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Chapter Text

Jim Hawkins sat in bed, hacking up a lung as he kicked the ass of his computer-generated foe. His room was monochromatic; greys and blues, mildly high-tech and definitively placed within the timeframe more commonly referred to as ‘present day’. A knock heralded the arrival of his mother, referred to exclusively herein as “Ma”, due primarily to Stevenson’s lack of having provided the woman with a name of her own.

“Come in,” he cried hoarsely, and Ma entered the room with a tired smile, holding something in her hands that he couldn’t quite make out from here, a book or a DVD or something.

“You feeling any better?” she asked.

“A little bit,” he said, like a liar. He then coughed again.

Ma’s smile softened as she sat on his bed, reaching out a hand to feel his forehead. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“Doctor Livesey’s downstairs. He agreed to cover my shift.”

Jim perked up a little at that. The bed and breakfast business was a competitive one, with which he tried to help out as much as he could, but it just wasn’t that easy to make ends meet these days, what with the new Premier Inn that’d opened up down the street. Quality time with Ma was hard to come by.

“Yeah? What’re we doing?”

Ma held up the book in her hands, her smile widening. Jim squinted.

“A book?”

Uh.

Not that he was opposed to the concept, but…uh. It’d been a long time since they’d read anything together. He knew how to read.

She explained, “Your father’s father used to read it to him when he was sick. He read it to me when I was sick. And tonight…I’m going to read it to you.”

Oh.

Oh…

“Alright,” he acquiesced. Sentimental value? That he understood.

Jim shifted in bed, getting comfortable, as Ma began to read, “Chapter One. Thomas was raised on a country estate in the country of Charlestown. His favourite pastimes were riding his horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was James, but he never called him that…”

* * *

Nothing gave Thomas as much pleasure as ordering James around.

It was a beautiful summer day, with the sun shining almost as bright as Thomas’ blond locks as he held the reins of his intrepid steed in one hand, clearing his throat in the entrance of the stable, where James was hard at work mucking out the literal shit. It didn’t smell very nice, but it was worth it.

“Farm boy,” he called out, getting James’ attention in as gay a way as he could. “Polish my horse’s saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning.”

James, having leaned the pitchfork against the wall upon his Lord’s entry, spoke quietly but with feeling, “As you wish.”

He took the reins from his Lord, swallowing slightly, and frankly just glad that he had something in-hand. ‘As you wish’ was all he ever said to him.

One day, James was chopping firewood, and Thomas was struck once more with the need to hear him speak, thus approaching with two empty pails.

“Farm boy, fill these with water,” began Thomas, hesitating when those sea-green-blue, mismatched eyes turned upon him and made him forget how to breathe. He recovered this ability just in time to utter, “Please.”

“As you wish,” came the response, soft and sure.

That day, Thomas was amazed to discover that when James was saying ‘as you wish’, what he meant was ‘I love you’. And even more amazing was the day he realised he truly loved him too.

It was a Wednesday, and Thomas stood in the library of the estate as James entered bearing firewood, ducking his head to hide the little smile behind auburn tresses that had fallen loose from their ponytail.

“Farm boy,” spoke Thomas, a certainty in the realisation of his love for James colouring his tone with confidence in shades of blue. He pointed at a book that he, the taller of the two, could quite easily reach. “Fetch me that book.”

James set the firewood down at the hearth, then returned to his Lord, whereupon he obliged, standing so close to Thomas that an H2O molecule would be jealous. One might argue that this proximity was unnecessary. Both Thomas and James would disagree.

It was with a badly suppressed passionate gaze that James passed the book to Thomas, pressing it into his chest as he uttered, “As you wish.”

James made to turn, made to carry out his duties, but Thomas caught him by the arm, gently, providing him ample opportunity to pull away. James did no such thing, his eyes flickering between Thomas’ lips and his eyes.

“Farm boy…” Thomas murmured.

“Yes, my Lord?” breathed James, astral projecting into the fucking ether.

“May I kiss you?”

James’ entire brain proceeded to burst into every single Beethoven symphony at once. Thankfully, his mouth moved for him, and he said the words, “As you wish.”

It was a tender kiss, one that was filled with tenderness and new beginnings.

* * *

“Hold it, hold it…” interrupted Jim, raising a finger, eyes closed in incredulity. “Is this a kissing book? Are you seriously reading me a kissing book?”

“Just wait, Jim, just let me read.”

* * *

James had no money for marriage, and Thomas’ father was a jerk who thought him unworthy, not for any dumb homophobic reasoning (because this was a fantasy realm where such bullshit sexuality concerns did not exist), but because capitalism. Anyway, James had no money, so he packed his few belongings and left the estate to seek his fortune across the sea.

The day of James’ embarking on this self- and society-imposed trial was a very emotional time for Thomas, who saw him off at the port.

“I fear I’ll never see you again,” quoth he, tenderness moving his eyebrows as if they were mountains and tenderness an earthquake.

James placed a hand on his cheek, callouses rough against his lily-white Lord’s skin. “Of course you will.”

“But what if something happens to you?”

The smile James delivered unto him was wrought of resolution. “Hear this now: I will come for you.”

Thomas wanted to believe it. Unfortunately, he was the son of a politician. “But how can you be sure?”

“This is true love. You think this happens every day?”

He said it so simply, and Thomas smiled. They kissed again. And then, as James sailed away, Thomas watched him go until his ship was but a speck on the horizon.

James didn’t reach his destination. His ship was set upon by the fearsome Captain Flint, who never left captives alive. When Thomas received the news that James had been murdered, he went into his chambers and shut the door. For days, he neither slept nor ate.

When he finally left the estate, a passing swordswoman enquired as to what ailed him. It was with a voice as emotionless as a slab of marble countertop facing, that Thomas gravely intoned his answer, “I will never love again.”

She wasn’t entirely sure how best to respond to that and was running late on her way to work, so she gave him a sympathetic pat to the cheek and a squeeze to the shoulder.

It didn’t help.

Five years later, the main square of Charlestown was filled as never before to hear the announcement of the great Prince Rogers bride-to-be, replete with townspeople, livestock, and livery.

Prince Woodes Rogers, a man of incredible power and bearing, stepped out onto the castle’s balcony – or at least, the balcony specifically denoted for royal announcements of this sort – clad in the royal garb of royalty. His parents stood behind him, old and married, and to the side stood Lord Ashe, the very picture of propriety.

The chattering crowds hushed as Rogers raised his hands, signalling that he was about to speak. “My people…a month from now, our country will have its 500^th anniversary. On that sundown, I shall marry a man who, while not quite a commoner like yourselves, has been known in the past to hold full conversations with your kind, which, frankly, is a compromise that I believe we can all get behind. Would you like to meet him?”

Unanimously, the crowd responded with a thunderous, “YES.”

Maybe now they’d finally have a monarch who’d actually listen to their complaints of famine.

Another set of doors opened as Rogers gestured towards it, these doors leading onto a lower veranda, more accessible to the crowd.

“My people,” boomed Rogers. “The Prince Thomas!”

Thomas stepped forth, and was immediately stricken, for without prompting, the entirety of the civil populace of Charlestown took a knee, bowing to him. His emptiness consumed him. Although the law of the land gave Rogers the right to choose his spouse, he did not love him.

Despite Rogers’ reassurance that he would grow to love him, the only joy Thomas found was in his daily ride.

It was on one such daily ride that Thomas found a lovely, quiet, deserted glen in the woods, and stopped short of mowing down three strangers that, to be perfectly frank, did not look like they belonged here.

There was a man with a face like a ham that leaned on a crutch to compensate for his lack of leg. His name was John Silver.

There was a woman with an ornate sword sheathed at her side, whose face Thomas could swear he recalled from five years previously. Her name was Miranda Barlow.

And lastly, there was a man who, built like a tank, seemed to hold within him all the power of a mighty walrus. His name was Hal Gates.

“Pardon me, my Lord,” called out John Silver, with a tone that could have convinced water to burn. “We are but poor, lost circus performers. Is there a village nearby?”

Something smelled fishy, and it wasn’t the proximity of the Charlestown Channel. Thomas frowned, asserting amicably, “There is nothing nearby; not for miles.”

Silver exhaled, raising his chin. “In that case, my Lord… You have our apologies.”

Thomas frowned, opening his mouth to enquire as to what the fuck was going on.

Gates stepped forth, reaching out and poking the back of Thomas’ neck before he could speak, whereupon he (Thomas) collapsed, unconscious, into Gates’ arms.

Carrying the unconscious Lord over his shoulder was an easy enough task for Gates, who brought him to the boat they’d moored nearby for just such an occasion, whilst Miranda busied herself with readying the boat for sailing.

Silver, however, was otherwise occupied, leaning heavily on his crutch and ripping the insignia from a uniform.

“What in the world are you doing?” enquired Miranda, curiosity piqued.

“Planting evidence,” was Silver’s given explanation, whereupon he tucked the fabric into the crevices of the horse’s saddle, as if they had somehow become snagged.

“Oh?” Gates raised an eyebrow, setting the Lord down before helping Miranda with the ropes.

Silver hopped into the boat, keeping the explanation short and simple, his words a lilting drawl, “We were hired to stage a kidnapping, remember? What good is it to stage a kidnapping without laying the blame elsewhere? That was a uniform of a Nassau officer.”

“What’s Nassau ever done to you?” Miranda queried, with no accusation in her tone. Gates pushed the boat away from the bank, then sat, awaiting an answer.

Silver presented Miranda with his cheek, turning instead to look out over the water. “We’re being paid well for this. That includes not asking such questions.”

Miranda and Gates shared a Look™ while the boat began to pick up speed.

The horse retreated back to Charlestown.

Chapter Text

The sailboat raced across dark waters, swept along by the current, the wind, and spite. Miranda stood at the stern of the boat, loose tendrils of hair making her look very much like the focus of a mid-Romantic painting. Gates rested his knees by sitting guard next to their blessedly silent Lord hostage, twiddling his thumbs and occasionally correcting their direction. Silver sat motionless at the port side, his hands folded over his crutch as he furrowed his brow, deep in thought.

Almost at random, the curly-haired poodle-like man withdrew a spyglass, with which he sought their destination.

He spoke, “We’ll reach the cliffs by dawn.”

Gates nodded, already aware of this, and Silver turned his head to ensure that Miranda had also received the message. She nodded, then continued to look back over the stern, in the direction from whence they’d come.

Silver’s brow furrowed further. “What are you doing?” he asked, irritation tingeing the edges of his words a pale, tepid orange. She was making him nervous. He didn't like being nervous.

“I’m making sure nobody’s following us,” said Miranda, her tone simple and matter-of-fact.

John Silver did not say that such a thing would be inconceivable, because contrary to popular belief, John Silver was not that much of a dumbass. Instead, his lips pursed. It seemed a sensible course of action, and he was only vexed that he hadn’t been the one to suggest it, though he wouldn’t begrudge her for having done so.

Thomas piped up, “You are aware you’ll be caught, aren’t you? And when you are, the Prince will see you all hanged.” Silver turned a ‘seriously?’ look onto Thomas, who clarified, placating, “It’s just a note. I feel that in all circumstances, particularly where such things as kidnapping are involved, one ought to be made fully aware of all the risks before one proceeds.”

Miranda barely suppressed a smile. Thomas was starting to grow on her.

Hauling himself to his foot, using a rope and his crutch, Silver exhaled. “Of all the necks on this boat, my Lord, the one you should be worrying about is your own.” This he said before turning dramatically, and moving to join Miranda at the stern of the boat.

She frowned, squinting into the distance. Wordlessly, Silver passed her the spyglass, and Miranda peered through it, and then let out a disapproving clucking noise. “There’s something there.”

It was hard to make out with the moon behind the clouds, but the wind whistled and the waves pounded, and all of a sudden, the very atmosphere became at least 60% more ominous. And eerie. Ominous and eerie. Like a long-forgotten attic replete with cobwebs and Halloween costumes dating from the 1910s. The moon reappeared from behind the clouds, and Miranda returned the spyglass to her eye, a muscle in her jaw jumping as she scowled. “It’s a ship. Black sails.”

She handed the spyglass back to Silver as Gates got to his feet, Silver, then Gates both peering through the spyglass to corroborate this. They looked one after the other, not at the same time.

It was with no small amount of incredulity that Silver voiced the thought, “Only an absolute wool-for-brains would take a pleasure cruise in the middle of the night through eel-infested waters…” Meaning… Ah, bollocks, somebody Knew™.

From behind the distracted trio came a thump followed by a loud splashing noise as their quarry made a valiant attempt to escape.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” bitched Silver, feeling an aneurysm brewing. “Someone go after him.”

“I don’t swim,” said Miranda, leaving no room for argument.

“I only dog paddle,” was Gates’ straight-faced excuse, though the shit-eating grin was there in spirit.

“Veer left,” cried Silver in lieu of arguing, honestly just frustrated at this point. “I mean port! Veer in his direction!”

“We’re veering, we’re veering,” Miranda placated, as one would soothe a small child.

It was only with a great deal of effort that Silver restrained himself from following up with ‘veer faster’. Even he knew that’d be ridiculous.

In the water, Thomas swam about as well as a Lord who’d grown up on a landlocked estate with a large pond would, that is to say, not very well, but well enough to sort of be getting somewhere. There was a sound, loud and piercing, a luminescent green shriek that sounded like fear personified.

Thomas stopped swimming, his eyes wide as he maintained his buoyancy, searching for the source of the noise.

“My dear Thomas,” smiled Miranda, leaning out of the boat. “That would be the sound of the Shrieking Eels and they’re highly carnivorous. The louder they get, the closer they are to, well, feasting on human flesh. Please return to the boat. We’re significantly less likely to eat you.”

Unfortunately, Thomas never had been much one for doing as bade, and also had never been set upon by carnivorous eels that liked to scream at their prey. Suffice to say that he froze.

A Shrieking Eel made its decision, slithering through the water with ferocious intent. It moved faster than physics ought to allow, its teeth dripping and eyes bright, and as it loomed, Thomas knew now that there was nothing to be done, for it was all over. The Eel opened its maw wide and unleashed such a noise as was only previously heard in the Lord of the Rings movies while the Ringwraiths were on the screen. Thomas could smell its breath it was so close, could feel his fate settle into his bones, and as its jaws were about to make him its dinner—

* * *

“He doesn’t get eaten by the Eels,” Ma interrupted.

Jim blinked widely, sitting up, the change in dynamic giving him mental whiplash. “What?”

“The Eel,” smiled Ma, putting her hand over Jim’s clenched fist “It doesn’t get him. I’m explaining to you because you look nervous.”

“Well,” Jim shifted. “I wasn’t nervous.”

Ma didn’t say anything, just squeezed his clenched fist.

Jim unclenched his fists from around his bed sheets then allowed, “Okay. Maybe I was a little bit concerned. But that’s not the same thing.”

“Because I can stop now if you want,” Ma’s smile grew a little knowing.

“No,” Jim started, a little too eagerly. “No, you can…read some more. If you want.”

Ma cleared her throat, “Thomas stopped swimming, his eyes wide as he maintained his buoyancy.”

Now it was Jim who interrupted, “No—No, we’re past that part, you read that already.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Ma, reaching out and ruffling her son’s hair fondly. “You’re right, I’m sorry, let’s see here… Uh… He was in the water, the Eel was coming after him, he was frightened, the Eel started to charge him, and then…”

* * *

Gates punched the Eel while Miranda and Silver each grabbed one of Thomas’ arms and hauled him back into the boat, where he was unceremoniously dumped in favour of the trio looking back towards their pursuer.

Miranda retrieved the spyglass, peering through it and calling over her shoulder, “I think they’re getting closer!”

“We keep sailing,” ascertained Silver. He tied Thomas’ hands together while Thomas lifted his chin, raising one singular defiant eyebrow. “Well, that was brave.”

Thomas shrugged his shoulders, looking him in the eye. “Someone here has to be.”

A muscle deep in Silver’s jaw jumped.

Chapter Text

“I wonder if they’re using the same wind we’re using,” mused Miranda, regarding their pursuer, who was now, in the light of dawn, close enough for them to be able to determine was one (1) person, clad entirely in black.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Silver assured, gesturing toward the bow. “The Cliffs of Insanity."

“Who names these things?” protested Thomas, drawing a throaty chuckle from Gates.

The cliffs were aptly named, to be perfectly frank. They were sheer, tall, and without an awful lot in the way of handholds. If one weren’t categorically insane prior to attempting to scale the cliffs, they certainly would be by the time they reached the top.

They didn’t waste time with dallying about at the foot of the cliffs, didn’t make wild claims of safety or immediate predictions, just got the harness onto Mr. Gates, all scooped into it like large babies in many papooses, and trusted the man to get them up there in relative safety.

If Thomas had free hands, one would be set upon his chest upon reaching the top of the cliffs, and this would not be from the height or adrenaline, no, for it would be because it was no secret that arms.

As it were, however, during their ascent, there was a definitive tugging feeling on the rope, and Gates, focused on the climb, looked to Miranda to look down. She, in turn, looked to Silver. Silver looked down, immediately felt queasy, and made his report.

“It’s him,” he confirmed, and Gates quickened the pace of climbing.

They reached the top, and while Miranda and Gates helped Thomas to his feet, Silver immediately went to the rope. He hated this part of things, but this? This wasn’t about violence. This was about surviving. He took the knife from his boot and he began to saw.

Once it snapped, the rope retreated toward the edge of the cliff at lightning speeds before it disappeared over the edge with a satisfying rushing noise. So carefully they couldn’t pop a bubble with a pin, all four of them peered over the edge.

Silence.

Silver was the first to deadpan, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

It was in tandem that Miranda and Thomas spoke, “He lifts.” They then shared a ‘that was weird’ glance with each other, but nothing more came of it, so that was beside the point.

Nothing came of the synchronicity because Gates made an observation, “He’s climbing. How in the fuck is he climbing?”

Silver swallowed, then moved back. “Never mind that. Whoever he is, he can’t catch up with us, there’s far too much at stake here,” the barest tinge of desperation touched his eyes. He directed his next, confidence-oozing words towards Miranda, “We’ll take the Lord to meet our contact. If that man falls, alright, but if he doesn’t, slow him down.”

Miranda nodded, asserting, “I’ll duel him left-handed.”

Silver gave her a strange look. “I’m going to pretend that I know what that means.” He turned, and started walking.

Gates picked up Thomas, placing the Lord over his shoulder for ease of passage. Thomas didn’t complain. Gates set a serious hand upon Miranda’s shoulder, genuine concern colouring his expression. “Be careful.”

“You too, Hal,” she smiled up at him.

As Gates started towards Silver, Thomas waved his bound hands at Miranda. She waved back.

She watched them depart for a while, but then she got bored. While she was capable of being a patient woman, she preferred to be patient out of having the option to be patient, rather than out of necessity. So instead, Miranda glanced over the cliff again, moving her skirts aside so as to aid in her visual search for the masked man.

It was fairly easy to locate him, what with his being clad entirely in black and also being the only figure in motion en route to her position.

Now that she’d found him, Miranda turned, unsheathed her blade, and performed a few practice motions. She performed a few more. Then she clicked her tongue, and returned to check on the masked man. He hadn’t made a huge amount of progress since she’d last looked. Was it that he was climbing slowly or was it that she was bored to the extent that time slowed down?

Miranda did a few stretches, limbering up for the impending duel, taking her time so as to provide ample opportunity for the man in black to ascend the cliff. She then scurried back to the ledge. Seriously?

If she didn’t step in now, this was going to be a long and mind-numbingly dull experience. Miranda cleared her throat.

“Hello there!” she called.

The man in black glanced up. Was that a ginger, twirly moustache? He went back to climbing.

Miranda tried again, “Slow going?”

“Look,” the masked man grunted, exasperation not just colouring, but devouring his tone. “Not to be rude or anything, but this isn’t as easy as it looks, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t distract me.”

Fair enough. “My apologies!”

“Thank you.”

What a polite masked bandit.

Miranda stretched again, then did some more practice-work with her sword. Then, because satisfaction brought the cat back after curiosity killed it, she peeked again. “I don’t suppose you could speed things up at all?”

The masked man waited a second, leaning his head against the cliff face before he responded, “If you’re in such a bloody hurry, you could always lower a rope, or a tree branch, or find something useful to do.”

Miranda smiled. This one was growing on her too. “I could do that. I have some rope up here. Would you be willing to accept my help? There is a very real possibility that one of us will kill the other when you reach the top.”

“That does put somewhat of a damper on our relationship,” the man in black grunted, making about three inches of progress.

“How about if I promise not to kill you until you reach the top?” posed Miranda.

The masked man’s next words were dry, “That’s very kind of you, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait.”

“Oh, sod that,” Miranda rolled her eyes. “I give you my word as a woman.”

The masked man looked up at her, and even from this distance, Miranda could see the ‘are you being serious right now’ radiating from his expression.

“Fair enough,” she nodded seriously. “How about this? I swear on the soul of my father, you will reach the top alive.”

There was silence for a long moment. She wasn’t sure if it was because his arms were getting tired or because the fervency of her words got through to him, but ultimately, the masked man acquiesced, “Throw me the rope.”

Before he could change his mind, Miranda rushed to the boulder to which the rope was affixed and retrieved it, whereupon she tossed one end over the edge of the cliff. He grabbed it and we all know how ropes work. Through teamwork and mutual grunting, he ascended.

“Thank you,” panted the moustachioed man, drawing his sword laboriously.

“Oh, no, no, no,” dismissed Miranda, waving her hand at him. “We’ll wait until you’re ready. We want a good clean duel, after all.”

The man in black thanked her again, sitting his ass down on a rock to catch his breath and remove the rocks from his boots. He wore gloves.

Miranda stared.

She frowned.

“I do not mean to pry, sir,” she started, getting his attention. “But you don’t, by any chance, happen to have six fingers on your right hand?”

The ginger looked up at her, the lower half of his face twitched in confusion. “Do you always begin conversations this way?” Even so, he raised his five-fingered hand.

Miranda sighed softly, smiling sadly, and sat solidly. “My father was murdered by a six-fingered man,” she explained. “He was a great sword-maker, my father. The best. He catered to all the Lords of the land, providing my sisters and I with whatsoever we desired. When the six-fingered man appeared and requested a special sword, my father took the job. He slaved for a year before he was satisfied.”

She drew her sword, extending it toward the man in black, who handled it with reverence and respect. “It’s a fine sword.” He returned the sword to her.

She continued, her gaze upon the ornate hilt of the sword, “The six-fingered man returned and demanded the sword he’d commissioned, but at one-tenth of his promised price. My father refused and without a word, the six-fingered man impaled my father upon his blade. I loved my father, so, naturally, I challenged his murderer to a duel. I failed. The six-fingered man left me with the sword, but my sisters and I were forced to fend for ourselves. I was the only one who did not perish.”

Miranda looked back toward the man in black, her countenance utterly calm, with undercurrents of sorrow.

He asked, “How old were you?”

Miranda smiled again, sadly. “Eleven. When I was strong enough, I dedicated my life to the study of fencing and blade-work, so the next time we meet, I will not fail.” Her eyes glinted with determination. “I will go up to the six-fingered man and say, ‘Hello. My name is Miranda Barlow. You brought ruin to those I held dear. Prepare to die.’”

The man in black nodded, as if to say that the sentiment was relatable. “So you’ve done nothing but study swordplay?”

Miranda’s smile turned wry, and she turned the sword over in her hands. “More pursuit than study of late. Unfortunately, it’s been rather difficult to find him, and it’s not as if there’s an awful lot of pay in the revenge business.”

“Well, I certainly hope you find him someday,” the masked man encouraged, rising to his feet.

“Ready?” she perked up.

“Whether I am or not, you’ve been more than fair.”

Miranda laughed, also standing. “You seem a decent fellow. I hate to kill you,” she teased. What? They seemed to be developing a rapport. It’d be a shame to waste it.

“You seem a decent…fellow,” the moustache twitched. “I hate to die.”

With that, they launched into action, more of a dance than a duel, neither participants anywhere near each other save for the briefest moments of sword-to-sword contact. This was not only a battle of the blade; it was a battle of skill, of technique, and of wits. They feinted, whirled, and circled, the duel intensifying as their swords crossed again and again. The rosy tones of blade meeting blade grew more and more compounded as they each pressed forth with the ebb and pull of the duel.

Suffice to say Miranda was thrilled. “You’re using Bonetti’s defence against me, I see!”

The masked man twitched a smile again as he danced over rocks, “I thought it fitting, considering the rocky terrain.”

“Naturally you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro,” she prompted, shifting her style, unrelenting.

“Naturally,” he allowed, retaliating by shifting his own style, “But I find Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro, don’t you?” He leapt from the perch he’d battled towards, whirling to face her once more.

Miranda beamed. “Unless the enemy has studied their Agrippa!” she performed a neat somersault over him, using the terrain to gain the height she needed to land, pertly, facing him. There was something almost flirtatious about her expression. “Which I have.”

The pair continued to duel in leaps and bounds, clashes of swords that were more akin to melody than dissonance, surefooted and delicate and continual. This was no fight. This was a duet, and their blades sang in a harmony that increased in tempo, calculated and driving and beautiful, even as they drew closer and closer to the Cliffs of Insanity.

The masked man advanced, pressing her toward the cliff edge, and Miranda wove to the best of her ability, but he was unrelenting, and yet, she laughed, “You’re wonderful!”

“Thank you,” the man in black graciously allowed, but did not falter his pace. “Practice makes perfect.”

“I admit it,” smiled Miranda, edging ever closer to the ledge. “You may be winning.”

The masked man’s eyes narrowed, his blade hesitating for the barest of moments. “Why are you smiling?”

She stuck her chin out, tauntingly, defiantly, teasingly, “Because I know something you don’t.”

“Oh?” he humoured her.

And as if she were sharing a secret, she pressed forth and murmured, “I’m not left-handed.”

Miranda passed the sword into her right hand, regaining control over the flow of the duel as she delivered quicker and sharper motions that brought them away from the cliff-edge and back toward the rocks, where they continued their symphony of swordplay until they stopped, breathing heavily. Miranda stood above him, perched atop a rock with the tip of her sword pressed lightly beneath his chin, tilting it up to expose his neck.

He swallowed. “You’re amazing.”

Miranda smiled in response.

“But there’s something you should know.”

Her smile didn’t fall, but she tilted her head in curiosity.

“I’m not left-handed either.”

The man in black changed to his right hand, and once again the pair were well-matched in mutual respect, and she realised much too late that he was learning her at the same pace she was learning him, and he used it to his advantage, her sword sailing from her hand and landing not far away, and she dodged his blade while she retrieved it, and as he sliced through her skirt, leaving the hem undone, Miranda’s curiosity was piqued once more.

“Who are you?” she enquired, sword in hand.

“No one of consequence,” came the predictable response.

“I must know,” she pushed forth regardless.

“Get used to disappointment.”

Mock-offended, Miranda surged forth like lightning striking the ground, slicing, parrying, and darting hither and thither in her determination to best the curious man.

They continued in this fashion for far longer than most duels typically last. They’d have continued indefinitely. But the man in black had slashed her skirts, and Miranda was as subject as any to the very real possibility of getting one’s foot caught in one’s skirts. She didn’t fall, but the stumble was enough, and she was not in a position to defend against the singing blade that came her way. It stopped short.

Miranda was unafraid, and lifted her chin. “Kill me quickly, if you must.”

The man in black smiled under the moustache. “I’d sooner destroy a stained glass window than an artist like yourself. However, I can’t have you following me. You understand.”

Miranda did, and sat down on the ground so as to not concuss herself when he knocked her out.

Before he did so, he had one last thing to say, “I hold you in the highest respect, madam. Do take care.”

Thunk.

She pitched to the side, and hit the ground unconscious.

Chapter Text

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” deadpanned Silver, staring, dumbfounded, at the masked man who was once more in pursuit.

“I’m starting to think this isn’t a human being,” Gates posited, stroking his beard, the now-gagged Lord still over his shoulder. Seriously, the man would not shut up.

Silver brought a hand up and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers, counting to ten inside his head and then back down to zero. He exhaled. “Alright. Put him down, I’ll take him onward. You’ve got more chance of stopping this…chaotic entity than I.”

Gates’ eyebrows raised, but he put Thomas down, ensuring the man was upon his feet. “How the hell do you expect me to slow him down, much less stop him?”

“I don’t know, debate philosophy with him, hit him with a rock, invite him to dance, I don’t know, just think of something. And you,” he directed at Thomas. “With me.”

Thomas’ eyebrows rose too, but he didn’t protest around the gag in his mouth, just shrugged at Gates, who rolled his eyes.

“Oh, don’t start, we don’t have time for this,” bitched Silver, tugging the Lord along (albeit with some difficulty) and ultimately winding up using Thomas as a second crutch in this uneven terrain. Thomas didn’t mind.

Meanwhile, Gates was left waiting for the man in black, and more importantly, left trying to figure out what the fuck he was meant to do with him. Gods above, he was getting too old for this. Well, alright then, might as well use what he knew.

The man in black raced up the mountainous trail, reacting to shifts in environment as they came. One such shift in environment was a massive rock hurtling toward a bolder to his right.

The masked man turned slowly toward the source of the projectile, and was faced with…huh. This man looked like he could be threatening if he chose to, but mostly like he gave the world’s best cuddle-sessions. Ahem. Also, he was holding a rock.

“I did that on purpose,” Gates pointed out. “I was aiming for that rock.”

“I believe you,” quoth the ginger, honestly.

“So,” posed Gates. “How about this. You and me face each other like men. No tricks, no weapons, just skill against skill.”

The man in black’s eyes narrowed as he worked through the offer. What was with these people? Kidnapping couldn’t be their first choice of day job. “You mean…you agree not to use any rocks and I agree to put down my sword and we try to kill each other like civilised people?”

Gates shrugged. “I could kill you now if you’d prefer.”

Without missing a beat, the man in black stripped his scabbard, protesting, “No thank you, I think those odds are slightly in your favour.”

“Fair enough.” Gates tossed the rock over his shoulder.

The man in black eyed up the older fellow, sizing up the competition. Vaguely, he wondered what would happen if he, an unstoppable force, were to come into contact with Gates, an immovable object. Well, time to find out.

He leapt forth, shoulder-first, as if he were a wrestler who suddenly decided to switch sports to rugby.

It wasn’t very effective.

Gates admired a particularly nice rock.

The man in black scowled and made his retreat then tried again, pummelling the giant’s stomach with his fists before attempting another skilful bear hug.

“Are you toying with me?” If the masked man sounded suspicious, it was because he was.

Gates looked down at him. “I just want you to feel like you’re doing well. It’s a shame when people have to die embarrassed.”

The man in black’s scowl deepened, though it was not visible beneath his mask and bandana thing. He retreated from the mass of Gates, readying himself for another attack, but Gates lunged into action, springing forth with surprising agility for a man of his age. The masked man dove between Gates’ legs, an inexpert but effective method of avoiding his own destruction.

“You’re quick,” remarked Gates, not altogether minding the situation.

“Thankfully,” came the reply from the masked man.

Gates stretched a little, his shoulder popping as he did so, then paused mid-pose. “Why the mask? You’re hiding from something.”

The man in black moved quickly, not deigning to respond.

“Or someone,” rushed Gates, matching the masked man’s motions – but not quickly enough, for the man in black performed a hop, a skip, and a jump, ultimately landing upon Gates’ back with his arms around his neck.

Gates sighed as the pressure increased on his neck. “I’m getting too old for this.”

He bucked and reared like a bull, but no matter how many boulders he rammed the man in black against, the ginger would not be dislodged, and clung, intrepid, to the giant’s back in a mockery of a piggyback ride.

It was slow and not without its struggles, but Gates swayed where he stood, swayed some more, and pitched forth to the earth much like the slow and inevitable collapse of corrupt government. The man in black dismounted, breathing heavily, raggedly, and put his fingers to Gates’ neck, seeking a pulse. Finding one, he manoeuvred the larger gentleman into the recovery position, ensuring clear passage of airflow, and patted him on the head.

“I don’t envy you the headache you’ll have when you wake, but…it had to be done. Please understand. It’s for a noble cause.”

The man in black set off again, sword in-hand and determination bringing surety to his tread.

While the ginger raced along the mountain path, another was in pursuit.

Indeed, for the ploy to kidnap the Lord had seemingly come to fruition, and Lord Ashe watched on as Prince Rogers inspected the scene wherein the masked man had battled Miranda Barlow, recreating the steps of the duel with unerring accuracy.

“There was a mighty duel,” he proclaimed, still showing off his fancy footwork. “It ranged all over. Both were masters of the blade; a man and a woman.”

Ashe didn’t really hold with this kind of conjecture, but he’d take it under consideration. “Who won? How did it end?”

Rogers reached the now-vacant point where Miranda had fallen and been rendered unconscious. “The woman lost, and fled alone.” He turned his gaze toward the mountain path. “The winner followed this trail.” A gasp! “Which leads to Nassau!” 

“Should we track them both?” asked Ashe.

Rogers shook his head. “No. The loser is of little consequence. All that matters is the Prince. This was clearly planned by agents of Nassau. We must be vigilant, and be ready for whatever lies ahead.”

Ashe squinted into the distance. “Could this be a trap, my Prince?”

“Of course,” replied Rogers, vaulting onto his horse. “It’s only prudent to believe that all things, at all times, could be a trap. Why do you think I’m still alive?”

Nudging his horse into action, Rogers galloped off in pursuit of the plot, followed in turn by his men.