The Mermaid and the Pirate

Five

The blistering sun beat down on Aysel for hours on end, and the wooden mast at her back offered very little shade, as she was positioned above most of the sails. The wind slowed in the mid-afternoon hours, offering stifling heat and leaving her struggling to breathe. Sweat drenched the clothes that she had borrowed, and Aysel felt her mind growing fuzzy and distanced. 

She was unused to such heat, under direct sunlight, and such height above sea-level. Aysel closed her eyes to keep the world from spinning, the sea from blending into the sky in a kaleidoscope of shades of blue. 

Aysel opened her eyes some time later to see the sun starting to fall to the east. She pulled at the shirt sticking to her damp skin and looked around, shielding her eyes from the sunlight. The HMS Deliverance wasn't too far to the west, and was more or less keeping similar speed to the Lupus. Aysel licked her lips, her mouth and throat dry. She felt shriveled and weak, sick even. She needed water--she needed to drink it and be submerged in it. 

As Aysel studied the horizon, she saw a darkness obscuring the line where the sky met the sea. They were heading to it, and Aysel squinted to make it out.

Land, she assumed. She could do land. Anything was better than being up here, surrounded by nothing but sky. 

Aysel made to stand, but as she moved her wrists, she yelped in pain, her face drawn to its center. Looking down, she cradled her shackled wrist tenderly. There was dried blood on her arm, and her previous injury had bled through the linen scraps. She knew it would scar--battle wounds. Prisoner wounds, she reminded herself bitterly. 

Every movement, even the smallest one, caused the hot metal of the shackle to bite into her. A simple brush sent her lips curling. With a hiss as the shackle rubbed against her wound, Aysel rose as carefully as she could. Her hands clutched the wooden rail of the crow's nest as she peered down at the ship below her.

She stumbled back against the mast, her heart beating fast, and turned her eyes up to the sky. Her free hand clutched at the fabric in front of her heart. Too high. Too high. She'd never be able to get back down again. 

#####

Rafe checked the pocket-watch he kept on a long chain around his neck. It was battered and bruised and rusting, the gold varnish rubbed off in places and discolored in others. He checked the time, before looking up at the land mass in front of them. At this rate, they would make port in only a couple more hours, just before nightfall. That would give plenty of time for him and Gunnar to find a buyer for the naval ship, restock supplies, and allow most of the crew to spend several hours at the taverns. 

He himself was looking forward to the opportunity to unwind with cheap rum and loose women. Perhaps he would even bring one back to his private quarters, if he found one particularly desirable or talented. He even entertained the idea of letting her sleep with him there too. 

Lips curving up at the edges in a smirk, Rafe placed the watch back under his shirt. "Steady on," he told the helmsman, before strolling down to the main deck, surveying his men at their posts. 

Rafe's thoughts wandered to the strange scepter he'd extracted from the deceased Captain Martin. He'd need to examine it further, perhaps sail to consult with his specialist in New Providence, although that would be a very long journey just for an ornamental staff. It was probably nothing more than an over-exaggeration embodiment of wealth by a man born into luxury.  

Thoughts of the scepter soon led Rafe to remember the woman in the crow's nest. He groaned before casting his eyes up at her slumped figure, resting against the mast. She could until they'd reached Île Sainte-Marie. Or, better yet, she could spend all night up there.