Chapter Text
The sun was setting. It was suspended low in the sky, its blazing edge only just beginning to kiss the horizon. The ocean's waves were dyed a deep shade of orange and shimmering gold by the last rays of sunlight, almost too bright to lay one's eyes upon. All that could be heard was the shrill cry of seagulls overhead and the rustle of waves lapping against the flaxen sand.
Suddenly, the clockwork ebbing and flowing of the tide was disturbed by a stone, smooth and flat, splashing onto its surface; it bounced exactly three times before sinking to the sandy depths of the sea. Another stone soon followed. Then another, then another. They were being thrown by a teenage boy, no older than fifteen, wearing a scruffy blazer over a rumpled shirt, his long, dark hair tied back in a careless ponytail. Though his actions and expression conveyed boredom, there was a spark in his eyes that whispered of liveliness, adventure, and aspirations for a future he could only distantly dream of. He stood and thrust his calloused hands into his pockets, and kicked one final pebble into the ocean. It hit the water with a brief plash before joining its sedimentary brethren under the water's surface.
The boy sighed, closing his eyes as the sea breeze breathed across his face. Each deep breath filled his lungs with the salty ocean air, his body rejuvenating itself under the dying rays of sunlight. When he eventually opened his eyes the sun had slipped behind the ocean and the evening sky was stained rich shades of plum and scarlet.
He turned and walked silently down the beach, his bare feet making no sound on the warm sand as he began the trek home. As he walked, he turned a coin over and over between his fingers in his pocket, the cool metal tingling against his sun-baked fingers, each ridge and indent on its surface bringing intrigue and secrecy. The boy took the coin out and stopped walking to look at it. In the dusk light, its surface glinted with mystery, the undeniable engraving of a skull almost alive. He turned the coin to look at the inscription on the back.
"No todo el tesoro es plata y oro," he murmured under his breath. A smile curved his lips up as he was filled with giddy excitement at the idea of piracy, treasure and adventure, but most of all, freedom. At home, he felt suffocated. He couldn't wait to get out and make a life for himself outside of his mundane living as of that moment, standing on the beach, merely pondering what he could do. Daydreaming over, he stuffed the coin back into his pocket and continued his journey home.
An hour later, once the sky had faded into indigo, he stepped onto the porch of his home. He brushed the sand off his feet and tugged his blazer straight, buttoning up his shirt fully and taking his hair out of its messy ponytail. As he tried to re-tie it more neatly, the strip of leather he used to tie it snapped, and he cursed, but there was nothing he could do. He stuffed the leather in his pocket with the coin and opened the back to the house, stepping into the musty warmth of the kitchen.
As soon as the door shut behind him, the feeling of suffocation returned. It had only started once his father had died, leading his mother to remarry, and her new husband brought this sensation everywhere with him. The boy didn't even have time to shout a greeting to his mother when another shout cut across the house's stuffy silence.
"Salazar!"
The boy, Salazar, froze in the doorway. He'd hoped that by now, his step-father would either be too drunk or tired to realize his late return, but to no avail. The walls shook as the older man stormed into the kitchen, his disheveled appearance showing his rage, the smell of drink on his breath, the stench of sweat clinging to his unshaven face and unwashed clothing.
"Armando Salazar!" he bellowed, lips curled in a snarl. "Cada vez. ¡Cada vez! ¡Llegaste tarde otra vez!"
Salazar's step-father advanced, the near-empty bottle of alcohol in his hand sloshing with his uncoordinated movements.
"¿Recuerdas lo que dije la última vez?" he said more than asked, his snarl becoming a sneer. "No tendrás ninguna comida mañana, o el día después de eso. ¡Eso es lo que mereces!"
Salazar looked at the far wall, used to such abuse being hurled at him. He stopped himself from flinching as the bottle was thrown and smashed against the wall beside his head. He didn't even flinch as he felt tiny shards of glass embedding themselves into the skin of his face and neck.
Light footsteps became audible before Salazar's mother came hurrying into the room.
"¿Que fue ese sonido?" she asked anxiously, her brown eyes widening as she saw the splash of alcohol on the wall and the shattered glass across the floor. "¿Sebastián, que pasó?"
"Maite, limpia esa porquería," Sebastián ordered, ignoring her question.
He stomped from the room and Maite breathed out shakily. She quickly made her way across the room to her son, her worry deepening as she saw the cuts across his cheek and forehead, blood trickling from each small wound, glints of glass visible under his skin.
"Mi hijo," she murmured, taking his arm and leading him around the mess to sit at the kitchen table. She took a bucket of water she used to clean with and dipped a cloth in it, kneeling before her son and dabbing gently at his face. The water in the bucket soon had streaks of red running through it, the white cloth tinted pink. Once the blood was cleared, Maite used her fingernails to gently prise the glass from her son's skin.
As she continued, Salazar studied his mother's face. She had dark, doe-like brown eyes and wavy hair the same pale brown color as the dust on the porch outside. Sebastián's eyes were a cold green, a world apart from Salazar's own pale brown eyes. He knew he got them from his real father. That, he was proud of, but he hated that he shared his dark brown hair with both his real father and his step-father. He didn't want to share any similarity with Sebastián.
"Madre," Salazar said softly. Maite looked at him with a smile, but the sadness showed in her eyes.
"¿Sí, Armando?"
"¿Por qué tuviste que casarte?"
Maite looked down and clutched the washcloth tightly in her worn, callused hands. She bit her lip and looked at her son with genuine worry and misery.
"No puedo explicar mi decisión," she said quietly. "Necesité un hombre para protegerme."
"Pero me tienes," Salazar retorted, anger biting the edges of his words. He couldn't help but think his mother was selfish, marrying a man who hated him when they were fine on their own.
"Como dije," Maite said. "No puedo explicar. Se entenderás cuando seas mayor."
Salazar looked away bitterly, too angry to realize that she was the one being rational. He didn't even look at his mother as she put away the bucket, kissed his cheek and left the room. That night, he went to bed angry, still resentful of his mother even as an overwhelming sadness washed over him. He let the darkness steal him away.