𝐇𝐎𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 | 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐜

𝟏.𝟓 | 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

Although many would argue it was impossible to feel color, Frederick knew that his face matched a similar shade to the seaweed drifting by the ship's hull in clumps. His head lolled to the side while his eyes lazily rocked with the waves, urging his body to heave the foul slop considered breakfast and cleanse his intestines of the impurities he'd been fed since the moment of his capture.

"Any luck acquiring those sea legs, Frederico?" Diego asked with a firm slap on the back as he sidled up beside the prince—clearly lacking a better understanding of the term 'personal space'.

"I don't normally experience this sickness with such severity," Frederick admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And I'm not certain whether it's the fault of the ship or the captain sailing it."

"Or perhaps you've never truly experienced the Sea in her natural, untamed beauty," Diego suggested, lifting his brow playfully with a smug grin.

"It's this crew that's unruly," Frederick contradicted, scoffing as he tried to walk away from the conversation. However, the ship lurched as it raced across the sea crests, forcing him to reach back toward the rail which once supported him. He narrowly missed, and so it was the pirate's arm that actually provided support.

"Careful, Príncipe," Diego whispered into the prince's ear. His tone was stuck between a warning and a threat. "I'd hate to see you swimming with the sharks again so soon."

Frederick shuddered at the reminder of his near death at the tentacles of the kraken. It was only because of the pirate beside him that he was alive at this very moment... then again it was also this pirate's fault that he'd been captured and almost eaten in the first place.

Frederick pushed away from De Soto, dusting himself off. His nose wrinkled just from the proximity. It was almost a relief to know he hadn't adjusted to the stench of liquor and filth.

"Right, well—" Frederick paused as his ear twitched. He could've sworn he'd heard his sister somewhere off behind him. And every once in a while—not so long as he would like though—a sixth sense would send chills down his spine as if alerting him to trouble involving the young princess. He slowly turned, a look of confusion twisting his features as he tilted his head. "Anne... what are you doing?"

"Swinging a sword," she replied nonchalantly. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Trying to kill yourself," Diego answered, stepping up to take the sword from the girl by the hilt. "If you keep swinging it like that you're going to cut off your own head."

"Then how should I swing it?" Anne questioned, crossing her arms. But it was almost as if she were challenging the pirate to teach her, rather than pouting.

"How about not at all?" Frederick suggested as he pulled his sister closer to continue his reprimand in a more hushed tone. "It's improper for a lady to be acting as you are right now, Anne—"

"But I'm not Lady Anne right now, am I?" Anne interrupted, a glint of mischief sparkling in her eyes as if that was enough to get away with the way she was currently acting. "I'm Andrew the Pirate."

"Anne, you are the furthest thing from a pirate," Frederick contradicted. "You can't sail, you know little to nothing about the proper technique to wield a sword, and the fine wine you've tasted during the palace's annual festivities hardly compares to the copious amounts of liquor absorbed in these men's bloodstreams."