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The ship came upon them fast, with the advantage of the wind and a shallower draught that allowed it to get within range of the guns before most aboard had any idea what was happening. The captain ordered no shots to be fired the moment the black flag was sighted; without an escort, and outgunned as well as out-manned when it came to fighters, they stood no chance.
Jaskier was no fighter. All the same, he longed for something in his hand to defend himself, and cast about for anything that might be of use. A carpenter’s chisel was the best he could find. It would have to do. He watched, shaking at the sight of the pirate ship drawing alongside, and with a scattered glance around, darted below.
His logic was vague. He fancied his chances hidden away in a safe corner, only to realise once he’d found one that there was no such thing. A furore pounded above, heavy boots beating viciously against the deck, shouted commands for all to come on deck, and he cursed. The ship would be searched. He would be found.
Still, he stayed where he was, pressing back between the thick canvass that creaked with the sway of the ship. Maybe no one would look here, maybe he would escape unnoticed.
He had no such luck. Heavy footfall thundered closer, unfamiliar voices calling back and forth. He gripped the chisel tight in both hands, fear and excitement coursing through him, dread nearly making him lose himself when a blade pressed into the space beside him.
“Step out.”
He stumbled forward, taking in the fact that there were three men – all hulking fighters – within close proximity. “Fuck.”
“Drop it.”
“Give me quarter!” he demanded.
The pirate nearest him snorted, bringing his blade up to Jaskier’s throat. “Drop it,” he said slowly, looking very much as if he wanted Jaskier to keep hold of the meagre weapon and give an excuse for bloodshed.
It took more effort than it ought to for Jaskier to get his hands to obey. The chisel clattered to the floor.
“Ve’y pretty dressed,” a second pirate commented. “Gi’e us yer boots, dandy.”
“No,” Jaskier grit out. He liked his boots. He had no intention of parting with them. “Take someone else’s.”
“Careful,” the first pirate hissed, his eyes alive with a lust for violence.
“No,” Jaskier said again, looking at the three men around him and making a decision. “I want to join you.”
They laughed.
“What?!” he demanded. “I’m lettered! I can keep ledgers and read maps. I speak four languages. I’ll be useful to you.”
“Yeah, but can ye fight?” the third asked.
Indignant, Jaskier drew up his height as much as the cramped headroom would allow. “I can learn.”
“I’d like t’ see tha’,” the second chuckled. “C’mon. Cap’n’s waitin’.”
The man holding the sword close to Jaskier’s throat cursed, lowering his blade and letting him go. The vicious look he gave Jaskier made him wonder if he’d made the right choice, but then he thought of the ship’s destination, and the reason for him being sent to the West Indies. Life so far had been boring. He wanted to escape it. Being taken by pirates seemed, in that moment, like an escape.
The sight of the captain when he was brought to him made him falter. It was easy to ignore the stares of his fellow passengers as he was walked towards the bow, but when he saw the man, his blood-red coat lashed and laced with colourful thread and a bandoleer bristling with weapons, he felt all his breath leave him. He had rarely seen a man of such size, nor so scarred. The entire right hand side of the pirate captain’s face was ravaged by deep red scars which seemed impossible for anyone to have survived. His skin was weathered, and twisted by the scars, his lip curled up in an involuntary sneer, a bandana keeping his deep brown hair from his face. He looked fearsome. He looked…
He looked handsome.
Jaskier realised it all within a heartbeat of meeting the unusual amber gaze, and he felt struck. The captain looked as if he had experienced it too.
“He wishes to join us.”
He didn’t turn to look at the man who had spoken. He barely heard him.
The captain stepped forward. “What is your name?”
“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount of Lettenhove. My friend call me Jaskier.”
“Jaskier,” the captain decided, the sound of his rich voice deeply pleasing. “You are not a sailor.”
“No,” he had to admit. “But I can learn.”
He was watched, measured and appraised by that amber gaze which seemed to turn to honey. A large hand reached out, the weight of it settling warmly on Jaskier’s shoulder. “That you can. I am Eskel. Welcome to the crew of the Scorpion, Jaskier.”
And with that brief, almost insignificant moment, Jaskier found himself set free. He grinned, and as he met the smile of his new Captain he already knew he would do anything for the man.