Chapter Text
The doors to the throne hall are opened, and Ferre guides a chatty figure through them.
Not two weeks ago, the man in question had worn a purple coat embellished with gold, and a rugged brown tricorn hat with the feather of an exotic species of bird sticking out the side of it. A corrupted gemstone had hung from his ear, and the weapons he carried were of the highest quality.
None of that is present now. His hands are tied behind his back with rope. He wears the dirty clothes of a prisoner.
But his voice is bright, optimistic, and he rambles on and on about sea trade in the far north. Nothing would suggest he just lost his ship, a third of his crew, his power.
It’s the third time in his life Clown sees Branzy.
Five years, and he’s just as captivated as he's always been.
Last time they were in the hall, Clown had to force Branzy to his knees with a sharp kick.
This time, Branzy settles on the floor before the throne without prompting, lowering his head.
“Oh, Great Lord of the Undying Empire, what services do you require from a measly pirate like myself, on this very sunny day—although humid, perhaps unpleasant.”
Clown doubts there’s anything Branzy enjoys more than his own voice.
He replies, “One should think a fortnight would be enough for you to get used to the weather here.”
“His Majesty must consider the years I’ve spent in Ishavet. The storms up there are enough to freeze all sails. I’ve had crew members lose fingers and toes left and right.” Unwisely, Branzy keeps talking. “A cabin boy started keepin’ ‘em all in a jar, but they started rotting when we travelled south. But the natives, Your Majesty, they are the real wonders of the north. None had any contributions to the jar as far as I remember. But they talk weird, like they have cotton in their throats.”
“Is that so?” Clown asks, entertaining him; being entertained.
“Ja,” Branzy says. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Your Excellence. I swear on my hat! I could’ve sworn they’d tongues much different from mine, but when I removed one man’s, it was just the same.”
“If that’s supposed to intimidate me, pirate, I hereby inform you that it did not have the desired effect.”
“Oh no, I was merely making conversation.” Branzy blinks in an innocent manner. “May I see your tongue, My Lord?”
Enough is enough, Clown thinks. “Ferre.”
A name becomes a single, small command. Before Branzy knows any better, Ferre yanks his head back by the hair and presses a gleaming knife against his throat. This is when Branzy knows to shut up. And yet, he adapts to the new, vulnerable position with grace. His eyes remain sharp, alert, unwavering.
They never did waver.
Clown’s fingers tighten on the edges of the throne. He straightens his back, aware that there are thousands of civilians outside, dozens of nobles, advisors, foreign ambassadors, journalists, priests and bishops. All waiting for him to finally decide what to do with the King of Pirates.
The punishment for his crimes should be none other than a public execution; one that lasts for days. But another option was formed at the continuous meetings within the Antarktis Parliament. One that became Clown’s choice.
So, Clown speaks as he would, had he had an audience.
“Five years ago, you brought seven ships to our shores and destroyed our fleet and harbours. You wrecked three major coastal cities and left thousands of corpses in your wake. The people under your command did not discriminate between men, women, and children. Of the dozens of hostages you took, only five have been recovered. There are unwanted children who have been born, and even more who were slaughtered in the raid. What the survivors remember, except smoke, fire, and loss, is you, singing.”
Not a trace of fright can be found in Branzy’s eyes, even with an accusation of remarkable weight.
“Nevertheless,” he starts, voice measures even though it’d die if Ferre moved his knife an inch closer, “you put me in a cell and let me wait.” And without giving Clown time to speak, he continues. “Forgive me for my bluntness, but one should think those crimes would have me promptly joining the spirits of the sea with a rope around my neck.” A slight smile. “Or… is this personal, Clown?”
White-hot rage blooms under Clown’s skin. It’s harder to hide without the mask, most cannot detect it, but Ferre can read it. In turn, Clown can sense him asking, Is that it? Can I kill him already?
Would a smile and a name be the thing that finally ends the Plight of the Seas?
No.
To stop that from occurring, Clown raises his hand.
“It’s only a matter of business,” he says. Then, he moves on. “There are many ways to make an example of you, Branzy.”
“Each one more gruesome than the one which came before?”
Clown tips his head in a nod, the slightest of confirmations. “Nothing you won’t have deserved.”
Branzy hums, waiting. Powerless and comfortable. He’s never feared death. Death now would be a victory.
Clown wishes it wasn’t. “Your insight and power won’t go to waste, King of Pirates. Evidence suggests you’re still aligned with a great deal of dangerous people, and for your kind to put any amount of trust in just one captain, amongst hundreds, I doubt your sovereignty was anything but earned. In fact, I suspect you have a myriad of arrangements in place to come out of this superior. Even if the end is your well-deserved execution.”
“Sovereignty is such a bold word to describe the system,” Branzy remarks. “The title your kind uses for me is a reflection of your own ideas.”
“And how does the system work?” Clown asks.
“Oh, let’s not go into that,” Branzy dismisses. “We’ll be here all day.” A beat, then he remembers to add, “Your Majesty.”
“Very well.” Clown rises from the throne and signals for Ferre to step back momentarily. He grabs his scythe from where it always rests when he’s on the throne. “The Antarktis Parliament has come to an agreement. You, Branzy, former Captain of the Cat’s Paw, will be sentenced to a life of extravagance.”
A flash of curiosity in his eyes, but Branzy’s tone might just contain alarm. “Pardon?”
Clown continues down the stairs with slow steps. “You shall be rid of all titles you may or may not hold. You shall be remembered as nothing but a trophy of the Emperor. A pet.”
And so, the cracks start to show. “Then where’s the audience, My Emperor? For an announcement of such great importance?"
“Waiting,” Clown replies. Finally, he’s standing before Branzy—who has no way out this time, who won’t rise from the floor and take the symbol of Clown’s power. He doesn’t lower himself, rather, he guides Branzy’s chin up with the scythe’s blade. To be able to see the calculations running through his head should be considered a privilege on its own. “Put on a show for me. Will you, little pirate?”
“Oh, I will,” Branzy vows, sweetly, fiercely.
Clown tsks, tilting Branzy’s head up further as he steps closer. “Such discourtesy. Is that any way to refer to your Emperor?”
No matter what Branzy says, it is the King of Pirates who speaks his next words. “I’ll play your game, Clown. When I feel like it.”
With that, he’s dug into Clown’s power, even as his own is wilting. Had this taken place in the Parliament, or on the stage of the amphitheatre, a severe punishment would have been in order. But how could Branzy be punished? Death is out of the question. Torture, while efficient, would set a precedent.
Clown comes to no real conclusion by the time he’s interrupted.
“Clown,” Ferre’s voice alerts. Time, it means.
“He gets to call you that?” Branzy asks, incredulous. He’ll take work to control.
Ferre steps on Branzy’s foot, likely crushing it. “Perks of being a lifelong friend of your new master.”
Branzy’s face quickly shifts from a wince to an expression of curiosity, again. “What an honour it is to be in your presence, Knight-Commander of the Undying Empire. The tales I’ve heard of your savagery have inspired many tears! Why, you’re talked about as far away as the great mountains of the east! May the Ocean Queen bless your travels henceforth.”
A fantastic amount of work, it would seem.
Clown withdraws his weapon. “Shut him up.”
Ferre grins. “Gladly.”
Branzy doesn’t get another word out before a piece of cloth is roughly wrapped around his head, over his mouth. Still, he manages to look almost… content in this position. In his fall from grace.
An urge, a little twitch in Clown’s hand, has him walking up to Branzy’s side—facing the grand doors where Branzy is still kneeling before the throne—and raking his fingers through his hair. Gently, like one would a treasured pet.
Tilting his head ever so slightly, he manages nothing more than a small glance. But it’s enough. Clown sees an emptiness in Branzy’s eyes. Hollow, dull, and wide.
From outside, they begin to hear the demands of the people, loud as a storm, reverberating through the sandstone walls. They have waited plenty to see their greatest terror overpowered, subdued. Their impatience is due to Clown’s hesitation to arrange an execution.
He should have, but he couldn’t.
And despite the noise invading the hall, the sound which seems the loudest of all is the one of the rope around Branzy’s wrists being replaced with chains.