Chapter Text
Dawn creeps across the horizon. Pink sprawls over purples and blues. The crew of an old Dutch fluyt springs to life at the light. A bosun blows his whistle signaling for sails to be let loose. Sailors clamber up ratlines while the Pirate King assumes command of the helm. At the crow’s nest overhead, a high-pitched bell rings repeatedly.
The enemy ship has been spotted.
“Ready all Brutes and Gunners,” the King orders his First Mate. “Prepare for battle!”
“Aye, Captain!”
Señorita Hightower looks up from her journal, scanning the estate’s garden. Her expected guest is nowhere to be seen. How rude to keep a lady waiting. She’ll make sure to mention something to his wife about it. Oh, what is her name? Either Maria, or Mirabel…
It’s a beautiful, spring day in Baracoa, Cuba. Fluffy clouds inhabit a clear sky. Birds chase each other as bees buzz between flowers. Church bells chime eleven-o-clock. One could paint a picture of how perfect it appears.
Alicent scowls, decidedly unhappy.
Two years ago to this very day, her brother was deemed “lost at sea”; a staggering nine months after the ship he was enlisted on never returned to port. No formal investigation had ever been launched. There were no witnesses to interrogate.
Men go missing, Otto had written. Especially during times of conflict. Gwayne understood what was at stake. I know it’s difficult to comprehend, my dear, but these things happen.
The thought reverberates in her head.
These things happen.
No, it would take more than pleasant weather to lift her spirits. Especially because these things don’t just happen. Accidents occur, of course. Truly, the oceans can make a fool of any seasoned sailor. Yet, according to her own father, an entire battalion went missing. Three whole frigates disappeared, for Christ’s sake.
And not a single officer knows a damn thing about it!
She has spoken to Lieutenants, Captains, and Admirals alike. Some even traveled within days of passing her brother’s fleet. Every last one has the same answer, all said in strikingly similar words. What bothers her the most is how calculated everything sounds. It’s as if every CO has read from a prepared script.
“Some sort of sudden and/or terrible storm.”
It isn’t until she speaks to ordinary recruits that a different rumor begins to circulate; pirates. The problem, however, is that pirate activity is on the rise nowadays, with War taking precedence over Naval resources.
Why would a pirate attack, especially one of such a large extent, be lied about?
At last (and half an hour late) Admiral Garcia arrives, polished cane clacking against the stone walkway. A silk sash pulls tight around his protruding belly. He removes his cavalier hat to bow.
“Good afternoon! So sorry for the delay! Bad bit of gout, you see.”
“That’s quite alright, Admiral.” She smiles, but stays seated. “Would you like something to drink?”
“¡Claro que sí! Gracias, Señorita!”
The Butler brings over a tray of coffee as the Admiral sits and chats. He faithfully stirs four spoons of sugar into his cup.
“I'm so flattered to be the subject of your next novel. My wife says you write so beautifully!”
“You’re too kind, Señor.”
“She’ll be delighted to hear you are writing again. I know how she wishes you wrote more.”
She hums as he takes a sip. “I suppose my mourning period has extended longer than others.”
He looks a bit guilty. “Yes, well… It’s good to see you moving on from such matters. How are things with you and Señor Cole progressing?”
Alicent ignores his question. “Do you consider grief to be so bothersome, Admiral?”
He coughs. “I meant no offense. I know how hard it was for you women to accept news of the loss. We must have faith, Señorita, and trust that God has already given those souls peace.”
She nods. “How interesting that you mention God. You men seem to do that when cornered or clueless.”
Admiral Garcia chokes on his response. For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something rather untowards. If only he could catch his breath. He thumps a fist to his chest, then finishes his drink in an attempt to soothe his cough. She waits as he barely begins to speak before wheezing once more.
“I'm hoping you are the latter, Señor,” Alicent says. “Because I’d hate to think you were lying.”
“L-lying?” he sputters. “About what?”
“About the storm. About my brother. About anything really.”
“Why would I lie, Señorita? I’ve told you everything I know!” He calls for the Butler, who approaches emotionlessly. “¡Agua, por favor!”
Her servant doesn’t move.
“¡Por Dios, por santo muchacha! ¿Qué has hecho?”
“It’s just a bit of poison, Admiral. I can give you the antidote if you decide to be honest for once.”
He gapes, cheeks matching sash. “You’ll hang for this!”
“How bold of you to assume that anyone will find out.”
“My… my wife!” His pupils lose focus. “She’ll… she’ll come looking–”
“Mirabel will believe anything I tell her. Why would I lie? I’m sure she’ll learn to put her faith in God once you’re gone.”
There’s hardly another moment of deception. “Two survivors! One’s nearby! At St. Elmo’s!”
“Su nombre, Señor.”
“Juan Alfaro!” He falls to his knees. “¡Por favor, ten piedad!”
Alicent watches him clutch the hem of her farthingale as he fades and collapses. He’s still alive, of course. She didn’t give him a lethal dose; just enough to scare him. He should wake up in a few hours with nothing more than a stomach ache.
“Do you know of St. Elmo’s?” she asks her Butler.
The steward hesitates, concerned. “From what I understand, it’s an asylum for ex-navymen. The establishment is noble in design, but… Under-funded in practice.”
“Do you believe it to be dangerous, Señor?”
“Comparatively–” He looks at the Admiral on the ground. “No.”
So Alicent has the Coachman drive her across town to the other side of the cape, where an unassuming almshouse overlooks the bay. A worker directs them to the single-room Chapel on premises. Though small, the stone building is decently kept. Wildflowers bloom along a dirt path, while potted plants hang in available archways. She pauses at the entrance to mark the Cross upon herself, and calls out,
“Hello?”
A lone priest shuffles into view, short and slightly pale. He attempts to smooth out wrinkles in his attire, which is difficult due to the use of a crutch that’s not quite tall enough. A wooden crucifix hangs around his neck, but nothing else to denote a man of the cloth.
“My apologies!” he says with a timid smile. “Not many visitors this time of day.”
“That’s quite alright, Father. Are you available?”
“Oh! Um… yes. Yes, I suppose I am. What brings you here, my child?”
“Someone told me that I might find answers here.”
Instead of delving into a rehearsed God Has The Answers To All Things speech, the fellow seems flustered. “Um... There are many fine churches nearby. Big ones, with well-learned Men of God.”
“That is not what I am looking for. Tell me, Father, do you know someone called Juan Alfaro?”
“That’s… a rather common name. What business do you have with this man?”
“He served alongside my brother in the Navy.”
“Every man here has served with someone’s brother in the Navy. Is your brother, um… with God now?”
Her patience wanes. “He disappeared on La Bella Diana. Yes, I know about the ‘sudden and terrible storm’, but I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Why didn’t ships near that area experience bad weather, or find any wreckage? Why weren’t there announcements in the papers? Not one family member received a single letter! Just a man who came to my door and told me that my brother was gone.”
Alicent stops, embarrassed. Thankfully, however, the atmosphere shifts. Suspicion gives way to a certain amount of respect. The priest hobbles closer, offering a handkerchief. Beneath cotton sleeves are faded tattoos; a knotted rope about the wrist, and ‘hold fast’ on scarred knuckles.
She quickly wipes tears away with fabric of startlingly high quality. Green silk and embroidered gold. Initials are stitched into each corner. As she stares at it, recognition registers.
It’s Gwayne’s. It has to be!
“How did you get this?” she whispers.
“Come. We have much to discuss, Señorita Hightower.”
“I don’t go by Alfaro anymore.” Father Juan explains. “After I was rescued, I came home and gave my testimony. I didn’t have any superiors left, so I reported straight to the Ministry. They… did not agree with what I had to say.”
She waits for him to continue. They walk, albeit slowly, around a cemetery where roses grow on faded trellises that surround the enclosure. The silence feels heavy and somber.
“We were friends, you know. Your brother and I. Gwayne was… a damn good man.”
“Were you aboard La Bella Diana that night?”
He sighs, already weary. “Yes, but I didn’t see much. I was in the infirmary because of my leg. What little I did see was… chaos.”
A strange mix of hope and dread seeps into her pores. “Please. Go on.”
“It was just some bad fog, at first. We lost sight of the others, but that’s to be expected in rough weather. Then we started hearing cannon-fire...” He pauses here to ask, “Have you ever been in the middle of the ocean at night, Señorita?”
“Nunca, Padre.”
“When the moon is asleep, and the lights are out, the darkness becomes this physical, hungry thing. By the time a lookout spotted flames, there was an explosion from the other ship. Soon enough, someone saw the enemy off the starboard-bow, but it was too late.
“I don’t know what happened next. I think the damned thing rammed us. I was tossed clear across the med bay. A lot of men couldn’t recover from that... I didn’t want to die below deck, so I started to crawl upstairs. That’s where Gwayne found me. Together, we made it topside. Your brother was the first commanding officer to remove his tunic and wave it as a flag of surrender. More men followed suit.
“Eventually, we were split into groups. If a man fought, he died. Every sailor in our circle was spared because he surrendered. We were finally moved to the enemy’s ship, where we met the Captain.”
Juan pauses again, still terrified at the memory. Despite being outdoors and alone, his voice is hushed.
“He wore black, but still he glowed… Como La Muerte misma.”
She squeezes her rosary so tight that it dents her palms.
“We never learned his name; just that we were at the mercy of The Black Dragon, and that the Captain didn’t keep prisoners. Gwayne suggested setting the most injured adrift and putting able-bodied sailors to work. So me and one other man were loaded onto a dinghy. That’s the last I saw of your brother.”
Her thoughts race. “I… I must tell my father.”
Juan takes a deep breath, and chooses his words carefully. “The Ministry burned my testimonial. Alfaro died at sea with his crew. For your own sake, Señorita… please tread lightly.”
“Father, I don’t understand. Why would the Crown ignore all of this?”
“We’re in a War right now, Señorita Hightower. Men like me and your brother are… the price of victory, I guess.”
She asks Father Juan if he can remember anything else. He patiently recalls that the attack was mere days after leaving port. The weather must have been temperate, since he never feared sinking. His boat managed to reach a small island within a few more nightfalls. They were even able to build a signal fire, which attracted the merchant vessel that rescued them. So this incident happened in well-traveled waters and infuriatingly close.
She struggles to accept the motive behind the Ministry’s lack of retaliation. Are they truly so callous to their own countrymen? What about her brother, and the other prisoners? What if they’re still fighting to come home?
“Do you wish to continue?” Juan asks.
“I’m not sure,” she replies, exhausted. “... Do you think Gwayne is still alive, Father?”
He heaves a sigh. “I’d love to tell you that all things are possible through the Lord… but I’m not a very good Priest.”
Alicent departs soon thereafter, leaving a generous contribution in the Poor Box anyway.
The next phase of her plan involves a lot more patience than she anticipates.
Having a new ship’s name is a good start, but she has to retrace her steps with a different approach. Just as she did before, she dresses plainly and spends nights at El Cisne, a popular sailor’s bar by the docks. She bats her eyelashes, pretends to be an idiot, and asks men if they know anything about The Black Dragon.
Thus, Alicent wastes so much time listening to inebriated monologues. Most men tell exaggerated tales of saw-toothed leviathans, and ghost ships full of demons. Gradually, over time, certain rumors begin to repeat; a dark hull with bright sails, and a Captain bathed in blood.
Every other detail, however, remains inconsistent.
Sometimes, the Captain is a huge, hairy beast from hell. Sometimes, he’s a skeletal mirage that still moves and speaks. His approach is either accompanied by a chorus of the damned, or it’s as quiet as a calm wind. Her notes look more like a collection of fairytales instead of valuable information.
Cuticles are gnawed raw from the stress. She ties Gwayne’s handkerchief to her rosary, adding one more prayer to the chain. Mirabel mentions Admiral Garcia’s return to duty, which assuages at least one of Alicent’s concerns.
Spring turns to summer, and brings an influx of new ships to port. One June afternoon, a man bursts into El Cisne, surrounded by an entourage of giggling women. He swaggers up to the bar, throws down sacks of gold coin, and loudly orders the next round to be on the house;
“Courtesy of The Black Dragon!” he exclaims.
Alicent immediately swoops in, a hawk on the hunt. She elbows two brunettes aside, positioning herself in the perfect place for a providential bump into the newcomer.
“¡Ay, perdóname, guapo!” she says with a wink.
“¡Todo bien, amiga!” He quickly turns all attention to her. “¿Cómo estás?”
“Better now.” She offers her hand. “I’m Alice.”
“Mucho gusto, Señorita. Me llaman El Capitán.”
Wow… he looks nothing like she expects.
Blonde hair, blue eyes. Tan skin with a well-trimmed beard and mustache. His grin feels… off. He slides close, backing her uncomfortably against a wall as men crowd the bar for free drink. A hand overlaps hers.
“Are you spoken for, bonita?”
She bites her lower lip. “Do you want me to be spoken for, Señor?”
A sudden shift in the mass of people causes him to lurch forward. He practically falls on top of her, which is not part of the plan. Something sharp pinches her wrist. El Capitán chokes out a disgusting noise as he grabs at her shoulders. A warm, wet patch forms in his clothing.
“¡Suéltame!” she yells, wrenching free.
He slumps onto the counter, a sickening shade of white. Alicent tries to wipe his unholy mess off of herself, but freezes when she sees dark red dripping onto the floor.
Is that blood?!
It’s on her hands, her prayers, her chest. She looks back at blue eyes that stare lifelessly through her. Crimson stains his waxed mustache. A cloaked figure pauses while passing by.
“You are hurt.”
She double-checks, confirming a gash on her forearm. Vision blurs. Sounds distort around her, causing a loss of balance. The figure somehow guides her outside, where she sits next to a stranger who appears more confused than concerned.
“Ela está machucada,” the hood says.
“So I see,” the man replies, unmoved.
“Devo ter empurrado a lâmina longe demais.”
“I did advise you that might happen. Did I not?”
“Não seja um bastardo, Ossos. Devemos ajudá-la.”
“We?”
A high-pitched scream shatters the relative calm. People begin to cry “murder!”. She tries to speak, but can’t. Her tongue is too thick and her mouth is too dry.
“I strongly advise you to reconsider, Your Grace.”
“And I give you an order.”
She doesn’t manage to stay conscious for the rest of the argument.
She awakes on a thin, straw mattress. Crickets herald the arrival of dusk from an open window. A doctor places lit candles around the small room. Grey-white hair is cut short against alabaster skin. There’s a Roman nose on his scarred, shaven face.
Alicent groans and sits up, causing the man to acknowledge her from afar.
“Good evening.” His English carries a heavy accent. “How do you feel?”
She doesn’t know how to answer. Should she play polite? Or skip the nonsense and demand to know what the hell is going on?
His gaze flashes violet in the torchlight. “I ehm… apologize for your injury.”
Alicent follows his motion to her arm, which is cleanly stitched and wrapped in gauze. Her skin ripples with goosebumps.
“What happened?” she asks.
“We are not far from the docks.” His response is purposefully elusive. “Now that you are awake, I will go.”
“Wait!” Her head throbs. “Where is El Capitán?”
The doctor appears confused. “Oh, he is dead.”
Panic strikes her senses. That man can’t be dead! She had been so damn close! Too close to be thwarted by fate like this!
“But what of his ship?”
“Ehm… that I do not know.”
“Please, sir. I’m looking for someone who was last seen aboard The Black Dragon as a prisoner.”
“... The Black Dragon does not keep prisoners.”
“So I’ve heard. Still, I must find it.”
“Then you will find dead men.”
“¡No me importa! ¿Me oyes? Haré lo que sea necesario para encontrar a mi hermano. ¡Aunque tengo que cruzar el río Estigia!”
She sways, dizzy from her outburst. The doctor studies her while clenching and unclenching his sharp jaw. He checks his pocket watch, then sighs.
“Can you swim?”
An instinctive scoff. “I doubt it.”
“Can you shoot?”
“I never have.”
“Can you fight?”
“Why do you ask?” she huffs, annoyed.
“I want to help.” He seems frustrated. “I know a man who seeks The Black Dragon, but he is… complicated.”
She wills patience back into her aching body. “I can pay a handsome reward.”
“It is not about money.” He hesitates. “Ok, it is sometimes about money. But this man… he has no name, and he offers no promises. He wants to be invisible.”
“How does such a man command loyalty? Or communication?”
“There are rules.”
“What kind of rules?”
A knock on the door interrupts them, and a familiar stranger enters.
“Ah! Happy to see you not-dead, Miss.” He turns to the doctor. “Your Grace, we have to go.”
“Sim, eu vi a hora, Ossos.”
She slowly connects the dots, mouth hanging agape. These aren’t medical professionals; they’re the criminals from earlier. God grant her grace. She can’t tell if she’s annoyed or afraid.
“You killed El Capitán!” she says, dazed.
“Well…” Iris-eyes shrugs. “Yes.”
“You stabbed me! You kidnapped me!”
He makes a stifled, offended sound. “And I apologize!”
“Miss, we truly are sorry for all the trouble. We’re leaving right now. Aren’t we, Your Grace?”
“I’m coming with you,” she states as a fact, not a request.
The stranger glances between them, bewildered. “Is she serious?”
“Eu sou seu Caronte, Senhora?” The King asks, almost amused.
Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte.
Alicent readies her soul, clutching Gwayne’s blood-soaked handkerchief in her apron. “O que for preciso.”
His smile steals the air from her lungs. “Bem vindo a bordo La Caleuche, Rusla.”