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THE SHIP ROCKED VIOLENTLY, thrashing its crew about like the entirety of the world might soon collapse about their shoulders. Men became monsters, armed in their coats against the rolling of the sea. Their unruly hair was plastered to their dripping faces. The first shadows of a beard became wiry stripes of paint. To the world they were blind, though their hearts be open with a longing no one need say. Those who wanted a hot fire wanted a meal. Those who wanted a meal wanted a girl. Those who wanted a girl wanted all three. But there were none of these here. There was nothing but a bleary-eyed darkness that had settled upon them and clawed at their throats. There was no sound save the horrid screeches of death challenged by a captain’s call. There was nothing to them but what was, even if that was very little. It had been said—by some strange old salt—that what would not break their spirits would most surely kill them.
Though Seaman Brendan Keane suspected half were already dead.
He knew not the time, nor the day, nor anything that could save them from a fate far worse than even the fires of Hell.
“Keep her steady, men!” The captain shouted, a mere whisper against the storm. Steady indeed. There was not a finer ship in all of His Majesty's service. The HMS Greylag was as fit as they came, strong and sleek as she was nice on the eyes. To Brendan she was more beautiful than half the women he had known, and he had known plenty to be sure. The young seaman grinned at the thought.
He had spent some of the better moments of his young life with a lovely lass on his arm as he paraded up and down the streets in his old number one. Even in those brief moments they were in port he could always muster up a girl to take on the town, and more often or not she proved to be the fairer of the fair sex. Hair thick and long as it flowed down her back or was wound upward in wondrous braids and curls. Those dresses that had made it their purpose to accentuate every curve of her figure. Oh, he didn’t give so much as a fig to fashion. So long as the styles were suitable for the wearer, he was satisfied.
A monstrous wave hurled itself over the rail and smashed violently over the crews before rapidly retreating back into the dark and dreaded waters. Brendan shifted his weight against the winds and continued to carry on toward the hatch. The storm followed his lead and allowed its growl to swell into the frantic screams of a thousand hysterical women.
Women.
Of course, Brendan had no complaint toward the facade of the fairer sex. He was not a cad, but a man with the same heart and soul as most other men. Even when he was a boy he could get girls alright, but he had never known what to do or say in her company. Women, he thought solemnly, were not like men. Men were straight out, say what you like sort of chaps. It was simpler that way. Women; however, often listened to every uttered line with uncanny scrutiny. One slip of the tongue and—
A sharp shout cut through the air like fire as another watery hand slapped the deck and grabbed at his feet. Where their fingers pulled, he fought bravely forward until he was very near to the hatch. Below would be a lovely warmth, dry from the squall’s damning hand. It was like a wife; safe and sure against the obstacles.
A wife.
Brendan Keane was many things, but a scoundrel was not one of them. He’d loved and been loved. Was he a heartbreaker? He didn’t think so. Oh, he may have dented them a bit now and then, but that happened in life. There had been some women who had kicked his heart around a bit, but, in the end, he was the same man. Most men he knew were never too horribly changed by the fickle finger of fate. Sure, there were those unlucky few who dropped a woman and picked up the bottle, but he would never be one of those. He would never forgive himself to step toward such a slippery slope to destruction; to be tied down forever to ragged coats and empty pockets. Such was the end of a man, and the birth of a thousand devils. Brendan fancied himself a free spirit, though that was a bloody hard thing to be when tied to a ship at sea.
Another wave crashed down upon him. The icy hands of death brushed his neck and ran down the open collar of his shirt. Every unruly hair on his head snaked against his scalp, the blond fangs biting his flesh with sickening ice. A sudden scream slapped him hard across the face as a dark figure was swept backward towards the rail and toppled limply over the edge. Without a second thought, Brendan dashed along the deck, fighting the wind and led rain. His boots slipped mercilessly over the lurching ground until at last he was at the icy rail. The metal bit into the calloused flesh on his palms as his body was brutally thrown forward by another shock of the ship. In an instant he had climbed upon the only barrier between himself and intimate death.
And then promptly hurled himself off of it.
Down he fell, deeper, deeper, until his body was submerged in black. Great nets of poisoned foam fell upon him in sheets as his trained arms pulled him through the shifting waters. Great boisterous calls echoed somewhere above him, but Brendan could see nothing but the final glimpse of a man’s fingertips sinking further into the murk.
Further. Further.
Lower. Lower.