Chapter Text
his earliest memories are as a child— a mere babe that scarcely came up to the adults’ knee— is of the sea, and his toes are buried in the hot sand, as an arc of sea salt sprayed against his sun warmed face.
seagulls shrieked overhead as their wings traced lines in the clear sky, and the sound of the ocean’s waves lulling him into a moment of tranquility. chestnut hair ruffled by the pleasantly cool breeze that soothed the burn of the too warm sun.
he’s alone, or if there’s anyone with him the memory of them has long since faded into warm sepia toned memories.
he grips sharp shells with too soft hands and leaves tiny wet footprints dotted along the shore as he runs away from the water surging back towards the shore at low tide, his steps erased by sea foam. even at such a young age, he was peripherally aware that one day he would leave. there was never a time when wanderlust wasn’t thrumming in his veins. he would sit on the warm sand and stare at the line where the sky kissed the sea on the impossibly far horizon, and he knew without any doubt that he would scrap together a boat and set sail.
he was born, or maybe abandoned, on a tiny insignificant island called Reisa, with a tiny port that pirates more often skipped than not.
he had no name or even the faintest idea of who his parents had been, and like all the other children he was abandoned on the doorstep with nothing more than a blanket and the clothes on his back. he lived— in the vaguest sense of the word— in a small, underfunded, group home on a tall grassy knoll on the edge of the island, run by a single stressed matron who could hardly manage to feed herself, let alone thirty children.
it was a three-bedroom house with sun bleached blue paint outside, six bunk beds crammed into two of the bedrooms, and the babies shared the rickety crib in the matron’s bedroom, with one twin mattress on the floor for whoever had their bed stolen in the main room.
sometimes, when he was the first kid awake, he would find himself sitting in the kitchen, feet dangling, as the matron tried to pull together a watery broth with some old carrots and potatoes for breakfast, cradling whichever baby had roused the matron first with its shrill cries.
for the most part, the children older than five were expected to fend for themselves, so that the youngest ones could be reliably fed.
not that the matron wasn’t trying her best to provide, but donations were practically nil and the church wasn’t particularly inclined to help them remain totally afloat, so maybe once a week the woman would give each kid two silver pieces with dark smudges beneath her eyes, and no one asked where she managed to scrounge up the change— too thankful to dare.
he kept his in a box hidden in his hideaway, slowly but surely saving up. there was something in him that was undeniably soothed by having some kind of money to fall back on one day, when he was too old to live in the orphanage and he would be forced to attempt to find some kind of busywork in the town.
so other than sleeping and changing his clothes, the boy didn’t spend much time in the house, spending too-hot days climbing up palm trees to shake down coconuts, prowling through the seaside marketplace, scouring for forgotten fallen fruit on the ground by the stands, and training his slight of hand with the pockets of drunks that were passed out on the streets despite the early hour.
occasionally, some of the sailors that docked once in a millennium were kind enough to let him sit amongst them in the bars, order him a cup of juice (the only time he could have such a treat) wide eyes drinking in the heady atmosphere, the drunken laughter, the camaraderie.
“Why are you all so… happy?” the boy had asked one of the crew mates that weren’t completely sloshed, and mirthful eyes softened, face still flushed as they drained the tankard in their hand.
“why wouldn’t we be, lad? barrels of rum, singing shanties—we’re with family! Ain’t that right boys?” a jolly cheer rang out and tankards were knocked together at the words. the boy reared back, protecting his cup of juice from the sloshing mead that spilled and his amber eyes were wide, warm lights reflected in their depth and something like hope stirring in his chest.
and when the pirates were finally kicked out of the tavern in the wee hours of the morning, chip would filch a few gold coins off of a couple of the absolutely hammered men, because he didn’t have a family to help him, and they would probably think they were taken by the ladies they had brought aside to share some time with. the prostitutes that hung around the taverns looking for some very drunk man to entice into their beddings.
they never told on chip when they saw him stealing, sometimes even hiding him behind their dirty skirts, so he liked them well enough.
(family. something young and fragile inside him yearned desperately at the words as he made his way back into the house on the hill.)
the only thing he had even remotely close to a family were the other kids in the group home, and even then it was more of a mutually beneficial relationship. he was better off than the rest, he was nimble and fast, so he could usually squirrel some food away for himself, and when he was able, he brought some home to the others who would brawl over the sweeter, less bruised fruits and vegetables. in return, the other kids gave him the scant few coins they had, and the nicest bunk bed.
of course, it wasn’t always that simple.
sometimes, the store merchants would notice him lurking about their stands and would chase him away. “little bastard!” they would hiss, annoyed by his theft but never usually fast enough to do anything about it.
one time the old man running the fish stands had been so incensed that he had stolen a single tiny fish, that the fucker had actually managed to smack him in the mouth with the wooden handle of the broom and when he made his way home, bruised and bleeding a bit, he flinched as one of the older kids— vince— had grasped his head and tilted his face up.
“woah! your front teeth are chipped, dude, he must’ve popped ya extra hard!” the boy scowled and shoved the other away from him before they shoved a finger in his mouth and stomped over to his bed to wipe the blood off of his face.
another— colette — burst into peals of laughter, nearly falling off the top bunk where they had been hanging over the rail when he threw a random pillow, “it looks so stupid— it’s so obvious!” it was the most noticeable thing when he smiled or frowned, and somehow, the other kids started calling him chip. it was probably meant to be mean-natured but… it wasn’t the worst thing to be called, he figured, and it was kind of cool? like a pirate name.
he had met a deckhand named ‘bucket’ before, so ‘chip’ was decidedly better.
it’s not like he had much attachment to the name the matron had given him, anyway, so even when the tooth inevitably came out and a new one grew in its place, the name had stuck around.
-
chip was nine or so when the massive pirate ship pulled into port, staring wide eyed with wet sand between his toes and his clothes damp from trying to catch fish with his hands. his hair was shaggy and untamed, dusted with sand, and he had an old bandage plastered over a cut on his cheek.
he sprinted over the sand, skidding and sliding over the hot dunes towards the port to see just who was coming out of the huge vessel, and he watched in awe as a rowdy crew that descended once the ship was properly anchored. laughter filled the air, raucous and loud, carefree in a way that chip always envied of the pirate crews that blew through their little port island.
he hid behind a barrel and marveled at the huge man with the countless tattoos along his muscled body that curled along the curve of his head. he heard the scrawny old man with the shock of long blue hair call the strong man “Arlin”.
it was a pretty cool name.
he watches them until they disappear towards the tavern— with so many men it was clear mr. william would be getting a great amount of business today, maybe it would help him get that stick out of his ass— and a smaller group consisting of a stoic, scarred, woman with a beaming girl with brown skin and dark ruddy red hair hanging off her strong biceps headed towards the food stands with a pouch of jingling coins. she was definitely the kind of person chip avoided pickpocketing since he valued his life. but the more interesting part of the duo was… the child? she definitely couldn’t be older than him.
his brows furrowed.
kids could be on pirate ships?
he doesn’t follow them because that would be weird, but that single revelation makes his head reel. as he retreats, he hears the merchants whisper about the infamy of the Black Rose Pirates, how it could either be a blessing that they’ve arrived or a curse, considering the navy might be after them again for some crime or other.
he blindly walks back to the beach and walks towards his hideout, thinking as hard as possible. maybe it was just that pirate ship that allowed kids? a crewmate probably knocked up or been knocked up by some prostitute, had a child and didn’t want to give up sailing just yet? he would assume the lady she was with, but honestly the girl didn’t look like anyone he had seen leaving the boat. they must be a strong crew to be able to feel safe enough raising a child on deck.
his hideout was one of the coves at the edge of the beach, when the sand became dotted with pointy rocks that jabbed into his feet, a damp cave that he could hide in for the day when he needed to get away from the other people on the island. luckily, no one ever really came here, because if you slipped on the rocks on the precarious way down, and hit your head- no one would ever find you come high tide.
chip slipped down and hurried inside, climbing the uneven rocks to the little alcove that was high up in the cave, that just cleared the height of high tide.
deeper within was some of the food he kept for himself, it was cool in here so it was safe to store the fruits and canned foods that rolled away from stalls and he could eat them on days he couldn’t steal anything. there were also the sparse few clothes he had, folded into an old knapsack that was hanging off a jutted out rock. inside that was also his collection of coins, he had a decent amount now considering the circumstances.
he had a handmade book, weathered pages bound together with string and fabric glue stolen from the matron, and he had a nub of charcoal he used to practice his writing. in it, he detailed his dreams and desires. it was childish, but it was his.
one of those dreams? chip wanted to get off this island, with every fiber of his being.
he wanted to be a pirate.
but how?
he thought he would have to be older but- maybe he could convince the next crew that passed through.
he could be a deckhand? he was pretty okay with a mop, when he helped out at the house, swabbing decks couldn’t be that much worse? or… he could help in the kitchens. he was the best at peeling potatoes, he didn’t even slice off chunks like the others did.
he laid down in the corner of the dimly lit cave, head pillowed by his arms, and between one idea of how to convince a pirate crew to whisk him away and the next, he slipped into a quiet sleep.
he’s awake sometime later, roused by the crashing of the waves against the rocks and when he rolls over, tastes salt and the unmistakable flavor of the sea. high tide. he gets up and sees that the cave had flooded yet again, meaning the moon was probably high in the sky. he sighed, rolling up his sleeves and pants. he would have to swim out and to the shore. he hated swimming with his clothes on but he’s pretty used to it by now anyway. he could dry off a bit on the walk back anyway. the matron was probably asleep so he wouldn’t get too much of a talking to once he got home.
he sucked in a breath and splashed down. the path he had climbed was completely submerged, and he carefully swam through the mouth of the cove and emerged to suck in another breath before paddling towards the sand. it was a short swim, and he tugged off his shirt and pants to wring them out as best he could before he had to go back. a cool breeze brush along the beach and a chill danced up his spine before he let out a small sneeze.
“ugh, no, i’m not getting sick.” he told himself firmly as he threw on the damp-but-not-soaked clothes and began the waterlogged trek back to the house. the steps off the beach led onto the pier and at this hour, there were loads of questionable people wandering about, the kind of kids that chip really couldn’t afford to mess around with. the kids that spent most of their nights in the holding cell. he keeps his head down and walks a little faster, but is forced to come to a stop when he hears a heart wrenching yowl from a cat being tormented.
now, chip might be invested in his personal well-being but he wasn’t a fucking monster. he, like the other kids, loved animals- and the cats on the pier always let him pet them, winding around his ankles in the early mornings when no one was really around yet. so obviously he gathers his courage and follows the sound to an alley behind the butcher shop and finds the hopeless teens with their stolen cigarettes and sadistic smiles and the angry mother cat defending her kittens as they threw ball bearings at her. they laughed as she slipped trying to back away from the pain, unable to get her bearings.
chip wasn’t even sure what to say. if he confronted them, they would probably try to beat him up. he could try to trick them into thinking the cops were coming but everyone knew the scant few cops didn’t bother to patrol the docks at this hour.
he could probably outrun them…
“really? picking on a cat? i know you guys have no futures to look forward to but this is getting kind of sad—“ he called, heart beating quickly in his chest, and he took a half step back as they looked towards him, various level of anger on their faces and the desIgniated leader— he thinks her name is bell— stands up, stubbing out her cigarette against the wall.
“The hell did you say, brat? Sounds to me like you’re beggin’ to get your ass beat,” bell snarled, and chip backpedaled only for his back to knock against a very sturdy leg and he froze.
“the hell? this ain’t the bathroom…” a man grouched, and chip chanced a glance back only to see the man from before with the excessive tattoos. more importantly, he looked like he bench-pressed the boat he came in on. a cold eye sliced over to the teens and he rested a hand on chip’s shoulder. it was heavy and warm and chip smiled smugly at the assholes.
“y’all alright over here?”
The teens made grumbling noises but clearly they didn’t want to fight a man that could probably fold them into pretzels. They trudged away, shoulder checking Chip who allowed it before he was rushing over to check on the cat- picking up the ball bearings carefully, before picking her up gingerly. She mewed gratefully, nuzzling her wet nose against the underside of his chin and he giggled.
“thanks mister,” he said, and the man hummed quietly.
“where are your parents, kid, it’s way too late for you to be hanging out at this hour alone,” the man said, and chip shrugged with one shoulder as he put the cat down in front of the butcher’s door and she meowed once more before darting away.
“don’t got any. i’m heading back now anyway,” he said. chip took two steps. Arlin took two steps. Chip turned right at the next building, so did the big pirate.
“Uh. Is this. A weird attempt at kidnapping me, or…”
“What. No, I’m walking you back. Those kids, or anyone else might try to mess with you and I don’t want that on my conscious.”
“Oh. Um… thanks I guess.”
If anyone had been planning on causing issues with Chip, the plan died a swift death at the sight of the big man accompanying him through the town. The boy had felt awkward for a few more minutes but after the man awkwardly asked for his name, the motormouth overtook him and he was asking a million questions about life on the pirate ship, and if they had any room for one more, and he promised he was good at chopping potatoes. The man smiled wistfully, answering and laughing with the boy, but he said he wasn’t too sure about stealing a kid from the island to take to a life of piracy.
Chip never got along so easily with an adults, his cheeks ached a bit from talking and smiling so much, in the short while it took to lead the man to the orphanage.
“Okay well- if you change your mind and need a busboy or something, I, uh, I’ll be here. Just ask for chip. C-H-I-P, okay? Got that! Promise me!”
“Yeah alright kid. Promise. Get inside already.” chip felt him ruffle his hair and a shy smile tugged on the corners of his mouth as he ran around the back of the house to their bedroom window.
x
the pirates were docked for a week and chip spent every waking moment with them, offering a hand when they were loading up the ship and getting to marvel at the inside excitedly even as he hefted sacks of potatoes that almost weighed the same as he did, aboard.
Arlin wasn’t too bothered by him hanging around, chip even got to ride on his shoulders once, small arms wound around a bald head, and a weird emotion burned in his chest when the other kids teased that of course he would be the only one to get adopted.
The black rose pirates were super nice, often inviting him aboard for dinner and even letting him bring some home to his friends. They were an unorthodox, ragtag team that united under the captain- a scary looking man who had stared chip down on the first night he was dragged along before a slight smile softened his face and he tipped his mead to him in greeting.
Every night they partied like they would die the next day, and the desire to go with them burned brighter every day that slipped past. this was probably what they meant by family, chip wondered as his elbow was ensnared by some rowdy man who twirled him around and had him clumsily dancing with each crew member- alcohol sloshing in their bellies and laughter in the air. Near the end of the night, when he was exhausted, the girl from before— Elizabeth, would brandish a plate of hotdogs and goad him into a competition, that she always won.
Then the night would end, and chip would have to go back to a lone bunk in a room of hopeless kids. there wasn’t anything waiting for him.
The day they were set to leave, chip found himself clinging to Arlin’s hand fighting to hold back his tears. The man was oddly somber where they sat on the pier, not a word passing between them. chip didn’t want to beg, he still had his pride, but he was praying with everything he had in him that Arlin would change his mind in the next hour. For a moment he had the brief realization, that other than piracy, and sneaking off to sea, he had nothing. He couldn’t amount to anything on the island, he would never join the navy, so what did he have left to await him aside from a miserable life and an early death?
his small fingers tightened around Arlin’s hand and the man let out a deep, slow, sigh. “don’t look so sad, kid. life as a pirate ain’t as easy or fun as we make it seem- you could die out there.”
chip’s frown deepened. “Rather out there, than here,” he muttered.
“Don’t you have friends? A crush? Don’t you like your buddies at home?” Chip made a skeptical face at the water below, not even deeming that a question worthy to answer. he didn’t think he could explain the complexities of his relationship with the other kids anyway. It was symbiotic, but at the end of the day, if he disappeared another kid would fill his spot seamlessly. It would be one less kid to worry about, to feed, to wrangle for the matron, one less thieving hand to steal from the stalls.
“so you won’t miss it here when you come with us?” chip blinked.
he blinked again.
he looked at the shit eating grin on the man’s face, the signed document from the matron that he was waving with his free hand. “I guess we could use a busboy after all, captain gave the all clear.” His nonchalant words were tinged with amusement, and chip could feel his face getting very warm very quickly.
everyone on the pier stopped and turned at the sound of chip’s scream of joy and they looked just in time to see him fling himself at the man, hugging his head and babbling thanks.
“I’m serious kid, no regrets?” Arlin asked as he laughed, patting chip on the back to calm his screeches.
“None at all sir, thank you so much, oh my god—“ chip said, clinging desperately to the man before surging backwards.
“My stuff! Wait right here, I’ll be back in like fifteen minutes, don’t leave without me—“ chip stammered and Arlin swore up and down he would remain right there so the boy ran towards his hideout until the air was burning in his lungs, and crashed through the water to rush and gather his belongings with the fervor of a man clinging to the last dredges of hope.
Words couldn’t explain how his heart was soaring, and sure it would be nice to say goodbye maybe to the other kids, but he thinks they must know. And since the matron signed off on it, she could at least let them know for him. The ship was going to set sail at high noon, there was simply no time.
So, he was armed with nothing more than a pitiful sack on his back and the ill-fitting clothes hanging off his body, and he stood on the deck of the ship for hours until his home island was nothing more than a smudge on the horizon and all that could be seen when he looked forward was nothing but crystal blue oceans and seagulls welcoming him to the sea.
“Boy, get down here—“ Arlin called from below deck, where he had disappeared to in order to make space in the sleeping quarters for him, and chip the pirate scrambled to his feet with a beaming grin on his face.
“Coming!”
—-
time on the ship was amazing.
Words couldn’t possibly describe the happiness that nestled into his very soul when he woke up to his family above the deck. Every single day was enjoyable, like a party that never ended. Finn taught him and Elizabeth everything he knew, their heads rattling with knowledge or he tossed them overboard to practice swimming alongside the ship, and Drey taught them how to shoot, firing at seagulls until their aims were steady, and their shots rang true and the birds fell into the ocean. Elizabeth was definitely what having a younger sister must be like, she was annoying and persistent but usually sweet. She was competitive but so was Chip, and it was pretty fun having someone his age on board to play with. Chip was taught the basics of reading maps by the captain who insisted every pirate needed to know, and spent a lot of warm afternoons napping with the puppy on the deck. His tan became a bit more pronounced, his skin verging a bit more on golden with every day spent in the sun.
But better than that, Arlin taught chip everything else, it’s like he never got tired of the boy hanging off his every word and his favorite nights were when Arlin let him fall asleep on his lap when the parties dragged on too long, a heavy hand carding through his hair lulling him to sleep.
He loved Arlin the most, it’s not even a question, especially when days blur into weeks, into months, into a year and some. The man was so carefree with giving his love- he said it as easily as some might say hello, and every time Chip’s soul sang. He couldn’t believe he went so many years without belonging anywhere. This was so much more than he could have ever realized. Arlin was practically his father, and when he shyly said as much he had been treated to a truly dumbfounded expression on the man’s face the gave way to teary eyed happiness, and he was trapped in a crushing embrace as they both laughed.
“Of course you’re my son, chip! I adopted you, ain’t I?” Arlin said loudly— proudly— and Elizabeth huffed in the corner, rolling her eyes. “That’s what I told him!”
he was so, so, happy.
but.
chip was not a child that was meant to have long term happiness, he knew that now.
he knew that when the monster first emerged from the sea, tar spilling onto the deck and when the rope securing chip to a post snapped and he let out a shrill scream as he immediately began to fall over the tilted ship and he unconsciously cried out to Arlin who instinctively let go to fall after him.
he knew that when a strong hand grabbed his and he had felt a surge of hope that died quickly as he realized both he and Arlin were dangling now, his legs dangling in the air, his small body occasionally slamming against the wooden hull. Arlin was strong, but he was already exhausted, and chip was realizing very quickly that the man couldn’t pull them up. Not with one hand. He wanted to scream for the man to let him go, but the choppy waves were crashing against the boat and the spray of salt was choking him— the water threatening to drown him against the boat where he hung in Arlin’s unrelenting grasp.
he knew how this would end, he could feel it deep within him, because he knew his dad very well. Tears or sea salt stung his cheeks and he wanted to tug himself free so Arlin would be able to save himself, but he knew if he fell in Arlin would dive in after him— and he could see the choppiness of the sea below, the murky blackness as the ocean churned into a whirlpool that was threatening to drag them all below.
He knew it, when he could feel his dad’s grip on his arm become even tighter before he was being hauled up and bodily thrown over the railing into Drey’s arms, just as Arlin’s remaining hand slipped away from the rail and his dad disappeared into the water with a serene smile (why are you happy, you’re leaving me—) and- and- there was a resounding sense of nothingness that swept through him, and Drey was shouting in his ear, and they were clinging to the ship as it lifted into the air and Chip could distantly hear Elizabeth’s screams over the creaking of the wood, from the kitchens as pots and pans and barrels likely toppled over to crush her and the cook where they had hidden for cover, and the dog was barking, howling, because the captain had gone overboard, and they were all going to die—
Drey had secured him with a rope to the crow’s nest, properly this time, and then he was going in against the tar monsters, gun blazing as he slid across the deck, and then he was gone and Finn was gone, and the captain was gone and Arlin was gone— and then the ship, having almost entirely turned upright, Chip’s breath suspended in his lungs as he dangled uselessly, staring straight down into oblivion, and then the ship was sinking- he could probably cut himself loose but there was something poetic maybe that he would die like this.
the black rose pirate ship sank that day when the hole opened up in the sea. And they all died.
at least, that would have been nice, if true.
Chip opened his eyes, drifting along with his body draped over the broken log that was at one point, the crow’s nest. The ocean was deceptively clear, a sparkling blue that hid monstrosities and chip knew that now. Just like he knew, in his bones, that he was alone again. He screamed at the top of his lungs, a visceral scream that tore at his vocal cords and when he lost his voice hours or minutes later, he laid there numb.
maybe he could die like this.
It’s not like he could see any boats or even the shadow of a vessel on the horizon, and there was only so long he could survive on nothing. Maybe this was okay. He laid there and drifted as the sun set and sank, and set and sank again, and his stomach was slowly sinking and his body becoming more frail. it was a painful way to go, he thought deliriously, tongue like cotton in his mouth, but he guessed he deserved it. It was his fault Arlin was dead at the bottom of the ocean and not here with him, or instead of him, so maybe he deserved to go like this.
Every living moment becoming hell until he was a skeleton on a log.
He hoped at the end of all this, he could at least see his family again.
fortunately— or unfortunately— chip was a survivor to his core. he even survived against his will. A week after the ship sank, Chip was fished from the ocean before he could completely waste away, by a passing ship and he was nursed to health even when he pleaded in his delirium to be left there. He didn’t entirely remember his time on that ship either, he knew that they weren’t actually good people— knew that their reasons for fishing a dying kid from the water weren’t for brownie points with the almighty, but he couldn’t feel anything anyway, so he did what he was told, whenever he was told to, and when they arrived at the next port, he was gone before they could even think to stop him.
It was like nothing ever changed.
He was living on a port, one that was admittedly better than Reisa, occasionally stealing to survive, interacting with the local gangs, even when he was certain it would be best if he called it quits. The only thing keeping him going was the idea that maybe, maybe they didn’t die. Who knows how long he had been unconscious, maybe they all just got separated.
Arlin was alive.
He told himself he believed it, so he did.
He was never a good liar.
But if he didn’t have this, then he had nothing.
The years passed slowly, but surely, Chip doing everything he could to just make it to the next day, while also scrounging up some money to maybe purchase a boat and return to the sea. If Arlin was alive, then Chip had to find him. He couldn’t do that here. Money was slow going, he worked a hard job as a butcher’s assistant, and helping a baker knead bread in the early mornings, and in return the baker let him sleep on her couch. It was covered in cat hair, but sometimes it was comforting to awaken from night terrors with an old cat purring on his chest.
The baker was an old woman who never married and had no kids, her store would likely die with her, and Chip had been more than happy to help her out where he could, and the woman had been sympathetic to his tale.
He was twelve years old with nothing to his name, she wasn’t going to leave him on the streets.
All he didis work day in and day out, because if he isn’t working towards his goal then he’s thinking, and if he’s thinking then he’s trapped in that depressive numbness that sometimes anchors his bones and he spends his day off laying in the sand, pretending he’s back on the docks, napping in the sun.
Once he swears he sees Arlin on the docks during his shift at work, and he abandons the counter to the sound of his boss’ shouts and runs after the phantom, rudely shoving through countless people to grab the man’s wrist and a breathless “Arlin!” is on his tongue but it turns to sand and dust as ice doused his spine when the man turned around- confused, angry, and decidedly not his father.
The tattoos weren’t even the same, he spent hours tracing those designs in the man’s skin, he didn’t understand how he could have ever been mistaken. The random man didn’t even bother starting problems with him, probably seeing something in the way Chip’s shoulders fell and his knees nearly gave out in the middle of the crowd, his eyes unseeing as he pulls his hand away like he was burned. He doesn’t even apologize in time, and he’s roughly tugged aside by the butcher who berates him loudly but the words fall on deaf ears.
“What the hell happened, boy?” The man finally asks, anger falling to the wayside, and Chip finally licks his dry lips trying to coax his throat into working again, and said— “sorry, it was nothing. I… thought I saw my dad.”
The butcher’s eyes are hardly visible from beneath his heavy, bushy brows, but chip can feel the pity like something sickly pouring over his bones, and he curls his hands into fists behind his back, until the nails dig into his palms and the skin splits ever so slightly.
A deep sigh, a hand on his shoulder that’s not the same.
“Go home for the day boy. We’ll pretend this didn’t happen, ay?”
It doesn’t happen again.
Chip wouldn’t necessarily say he gets better, but he stagnates at a polite numbness when he’s fourteen.
Life feels like it’s on the precipice of nothingness, of meaninglessness, but he clings to the distant fake hope like a slowly breaking lifebuoy in the dead center of the ocean. There’s nothing on all sides and once he loses this one thing, he knows there will be nothing left. Life with the baker, Agnes, is… nice. She’s unlike the Matron, who was sweet but weathered by trying so hard for so little pay-off. Agnes was a cynical old woman who was on the verge of death, but she so easily provided for Chip— she didn’t even really have to think about it. Every morning, she leaves him fresh bread with a large tin of butter, and every evening she makes a modest but filling dinner— often some sort of stew or rice. Every other week she paid him four gold coins for his work, and between customers she insisted on teaching him basic math.
Clyde, the butcher, was also a pretty forgiving man, easy to get along with. He taught Chip everything he knew about the ins and outs of venison, the importance of precision, the uselessness of a dull blade. The teen learned his way around a butcher knife, and some days when Clyde’s family demanded his presence, the man would leave the boy alone in the shop to deal with the waves of customers. Clyde paid him 6 gold coins, usually, but if business was particularly great, he upped it to 10.
When he’s fifteen, Clyde’s family has to move off the island, better prospects awaiting them at a larger island to the west and he gives Chip a knife set and a pouch of 100 gold coins that Chip almost drops when he receives it. He stares at the man with wide eyes and is treated to laughter.
“You’ve earned it boy! Consider it severance pay! I hope all goes well for you, Chip. You’re a good lad,” the man says gently, slapping a rough hand between his shoulder blades and Chip fights not to tear up.
Things get busier when he becomes essentially the only one working the bakery once Agnes’ old age catches up to her and she insists on spending time with her cats, knitting and baking little things for them to eat. She still comes down every once and a while, perching on a seat by the window to read, and sometimes checking he was still adhering strictly to the recipe. She never says it, but he thinks she’s proud of him. There’s a bit of a surge in younger customers when he essentially takes over and she ends up paying him ten coins every payday.
She lives peacefully for three more years, and then passes in her sleep. Chip is awoken to her cat’s cries, and has to call the undertaker to retrieve her body from the bedroom after he dry-heaves at the knowledge that the woman on the bed would not be opening her eyes.
So, Chip tends to all of Agnes’ final wishes, sends out letters, shuts down the store, gifts her cat away to the sweet fruit vendor across the street, and scatters her ashes on the beach. He carefully packs all of his stuff, reluctantly used to this ringing feeling of emptiness that came with loss, and he sits on the couch heavily. His bags sit by the door, and he turns the cream colored envelope with his name delicately printed on the front over and over until it crinkles slightly in the middle. He sweeps his nail under it, tearing it open as carefully as he could, and pulls out the few sheets of soft letter paper and in it, a small story unravels beneath his fingertips.
The story of a young girl named Aggie, who only had her brother by her side growing up, and they were both whip smart and resourceful. Aggie more delicate, but with a mind for strategy and a dream of living comfortably with a small family of her own, and her brother Sal who was the stronger of the two with a talent for forgery. They were alike, yet different, and while Aggie apprenticed under a local bakery, her brother worked under a blacksmith, and their lives gently diverged. They still lived together in their dingy apartment, and they loved each other with the fervor of kids that only had one another left could.
They fell apart over something stupid, she couldn’t even recall now, but at the time she had been so furious with him that she gathered her stuff and stormed out. She never looked back, but sometimes she heard news of him, making a name for himself. She had found love at 35, a man who made her feel like the sun set into his skin with how easily he brightened her day, her life. He made her heart sing, he made her feel like she was a teenager again when he spun her on the beach and danced with her in the moonlight. He was a navy soldier, often away at sea, but the only person she ever considered starting a family with.
Her wedding was going to be the thing that patched the rift between her and her brother— she had already drafted the invitation, filled with apologies and a pure desire to reunite her family—, but then her lover died at sea, they sent her his tags and his uniform and money like it would be enough, and she grieved- she threw herself into her work, her world had fallen apart. She resigned herself to never having a family. When she was seventy, she saw her brother for the first and last time. He appeared at the bakery and asked for his favorite sweet cake, and she made it the same way she did when she was ten years old, after he would come home from being harassed by the local kids. She closed early that day, suddenly conscious of the wrinkles in her hands, and the shakiness of his steps, the way old age had so clearly converged upon them, before they ever realized it. They sat together on the beach.
They spoke for hours.
She had a nephew, who had gone off to join the navy, and his smithy had done well for itself, he said. He told her he had missed her more than anything, life without his sister had felt like missing a part of his soul, but pride had always been their biggest downfall. It was too late for them now, he said, and Aggie had been a bit hurt by that. They were only seventy, still a reasonable amount of time left, she insisted.
He had smiled at her, folded her into his arms like when they were kids and as she was plastered against his side she recalls hearing the racing of his heart against his chest.
He was sick— a type of cancer, one that progressed before he had cared enough to check, and he knew he wasn’t going to be with the world for much longer. The doctor had already advised him to get his final affairs in order.
Aggie insisted he stay with her until his time came and he agreed with minimal arguments. He had divorced his wife twenty years ago and their son was grown up now. For a moment, it was wonderful. A chance to heal. Even with the knowledge that they were only racing against a clock, for a week or so, Aggie had a family once again.
When he passed, he left her a few of his worldly belongings. Of which, there was a rickety old boat.
“It might need some work done on it, Chip. I haven’t looked at it in a decade, but I know you’re a resourceful young boy. You’re meant for the seas, I can see it in your eyes when you look at onto the beach in the mornings. You carry so much sadness in you, boy. I knew I would end up giving you the boat, when you began living with me. I have no need for it it. Spending this short time with you has been so lovely, it almost makes me regret not trying harder to find a family. I lost the one I had before, and maybe that’s why your tale resonated so deeply within me— I hope you’ll forgive this old lady for considering you my remaining family, Chip. Anything in the house you want to take with you, you can have. I only ask that you take my earrings and the recipe book in my bedroom along with you, as well as the money under my bed. The book was my mother’s, it’s the only thing I can think of as a fitting heirloom, and my love got me the earrings long ago. You can sell them if you wish. As for the money: well it won’t do me any good where I’m going. And repairs are probably gonna cost a pretty penny.”
Chip’s hands tighten around the letter and a few damp spots blur the ink before he can tilt it away to wipe at his eyes. She goes on to say she’s proud of the man he’s grown into, how the time has passed so quickly since he arrived on the island. It closes by saying,
“I hope you learn to live for yourself, Chip, this one minded desperation will only lead you down a dark path. Find your people, find people that make you look forward to the future, not leaving yourself so stuck in the past.
With love, Agnes John.”
He had been too caught in his grief over the Black Rose Pirates to truly appreciate the older woman and everything she had done for him, and the realization that she had actually cared this much about him was soul shattering. He truly was a poor excuse of a man.
The earrings are tucked into the envelope and fall into his hands when he upturned it. They’re simple, modest gold cuff earrings, not inherently feminine but probably perfect for the strict baker, Agnes never seemed too fussed about having pretty things.
It felt… kinda fucked up to sell it. A memento of their love for each other.
Chip’s ears were pierced anyway, an impulse when he was fourteen, so… maybe this was a way to keep her with him. He poked them through, wincing when it pinched his skin just a bit. They were a bit heavy but, it was a reassuring weight.
He fights tears for a while, but then he stands up and goes to liberate the cookbook from Agnes’ nightstand. The pages are slightly yellowed, and Aggie’s mother’s handwriting was looping and beautiful. Recipes were diligently noted down under short anecdotes and crude attempts at drawing. Maybe if there was a kitchen on the boat, he could buy a few ingredients before he set sail. On the bedside table, there’s also a single weathered photo of a bright eyed woman, her frizzy hair caught in the wind, face captured in a beaming laugh, and pressing a kiss to her cheek was a ruggedly handsome man dressed like a navy sailor, his arms hugging her to his chest. On the back was printed, Aggie and Russel, the date listed as 50 years ago. He delicately folds it between the cover and the front page of the cookbook for safe keeping.
The money was in a chest under the bed, and he reluctantly packed it up into his bags. She was right after all, there was no point in leaving it for greedy raiders.
When the sun begins streaming through the window the next morning, Chip feels a bit like a pack mule with the heavy bags on his back, but nevertheless he heads towards the harbor where the boat was left in the hands of the harbor master.
The boat was kept at the very back of the harbor, from years of abandonment— a small sloop ship, with damaged, rotted wood bleached by the sun, and sails that looked rather worse for wear, but clearly more than enough for him to run by himself, or with a small crew… like, when he found his dad. It was beautiful. It was perfect. The harbor master was a withered old man that looked as old as the harbor itself, and he looks surprised that anyone had bothered coming back for the dingy old boat, and even more so when Chip asks about any boat repair services to replace any of the rotted wood and replace the sails, and a general check on everything before he set sail.
It isn’t much to argue the man down to reasonable price either (“come on mister, I’m practically doing you a favor finally getting this thing out of here, maybe don’t try to break the bank with me,”), so Chip hops onto the deck to look inside the cabin and captain’s quarters. It was empty, and for a moment he recalls the hammocks and linens that used to be tossed around the cabin where the crew slept like babies, he can remember the grumble or Arlin’s loud snores that shook the room, and Finn’s nasally deep breaths. He runs a hand over the wood, the feel of the wood grain grounding him.
“I miss them,” he sighs. Sometimes it was hard to even admit as much. It felt like saying it was like resigning himself. Like missing them, meant they were gone. He couldn’t believe that.
The captain’s quarters are similarly empty, a deck welded in place in the corner of the room and a few windows that would be able to look out onto the sea from his room. There’s a bed frame also hammered into place, but there weren’t any sheets on the threadbare mattress. Luckily there was a map pinned up on the wall for charting courses, not that he was the best at doing so. But it would be good to know where he was going.
All in all, there was clearly potential for the boat. He leaves a majority of his bags on the bed, the ones with his clothes and books, and other things he could live without and keeps a single bag with his more valuable items while he returns to the port to buy things he’ll need before he goes.
“I can swing by the bakery and pay someone to carry some barrels of flour, sugar, and stuff? Bread would be nice to keep making. I’ll need coal for the galley too… and pots and stuff. Ugh, was it always so much work to prepare for a voyage?” He grouched to himself.
In the end he ends up hiring some earnest looking teens who look decently strong enough and some of the shops also have services to carry the bulk items down to your ship for an added fee. Chip smiles and charms and flirts his way into discounts, he shakes hands with other store owners who offer condolences, who remember when he first arrived (not that they remember turning him down when he came seeking a job, not like they “remember” calling him things like bastard, and pathetic, or simply bad for business). He smiles all the same and says, “thank you, you’re too kind, yes I appreciate it.”
Overall, the list of things Chip buys for the ship are as follows:
- Two sets of soft dark linens, a writing set with a 400 page journal, and parchment for his desk
- A simple beginner’s set of pots and other cooking essentials
- A sewing set as well as any tools he might need for emergency repairs
- A dozen packages of coal and candles for light
- A few week’s worth of salted fish, beef, biscuits, and canned goods like beans, pickled vegetables and the like.
- A couple barrels of wine and spiced rum
- An egregious amount of clean water, enough to last him a month if he drank responsibly
- A few oranges and other fruits that he would have to eat before they rotted, or at least find a cool spot in the ship to store them for a bit longer. He had seen a bad case of scurvy one time when the Black Rose Pirates docked in Iena and it was enough to scare him into eating fifteen oranges before they left.
- A chest with a lock and key, to store the gold in his new quarters.
- Spare wood, hemp rope, barrels, and oils and soaps.
And after a while of deliberation, he picked up a mandolin. If it ever got really, really lonely while he was out at sea, and the silence became too much he knew a few shanties to pass the time.
If he needed anything else, only time would tell.
He strictly oversees the people unloading the stuff below deck, securing them into place so they wouldn’t rock every which way and then diligently paid each one like he promised.
“Fuck’s sake, I see why the island was always so happy when the pirates came to port, prices are outrageous these days,” he mumbles to himself as he diligently tracks how much he spent (there was a significant chunk gone now) and the rest is locked away with the key hanging on his neck from a simple braided cord.
The harbor master tells him it’ll take another day for the sails to be fitted and Chip doesn’t bother to return to the apartment. He locks the door to the captain’s quarters, so the men working on the boat don’t bother him and vice versa, lights a candle, and spends his evening setting up his new bed and unpacking everything into the desk drawers, and folding his clothes into storage units beneath the bed frame.
“Still, it’s a really big room, you could a least a few more people in here…”
Time passes too quickly, especially once he nods off at his desk when first light began to peak over the horizon and into the harbor, and he sleeps fitfully until there’s a knock on his door.
Chip shoots up into a sitting position and is immediately called outside.
The boat looks amazing from where he stands on the harbor’s pier after the harbor master summoned him to discuss final details.
The barnacles were scraped off the hull and the rotten wood had been replaced and the rest polished, a dark blue trim added to the edges of the boat, and a coat of weather resistant paints had been diligently applied, which added a glossy finish. The sails were a crisp white color that billowed in the slight breeze, and though the anchor was still rusted and clearly old, it kind of added character. Chip didn’t even realize he was smiling so hard until the man beside him let out a smug laugh.
“I take it my men did an alrigh’ job then,”
“More than I even anticipated, I can’t thank you enough, sir,” he said earnestly, a little misty eyed. The harbor master shrugged, stuffing hands into the pockets of his overalls. “No problem kid, the least I can do for a new pirate captain. Now here’s a few tips and tricks by the way, so you don’t die in your first week—“
Chip listened intently, eyes wide as his brain was filled with all the little tricks about solo sailing, the importance of knots, and rigging, and how to set your wheel for a smooth glide.
“If you’re looking for suggestions, boy, I’d say you’ve got yourself ‘nuff supplies to last ya if you want to skip the little ports and sail towards Nøkk, it’s a pretty big hub for socializing, lots o’ taverns and other pirate hopefuls— if you’re looking for a crew or hell if you just wanna get your name out there! Lots of pretty whores too if ye get lonely,” he says gruffly with a laugh as he whacked Chip on the back. His smile wavered awkwardly— he had been tentative friends with local prostitutes growing up, and still had basic respect for them so it was awkward to hear such vulgar language— but he still kept up a jovial exchange and paid the man well for his services.
Well, it was as good an idea as any, it’s not like he had any particular plans once he set sail, and if it was an information hub maybe that would be a good place to see if there were any rumors about any of the pirates from the Black Rose, see if maybe he wasn’t the only one that made a new life after the unsuspecting survival after the ship sank.
The sun was blazing high in the sky when he finally pulled away from the port and he stared at the island of Ást as he left the island behind him and spun the wheel, consulting the compass to ensure he was heading in the right direction. The old man said that Nøkk was about three week’s travel and a pretty straight shot from Ást when leaving from the east port, so that’s what he was doing. He passed merchant ships and fishing vessels for the first few hours, but soon there was nothing but clear skies and blue seas, and he left the wheel to stand at the very front of the ship, balanced precariously as he breathed in the salt in the air and the subtle spray of sea-foam in the air. The sun was warming his skin in a way that was unique to life at sea and he almost wanted to take a nap on deck like old days.
And later when the sun was gone and he was miles away from the island, with a candle burning on his desk- he carefully picked up the journal and opened it to the very first page. He dipped his pen into the ink well and began to write.
“Captain’s Log #1:
It is the 2nd day of the week, on the 4th month, year XX. This marks the first day of my voyage on The Millenia. It has been a difficult journey to reach this point but it finally feels as though I’m making progress. But I think it would be remiss for me to not acknowledge the people that got me to this point, and if anyone ever reads this journal aside from me, at least I’ll know their memory can live on even when I’m gone.
I was born on Reisa, to nameless parents that abandoned me at birth, but the family I made afterwards made it all so worth it. I owe everything to Arlin, the Black Rose Pirates, and Agnes John—“
He writes until the candle has burned nearly a quarter of the way, ink is smudged across his hand and his wrist aches, and his eyes are tired and then he crawls into bed on a crew-less ship, feeling more settled than he had in years.
“—I cannot wait to see where this journey takes me, for better or worse.
Sincerely,
Captain Chip.”