Chapter Text
Bartholomew Veridan was a wordy name, and it often made him think of some far-off, stuffy prince, engorging on thick slabs of meat in some pretty and pompous castle in the Netherlands. Now granted, that’s exactly what he would like to be doing with his life, but the point still stood that on paper, his name should have meant something great. He could have been somebody.
Instead, he stood on the sea-stained docks, squinting as the sea salt spray spit back in his face. Art–as he had opted to drop both the beginning and end of his real name–waited for the captain to return, a small seed of uncertainty sprouting in his gut. In an ironic turn of events that could only be attributed to karma (he didn’t believe in any of that God stuff, god help him), Art had found himself a job working for a prince.
He wasn’t just any prince, apparently . This one liked to go on months-long excursions out on the open ocean, where he could feel like a real man. That’s why he was so hard to work with; the captain he had just recently spoken to said he’d had to hire three separate crews for this kid in the span of a year. It paid to be rich, he supposed.
Art didn’t really want to be spending all his time scrubbing the deck of some lazy castle-kid, but there really wasn’t any better option that allowed him to skip town and disappear off into the world silently. At least on the ship–which he didn’t know how to man–no one needed to know, or even cared all that much, about who he was or what he was doing there. As long as he stayed out of the way and didn’t cause problems, he would be home free to see the world. As soon as they docked in the next city, somewhere new and exciting, he would be off again.
The process had worked once so far, and it was how he’d ended up on the little island of Clarenwall, some Dutch colony in the tropics. It was very different from his home, and to Art, different meant fantastic , but he was already itching to change scenery. The captain had offered him a job two nights prior in the bar, and just like clockwork, Art was already hook, line, and sinker.
He really did hope the prince was at least somewhat manageable. That would be nice.
“You look a little green in the gills, boy!” Captain said, appearing out of nowhere and slapping Art firmly on the back. “Better you not get sea-sick.”
He stumbled, brushing his hair out of his eyes with a laugh. “Sure don’t, Sir.”
“Aye, it’s Captain.” The big, sturdy man chuckled along good-naturedly. What was it about the people in this town , Art couldn’t help but wonder. So far, everyone had been far-too friendly. It was making him uncomfortable. “I’ve got someone I want’ya to meet.” He waved over someone further down the dock, closer to shore. Art strained to catch who it was, but his eyesight had always been poor, and it wasn’t until they were five feet in front of him that he could really see who it was.
He had to guess it was the prince. From the white, billowed shirt and cuffed sleeves, strong arms, slender body, and glowing blond hair, this newcomer certainly was royalty. But as he came closer, Art discovered some discrepancies with his quickly enamored first review: calluses built up on the hands, a scar down his right cheek, and a smile that was just slightly too crooked to be called genuine.
Against his will, Art swallowed thickly. Maybe the captain had changed his mind and sent this angel-like wrestler pirate to pummel him into the ship’s gangway. Looking at his fists again, he could only imagine how much that would hurt.
“This here is Ram,” Captain said, sounding similar to that of a proud father. “He’s been the longest member here on my crew for the prince.”
“Nice to meet you.” Art tilted his head in the barest form of respect. He wasn’t sure how this Ram guy would react to formalities, but the last time he had tried to be anything but formal with a crewmate, it had ended in a busted rib and split lip.
Note: French sailors were just as snobby as the rich upper class when it came to manners.
Ram appraised him, looking up and down for just a second before smiling crookedly again and holding out his calloused hand. “Welcome on board, kid.” There was something about being called kid by the suave-looking pirate-man that made Art’s carefully sculpted mask of manners twitch. He thinks it manifested in his left eye.
He shook Ram’s hand firmly. “Thanks.”
The captain clapped his hands together. “Great! I see you’re already gettin’ along. Ram here’ll be showing you the ropes when we set sail tonight.”
Art didn’t like any of that information, but settled on the piece right in front of him. “Tonight? Won’t that make it harder to see?”
“Aye, but King Triton’s in a good mood tonight you see, and we best be off before the sea gets rocky.”
“King Triton?”
“It’s an Old Wives tale,” Ram said, speaking up again. Art found his eyes sliding back over to him almost against his will. “You’ll learn all about it if you make it that long.” His mis-matched eyes sparked with something. “Kid.”