Pistols and Poisons

Their Fates Entwined

Harry Hook was ten years old when he lost his father and the only home he had ever known.

He stood on the enemies ship in sombre silence, thick metal restraints chaffing his wrists and his ankles. His eyes were glazed over as he watched the crackling fire devour his father's ship, The Jolly Roger. The old ship creaked and groaned as though in pain, like the dying screeches of some titanic beast from the deep. The masts were snapping like twigs, the sails sizzling away inch by inch, the main deck caving in and the outer shell of the vessel bursting and exploding as the flames reached the supply of gunpowder below deck. The night was so dark that one couldn't tell where the sea ended and the sky started. In this endless merging of sea and sky, for once in its life, The Jolly Roger was the brightest thing there was, brighter than even it's Captain's favourite star, the first star to the right.

Fleetingly, Harry's eye's searched the dark waters were the flames light shimmered across the choppy waves. He wondered if any of the crew had escaped the wreckage, forced to dive into the frigid waters. In the entanglement of darkness and waves, he could see no survivors, only burning driftwood and barrels. He wasn't sure if he prefered the thought of them having died at the hands of the enemies pistols and swords and canons, perishing among the flames of their vessel, or drowning in the icy waters when their energy finally relented and they succumbed to Posideon's watery hold.

How could everything go so wrong? His father never lost a fight. Never. Captain James Hook was the most fearsome and crafty pirate to ever sail the seven seas. No one could outsmart or beat him. He was a genius when it came to picking his battles. And yet... this time he had been wrong.

"What'll we do with the boy, Sir?" a grave voice whispered behind him, one of the gits of the enemy ship who had hauled him out of the water.

"He's a pirate. We'll do to him what we do to all pirates," another man's voice replied. His voice was calm and neutral, as though commenting on something as trivial and obvious as the weather.

"He's a child, Lord Beckett! How can we-"

"A pirates a pirate no matter what age they are. It'll send a message to all out there that ever even think to attack a ship of Queen Grinhilda!"

Queen Grinhilda? Was that who owned the ship? Harry paled, finding it hard to swallow. What could have possessed his father to think that this was a good idea? That wretched Queen's ships were infamous for being heavily armed and manned by the Navy's finest elite. Going against them was suicide! No matter how hard times were for pirates, the Queen's ship's were not an option to target. He may only be a cabin boy, but even he knew that! No matter how good a pirate his father was, even he couldn't have gone up against something like this.

Someone grabbed Harry by the scruff of his white shirt and threw him to his knees. He landed in front of another man. Harry grunted, glaring up at the older sailor. He seemed to be the captain, Lord Beckett the other man had addressed him as. He was tall and imposing, wearing a fancy blue suit and a ridiculous white wig under his hat. Harry knew the man looking down his nose at him had to be one of those snobby rich folks, one who had life handed to them on a silver platter. He most likely only became captain thanks to his family connections, probably hadn't earned the right like his father had.

"You young Sir, are guilty of piracy and attacking a vessel of Queen Grinhilda, an act otherwise known as treason. Therefore, it is convenient upon me to carry out a suitable justice. The Queen has decreed that all pirates must be killed on sight. In the name of her Majesty, Queen Grinhilda, I, Lord Cutler Beckett, must sentence you to death."

Harry's eyes widened and his chest heaved painfully. He bared his teeth at the man, jumping to his feet and taking a step forward, trying to come across as threateningly as he could. He doubted it did much good. He was only a small child, barely reaching the height of Beckett's waist. His clothes were dirty and drenched, his long hair plastered messily to his face. He was also chained and unarmed. What threat could he possibly be? Despite this, Harry couldn't help but try and square up to the Lord, his temper always getting the better of him.