Lament of the Asphodels - Chapter 9: Nemesis, Adrasteia
Title: Nemesis, Adrasteia, Chapter 9 of Lament of the Asphodels
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,700
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
A very long time ago in the Great Untamed Ocean, the Sailor's brace nearly chaffed through his skin by midday, and by nightfall, he gave up on adjusting and readjusting it. They would be making port by mid-morning tomorrow with two days of shore leave, and he was determined to acquire a more suitable mechanism to aid his service.
The sailor had lost his hand when pirates boarded the ship not two weeks past, though he could recall nothing of the event itself. He had been manning a cannon with a fellow crewmate one moment, awaiting orders from the Captain, and then he was knocked to the ground as a furious cry echoed over the water.
By the accounts of the crew, he had drawn his blade before he fell to the deck, and his cutlass escaped him. No sooner had he reached out and reclaimed it with his left hand then a scalawag swooped in and cut off the offending appendage to relieve him of his weapon. As far as could recall, however, there was nothing more than blackness and a horrific, radiating pain that emanated from his wrist.
The Bayman saved his life by cauterizing the wound and then salvaged his career by providing a makeshift brace and a temporary hook. The Acting Captain ordered him to rest, only allotting him light duties after much pleading on his part.
Wounded soldiers often had time to heal, but any sailor missing a member had to prove his salt before the navy caught wind of it and discharged him. It was a known truth from the bottom of the Southern Crescent to the top of Northedge, and he planned to prove his worth beyond question.
He rose with the first shift on the next morning to assist with docking. The Acting Captain retained a few men to mind the ship before formally announcing shore leave, and the crew filed off the ship in jubilation, the Sailor among them.
He found the blacksmith first. The Smithie was an older man with a long, silver beard and white streaks in his otherwise dark, dark hair. The man was far from wanting in business, yet he promised the Sailor three new hooks the next morning for his inspection.
Flush with success, the Sailor proceeded to the best Healer in port, a man widely known for his abilities. In fact, many stories imbued the man with a kind of power - magic, as the tales went - that revived even those on threshold of death.
Though he was no nearer to dying today than he had been on any other, the Sailor decided the best Healer would provide him with the best chance of enabling him to continue in the service. That was how he came to be outside the Practice of the White Whale, a curious name for a curious doctor.
The Healer's renown had drawn countless others, so the Sailor spent the better part of the day waiting in a small, overcrowded room on the hopes that there would be time yet to have his complaint heard. It came to the point where he feared that he would be forced to return tomorrow at the earliest possible hour just to confer with the Healer once, and he wondered if he might not be better off requesting aid from a less popular physician, lest he miss his only opportunity to seek true medical aid till they reached port in the Midlands, nearly three months hence.
"Excuse me, Sailor?" the young man who had requested his name hours previously asked. "The doctor will see you now."
The majority of the room through him jealous or angry stares as he followed the Healer's Assistant to the back room, though he could hardly blame them. Moments ago, he would've gladly joined in their ire had another's name been called.
The backroom was larger than he thought, with a high ceiling, and was stocked with a number of uncomfortable looking instruments. The Assistant shut him inside, and he waited for what seemed like hours. He wondered if they had forgotten about him, locked up and gone home, leaving him like some wayward traveler without a second thought or care.
He was about to leave to inquire after the time when a man came into the room. He had fair, somewhat ruddy skin with oddly fine features. His youth could no more be denied than the nose on his face, yet the shock of white hair atop his head suggested more years than the Bayman. His eyes were a pale blue, like the color a man's lips turn when he's been too long in cold water.
"I'm Doctor Victor White, or the Healer, if you will. My apologies for the wait," he announced, his smugness and superiority a match for a man with his far-reaching reputation. "I always make time for a sailor the day he arrives. I know you don't have much time ashore, and I appreciate you coming to me. Now, before we begin, I have a few questions."
No doubt the Healer was foreign, for the navy had sent the Sailor across the world, from the Southern Crescent to the end of Northedge, and nowhere had he ever heard anyone announce his title and born name in one sentence. It was a strange custom, and his continued practice of it was surely aberrant in this area. He didn't have long to think on it, however, for the Healer began to ask endless questions.
In fact, there were a tedious number of inquiries regarding his name, birth, and the ship on which he sailed. Then he had to explain his injury, even after he admitted that his knowledge of events was second hand. Thereafter, the Healer asked him to remove the brace, and the Sailor obliged.
"If you don't mind me saying," the Healer began. "I don't have occasion to meet many people who travel, and I've certainly never met anyone with so interesting a name. Tell me, do you know why your parents chose Killian?"
The Sailor flinched at the sound of his born name, though he understood the man's curiosity, for nearly anyone who had heard his born name had asked him the same question. Though it was a rare occasion, he doubted many others would've minded the question as much as he did, for truth be told, he had no idea whatsoever as to why he was named Killian. Both his middle and surname were for his father, Brennan Jones, but he never met the man. He had been raised by his decade-older brother, Liam, who was all the family he had known before they joined the navy.
When Liam was promoted to Lieutenant, he was commissioned to another ship, and the brothers had been separated ever since. The Sailor had always hoped their commissions might dovetail in the future, that he might serve under the best man he had ever known, but there were a few times when he was happy their service had diverged. Had Liam been aboard during this last mission, he would've faced the same pirates who took both the Captain and his hand.
"I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject," the Healer said, misreading the Sailor's silence as offense.
"It's hardly sore," the Sailor replied. "Nothing like this."
He held up his stump, which looked particularly limp and broken with all the chaffed and blistered skin.
"Ah, may I?" the Healer asked, indicating a desire to inspect the wound.
The Sailor nodded and held his stump out as far as he could, and the Healer reached out, supporting his bruised upper arm to better inspect the injury. It wasn't physically painful beyond pressing against a fresh bruise, but there was deep, abiding ache from having someone so closely inspect such an ugly part of himself. He answer the Healer's question more to distract himself than anything else.
"As far as I know, none in my family share my born name. My brother insisted that our mother selected it, though no one in her family had it, either. Before she passed, she told him that she wanted me to have something of my own, something no one else I'd ever meet would have. Having little in the way of goods or money and nothing in the way of titles, she afforded me a unique name."
"Ah," the Healer remarked, though it seemed like he hadn't heard a word of it. "Well, mothers do their best, don't they?"
"I hardly knew mine," the Sailor replied. "I can't remember her."
"The same with me, as it happens," the Healer said as he stepped away. "You are a lucky man."
"You have an interesting vantage point on the nature of luck," the Sailor retorted.
The Healer turned his back and began riffling through the cabinets and drawers. He returned with a small, dark jar with a large stopper secured by a length of rope.
"The way I see it, that wound would've killed most men," the Healer said. "Any who survived it would hardly be able to support weight on the stump or surrounding tissue, let alone tolerate that makeshift monstrosity you've been wearing."
"The Bayman had few supplies," the Sailor said defensively. "He did more than most."
"I'm not criticizing," The Healer replied, though it was quite obvious that was exactly what he had been doing moments ago. "I can tell that the injury is quite recent and that it was expertly treated. You would be dead had that not been the case. I appreciate the efforts of your Bayman, and I'm sure you do as well. My concern, however, is for the broken skin and, to a lesser extent, the bruising."
"I can outlast the blisters until they callous over," the Sailor replied. "I endured as much with my hands, when I had both of them."
"While I can understand the parallel," The Healer began. "It's not the same. Blisters like this won't callous as your hands did, and if they become infected... the limb is compromised enough."
"So what do you suggest?" the Sailor asked. "I need two hands - or one hand and something comparable - to continue my service."
"If that's your intent, then let me fit you with a proper brace," the Healer said. "First things first, take this salve. Apply it to the blisters once before bed, once in the morning until they heal completely. If there is any additional swelling or redness, discontinue the brace for a few days of rest. I'm certain that your Captain will understand."
The Sailor wanted to point out that the Healer had obviously never served aboard a vessel, but he resisted the urge. He simply nodded his head, yes.
"How soon can you arrange for a brace?" the Sailor asked. "We leave port not tomorrow morning, but the next."
"Well, then we'd better fit you right now," the Healer replied.
Several incredibly uncomfortable hours later, the Sailor paid the Healer nearly all of his coin for a much-improved brace and the salve for his skin. He had just enough to pay the Smithie, so with a heavy heart he returned to the ship, as he was unable to pay for lodging at the tavern.
He left the ship at dawn the next day, arriving at the blacksmith just as he opened. Though he was sorry to be parted with the last of his funds, he walked away with three new hooks of superb quality, and he could hardly lament their cost.
He walked around the market a few times, glancing at the many things he could no longer purchase. It was strange. Yesterday, when he had coin in his pocket, he hardly gave anything a second glance. Yet now that he had none to offer, he coveted something from every shop.
To resist temptation, he returned to the harbor and spent the rest of his free hours watching the comings and goings on from a high hill. He would've spent the rest of his day there, but his stomach demanded sustenance. He had but one option, to return to the ship's mess.
"Permission to come aboard!" he asked, his back rigid and his head held high.
"Granted, Sailor," the Acting Captain replied. "Report to my quarters immediately."
The Sailor obeyed, expecting a command to remain aboard for the remainder of their time in port. He thought they'd meet in the First Mate's cabin, but they continued on to the Captain's quarters.
"I was named Captain by the Admiral this morning," the Acting Captain - now Captain - explained as he opened the door. "Please, sit."
The Sailor sat down at the Captain's dining table, which would normally be a great honor, but something about the way the Captain spoke that told him that this was not about honor.
"The Admiral was in port because his ship was attacked by pirates not one week past, not far from this harbor," the Captain continued. "They were not nearly as lucky. They suffered dozens of casualties and the ship required a full week's worth of repairs, though, through good fortune, she will set sail tomorrow with us as her escort."
"We're to escort the Admiral?" the Sailor asked, not bothering to hide the awe in his voice. It was an incredible honor for a new Captain and his crew.
"Tomorrow morn, as planned," the Captain replied. "But the Admiral brought disturbing news that concerns you, Sailor, or rather, your brother."
"My brother?" the Sailor repeated. "Did he... is he among the dead?"
"No, it were better if he was," the Captain said.
The Sailor rose to his feet in a fit of fury. Who would dare say such a thing about his brother? No matter how badly he was wounded, he had served the navy with honor and good form. Who that sailed under that same flag dared wish him dead?
"Sit down, Sailor," the Captain ordered.
He obliged, though the fierce anger raged on inside him as he waited for the Captain explain himself.
"Your brother was not injured," the Captain said. "Nearly a dozen sailors under the Admiral's command saw him fight quite formidably under the pirate's flag. This confirms reports that your brother has turned against King and country."
"He would never do that," the Sailor replied. "Never. Not so long as he lived."
"The Admiral did not believe it either," the Captain continued. "You two once served under him back when he was a Captain. He trained you both. He told anyone who would listen that Lieutenant Liam Jones is no traitor. But he was among the dozen sailors who saw him. Your brother isn't just a pirate, he is the Pirate Captain."
"No, that can't be true," the Sailor muttered. "He'd never... he couldn't do such a thing."
"I told the Admiral that those same pirates took your left hand," the Captain continued. "I explained to him that there is no way you could be in league with your brother, or any pirate for that matter, but as we are escorting the Admiral to safety, he cannot risk being wrong about both of you. You are hereby discharged of your service from this vessel and all others in the Royal Navy, till a time when your commission can be formally reviewed. The Royal Navy will send word of your new assignment, I have no doubt in that, Sailor."
The Sailor was too shocked to say anything. His brother, a pirate? It was as impossible as taking up the jolly roger himself. How long would it take the Navy to realize their mistake? He had spent his last coin in port so that he could have the means to continue his service.
"I realize that this news comes as a shock," the Captain continued. "And, knowing your dedication to the service, I am aware that you have spent most of your earnings to treat your injury."
"All of it," the Sailor replied. "I spent all of it."
"Which is why I've arranged additional payment, though I will admit, it isn't much," the Captain said, placing a small coin purse on the table. "The navy expects you to remain at this port. Finding a job with your skillset will be no trouble at all, but the decree set down by the Admiral forbids you from serving on any crew, even for a private vessel."
"I'm to remain on land?" the Sailor asked.
It was the last blow he could take. The false accusations against his brother, being suspended from the service, and now abandoned in Northedge until some distant panel meted out his fate? What kind of madman ordered a perfectly fine Sailor to never board another ship?
"If you defy these orders, Sailor, the Navy will discharge you without question," the Captain said. "I'm certain you will find work at the port, even if it is beneath you. Now, you have your orders, Sailor. You have an hour to pack your things, say your goodbyes, and leave my ship."
The Sailor was too confused to do anything but follow his training, which told him to stand up, stand ready, and reply to his Captain with respect.
"Aye, aye, Captain," he said, though the misery in his voice was quite apparent.
He turned on his heels and left the cabin, gathering his paltry possessions before ascending to deck. He cast a wary eye over the place he had called home for many years, wondering if the crew would know of his discharge or if they would be left to assume his injury was too much for him to bear in service. It took nearly all the strength he had to step over the threshold of the ship onto the docking plank, and as he walked away, he remembered he had returned for the mess. But his hunger had been forgotten in the wake of the announcement, and as he made his way through the throng of nameless people in the market, he wondered if he'd ever feel the pangs of hunger again.
The Sailor received word nigh six months later when a Messenger delivered an envelope bearing the official seal of the Royal Navy. The first letter informed the Sailor that he had been discharged from service evermore due to his injury. The second letter was obviously an unofficial enclosure, for the handwriting suggested that a serviceman under the Naval Commission penned it rather than a scribe.
Dear Sailor (born KBJ):
I made several attempts to send word through unofficial channels, but I fear none have reached you, as Northedge is not known for its reliability in that regard, and I would not wish such vital news to be lost to you until some manner of rumor or half-truth finds its way to you. It is for this alone that I include this note in your official discharge, which has a guaranteed manner and method of delivery. I wish to emphasize that the information I hereafter impart had absolutely no barring upon the decision of the Royal Naval Commission.
Some eight weeks prior to the writing of this letter, the Admiral (born RHL) captured the notorious Pirate Captain who went by the moniker Captain Drake. His defeat and arrest revealed his true identity, Lieutenant (born LMJ) of the Royal Naval, and thereafter was remanded to the Court of the Royal Navy, where he was tried fairly, found guilty, and executed two days prior to the writing of this letter. Though he requested a burial at sea, the Royal Navy order his remains cremated, and the Admiral had his ashes interred in a pauper's field, for he refused to lay him to rest in the same place as the many mariners that died at the behest of the Pirate Captain.
I write to you with neither remorse nor regret, for there is no doubt in my mind - nor anyone else's - that the man was guilty beyond reproach. Yet I am sorry to see another sailor, especially one so dedicated to the service, suffer on the Pirate Captain's account. As he is your brother, his loss must grieve you deeply.
I am sincerely and forever yours,
The Constable (born WS)
With a shaking hand, the Sailor re-read the first letter, which thanked him for his years of service by providing a generous severance that would cover his cost of living for many a year. Sure enough, notes worth several hundred gold coin were clipped inside the envelope. Once the Messenger witness the discovery of the currency within, he curtly bowed to the former Sailor and took his leave.
Now alone, he read over the letters again and again, certain he merely dreamed this terrible nightmare, and it would not be long before the cock crowed, waking him from his slumber. His brother was a good man who would rather die than betray his loyalties. He'd never become a pirate, yet his own country found him guilty.
The Royal Navy had tried his only living kin without sending him word, without affording him the opportunity to speak on his brother's behalf. Surely a citizen - let alone a Sailor whose service earned thanks - had the right to know about his brother's capture, trial, and subsequent verdict. Did he not have the right to speak to him one last time before his execution? To handle the final will and testament of his brother? To attend to his brother's remains? Yet the only reason he received news at all was some stranger - an unfamiliar Constable - had both the compassion and presence of mind to scribe a missive and took extraordinary measures to ensure its arrival.
The former Sailor looked over the letter again, searching for any vague reference or veiled allusion to a shared past between the Constable and either himself or his brother. The man - his sex was apparent from his penmanship - acknowledged individuals by a combination of their title and birth initials, a common practice to disambiguate strangers, yet he knew all three initials of both his and his brother's born names, which suggested more than a passing familiarity. The fact that he wrote the letter at all suggested the same, for most would do whatever possible to distance themselves from convicted traitors and their kin.
The Constable denoted the Admiral as RHL, Robin Hood of Locksley, which meant he probably spent some time serving under him, for only those who served the man had cause to know his middle name. The valediction - sincerely and forever yours - was odd, both for a seafaring man and a stranger, as was his choice to sign only two initials despite addressing all others with three.
Unless he only has two initials, he thought, for orphans often only possessed a single name before they grew to an age when they could earn a title and position. Then they oft selected a surname, though it was never a proper family name like Jones or Locksley. It was fashionable to choose a natural element - Snow, Rain, Fire - but traditionally, orphans took colors for family names.
Will Scarlet, he recalled. A thief who took on commission to avoid prison, or so it was said of him.
He had served as a Cabin Boy when the former Sailor and his brother were Trainees under the Admiral, back then the Captain. With any luck, he would thank the Constable born William Scarlet in person for his trouble.
The former Sailor counted his severance. It was enough to make a return trip home, and once there, he could dig up his brother's ashes. Even if the Admiral persisted in his refusal of a burial at sea, at least he could lay him to rest in a plot near their mother's. It was the least he could do for the man who raised him.
Bitterness boiled inside him. Had the Royal Navy known that the Lieutenant had spent all his youth raising his younger brother, would they still have failed to notify him? He had sworn his life in service to his country, yet they denied him the most basic right: to say goodbye to someone he loved.
He had all but made his plans when he noticed a third missive tied to the back of the last note of currency, and it was as official as his discharge. At first glance, it appeared to be a pronouncement, and he assumed that it rescinded the order that kept him landlocked and asserted his right to serve aboard private ships, as he was no longer in the service of the Royal Navy, and therefore, they had no reason to restrict his activities.
By order of the Royal Naval Commission of the Midlands:
Let it be known that, on this day, for all of time forward, that the former Sailor born Killian Brennan of the family Jones will be forbidden from service aboard any seafaring vessel, public or private, be it from the Midlands, Northedge, or the Southern Crescent.
Let it be known from sea to sea, from the Great Untamed Ocean to the Endless Sea down to the Sea of Sorrow.
He read it over twice, not believing the words before him, which burned into his eyes as proof that the navy had found him guilty of piracy without a trial. A lifelong ban from service at sea was the kind of punishment they meted out in such cases.
Disgusted, the former Sailor ripped through the decree with his hook, allowing the shreds to fall to the floor, but it failed to alleviate his grief and anger. No doubt, the Messenger had handed the notice to every Dockmaster in Northedge before delivering the letter, for those were the standard orders for Messengers traveling afar on business for the Royal Navy.
No captain would dare take him on in any capacity. It would take weeks before he found a vessel that would accept him as a passenger, and he'd have to spend every penny of his severance just to make it to the Midlands. Then he would have no means for traveling on land the rest of the way home.
It would take months - no, years - to save enough currency to bury his brother properly. And then what would he do? He had nothing in the way of family in the Midlands. An honorable former Sailor with one hand would be a fine match for many potential spouses, but now his surname came with the taint of piracy. And though the navy did not condemn him formally, they abandoned him in Northedge with a pittance and revoked his right to a life on the sea, which was the only life he knew. There was no doubt that all the Midlands would see that as a punishment, his life only spared because the navy hesitated those to kill those dismembered in its service.
So they saw to it that there would be no way for him to return home, lest he pollute the next generation, and they likewise ensured he would never bury his own brother. That last indignity was the one he could not abide, for he had given not just his hand to the service but his heart as well. In return, they stole every duty and honor from him, leaving him to rot in some faraway country, never to think on him again.
The former Sailor took the letter of his discharge and the Constable's note and tucked them into his breast pocket, for they were things that he needed to remember. His own country had besmirched his family name and betrayed their promises to a good man, and he vowed that he would never again put his heart and his service into the hands of others.
From that day forward, he never spoke to anyone unless it was in regard to work or wage. He soon learned that he had no love of drink or singing nor any other thing that he once shared in the company of others.
And above all else, he refused a title, only accepting work on a day-to-day basis, being paid a fair wage with no name other than Stranger. But after a time, people began to call him the Recluse, and he had no recourse against it. What else would a mariner banned from the sea become when all his living kin were dead and gone?
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Chapter 10: The Mask of Lethe
(coming soon...)
Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
The Greek goddess Nemesis was the deity of divine retribution and a terrifying force of revenge. One of her epitaphs was Adrasteia, meaning "the inescapable."
Author dracox-serdriel
Artist: LiamJcnes
Word count: 4,700
Rating/Warnings: For rating and full warning, please see the primary post.
Note: Written as part of Captain Swan Big Bang 2016.
[see Chapter Notes]
A very long time ago in the Great Untamed Ocean, the Sailor's brace nearly chaffed through his skin by midday, and by nightfall, he gave up on adjusting and readjusting it. They would be making port by mid-morning tomorrow with two days of shore leave, and he was determined to acquire a more suitable mechanism to aid his service.
The sailor had lost his hand when pirates boarded the ship not two weeks past, though he could recall nothing of the event itself. He had been manning a cannon with a fellow crewmate one moment, awaiting orders from the Captain, and then he was knocked to the ground as a furious cry echoed over the water.
By the accounts of the crew, he had drawn his blade before he fell to the deck, and his cutlass escaped him. No sooner had he reached out and reclaimed it with his left hand then a scalawag swooped in and cut off the offending appendage to relieve him of his weapon. As far as could recall, however, there was nothing more than blackness and a horrific, radiating pain that emanated from his wrist.
The Bayman saved his life by cauterizing the wound and then salvaged his career by providing a makeshift brace and a temporary hook. The Acting Captain ordered him to rest, only allotting him light duties after much pleading on his part.
Wounded soldiers often had time to heal, but any sailor missing a member had to prove his salt before the navy caught wind of it and discharged him. It was a known truth from the bottom of the Southern Crescent to the top of Northedge, and he planned to prove his worth beyond question.
He rose with the first shift on the next morning to assist with docking. The Acting Captain retained a few men to mind the ship before formally announcing shore leave, and the crew filed off the ship in jubilation, the Sailor among them.
He found the blacksmith first. The Smithie was an older man with a long, silver beard and white streaks in his otherwise dark, dark hair. The man was far from wanting in business, yet he promised the Sailor three new hooks the next morning for his inspection.
Flush with success, the Sailor proceeded to the best Healer in port, a man widely known for his abilities. In fact, many stories imbued the man with a kind of power - magic, as the tales went - that revived even those on threshold of death.
Though he was no nearer to dying today than he had been on any other, the Sailor decided the best Healer would provide him with the best chance of enabling him to continue in the service. That was how he came to be outside the Practice of the White Whale, a curious name for a curious doctor.
The Healer's renown had drawn countless others, so the Sailor spent the better part of the day waiting in a small, overcrowded room on the hopes that there would be time yet to have his complaint heard. It came to the point where he feared that he would be forced to return tomorrow at the earliest possible hour just to confer with the Healer once, and he wondered if he might not be better off requesting aid from a less popular physician, lest he miss his only opportunity to seek true medical aid till they reached port in the Midlands, nearly three months hence.
"Excuse me, Sailor?" the young man who had requested his name hours previously asked. "The doctor will see you now."
The majority of the room through him jealous or angry stares as he followed the Healer's Assistant to the back room, though he could hardly blame them. Moments ago, he would've gladly joined in their ire had another's name been called.
The backroom was larger than he thought, with a high ceiling, and was stocked with a number of uncomfortable looking instruments. The Assistant shut him inside, and he waited for what seemed like hours. He wondered if they had forgotten about him, locked up and gone home, leaving him like some wayward traveler without a second thought or care.
He was about to leave to inquire after the time when a man came into the room. He had fair, somewhat ruddy skin with oddly fine features. His youth could no more be denied than the nose on his face, yet the shock of white hair atop his head suggested more years than the Bayman. His eyes were a pale blue, like the color a man's lips turn when he's been too long in cold water.
"I'm Doctor Victor White, or the Healer, if you will. My apologies for the wait," he announced, his smugness and superiority a match for a man with his far-reaching reputation. "I always make time for a sailor the day he arrives. I know you don't have much time ashore, and I appreciate you coming to me. Now, before we begin, I have a few questions."
No doubt the Healer was foreign, for the navy had sent the Sailor across the world, from the Southern Crescent to the end of Northedge, and nowhere had he ever heard anyone announce his title and born name in one sentence. It was a strange custom, and his continued practice of it was surely aberrant in this area. He didn't have long to think on it, however, for the Healer began to ask endless questions.
In fact, there were a tedious number of inquiries regarding his name, birth, and the ship on which he sailed. Then he had to explain his injury, even after he admitted that his knowledge of events was second hand. Thereafter, the Healer asked him to remove the brace, and the Sailor obliged.
"If you don't mind me saying," the Healer began. "I don't have occasion to meet many people who travel, and I've certainly never met anyone with so interesting a name. Tell me, do you know why your parents chose Killian?"
The Sailor flinched at the sound of his born name, though he understood the man's curiosity, for nearly anyone who had heard his born name had asked him the same question. Though it was a rare occasion, he doubted many others would've minded the question as much as he did, for truth be told, he had no idea whatsoever as to why he was named Killian. Both his middle and surname were for his father, Brennan Jones, but he never met the man. He had been raised by his decade-older brother, Liam, who was all the family he had known before they joined the navy.
When Liam was promoted to Lieutenant, he was commissioned to another ship, and the brothers had been separated ever since. The Sailor had always hoped their commissions might dovetail in the future, that he might serve under the best man he had ever known, but there were a few times when he was happy their service had diverged. Had Liam been aboard during this last mission, he would've faced the same pirates who took both the Captain and his hand.
"I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject," the Healer said, misreading the Sailor's silence as offense.
"It's hardly sore," the Sailor replied. "Nothing like this."
He held up his stump, which looked particularly limp and broken with all the chaffed and blistered skin.
"Ah, may I?" the Healer asked, indicating a desire to inspect the wound.
The Sailor nodded and held his stump out as far as he could, and the Healer reached out, supporting his bruised upper arm to better inspect the injury. It wasn't physically painful beyond pressing against a fresh bruise, but there was deep, abiding ache from having someone so closely inspect such an ugly part of himself. He answer the Healer's question more to distract himself than anything else.
"As far as I know, none in my family share my born name. My brother insisted that our mother selected it, though no one in her family had it, either. Before she passed, she told him that she wanted me to have something of my own, something no one else I'd ever meet would have. Having little in the way of goods or money and nothing in the way of titles, she afforded me a unique name."
"Ah," the Healer remarked, though it seemed like he hadn't heard a word of it. "Well, mothers do their best, don't they?"
"I hardly knew mine," the Sailor replied. "I can't remember her."
"The same with me, as it happens," the Healer said as he stepped away. "You are a lucky man."
"You have an interesting vantage point on the nature of luck," the Sailor retorted.
The Healer turned his back and began riffling through the cabinets and drawers. He returned with a small, dark jar with a large stopper secured by a length of rope.
"The way I see it, that wound would've killed most men," the Healer said. "Any who survived it would hardly be able to support weight on the stump or surrounding tissue, let alone tolerate that makeshift monstrosity you've been wearing."
"The Bayman had few supplies," the Sailor said defensively. "He did more than most."
"I'm not criticizing," The Healer replied, though it was quite obvious that was exactly what he had been doing moments ago. "I can tell that the injury is quite recent and that it was expertly treated. You would be dead had that not been the case. I appreciate the efforts of your Bayman, and I'm sure you do as well. My concern, however, is for the broken skin and, to a lesser extent, the bruising."
"I can outlast the blisters until they callous over," the Sailor replied. "I endured as much with my hands, when I had both of them."
"While I can understand the parallel," The Healer began. "It's not the same. Blisters like this won't callous as your hands did, and if they become infected... the limb is compromised enough."
"So what do you suggest?" the Sailor asked. "I need two hands - or one hand and something comparable - to continue my service."
"If that's your intent, then let me fit you with a proper brace," the Healer said. "First things first, take this salve. Apply it to the blisters once before bed, once in the morning until they heal completely. If there is any additional swelling or redness, discontinue the brace for a few days of rest. I'm certain that your Captain will understand."
The Sailor wanted to point out that the Healer had obviously never served aboard a vessel, but he resisted the urge. He simply nodded his head, yes.
"How soon can you arrange for a brace?" the Sailor asked. "We leave port not tomorrow morning, but the next."
"Well, then we'd better fit you right now," the Healer replied.
Several incredibly uncomfortable hours later, the Sailor paid the Healer nearly all of his coin for a much-improved brace and the salve for his skin. He had just enough to pay the Smithie, so with a heavy heart he returned to the ship, as he was unable to pay for lodging at the tavern.
He left the ship at dawn the next day, arriving at the blacksmith just as he opened. Though he was sorry to be parted with the last of his funds, he walked away with three new hooks of superb quality, and he could hardly lament their cost.
He walked around the market a few times, glancing at the many things he could no longer purchase. It was strange. Yesterday, when he had coin in his pocket, he hardly gave anything a second glance. Yet now that he had none to offer, he coveted something from every shop.
To resist temptation, he returned to the harbor and spent the rest of his free hours watching the comings and goings on from a high hill. He would've spent the rest of his day there, but his stomach demanded sustenance. He had but one option, to return to the ship's mess.
"Permission to come aboard!" he asked, his back rigid and his head held high.
"Granted, Sailor," the Acting Captain replied. "Report to my quarters immediately."
The Sailor obeyed, expecting a command to remain aboard for the remainder of their time in port. He thought they'd meet in the First Mate's cabin, but they continued on to the Captain's quarters.
"I was named Captain by the Admiral this morning," the Acting Captain - now Captain - explained as he opened the door. "Please, sit."
The Sailor sat down at the Captain's dining table, which would normally be a great honor, but something about the way the Captain spoke that told him that this was not about honor.
"The Admiral was in port because his ship was attacked by pirates not one week past, not far from this harbor," the Captain continued. "They were not nearly as lucky. They suffered dozens of casualties and the ship required a full week's worth of repairs, though, through good fortune, she will set sail tomorrow with us as her escort."
"We're to escort the Admiral?" the Sailor asked, not bothering to hide the awe in his voice. It was an incredible honor for a new Captain and his crew.
"Tomorrow morn, as planned," the Captain replied. "But the Admiral brought disturbing news that concerns you, Sailor, or rather, your brother."
"My brother?" the Sailor repeated. "Did he... is he among the dead?"
"No, it were better if he was," the Captain said.
The Sailor rose to his feet in a fit of fury. Who would dare say such a thing about his brother? No matter how badly he was wounded, he had served the navy with honor and good form. Who that sailed under that same flag dared wish him dead?
"Sit down, Sailor," the Captain ordered.
He obliged, though the fierce anger raged on inside him as he waited for the Captain explain himself.
"Your brother was not injured," the Captain said. "Nearly a dozen sailors under the Admiral's command saw him fight quite formidably under the pirate's flag. This confirms reports that your brother has turned against King and country."
"He would never do that," the Sailor replied. "Never. Not so long as he lived."
"The Admiral did not believe it either," the Captain continued. "You two once served under him back when he was a Captain. He trained you both. He told anyone who would listen that Lieutenant Liam Jones is no traitor. But he was among the dozen sailors who saw him. Your brother isn't just a pirate, he is the Pirate Captain."
"No, that can't be true," the Sailor muttered. "He'd never... he couldn't do such a thing."
"I told the Admiral that those same pirates took your left hand," the Captain continued. "I explained to him that there is no way you could be in league with your brother, or any pirate for that matter, but as we are escorting the Admiral to safety, he cannot risk being wrong about both of you. You are hereby discharged of your service from this vessel and all others in the Royal Navy, till a time when your commission can be formally reviewed. The Royal Navy will send word of your new assignment, I have no doubt in that, Sailor."
The Sailor was too shocked to say anything. His brother, a pirate? It was as impossible as taking up the jolly roger himself. How long would it take the Navy to realize their mistake? He had spent his last coin in port so that he could have the means to continue his service.
"I realize that this news comes as a shock," the Captain continued. "And, knowing your dedication to the service, I am aware that you have spent most of your earnings to treat your injury."
"All of it," the Sailor replied. "I spent all of it."
"Which is why I've arranged additional payment, though I will admit, it isn't much," the Captain said, placing a small coin purse on the table. "The navy expects you to remain at this port. Finding a job with your skillset will be no trouble at all, but the decree set down by the Admiral forbids you from serving on any crew, even for a private vessel."
"I'm to remain on land?" the Sailor asked.
It was the last blow he could take. The false accusations against his brother, being suspended from the service, and now abandoned in Northedge until some distant panel meted out his fate? What kind of madman ordered a perfectly fine Sailor to never board another ship?
"If you defy these orders, Sailor, the Navy will discharge you without question," the Captain said. "I'm certain you will find work at the port, even if it is beneath you. Now, you have your orders, Sailor. You have an hour to pack your things, say your goodbyes, and leave my ship."
The Sailor was too confused to do anything but follow his training, which told him to stand up, stand ready, and reply to his Captain with respect.
"Aye, aye, Captain," he said, though the misery in his voice was quite apparent.
He turned on his heels and left the cabin, gathering his paltry possessions before ascending to deck. He cast a wary eye over the place he had called home for many years, wondering if the crew would know of his discharge or if they would be left to assume his injury was too much for him to bear in service. It took nearly all the strength he had to step over the threshold of the ship onto the docking plank, and as he walked away, he remembered he had returned for the mess. But his hunger had been forgotten in the wake of the announcement, and as he made his way through the throng of nameless people in the market, he wondered if he'd ever feel the pangs of hunger again.
The Sailor received word nigh six months later when a Messenger delivered an envelope bearing the official seal of the Royal Navy. The first letter informed the Sailor that he had been discharged from service evermore due to his injury. The second letter was obviously an unofficial enclosure, for the handwriting suggested that a serviceman under the Naval Commission penned it rather than a scribe.
Dear Sailor (born KBJ):
I made several attempts to send word through unofficial channels, but I fear none have reached you, as Northedge is not known for its reliability in that regard, and I would not wish such vital news to be lost to you until some manner of rumor or half-truth finds its way to you. It is for this alone that I include this note in your official discharge, which has a guaranteed manner and method of delivery. I wish to emphasize that the information I hereafter impart had absolutely no barring upon the decision of the Royal Naval Commission.
Some eight weeks prior to the writing of this letter, the Admiral (born RHL) captured the notorious Pirate Captain who went by the moniker Captain Drake. His defeat and arrest revealed his true identity, Lieutenant (born LMJ) of the Royal Naval, and thereafter was remanded to the Court of the Royal Navy, where he was tried fairly, found guilty, and executed two days prior to the writing of this letter. Though he requested a burial at sea, the Royal Navy order his remains cremated, and the Admiral had his ashes interred in a pauper's field, for he refused to lay him to rest in the same place as the many mariners that died at the behest of the Pirate Captain.
I write to you with neither remorse nor regret, for there is no doubt in my mind - nor anyone else's - that the man was guilty beyond reproach. Yet I am sorry to see another sailor, especially one so dedicated to the service, suffer on the Pirate Captain's account. As he is your brother, his loss must grieve you deeply.
I am sincerely and forever yours,
The Constable (born WS)
With a shaking hand, the Sailor re-read the first letter, which thanked him for his years of service by providing a generous severance that would cover his cost of living for many a year. Sure enough, notes worth several hundred gold coin were clipped inside the envelope. Once the Messenger witness the discovery of the currency within, he curtly bowed to the former Sailor and took his leave.
Now alone, he read over the letters again and again, certain he merely dreamed this terrible nightmare, and it would not be long before the cock crowed, waking him from his slumber. His brother was a good man who would rather die than betray his loyalties. He'd never become a pirate, yet his own country found him guilty.
The Royal Navy had tried his only living kin without sending him word, without affording him the opportunity to speak on his brother's behalf. Surely a citizen - let alone a Sailor whose service earned thanks - had the right to know about his brother's capture, trial, and subsequent verdict. Did he not have the right to speak to him one last time before his execution? To handle the final will and testament of his brother? To attend to his brother's remains? Yet the only reason he received news at all was some stranger - an unfamiliar Constable - had both the compassion and presence of mind to scribe a missive and took extraordinary measures to ensure its arrival.
The former Sailor looked over the letter again, searching for any vague reference or veiled allusion to a shared past between the Constable and either himself or his brother. The man - his sex was apparent from his penmanship - acknowledged individuals by a combination of their title and birth initials, a common practice to disambiguate strangers, yet he knew all three initials of both his and his brother's born names, which suggested more than a passing familiarity. The fact that he wrote the letter at all suggested the same, for most would do whatever possible to distance themselves from convicted traitors and their kin.
The Constable denoted the Admiral as RHL, Robin Hood of Locksley, which meant he probably spent some time serving under him, for only those who served the man had cause to know his middle name. The valediction - sincerely and forever yours - was odd, both for a seafaring man and a stranger, as was his choice to sign only two initials despite addressing all others with three.
Unless he only has two initials, he thought, for orphans often only possessed a single name before they grew to an age when they could earn a title and position. Then they oft selected a surname, though it was never a proper family name like Jones or Locksley. It was fashionable to choose a natural element - Snow, Rain, Fire - but traditionally, orphans took colors for family names.
Will Scarlet, he recalled. A thief who took on commission to avoid prison, or so it was said of him.
He had served as a Cabin Boy when the former Sailor and his brother were Trainees under the Admiral, back then the Captain. With any luck, he would thank the Constable born William Scarlet in person for his trouble.
The former Sailor counted his severance. It was enough to make a return trip home, and once there, he could dig up his brother's ashes. Even if the Admiral persisted in his refusal of a burial at sea, at least he could lay him to rest in a plot near their mother's. It was the least he could do for the man who raised him.
Bitterness boiled inside him. Had the Royal Navy known that the Lieutenant had spent all his youth raising his younger brother, would they still have failed to notify him? He had sworn his life in service to his country, yet they denied him the most basic right: to say goodbye to someone he loved.
He had all but made his plans when he noticed a third missive tied to the back of the last note of currency, and it was as official as his discharge. At first glance, it appeared to be a pronouncement, and he assumed that it rescinded the order that kept him landlocked and asserted his right to serve aboard private ships, as he was no longer in the service of the Royal Navy, and therefore, they had no reason to restrict his activities.
By order of the Royal Naval Commission of the Midlands:
Let it be known that, on this day, for all of time forward, that the former Sailor born Killian Brennan of the family Jones will be forbidden from service aboard any seafaring vessel, public or private, be it from the Midlands, Northedge, or the Southern Crescent.
Let it be known from sea to sea, from the Great Untamed Ocean to the Endless Sea down to the Sea of Sorrow.
He read it over twice, not believing the words before him, which burned into his eyes as proof that the navy had found him guilty of piracy without a trial. A lifelong ban from service at sea was the kind of punishment they meted out in such cases.
Disgusted, the former Sailor ripped through the decree with his hook, allowing the shreds to fall to the floor, but it failed to alleviate his grief and anger. No doubt, the Messenger had handed the notice to every Dockmaster in Northedge before delivering the letter, for those were the standard orders for Messengers traveling afar on business for the Royal Navy.
No captain would dare take him on in any capacity. It would take weeks before he found a vessel that would accept him as a passenger, and he'd have to spend every penny of his severance just to make it to the Midlands. Then he would have no means for traveling on land the rest of the way home.
It would take months - no, years - to save enough currency to bury his brother properly. And then what would he do? He had nothing in the way of family in the Midlands. An honorable former Sailor with one hand would be a fine match for many potential spouses, but now his surname came with the taint of piracy. And though the navy did not condemn him formally, they abandoned him in Northedge with a pittance and revoked his right to a life on the sea, which was the only life he knew. There was no doubt that all the Midlands would see that as a punishment, his life only spared because the navy hesitated those to kill those dismembered in its service.
So they saw to it that there would be no way for him to return home, lest he pollute the next generation, and they likewise ensured he would never bury his own brother. That last indignity was the one he could not abide, for he had given not just his hand to the service but his heart as well. In return, they stole every duty and honor from him, leaving him to rot in some faraway country, never to think on him again.
The former Sailor took the letter of his discharge and the Constable's note and tucked them into his breast pocket, for they were things that he needed to remember. His own country had besmirched his family name and betrayed their promises to a good man, and he vowed that he would never again put his heart and his service into the hands of others.
From that day forward, he never spoke to anyone unless it was in regard to work or wage. He soon learned that he had no love of drink or singing nor any other thing that he once shared in the company of others.
And above all else, he refused a title, only accepting work on a day-to-day basis, being paid a fair wage with no name other than Stranger. But after a time, people began to call him the Recluse, and he had no recourse against it. What else would a mariner banned from the sea become when all his living kin were dead and gone?
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Chapter 10: The Mask of Lethe
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Artist: LiamJcnes
Primary Post: Lament of the Asphodels
Chapter Notes
The Greek goddess Nemesis was the deity of divine retribution and a terrifying force of revenge. One of her epitaphs was Adrasteia, meaning "the inescapable."