Certainly Fooled

Chapter One

Blood dripped causally off Alexei's head. Drip. Snaking along the cold, wet floor. Drip. Through the silver, iron bars that imprisoned the young man. Drip. Alexei sighed, a column of cold air escaping out of his lungs, floating gracefully up to the top of his rotting cell. A tiny window sat pathetically at the back of his cell, revealing the open ocean being presented to him, as it violently battered at the ship – constantly trying to get to Alexei. From above, the grunts and cries of men on deck could be heard, constantly picking away at Alexei's lust for freedom – but, he could wait. Sluggishly, a guard stumbled outside his cell, throwing a piece of dry, stale bread into his cell. Without regard for Alexei, he began his accent out of his cell, before Alexei asked “Hey, you, whats the date?”. A short grunt escaped out of his mouth, his eyes narrowed, focusing on him. “Simple question, is it not? That date, if you will”. “September 18th, 1827” Hesitantly, he murmured.

“Many thanks” Alexei, almost sarcastically, replied. He looked about his cell, his blood still casually dripping off Alexei's forehead – where he was hit, no doubt. Something glinted, a minuet scribbled wall on the side of the cell that glistened ever so gently in the morning sun. Alexei stepped over to it, attempting to adjust his eyes to whatever hung itself off his cell wall so peacefully in such a hellish time. Finally, his eyes adjusted, focusing on the word scrawled on the cell. 'Certainly fooled', it read. Confused, Alexei stared at it, his mind formulating what this could possibly mean. Disregarding it, he slumped down into the corner of his cell. Drip. Allowing his fate to come to him. Drip. In hope that it will bring fortune, or a way out of his rotting cell.

3 days later...

“Open the doors!” 3 men stood at the iron bars that held back all of his fury for these people. They wore blue uniforms, lined with gold sashes around their bodies, gold embroiled pads sat calmly on their shoulders, a silver linen belt wrapped tightly around their waists. Russian, definitely. Resentfully, the iron bars that held back Alexei's fury were pulled open, releasing his fury into the world yet agan.

“The hell do you want” Alexei spat out, glaring angrily at the three Russian sailors.

“We're here!” One of them chuckled. A brown, neatly trimmed beard positioned itself on his face “Only you don't know where we are, now do you?”

“Evidently not...” Alexei sarcastically threw at him. One of the three men nodded. A fourth, not as nearly dressed man emerged from behind them into his cell, holding a musket tightly in his hand. Alexei's fists clenched and his eyes sharpened. Step. Each step taking him closer to his death. Step. Arrogantly. Step. Fooled by his shaggy, peasant like appearance. Step. Right into his trap.

Within an instant. Alexei lashed forward, grabbing hold of the musket and launching the stock into his chest. Forcing the bayonet into his gut, he fired the iron ball, that sat contently in the chamber, through his stomach; blowing the contents onto the floor by the three men. “Guards!” They frightfully called. A small grin flashed on Alexei's face. Wrapping the musket around the neck of his newly appointed hostage, he moved out of his cell – to be greeted by five fresh guards, five muskets aimed, five arrogant sailors, underestimating him due to appearance. “Fire!” one of the three men shouted. Sticking his foot squeamishly into the hole in his hostages stomach, he leapt backwards, up onto the rigging of the ship. Leaping across to the wheel, he rolled, finding himself a rack of fresh new, oak muskets. Taking one, he sprinted across the deck, springing off side, flying through the air as graceful as a feather. Slam! Landing, he rammed the bayonet through one of the five guard's chest, ducking just in time to avoid an attack. Moving forward, he threw his shoulder into the second guards stomach, grabbing his legs and launching him forward into the third guard. Stepping back, he made room between the fourth and fifth guard, who were coming at him just the same. A bayonet swung over his head, only for the musket to get caught on his arm and yanked forward; only to then be forced back to its master, the stock into his face – effectively knocking him down. The stock from the fifth guard's musket knocked Alexei to the floor, vision blurred, he rolled back up onto his feet, coming at his next attacker. Throwing punches and kicks in his direction, breaking his block with a thrust to the stomach and knocking him down with a kick to the face. Alexei spun around, his eyes darting energetically to each target, assessing their state. All down. A sigh of relief escaped his lungs as fast as he had dispatched the guards. His breathing was heavy, the thick, misty air clung to his clothes, drenching him to the bone. He made his way into the captains cabin, a heavily decorated room. A thick, red carpet ran along the floor, paintings of fellow ships stood proudly on the walls, a glass cabinet that once held a sword pushed itself off the ground near his desk, an eerie lamp faltered gently in the wind. Looking around, he went to the corner of the room. Opening some drawers, he pulled out a uniform, changing into the blue, fancy clothes. Moving to his desk, he checked the messy paperwork left behind in a hurry. Checking the documents carefully, Alexei's eyes widened in surprise. One word stood at the top of a map, one place circled boldly. Greece...