Instrumental
NOTE: Neither movie nor book canon. I've adjusted the origin of the sword, but not the events that follow.
They called him "the Maiden" before the battle, before the wound took whatever innocent fairness of face he had and scarred him violently. Before Tom's life was changed forever by one stroke of the most beautiful cutlass he had ever seen.
It filled Tom's vision like nothing before. Everything he'd been told about the Turkish weapons, their imperfections and hurried design, disappeared the moment light hit the blade and the instrument-for Tom sometimes thinks of swords as instruments, as fine-tuned and graceful as any the Captain and the Doctor play-flew in front of his face, almost blinding him in more than the most obvious of ways.
There was little pain, at least at first. Tom did not stop fighting, could not when surrounded by two other Turkss intent on finishing the work of the first. Tom slayed all three before the salt spray hit the wound, and he realized exactly what that work of warlike art had done. He slid to the deck breathless, then, and knew nothing until he woke to the sight of the Doctor above him to his left, Bonden to his right.
Tom always believed that he would be left marked in battle. His eyes had long since ceased to widen at the sight of deep, permanent scars on men's faces, their arms, their throats and-regrettably-their backs. He had shared ringing laughter with Mowett and Dillon both about the scars they would carry if-when-the Captain chose to finally engage in something more serious than a common chase. Or if-when-there were ever a ship foolish enough to try and take the Surprise herself. And though he had earned the nicks and gunpowder burns that mottled his pale frame-unlike many an officer Tom could remember if he chose to do so, he's never stumbled into a battle, never found himself an accidental target of friend or foe-Tom had not truly understood the power and sensation, the nature of a wound itself.
Tom does not indulge himself in thoughts of his own mortality. He wishes nothing
more than to die in battle if possible, and at sea in any case. He will not give chase to the ideal of marriage and children and a gentleman’s life, not least because he is no gentleman-that very fact has been drilled into him for decades, and he no longer allows it to affect his courses nautical or personal-which are more often than not the same.
Still, Tom is aware now that he will never again be so fair as to be called a Maiden. It is something of a relief, though he will not admit it aloud. Bonden brought him a mirror four days after the battle, and they laughed as one at the strangeness of both their reflections-one so compact, ruddy and blonder even than the Captain, the other tall, pale and dark of hair-and especially at the one thing they shared in common now-the sweep of a scar crossing cheek and eye and brow.
Tom felt it then-a quiet but honest surge of admiration from a man who had no obligation other than plain duty to show Tom more than respect. And Tom returned that admiration when he could, showing Bonden and the men who worked under his piercing gaze every courtesy allowed under the articles and regulations of the Surprise. Tom knew long before then that the “gentlemen” of this world do not make a ship’s wheel turn. They do not rebuild her when she burns. They do not heal, and they do not sing and share their rations and stand silent watch when one of their own has been scarred.
There are no “gentlemen” to be found aboard the Surprise, not even among the officers, Tom believes. Nor are there Maidens. There are only men, men who earn scars and nicks and gunpowder burns. Men who give their hearts to their Captain, and sometimes their lives. Men young and old-all scarred in some way.
Tom carries his scar proudly now, and only the rare shine of the Turkish cutlass haunts his dreams. One day he will take a Turkish prize, and keep little for himself bar the arms of her Captain. Perhaps among them will be such a cutlass-an instrument Tom will wield and play better than her former keeper.
Should the Lord preserve him that long, Tom will die bearing that scar and holding that cutlass, not as a gentleman, not as a Maiden, not even as an officer-but as a man.
They called him "the Maiden" before the battle, before the wound took whatever innocent fairness of face he had and scarred him violently. Before Tom's life was changed forever by one stroke of the most beautiful cutlass he had ever seen.
It filled Tom's vision like nothing before. Everything he'd been told about the Turkish weapons, their imperfections and hurried design, disappeared the moment light hit the blade and the instrument-for Tom sometimes thinks of swords as instruments, as fine-tuned and graceful as any the Captain and the Doctor play-flew in front of his face, almost blinding him in more than the most obvious of ways.
There was little pain, at least at first. Tom did not stop fighting, could not when surrounded by two other Turkss intent on finishing the work of the first. Tom slayed all three before the salt spray hit the wound, and he realized exactly what that work of warlike art had done. He slid to the deck breathless, then, and knew nothing until he woke to the sight of the Doctor above him to his left, Bonden to his right.
Tom always believed that he would be left marked in battle. His eyes had long since ceased to widen at the sight of deep, permanent scars on men's faces, their arms, their throats and-regrettably-their backs. He had shared ringing laughter with Mowett and Dillon both about the scars they would carry if-when-the Captain chose to finally engage in something more serious than a common chase. Or if-when-there were ever a ship foolish enough to try and take the Surprise herself. And though he had earned the nicks and gunpowder burns that mottled his pale frame-unlike many an officer Tom could remember if he chose to do so, he's never stumbled into a battle, never found himself an accidental target of friend or foe-Tom had not truly understood the power and sensation, the nature of a wound itself.
Tom does not indulge himself in thoughts of his own mortality. He wishes nothing
more than to die in battle if possible, and at sea in any case. He will not give chase to the ideal of marriage and children and a gentleman’s life, not least because he is no gentleman-that very fact has been drilled into him for decades, and he no longer allows it to affect his courses nautical or personal-which are more often than not the same.
Still, Tom is aware now that he will never again be so fair as to be called a Maiden. It is something of a relief, though he will not admit it aloud. Bonden brought him a mirror four days after the battle, and they laughed as one at the strangeness of both their reflections-one so compact, ruddy and blonder even than the Captain, the other tall, pale and dark of hair-and especially at the one thing they shared in common now-the sweep of a scar crossing cheek and eye and brow.
Tom felt it then-a quiet but honest surge of admiration from a man who had no obligation other than plain duty to show Tom more than respect. And Tom returned that admiration when he could, showing Bonden and the men who worked under his piercing gaze every courtesy allowed under the articles and regulations of the Surprise. Tom knew long before then that the “gentlemen” of this world do not make a ship’s wheel turn. They do not rebuild her when she burns. They do not heal, and they do not sing and share their rations and stand silent watch when one of their own has been scarred.
There are no “gentlemen” to be found aboard the Surprise, not even among the officers, Tom believes. Nor are there Maidens. There are only men, men who earn scars and nicks and gunpowder burns. Men who give their hearts to their Captain, and sometimes their lives. Men young and old-all scarred in some way.
Tom carries his scar proudly now, and only the rare shine of the Turkish cutlass haunts his dreams. One day he will take a Turkish prize, and keep little for himself bar the arms of her Captain. Perhaps among them will be such a cutlass-an instrument Tom will wield and play better than her former keeper.
Should the Lord preserve him that long, Tom will die bearing that scar and holding that cutlass, not as a gentleman, not as a Maiden, not even as an officer-but as a man.