of Wilbur’s favorite myths. Tommy hangs onto every word, adoration clear in his bright blue eyes.
He insults Wilbur’s possessions and is rewarded with a wry glance. “Don’t you know the story of Cassandra?” Will asks, eyes flashing.
When Tommy confesses that he does not know the story of Cassandra, Wilbur’s face splits in a blinding smile. “She was the Princess of Troy,” he says, his eyes alight with a dangerous type of joy.
“What’s Troy?” Tommy can’t help but ask.
“Ancient city. Don’t interrupt me.” Will spreads his hands in front of him. “The god Apollo fell in love with her. She was given the gift of seeing the future, but when she rejected his advances, that gift came with a price—no one believed her prophecies. She spoke of Troy’s downfall, but no one took her seriously.”
“That’s horrid,” Tommy comments, wrinkling his nose. “Why would you name your boat after that?”
“Ship,” Wilbur corrects.
“Ship. Whatever. Still a shit name.”
“Cassandra is a beautiful name, and a poetic one, too. You have no sense of aesthetics,” Wilbur says scornfully.
Tommy has no idea what aesthetics means, but he thinks he can guess from Wilbur’s ire alone. “You can shove it up your arse,” he says rudely, and he has to throw himself aside to escape Wilbur’s tackle. “Hey! Fuck off—”
“Got you,” Wilbur crows when he scoops Tommy up in his arms. Grinning, he tightens his grip when Tommy lets out a loud screech and starts to squirm. “It’s bedtime for naughty little princes.”
“Oh, fuck you!” Tommy snaps. He resumes his struggle when Wilbur ducks through the door onto the deck. “Let me down, let me down, let me down—”
“Careful, Will,” calls Jack from his position in the rigging. “He looks like he’ll bite.”
“Bloody right, I’ll fucking bite you!” Tommy hisses. When he attempts to sink his teeth into Will’s forearm, he’s roughly pulled away. Oh, well. It was worth a shot. “Prick.”
“Gremlin,” the captain responds fondly, and he deposits Tommy into his hammock with a rough laugh.
And so the days pass. A blur of sea, sun, sky, and laughter.
It’s not perfect, but it’s theirs. Tommy grabs onto his new life with two hands and refuses to let go. He clings violently to the Cassandra, to its crew, to Will himself. They are Tommy’s and he is theirs.
It’s foolish of him to become so attached so soon, but he can’t bring exactly himself to care. Dream used to call it Tommy’s fatal flaw. His hamartia, whatever the fuck that meant.
You love too much, he’d hissed once, pulling Tommy aside at a forgettable royal function. Too fiercely. It makes you weak, child.
Tommy, true to form, had retorted with something scathing. He earned a backhanded blow across the face for his trouble.
But Wilbur doesn’t adhere to the same principles as Dream. He lives life like every day is his last—arms spread wide to the elements, whooping with unbridled joy. It’s a pleasure to watch him; slowly but surely, Tommy starts to unfold like a flower turning towards the sun.
—
It doesn’t last.
On what must be Tommy’s fiftieth day at sea, Will announces a supply run during breakfast. “Essentials only, mind you,” he warns, tapping his nose. “I don’t want any of you stumbling back drunk at three in the morning again.”
A pirate who Tommy recognizes as Tubbo stifles a snort.
“And no whiskey for you, Tubbo,” Wilbur says without turning around to face the younger boy. “Prime knows you’ve learned your lesson already.”
Tubbo groans. “Seriously, boss man?”
“You’ll each be given a list of supplies,” Wilbur says loudly, surging on ahead. “I expect you to negotiate with the merchants in port and find a reasonable price. When you’re finished, head back to the docks.”
“Do I get to negotiate?” Tommy asks, eyes filled with stars and delusions of grandeur.
Wilbur grins. It’s not a nice smile. “You’re with me,” he says.
“Babysitting duty,” Jack hisses from behind Tommy. It earns him a two-fingered salute.
“That’s not on,” Tommy complains, very aware of the crew’s eyes on the back of his neck.
“You’ll have to earn my trust before I let you go about making trades with my money,” Wilbur replies evenly. The words sting ever so slightly. “Any more questions? Preferably from somebody whose name does not start with a ‘T’?”
Hesitant chatter starts up again amongst the crew. Tommy slumps in his place and scowls, resigned to his fate.
Still, something is reassuring about having Wilbur at his side. As the Cassandra sails closer to the coast, Tommy watches the infamous settlement approach with bated breath. He has only ever heard rumors of this place. Port Topia stains the reputation of men as easily as a blood spot on white linen. Tommy clutches at the railing with white knuckles and tries not to think about how much a runaway prince might sell for these days.
“Nervous?” Will asks from beside him, and he jumps.
“No.”
“It’s okay if you’re nervous,” Wilbur continues. His hand falls on Tommy’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You never know what’s hiding around the corner in these places.”
“You’re not helping,” Tommy snaps. It earns him a grin from Will.
“Stay close,” is all he says before his hand drops and he steps away. “Don’t go wandering off.”
It’s easier said than done. The crush of people on the docks alone is enough to turn Tommy’s stomach, so his fist automatically tightens on the grip of his sword. He grabs ahold of Will’s coat as the two of them struggle through the crowd; it earns him a fond look from the pirate captain.
Mine, Tommy thinks suddenly and rather violently. My pirate captain.
The thought does not scare him as much as it should.
Finally, Wilbur emerges onto a side street that’s far less crowded. Tommy takes the opportunity to breathe, lungs expanding rapidly. The air is filled with soot and the smell of alcohol; he wrinkles his nose in disgust. The cry of birds comes overhead—a murder of crows, most likely.
“Feeling nervous yet?” Will asks with a shit-eating grin on his face. Tommy kicks him in the shin and relishes the yelp of pain he earns.
He’s left impressed once again after he watches Wilbur negotiate for supplies. Given enough time, Will could convince anyone that the sky is purple and the grass is blue. His silver tongue crafts layers upon layers of trickery as he speaks to the traders. Tommy can only listen in awe.
“That was easy,” he says as Wil saunters off from the merchant’s stall with Tommy and a bag of supplies in tow.
“It’s all about leverage,” Will says. He reaches out to ruffle Tommy’s hair and earns a squawk of protest. “Nothing comes for free, Tommy. There’s always a price.”
“Fuck off,” Tommy grumbles, and Wilbur’s laughter rings high and clear into the street. They’re reached the market proper now, surrounded by merchants and customers and animals alike. When Tommy glances back, he catches a glimpse of a crow resting on a drainpipe.
It makes beady eye contact with him and caws, long and low.
“I’m just trying to help,” Wilbur says. “In fact…”
He doesn’t finish the thought. Tommy watches Wilbur’s face as he trails off, lapsing into cautious thought. His gaze locks onto something—or someone— across the town square.
“Tommy,” he says, and he reaches out to grip Tommy’s forearm. There’s a tension in his muscles that wasn’t there a moment ago. “When I say so, I want you to turn around and sprint back in the direction we came from. Don’t stop running until I find you, okay? Hide if you must.”
Tommy’s mouth suddenly goes dry. “Will?” he asks in a whirl of confusion.
“We need to separate. Promise me you’ll run,” his captain says, and shit. Tommy’s known Wilbur for just long enough to be able to recognize fear in his voice. Anxiety hides underneath the brash words and there’s no room for argument.
Tommy inhales sharply and says, “I promise.”
“Good,” Will says. He casts his searching gaze back over the crowd, but this time Tommy follows it. His eyes land on two men dressed in inconspicuous clothes—white tunics and cloaks. The taller one is broad-shouldered and sports bright pink hair that stands out amongst the crowd; the shorter one is blindingly blond with a smile to match. They’re impossible to miss. “You see Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum over there?”
Tommy blinks. “Pardon?”
“Nevermind,” Wilbur says quickly, brushing Tommy off. “Inside joke. The guy with pink hair and his friend. You see them?”
“Yeah?”
“Good. Don’t let them catch you, and don’t look back.” Tommy receives an apologetic smile as Wilbur lets go of Tommy’s shirtsleeve. “On my signal.”
Tommy’s heart skips a beat with fear, and he murmurs, “Wilbur, I don’t—”
“Run,” Will whispers, and Tommy springs into action.
He keeps his promise and doesn’t look back, not even when he hears footsteps in his wake. Tommy’s breath comes hard and his side aches with exertion. His sword’s sheath slaps against his thigh with every stride, but he doesn’t dare stop. Who knows what fate awaits him?
Thankfully, his path is clear of passersby. He throws himself down an alleyway, boots pounding on the cobblestones. Voices reach his ears; he grits his teeth and runs faster, faster, faster.
Tommy can only hope Wilbur has found his way to safety.
Sprinting through the alleyway, he stays alert for another way out. Finally, between the buildings, he can just about make out the docks. Tommy puts on a burst of speed, rounds the corner—
And is pulled back by the scruff of his neck.
“Oi!” Tommy yells, voice alight with anger and fear as he’s lifted into the air. “Put me down, asshole!”
The pink-haired fucker from before tightens his grip, securing Tommy in the prison of his arms. “Got you,” he says in a long, slow drawl. “You’re a slippery little thing, huh?”
Tommy wants to cry. Through gritted teeth, he bites out, “Let. Me. Go.”
The asshole’s dry huff of laughter resounds through Tommy’s chest. “Can’t do that, I’m afraid,” he says.
So Tommy bites down. Hard.
The man shouts in surprise, loosening his grip. Tommy takes his chance, tearing his arm away and ducking to avoid the guy’s next attempt to grab him.
“Try me, bitch!” Tommy cackles, victorious. He darts away, goes to round the corner onto the next street—
Only to slam directly into a broad chest. Groaning, Tommy staggers back with a hand to his forehead. He thinks he might see stars. When he tilts his head up to see the obstruction, he freezes in his tracks.
“You look a little lost, mate,” says the blond man from before with a grin like frostbite. “Giving Techno a hard time?”
It’s no use. Tommy’s trapped on both sides with nowhere to run. He swallows thickly and shuts his jaw with a click.