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“When did we become these sinking stones?”
In the low lantern light of the ship's underbelly, as he peers at a brass doorknob, Tom wonders how long it will be before he dies. The door has not moved once since he started staring at it, but he can not pull his bleary eyes away, waiting for something terrible. Barely breathing, the waves rock the boat, and the trinkets and valuables around him clang and shift in the ringing silence. He's there among the gold and precious jewels too, sitting stagnant in his dirty, cramped tank like an exotic pet.
The scummy, yellowed film that blankets the surface of the water in his cage ripples and flexes around his chest, sticking to his brittle scales, splashing up into his infected gills. Tom’s not even sure how long it's been since he’s been able to submerge anything above his shoulders, and he wants more than anything to swim free in the wide oceans saltwater again.
There's rhythmic stomping above him that echoes through the floorboards, and his heart seizes in his chest. There's nothing left for him than to double down and keep his mouth shut, and he even goes so far as to pretend to be asleep, slumping his head back to rest gently on the rusted rim of the tank.
Eyes closed, Tom tries not to startle when he hears the slam of the doorknob finding its mark on the wooden post. Heavy boots step inside, lilting and uneven, and the stench of booze and stale sweat assaults his nose. His whole body is trembling with instinctual, animal fear, and his flight or fight response freezes him in place.
The man is angrily mumbling something as he rifles around in what sounds like a sack of coins, and then the door is slammed shut again.
Tom doesn't dare breathe as he cracks an eye open, finding the room miraculously empty, the shadow of the man gone. He could almost cry with relief, but instead, he allows himself to shift into a more comfortable position, trying to gain some feeling back into his tail and fins. The festering in his gills makes it hard to breathe evenly, but he takes in as much air as he can now that his lungs aren't bunched under him uncomfortably.
He drifts into a hazy sleep without even meaning to, jolting awake as the floorboards above him shudder. It must already be morning; he can hear the crew working, and the echoes of conversations slip through the cracks in the wood.
It opens a pit wide in his chest that he struggles to grapple. He’s lost in his trapped solitude, bearing the heavy loneliness sinking deeper into him like an inky black abyss. Tom can almost feel it in his very marrow, the isolation, the despair, the overwhelming fear that he’d never be free again.
As he sits staring at the ceiling, despondent, the door cracks open, softly, this time, and a slave comes in with his food. Even from the doorway, Tom can see that the man is sickly, and as he gets closer, he observes the scabbed wounds on his face and neck, a punishment that he feels the ghost of.
The slave drops the chunks of hardtack into his tank without saying a word. If he’s scared of Tom’s nonhuman appearance, the man doesn’t show it, looking at the ground with a dull expression on his pale face. He ponders saying something, his desire to not be alone almost overwhelming, but the man just slips out of the room, and Tom is left in the quiet dark.
He can always tell when they’re about to reach a port town. The ship becomes a lot more lively, the rowdy talk and laughter travels louder down to the dim underbelly, and the boat speeds across the waves at a quicker pace. Even the Captain is in good spirits, laughing right along with his crew, finally sober after weeks of being on the open sea. It means Tom gets fed more, and being seen by the ship's doctor becomes more of a possibility.
It also means he has to lose something- scales, blood, tears.
“Merchant says blood’s twice as expensive ‘ere. Somethin’ bout ‘medicinal properties’.” The man's raspy voice grates on his ears as he slides the needle into the vein of his left wrist, and Tom says nothing in response, numb and sick, shivering slightly despite the clammy heat burning him alive.
“Was thinkin’ 50 thousand coins a vial!” The man reaches over to turn the blood pump on as he coughs out a gritty laugh around his chewing tobacco, unbothered by his lack of audience. Tom keeps his eyes down, watching his silvery blood drain into the bucket at the man's feet.
The Captain lets the obnoxious machine run, staring at him while he does so.
“Too bad I caught ‘n ugly one.”
He spits right into the dirty water of his tank, staining the splotch on the film a rust color, “Think of the money I could’ve made…” The Captain lifts a grimy hand up to tug at the lurelight that hangs limply in front of Tom’s face. “Spose I could market you like some circus freak: 70 for a ticket!” After a particularly hard tug, Tom draws back a little, pain cutting through the daze in his head.
The man laughs at his squirming, but lets the lurelight go. After a couple minutes, when the bucket is full, he shuts the pump down, and the machine next to him dies. Tom is slumped back, lightheaded and exhausted, unable to do anything but breathe weakly. The Captain removes the needle and tosses his arm back into the tank, uncaring about the waste filled water that splashes everywhere, or the stream of blood that dissipates in the murk.
His head is too fuzzy to form coherent thoughts, and when Tom blinks, the man is gone.
He’s sagged like a ragdoll, with the rim of the tank cutting achingly into the fin on his back. The efforts of his weak lungs barely make a ripple in the film of the water, but he’s gasping for air with every muscle that still has feeling. Tom thinks he's finally dying, his hunger tearing his insides to shreds while the sick heat burns at his body.
He can’t feel anything at all, emotionless and empty, like the husks of carrion at the bottom of the ocean floor.
The daze that clouds his mind is broken when a deafening boom rocks the ship, sending valuables and loot scattering across the room. The water in his tank crashes up onto the sides, spilling in gallons over the edge and onto the floor. His heart starts wildly against his ribcage, the familiar flight or fight stopping his body in place, worsened by the commotion of screaming men above him.
Tom wonders if he'll finally be put out of his misery, and his skittering fear is dampened again by apathy. Smoke and ash bite in the air, and the silence on deck is damning, punctured only by the light footsteps of the intruders. Within minutes, the wood around him crackles and groans as it's devoured by flame.
He's almost relieved when the door bursts open.
This new man, an intruder, takes one look at the gilded chests and trinkets, and yells something out into the hallway. Tom doesn't bother hiding, but the man just steps back in, unseeing, rifling around in the chests, cataloging them as he goes. He watches him quietly, hardly breathing, wondering if he blends into the shadows enough he’ll remain unnoticed.
The man suddenly startles as their eyes lock, dropping the bauble he is holding to jump backwards with a yell. Another man bursts in, guns blazing at the sound, and he too, startles back.
“Holy shit-”
“Pat. Go tell Captain.” The new man ushers the other out of the room with a frantic wave of his hand, never taking his eyes off of Tom. Cautiously, he steps closer, eyes flicking to his injuries, then the foul water. The man grimaces, but relaxes, slowly lowering his gun to his holster.
“Can you understand me?” It's gruff and unsure, and Tom doesn't have the willpower to reply. The adrenaline from the cannon shot is leaking away, and he collapses back, dazed, gasping quietly for air as if slowly suffocating. His head pounds like a drum, pressure exploding at his temples with every beat of his heart.
Tom can feel himself fading out, the world gray and dim at the edges.
“Okay, shit… um- Captain! Thank god.”
His eyes are closing, but he can hear the boots of a new man enter the room.
“Tom?”
Like the waves of the sea, every time Tom reaches the warm surface of consciousness, he's pulled back under again. It's comforting at first, but then he just grows tired of it, the same dreams and nightmares on a stale loop.
So, when Tom wakes up- truly wakes up, he's relieved, despite the pain.
His thoughts come and go, and he tries to sit up, feeling the ache in his atrophied muscles. When he moves to push himself up from the smooth surface he’s resting on, he notices embarrassingly late that his arms are bound together in tight shackles, skin protected by wraps of patchwork cloth.
It's enough to wrench the same old empty feeling back into his chest. Tom’s not free, he just replaced one jailor with another, taken as if he were a prize to be won.
Achingly numb, he sits back in what appears to be a bathtub, and stares at the sky through the iron bars above him. The sunlight feels good on his face despite his anguish, and it heats the water of his tub to a pleasant temperature. It's been so long since he's felt any of this, the sun, or clean water, and his eyes go foggy before he can stop it.
In the warm sunlight, a couple of tears roll down his face, hardening into little beads that tear at the sensitive muscles around his eyes. The hurt makes them come faster, and soon he's sobbing as pearls rip at his tear ducts, landing softly into the water of his new prison. Shame curls painfully in his chest at his own pathetic behavior, but the tears dont stop, collecting in the palms of his hands, almost overflowing. He has half a mind to save them while he can, knowing his captor will do whatever it takes to extract them later.
“Are you hurting?” The sudden voice makes his heart jolt, and he blinks back spots as he yanks his head up. It's the man that initially found him in the treasure room, a concerned expression etched onto his tanned face.
Tom hadn’t even noticed him.
“Erm…can you understand me?” The man tries again. Tom isn’t even sure he can respond. It's been ages since he last spoke.
With nothing to lose, he opens his mouth and tries.
What comes out is a wheezy trilling sound that makes both of them wince. It's pathetic, and broken, and the strain on his throat makes the pain in his gills flare up.
The man seems even more nervous, practically squirming in his seat, and Tom gets the feeling that he's hiding something. It sets him on edge, and he closes his mouth, eyeing him wearily.
“I’ll um… take that as a yes. So, are you hurting?”
Even the doctor on his old ship never asked him that. Tom just shakes his head, his lurelight waving from side to side as he does so, wanting to keep his interaction with humans to a minimum. The man’s eyes are drawn to his gills, a calculating look on his face, trying to decide if he should believe the lie.
Satisfied with whatever he sees, he stands from the stool and leaves the brig. Tom’s left alone, and he slumps back again, once more staring at the sky with indifference.
The sun casts low shadows in his room when he hears the door open, and Tom doesn't bother looking away from the iron bars. The person just stands there for a while before speaking, neither of them moving.
“Hello, old friend . Seems time has changed us both.”
The moment the man speaks, the spines on Tom's head and tail flare out unconsciously. Defensive and suddenly scared, he whips his head to the source of the voice and reels back, baring his sharp teeth.
The new man is unfazed with a cruel smirk on his face, wrangled only by the horrific scarring on his right side. His auburn hair sticks past his elaborate captain's hat like two devilish horns, and the look is completed by the metal arm and the eyepatch he wears. Something about him is so familiar, but it is the first time Tom has ever seen the man. Something about him makes Tom furious .
Instead of delighting in his fear and anger, the captain's face dies in a scowl.
“You don't remember.” It's spoken like a statement, not a question.
Tom passes the point of reasoning, his animalistic rage blurring the thoughts in his mind. When the man steps closer, he gnashes his teeth at him, desperately trying to free himself from his bonds, the metal tearing past the cloth into his dull blue scales, drawing blood. His webbed fingers form into claws, and his lurelight waves fiercely in front of his eyes as a warning. The man stares, expression blank and unreadable.
It's when Tom’s spined tail lashes out at the man does he finally take a step back. Water splatters everywhere, slamming and crashing in waves over the rim of the tub at the violent motion. His intense anger dies shortly after, energy sapped from his weak body, and he's left with a hollow cavity in his chest.
Tom’s wheezing for each exhausted breath, never taking his eyes off the familiar man, even as he collapses backwards. There's considerably less water in his bathtub now, not even enough to fully cover the width of his tail.
“Are you done?” It's condescending and infuriating, but Tom has no more energy to spend on anger. Now, it's the man's turn to be furious, and he steps forward again, a dangerous glint in his eye.
“You’ve always been a thorn in my side. Even from the beginning.” The man towers over him now, a dark look on his face like an approaching storm. He grapples the sword on his hip, as if considering whether or not to strike Tom down where he lays. With no options left, Tom challenges him right back, raising his chin to expose his neck and his sensitive gills, as if daring him to try.
The captain's lip curls into a sneer but his blade remains sheathed.
“Captain, I-... oh.”
The man whips around to the open door, annoyed, and the moment is broken. “What, Patryck?”
“I uh, brought his food.” Patryck looks sheepish, but Tom is glad for the distraction. His breathing is still uneven, heart hammering against his ribcage, and the ache in his wrists is becoming more and more noticeable as blood stains the cloth. There's something itchy trailing down his neck and when he reaches his bound hands up to his gills, he realizes that they’ve been torn open, weeping.
The captain stands aside to let Patryck get closer. Both humans eye him warily, as if he’ll strike, but Tom's distracted by the bucket clutched in between the man’s hands.
Even the salty smell is enough to make him salivate, almost completely consumed by a ravenous hunger. Tom can’t remember the last time he was fed something other than rancid meat or hardtack, let alone fresh fish. He's being stared at, but the moment the bucket is thrust into arms reach, he grabs it ferociously, devouring the fish whole like an animal, barely taking time to rip out the bones.
Like before, he’s moving purely on instinct, driven by his near starvation.
The bucket clatters to the ground when he discards it, and Patryck scrambles to pick it up, still a little shell shocked. The captain looks disgusted, and he turns away.
“Have Paul clean him up, then both of you meet me in my office.”
The scarred man is out the door before he can even respond, and Patryck just sighs, looking back at Tom before shutting the door behind him.
Without the eyes watching him, he curls in on himself, cradling his raw wrists close to his chest. His hunger is abated for now, the constant, sharp pangs that he had gotten used to are blissfully absent. Tom has almost fallen asleep by the time Paul enters, and he's compliant under the man's sturdy hands as the cloth around his wrists is replaced. A wet rag cleans the fluid that had dribbled from his gills, and there's an herbal smelling ointment that is smeared on instead. The touch is firm yet so gentle, unlike anything he had ever felt- even before captivity, and it almost brings tears to his eyes again. He drifts off to sleep before the man leaves the brig, and for the first time, Tom dreams about fire.
Tom doesn't see the captain the next day, or the day after that. Their one sided argument never leaves his mind though, and the more he thinks about it, the more confused he gets. It's like there's a puzzle piece missing, a gap that he expects his memories to fill.
It bothers him to no end. He doesn’t even know the man's name, yet he called him ‘old friend’ as if they had known each other their whole lives. Annoyed, he lets out a huff, flexing his tail as he tries to work out the pins and needles. Maybe it's the persistent ache in his gills, or his raw wrists that sting and itch, but Tom feels as though his temper is slowly consuming him, creeping up like a predator in the black water.
Something about this man set off an animalistic part of himself that he didn't know he even had, lurking deep in his flesh. When he tries to remember the ‘beginning’ that the captain was talking about, all he can think of is the vast emptiness of the ocean floor and the ice cold solitude that clung to him. It's horribly depressing to remember, so he locks the thoughts away, leaning back to watch the clouds pass on, resolving to ignore the ravings of the man the next time they speak.
When he spots a gull in the crystal afternoon sky through the bars above him, his heart sinks like a stone.
It's his only warning before the crew overhead starts preparing for what he assumes is a port town, scraping heavy crates and barrels across the span of the deck, too efficient and quiet for a crew of pirates. Tom’s fear and apathy fight inside his head, and he tries to swallow his nerves, wondering what part of himself he’d have to give up. When the door bangs open, he can only let out a resigned breath as he lies limp in bitter submission. There is no use in fighting it. Tom learned that the hard way.
This time, when he hears the captain's voice, he does not look, “Pathetic.”
At Tom’s indifference, a rough metal hand grabs at his spines, burying deep near his scalp, and twists his head harshly to the left. Tom holds his breath as his teeth grit in pain, meeting the man's dark stare only inches from his face. He can’t pull out of the grip, risking having the brittle spines yanked from his head, and it only confirms his fears. Humans are all the same.
Tom gives up, sagging in the hold, knowing the sooner the captain got what he wanted, the sooner he would be left alone.
This seems to be the opposite of what the man wants, and he releases him with a shove, disgusted. “You’re given a second chance at life and this is how you spend it? You’re stupider than I thought, Thomas.”
The name gives him goosebumps, rippling up the scales of his spine. His bewilderment makes him angry, and he bares his teeth, confused. He opens his mouth to finally retort but is cut off.
“You still don't remember, do you?” The man reels back in fury, at wits end, then grasps hard at his arm, yanking his frail body up from the water, “Fine then. I guess I’ll have to show you.”
He can’t push down his suffocating fear as he's brought up to the surface of the boat, his long tail dragging behind him, useless. The rough wood digs into his sensitive fins, and the strain on his arm makes it feel like it's being ripped from its socket.
The crew stare at them both as they pass, and Tom shies from the attention, wondering if he’ll be made a spectacle of.
Out of the water and into the direct sunlight, he can feel his scales and spines start to dry out. It weakens him as he’s thrown onto the deck, the ship mere miles from the port. In the wide expanse of the boat's exterior, Tom can only see rows and rows of cannons, each manned by a team of at least five men. At one end of the deck, he spots Paul and Patryck, standing at the ready, rifles in hand, soon joined by the captain who disregards him without a glance.
Tom's so tantalizingly close to the edge of the ship, and he starts to inch for it, his desire for freedom pushing past the numb ache in the muscles of his arms.
“Hold him. I want him to watch.”
Tom growls angrily as he’s manhandled away from the edge, yanked up by two men so he can see over the edge. Before him is a port town, bustling in the warm afternoon, lined with docks and various fishing ships. It’s idyllic, and the stucco buildings nearly glow white in the sun, surrounded by lush emerald cliffs.
He feels a little like he’s losing the plot, confused and fearful, wondering what they are planning to do to him.
So, when the first cannon fires and explodes into the side of a village house with a violent eruption of rubble, Tom flinches hard, ears ringing in a deafening buzz as he stares in shock. He can barely breathe as he sees the townsfolk scatter away from the destruction like tiny minnows in a pond.
The captain signals something to his crew, and suddenly the cannons launch in subsequent blasts, moving down the line until the last one next to him shoots. Over the roar in his head, he can hear whispers of screaming, even across the water, and he watches, shell shocked as flames burst out among the buildings.
It's like the fire in his dream, violent, bright, and hungry.
The bombardment has left a swathe of ruin in its wake, and as the ship slowly looms closer to shore, Tom can see the terrified humans as they grab what possessions they can and flee. He feels like he’s seen this scene somewhere before, and it takes his breath away as the realization dawns on him.
Tom has seen this scene before.
His village, his friends, his life. Gone in fire, all because of—
“So he finally remembers.” The captain's, no- Tord’s voice barely registers, spoken so gently, as if he were talking to a cornered animal.
Tom can’t even look away from the blaze, paralyzed and numb, the festering anger rigged to explode. He can feel the spines on the ridges of his body stand on end as the static builds, the pearl end of his lurelight lashing back and forth erratically with each pulse of hatred. There's a dark tidal wave that's yawning over him and he loses himself to it.
When he speaks, it's animalistic and violent, “You.”
Tord just smirks, satisfied, not the least bit afraid. Tom tries to yank himself from the hold he’s in, growling and snarling, but the sun has all but sapped his energy and his muscles are atrophied from sitting stagnant for so long.
When he lunges forward to bite the captain with his sharp teeth, one of the men grabs the back of his neck to slam his face into the worn wooden deck. The impact hits hard on his forehead, but his lurelight takes the brunt of it, snapping easily underneath him.
The pain is so intense, he sees white as pearl beads spring to his eyes. It makes him flail weakly, bound hands scrunched uncomfortably under his body as his tail flaps, useless, desperate for the agony to end.
Distantly, he can hear Tord yelling out orders to his men, and boots march across the wood, planks vibrating around him as they run down the gangplank and into the village in a frenzy. He's heaving out ragged gasps that shred his gills, his fight gone, taunted by a foot poking at his head.
“Take him to the brig then go join the rest.”
When he’s finally let up, the hurt has him in a daze, vision unfocused, blurred with unshed tears. The violence around him doesn’t even register in his mind, and he’s brought back down into the ship's belly where he’s dumped like deadweight into his tub.
He gasps weakly in relief as the water hits his dry scales, feeling the life return to his muscles. From above him, he sees Tord peering down at him through the iron grate, a sneer on his face as he picks the trapdoor up.
”You nearly took everything from me, and for that I’ll make you wish you’d stayed dead.”
He lets the trapdoor go, and the slam of the two surfaces colliding echoes through the brig like another cannon shot. Tom can only stare blankly at the space where the captain had been, lost in the pain stemming from his lurelight and the memories from before.
He was human once, with parents. He had friends and a job and an actual house where they all lived together. Tom had been free to walk where he pleased, no chains, no starvation or captivity or crippling fear. He had been happy, and now it was all gone.
Seething cold grief pulls him under like a vortex and he feels himself go, his mind fading away into nothing.
Days or weeks go by in the dark.
Tom doesn't eat, he hardly sleeps, and never moves. He’s completely lifeless, lost inside a whirlpool of his own daze. Life carries on above him, but down in the brig, time is as indiscernible as waves to the black ocean floor.
There’s a blur at his neck, and an herbal smell hits his nose. After ages, when he opens his eyes and finally gets the energy to rove his vision over to the movement, there’s nothing there, his cell silent and still. Tom can’t even bring himself to be curious about it, and the next time he feels it, he keeps his eyes shut, indifferent and tired.
There’s a deep buzz in his ears, and it takes him too long to realize that someone is speaking to him.
”You need to eat. Your body is starting to fail.”
Tom's mind moves at a glacial pace trying to decipher the words spoken. He glances over to meet the eyes of Paul, his bushy eyebrows furrowed. He has something outstretched in his hand, but his brain isn’t registering what. The briny smell of it just barely passes over the stronger herbal one, and his hindbrain takes over in his more lucid state, reaching out with waxy hands to grab the chunks of fish from the man's palm.
His own animal instincts keep him alive, fearing starvation where Tom himself couldn't care less.
When his weak fingers push the food past his lips, the chunks taste like ash on his tongue, bland and flavorless. The action exhausts the rest of his energy, and his arms drop back down in the water with barely a splash as he chews and swallows reflexively.
“Since you seem to be in more… present state of mind, I was wondering, your light-thing, is it broken?”
The whole front of his face is fuzzy and unfeeling and the question confuses him at first, but the memories he wants so desperately to forget trickle back without much prompting. Tom's eyes unfocus then focus on the lurelight hanging crookedly in his peripherals, askew and misshapen, and he tries to form a coherent thought that would answer him. In the end, he shrugs limply, unsure himself if it was broken or not.
Paul lets out a tense sigh that borders on annoyed. Tom's never had good luck with annoyed humans in the past, but no fear comes to him, eyelids drooping, ready to let himself slip back into a muddled sleep.
In the quiet, he hears, ”They’re not dead, you know.”
Tom blinks, then blinks again, and tries to wipe the deadened fog from his mind. He slowly swivels his head over to the man, heart beating quicker in his chest.
”Your friends… they’re not dead.” Paul repeats, as if he didn’t hear him. Tom opens his mouth, then closes it, floundering, trying to fight for coherence. The man continues, scrutinizing him, “I don’t know how much you remember of that day, or how much you saw, but your friends didn’t die in the raid. The captain wouldn’t have let that happen.”
He looks for honesty in the man's eyes, the grief in his chest still raw like a wound with the scab ripped off. Tom wants more than anything to believe him, but…
”Your town, Dirdam, even rebuilt itself. It’s not as rich as it was… well, now it's actually kind of a shithole, but it's still on the map.”
Like the sea slowly calming as the storm clears, the heavy pressure lifts from his body, and for once, Tom can feel something other than numbing sorrow. Paul stands from his stool by his side, satisfied, gathering his bag of supplies and stretching out his back. “I’ll go see what I can do about that light of yours, but I won’t make any promises. If it gets infected, I'll have to remove it.” He's at the door when he turns back and says, “Oh, and don’t tell the Captain I told you about your friends. That would be a nightmare. For both of us.”
Paul doesn’t wait for an answer, easily slipping out into a sliver of light.
Tom just sits back, exhausted. In the dark prison, he clutches his webbed hands into fists, vowing he’d find his friends again, no matter what the cost.
The trapdoor above him stays shut, but he can tell night from day by Paul's visits.
If he could feel gratitude towards any human it would be him, the most tolerable out of the entire crew. He’s not even sure why the man seems to care as much as he does, but Tom’s not going to take it for granted, even if he pisses him off sometimes.
Paul’s rewrapping the splint on his lurelight, smoking his second cigarette of the day when he mentions, “I think the Captain was gonna come see you soon. Just thought I’d let you know.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Either that, or he’s sulking again.”
Tom just grunts in resigned acknowledgement, blinking away tears from the sting from his forehead as the man winds a bandage around his lure tightly.
Paul continues, brows creased in concentration as cigarette smoke wafts lazily in the air, “How’s the pain in your gills? I can tell the ointment is working— no more pus. You might even be able to fully breathe underwater soon.”
The relief from the good news warms the heavy layer of indifference blanketing him. Tom doesn't smile, but his frown softens at the edges, and he tries to make a joke in light of it, feeling his old self come back to him for just a moment, “So you mean I’ll be able to swim again and my life won't be totally pointless?” His voice is dull and worn, thinned out from the strain on his vocal cords during his captivity, and the joke falls flat, judging by the unimpressed look on Paul's expression.
The man rolls his eyes as he ties off the end of the bandage, “Don’t let the Captain hear you say that. You won't have it so easy down here.”
“Don’t let me hear what?”
Tom jumps, and his lurelight is ripped from Paul's hands at the action. It smarts slightly, but he curls in on himself defensively, ignoring the throb as the captain steps further into the brig.
Despite Tord’s dangerous tone, Paul doesn’t cower, his same unimpressed furrow still present as he lowers his hands form where they had frozen, “Hm? Said he found the dark comforting. Something about the ocean floor being dark.”
The blatant lie slips out of the man's mouth so easily, and it surprises Tom.
Tord looks at both of them with scrutiny, his one silver eye narrowed, the frown on his lips pulling at his mangled scar slightly, “Is that so?” He feels his hackles rising as Tords sharp gaze falls on him.
Tom snarls at the man, annoyance flaring to life despite the tension in the room.
The captain rolls his eyes mockingly, before turning to Paul. “Go talk to Yuu about provisions. We don’t need another repeat of Bittenborough.” His tone is sharpened by suspicion.
“Yes, Captain.”
Paul stands up for a half hearted salute, before grabbing his bag of supplies from the ground, clearly annoyed. Before he shuts the door, he gives both of them one last mild look.
Now that the one human he can tolerate is gone, Tom lets himself sink back into his bitter impassivity, ignoring Tord where he stands.
“I see you still spend your time wasting away in your own self pity. You don’t even need the alcohol anymore, it's just second nature to you isn't it?”
Flashes of Tom’s previous life spent in a drunken stupor come back to him, and he feels shame that he still craves it. The warmth, the blissful daze, the ability to not think at all. The words nearly drive him over the edge, but he refuses to let the man win.
Tord pushes on, coldly, “Edd and Matt would always be so worried despite knowing full well that a leech like you would never change. It always disgusted me.”
Like a prodding finger on a festering wound, Tom can’t ignore him this time, whipping to face the captain, hurt and fury bleeding to the surface before welling up and spilling over. “Like you're one to talk. We were glad you were gone. We were better without you.” Once Tom gets going, he can’t stop it, meeting Tords vitriol with blackened venom of his own, refusing to back down now that the words are out. “I was happy for once in my life but you ruined it. Just like you ruin everything else.”
He’s seething now, lungs heaving as he exhales through sharp teeth. Tord looks like he's going to kill him with his bare hands, his metal arm clenching and unclenching, his one silver eye piercing through on his shadowed face. Tom swallows his fear at the sight, anger resolute.
Tord lets out a sullen chuckle, his face suddenly blank and unreadable as a thought comes to him, “I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re both dead to them.”
Tom wants to point out the hypocrisy in that statement, the fact that on both instances, Tord is at fault, but he doesn't, slinking back down in the water, feeling his spines relax reluctantly as he does so. It seems to draw Tord’s eye, and the man inches closer, staring at him as if he were a creature to be studied.
He was always too curious for his own good.
“You put one hand on me, I’ll rip your throat out. I’m not some exotic pet or science experiment for you to toy with.” The words feel good to say, the weight of them finally releasing from his chest after so long in fearful captivity.
Tord just laughs, loud and disbelieving, “Is that what you told your previous owner?”
All at once, his anger from before comes flooding back. Owner. Tom wasn’t an object to be held, he wasn’t some docile dog meant to amuse.
There's a low thrumming growl, one he’s never heard before, and he realizes it's coming from him. On instinct, he springs from his tub, feeling his debilitated limbs stretch and protest underneath him, using his bound claws to wrench himself up by Tords collar. His jaw unhinges and he lunges for the man's scarred jugular.
“Holy shit-”
Tord stumbles back, and they both fall to the ground. Tom's prey is just out of jaws reach, but he continues snapping at the man's attempts to bat him away. The captain strikes at him with his feet just as he's about to pounce again, killing his momentum by landing a solid blow to his stomach with his boot.
It's enough to kill his fury, and Tom's fight leaves him soon after, limited energy used and gone as he writhes in pain. Both men are heaving with exertion and adrenaline, Tord's got his hand on the pommel of his sword, strung out on the ground, hat and hair askew, while Tom is wrapped around the fresh bruise on his scaled stomach, trying to fight off the persistent nausea as he dry heaves. He's out of the water, and he can feel his scales dry out and his spines weaken, gulping air around the bile in his throat.
Tord recovers first, straightening himself out. He looks disgruntled and there's something else in his gaze, but he masks it away as he looms over his prone form. Tom waits for the strike to come, for the bone to be shattered, for the skin to be punctured. He holds his bound arms protectively around his face and his already broken lurelight, and his tail curls up around the rest of his weak body.
When nothing happens and the room is silent, Tom looks up to see that Tord is gone.
On Paul’s seventh visit, Tom wonders if something is wrong on the ship. The man doesn't even light up a cigarette, or say a word to him, he just sets a bucket with a single fish down within arms reach and leaves. Considering Paul is the only thing standing between Tom and his abyssal boredom and loneliness, it pisses him off.
He reaches over the lip of the tub with his bound arms to grab the fish tail sticking out of the bucket. With his claws, he slices it open and picks at the meat in between the bones as he listens to the sounds above him. There's yelling and stomping, and he hears the familiar scraping of cannons being dragged across the deck.
They're preparing for something, but Tom’s unsure what.
He doesn't worry too much about it though, sitting back and staring at the closed trapdoor and the flickering lantern strung from the iron bars. His tail twitches, and he tries to flick the spasm out, but they keep coming, muscles restless and jittery from his inactivity. It sinks him into a deeper annoyance until he can’t take it anymore and he flops his tail over the edge of the tub, soon following with the rest of his weak body.
Tom’s not really sure what he's planning to do on the floor, especially with bound arms, but he grabs the bucket next to him, filling it with water from his tub. When he feels himself drying out, he pours some out onto his scales, desperately wanting to avoid the debility that comes with being exposed to air.
It's a slow process and his heart hammers in his chest as he drags himself to the door. He sets the bucket next to the frame as he hunches over to press an ear to the wood, listening for activity. The hallway is completely silent, and Tom takes his chance, reaching up to turn the doorknob slowly.
To his surprise, the door is unlocked.
He peers into the hall, nerves fraying through his indifference. If he gets caught poking around, Tord killing him would be the least of his worries.
Tom can already feel his energy running out, and the meager water he pours on himself is hardly enough to fight it. He's inching along the floor of the empty hallway, tail like limp deadweight behind him as he struggles to keep the bucket from spilling as he shimmies it next to him. The amount of effort it's taking him to make it a couple of inches is actually embarrassing, but Tom is determined, unsure what his goal really is. Maybe he’s just gone stir crazy, or maybe he’s actually making an attempt to escape, but if he stays in that tub for one more second with jittery muscles and never ending boredom, he was going to lose it.
“Shit- Tom! Are you crazy?”
Tom jumps at the whisper yell from behind him, and whips around, ready to go down with a fight, spines already standing on edge. But it's just Paul, exhausted eyes wide, cigarette dangling from his lips. The man hurries to him, but knows better than to try and grab him, standing well out of striking distance.
“If Captain finds you here…” The man shakes his head, hands fidgeting at his side as he curses softly, gaze swiveling from left to right as he scans the hall nervously. “You chose a real bad time for this.”
Tom scoffs as he crosses his arms, “Next time I’ll make sure my escape attempt fits in your busy schedule.”
Paul rolls his eyes, “Come on, if we’re caught, then we’d both be punished.”
He protests as the man steals the half full bucket away from him, “Hey! Why don’t you just turn around and pretend you didn’t see anything?”
“Because I’d still get in trouble. Tord made you my responsibility.”
The way he says it riles him up, and he snaps back, “I didn’t ask to be here, okay? I don’t even know why I’m still alive.”
Paul seems to realize his mistake, frowning, “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, can we just talk about this later? The Captain is going to get suspicious if I'm gone too long.”
Tom’s energy is just about gone anyway, and he slumps back, “Fine. Just tell me what's going on up there.”
“Deal. I’m going to pick you up now, so don’t fight me.” He stays still as the man bends down to hoist him up, carrying him the short distance back to his cell, stepping around the various water puddles he left behind.
“I don’t have time to get you more water, so you’ll just have to make due without for now. The navy’s been on our trail since we looted Whale Sands. With the cross currents in their favor, they’re a couple days out and now we’re preparing for battle.” Paul lets him slip from his arms and back into the water, “My advice for you is to keep your head down for a week or so until this blows over. No picking fights with the captain, and no escape attempts.” The man dumps the rest of the water from his bucket back into his tub and leaves, chewing nervously on his cigarette.
Tom rolls his eyes at the display, sinking down to the bottom of the bathtub so that his head is submerged, with only his lurelight and his tail sticking out into the air. If the navy catches up to Tord, that means that his old friend might finally get the justice he deserves. It’s a pleasant thought, like the herbal balm on his aching gills. Tom might even be allowed another escape attempt in the chaos, willing he can find some way to unlock the heavy shackles from his wrists.
The gentle pressure of the water around his head rocks with the ship in the wakes of the waves, slowly pulling his black eyes closed, and Tom lets himself drift, dreaming about the wide ocean and the friends he left behind.
He doesn’t see Paul the next day, and his meal is brought by a man he’s never met before. Big and burly, with pale blue eyes that have the same look that all humans do; greed disguised by curiosity— this man stares at Tom like he’s a zoo animal.
The bucket of fish is held out before him robotically, but Tom just tenses up, unwilling to make the first move.
“Damn thing, jus’ take the fuckin’ fish.” The bucket is thrust closer to him, and it prompts Tom to grab it quickly. He eats cautiously, watching as the man doesn’t leave, continuing to stare at him, expression cold.
“With you, we’d never have to work another day in our life, ‘n yet the boss refuses to do anythin’ with you.”
The words chill him to the bone, and his spines instinctively stand on end, feeling his hackles rise. Tom’s just about to bare his teeth at him in warning, but the man finally, finally, turns his eerie eyes away from him, empty bucket swinging back and forth in his grip as he retreats back from where he came.
He doesn't relax until he’s sure the man is gone, but he stays alert, seamlessly falling back into the familiar habit of listening for footsteps from beyond his door.
The man returns the next day, and the day after that. It’s the only interaction Tom gets, but he dreads it, hating the painfully familiar fear that paralyzes him into silence. He’d almost prefer Tord over this man, at least the venom barbs and insults were familiar.
He’s just finished eating his fish when the man suddenly lunges at him, dousing him in some sort of liquid from the flask at his side. The strong smell hits him first before his body goes numb, collapsing backwards from his surprised hunch. Tom panics as his muscles shut down, weighed with invisible lead chains.
“S’ the myth is true.” The man laughs, uncaring to his terror. He tries to open his lips, to yell, to say anything, but his tongue feels swollen in his mouth, and his eyelids droop. Tom’s heart is rabbiting in his chest like it's about to burst, and he wants so desperately to thrash and flail out of his horrible immobility. He’s so afraid, but he can’t move, and his head is getting fuzzy, thoughts beyond primal fear fleeting.
Out of his blurry vision, he can see the man loom closer, something clutched in his other hand. The familiarity of the tool renews his fear, shredding through him like blades. He can do nothing but watch groggily as the man grabs his tail by the base of his spined fin, before dragging the fish scaler back and forth brutally across the surface. The intense pain ignites a strangled scream from his lungs as black scales fly everywhere. He can hardly breathe around the suffocating agony as the scaler carves through the protective layer of flesh, rending it down to a bare patch of bloody skin. The man greedily grabs the scales floating in the water once he’s satisfied, dumping them and the tool into the bucket he had just used to feed him with.
From his weeping eyes, the man steals his tears with bloody, scale covered fingers, waiting for each pearl as they rip from his tear ducts and fall down his cheeks. Tom can’t fight it, lying limp as the hurt threatens to overtake him, barely breathing as his body shuts down.
The fiery pain dulls down to a numb ache as the liquid seeps deeper into his muscles. The man leaves soon after, taking his prize with him, mumbling excitedly. Tom can’t feel anything at all, slumped back as his tail bleeds out into his tub, staining the water a silvery hue.
He closes his eyes, then suddenly he’s being shaken awake, mind fuzzy and disconnected.
There's a muffled voice to his left, “What the hell happened?”
Tom can’t even lift his eyelids, they're so heavy and the cloying smell of the liquid still clings to him. But feeling slowly returns, if deadened slightly, and he flinches away from the hands that hover over him.
“It's clove oil. Paul, get him out of there and rinse him off, Patryck, go get him some clean water.
“Yes Captain.”
Hands wrap themselves around his body, pulling him out of the tub, and Tom lies limp, his heartbeat skittering in his chest. He’s set down a short distance away, just as he’s able to lift open his eyelids into slivers.
Paul and Patryck leave the room as Tord picks up a forgotten scale from the ground, holding it to the light between two metal fingers, silent and still. Then, he looks down to his spot on the ground suddenly, furiously, his silver pupil burnt black with cold, murderous anger, “One of my crew members disobeyed a direct order, and I want to know who.”
Tom says nothing, tongue and jaw useless, closing his eyelids again as he swallows weakly past the lump of smoldering coal in his throat. The pain returns as the numbness ebbs away like the tide, and his muscles writhe on instinct, as if wildfire was burning at his tail. He feels like no more than a flayed animal, torn apart and used.
Iron fingers dig into his scalp, twisting his head up off the floor, pulling harshly at his spines.
“Who was it? ” The captain's insistent voice is sharp with rage, loud in the silence of the brig as footsteps approach from an opened door.
“Captain… I… I don’t think you should be so rough. He’s been through a lot.”
The hand tightens infinitesimally before releasing him, and Tords overwhelming presence backs off somewhat as he stands up. The pain from the raw patch on his tail is almost agonizing now, coming and going in rapid throbs with his heartbeat. Tears spring to his closed eyes and roll off the bridge of his nose, hitting the floorboards with little plinks like jeweled beads.
Tord sighs, aggravated, “You’re right. He’d be of no use anyway.”
The three humans mutter lowly amongst themselves, but Tom doesn’t listen, trying to curl in on himself against the pins and needles pain that invades his body. His limbs are weak, dried and brittle in the open air, sluggish from the clove oil, and he's wheezing for breath, gasping with airy hisses from his gills as his lungs try to regain feeling, like a bag of bricks on his chest.
Then, blessed water is poured onto his collapsed body, gentle as it rinses the last of the oil coating his skin. He cracks open an eye to see Paul, cupping water from a bucket with a concentrated frown on his face. Behind him, Patryck refills his tub, and Tord watches them both, anger replaced by cool impassivity.
“What can you tell us about your attacker?” Paul questions, voice gruff.
Tom looks at him, trying to find the will to do anything at all. He must be broken, a cracked, useless shell, split into two halves then ground into dust. He tries to think of Edd, of Matt, and his desire to see them again and live the life he used to live, but he gets it now.
He would forever be chained to the selfish desire of greedy humans. He would never be free. Even if he saw Edd and Matt again, then what? Would he live in a tub for the rest of his life? Would he be shackled to something he can’t be a part of anymore?
“Blue eyes. He had pale blue eyes.” Is all Tom says, tone blank and lifeless, remembering the man’s pinpricks of black against ice, excited as if he were a starving beggar looking upon a banquet feast.
Slightly unnerved, Paul hums in confirmation before looking to Tord with a strange shift in his expression.
“Enough of this. Get him back into the tub, we have work to do.”
“Aye Captain.”
He squirms as Paul picks him up, using the tub's sloped edge to lower him into the clean water. It burns against his raw, bleeding skin, sparking with livewire pain that forces a hiss from his lips. The humans leave, following their captain out, and Tom sinks like a stone to the bottom, his tail slumped over the rim as it twitches against the ache. A gummy patch of fluid has gathered where his scales used to be, half coagulated in his body's attempt to heal himself, and it shines through the haze of the water by lantern light, stark against his black spines as he drifts mindlessly.
Above him, the trapdoor slams open suddenly, startling him out of his daze, flooding the room with white light and fresh sea air. He sees Patryck briefly, and hears yelling voices, but he can’t discern the words, then, he hears the twang of metal blades clashing against each other, sharp and loud with the force behind the swing. They must be dueling, there's no gunfire or cannon shots to signal an attack by the navy, and it only lasts for a mere minute, the shuffling sounds of bootsteps overhead going quiet as a solid weight hits the deck hard.
Then, Tord stands poised above the grate, looking down at him through metal bars with a dangerous look on his face. In one hand, in his metal hand, he holds his sword, stained and dripping with crimson blood, and in the other, he holds a head with hauntingly familiar eyes aloft for him to see like a sacrificial offering. For a moment it's just them as if they are alone, settled down to the abyssal sea floor, and the Captain’s vicious frown tilts into something sanguine and pleased, the crescent of his iris glinting like gunmetal. Despite himself, Tom’s pure relief mixes with something venemous at seeing the man that terrorized him dead in cold blood, and he bares his pointed teeth in a twisted, sickly grin, relishing in how the unused muscles stretch and ache.
“The world is cruel, Thomas. Take what you want.” The captain says with a strangely giddy expression, words meant only for him, then turns away, tossing the head overboard as if it were garbage. Tom sinks back into the water of his tub, like a predator hidden in murk and tangled sea weeds, his desire for freedom renewed like a crashing monsoon.
The navy looms closer, evident by Paul's increasing stress, and Tom bides his time, almost bored in the tense calm. The man wraps his tail in fresh bandages, chewing on his cigarette in mild frustration as he vents, “And ever since the duel, Captain’s been paranoid about traitors. Thinks someone is gonna take the chance and go for self.”
“I guess greed begets greed.” Tom finds himself saying, quiet and monotone.
Paul scowls at him, pausing his work, “A lot of the crew owe a life debt to the Captain; it’s not all about the money.” He looks back down and finishes a loop with a neat cinch, “Hell, that's why I’m here.”
Tom shrugs, saying nothing, relaxing back now that Paul has finished. He thinks he might miss the man, once he’s gone. Maybe in another life they could’ve been friends.
The rest of the day drags on once he leaves, but the trapdoor remains open wide, and he watches the building storm clouds above them with some interest. It hasn’t started to rain yet, but the gray overcast grows thick with each passing hour and the air is so humid he can taste it on his tongue. While he sits, he tests his limbs, clenching and unclenching his fists, curling his tail to find his limits. Tom even pulls himself out of the tub just to familiarize himself with the action, careful not to chafe too hard against the manacles. With his improved diet, he has more energy than he has in a long time, fueling his exercises, small as they may be.
Tom startles awake deep in the night to the boom of cannon fire. It rocks their ship like the churning waves from the storm, sending him against the walls of the tub roughly. The trapdoor had been closed sometime during the evening while he was asleep, but he can hear the violent pounding of rain on the wooden surface, seeping ever so slightly from the cracks in the boards.
He waits for an agonizing hour, listening to the clamor overhead, time stretching on despite his fervent anticipation as the ships exchange blows. When the acrid smell of burning wood hits his nose, Tom knows it's his time to leave, waiting for another violent rock of the ship to tip his tub over, sending him skidding across the floor with a crash as the water spills out around him. It prevents his muscles from drying out just yet, and he lifts himself on the doorknob, pulling hard at the iron handle.
To his dismay, it's locked, but he sharpens the claw of his smallest finger into a sharp point and jams it into the keyhole, feeling for the click, his heart pounding out of his chest. When it gives, he breathes a sigh of relief, moving back to slowly open the door. Sounds of sword fights and chaos instantly hit his ears, and another deafening boom sends the ship careening dangerously to the other side, and he’s wrenched back, pulled by the force of it as the door swings wide.
The world tilts on its axis, and Tom scrabbles for purchase as he makes his way to the hall, stabilizing himself on the doorframe. He moves away just in time for the door to come back around swiftly and shut with a harsh slam and a click, locking him out of the brig and of safety. He sucks in a breath, now out in the open, and prays the fight stays above him, inching along the floorboards as his body stays moist with the spray of sea and rain water forced through the cracks and the opening of the stairs.
He peers above deck cautiously, visibility low with gunsmoke and the curtain of violent sea storm rain. Tom thinks he can make out Tord across the port bow, locked in a fight with a navy captain, and he sees Patryck, manning the cannons despite all the chaos. Looming over them is an ornate navy warship, with furling sails and sprawling shrouds like spiderwebs.
Tom watches for openings, hiding behind a wayward barrel when crewmembers run past, swords and guns drawn. Their ship fires again, and the violence bevels, pitching towards the dark sea water. Paul is flung out into his visibility from the wheel, tipping dangerously but holding firm, calling out orders to the crewmembers close enough to hear as he tries to scramble back to his post. Across the way, another foolhardy navy man jumps on board despite the massacre around them, and Tom watches through the haze as the ensign takes aim at Paul with his rifle. Tord seems to notice this too, cutting his previous opponent down with renewed intensity, reaching for the pistol in his holster.
But Tom is closer and faster, using his claws and the slick deck to propel himself forward, thrusting his shackled wrists in front of the bayonet as the lock clicks and the explosion goes off with a blinding flash.
The force of it nearly wrenches his arms out of their sockets, his wrists on fire as the mangled metal splits apart. Tom is thrown against the deck hard with a grunt, ears ringing from the collision of metal and metal, breathing heavily as his lurelight hangs low before him.
Tord uses the opening to fire a shot of his own, and the ensigns head is blown to bits before him, the man’s look of surprise and the brutality following burning a hole in Tom’s vision.
“Tom!” Paul yells, shocked and concerned, but Tom turns to the captain, his dark eyes reflecting the destruction around them, determined.
Tord stares down at him, silver lit by lightning, a smug smile stretching across his lips. As if they reach the eye of the storm, the world narrows into focus entirely on the captain, on the way he looks his best surrounded by chaos, smoke and blood. They reach an understanding among the burning wood and scattered bodies, two currents clashing together, fire and water, bursting with a great eruption to the heavens above.
“Taking what I want.” Tom echoes, testing the words in his mouth as he says it, hardly audible over the ongoing battle.
Tord’s knowing grin cracks wider like a shark, teeth glinting by firelight, “‘Til we meet again, Tom.”
He huffs a humorless laugh, and slips away to dive over the railing's edge and into the black seawater.
Never again will he be in chains. Never again will his freedom be taken from him like a prize or a gleaming treasure.
Without looking back at the violence and the warring ships above, he retreats past charred debris and floating corpses into the dark abyss, fading into the ocean's wide depths with a newfound resolve and the promise of a reunion between old friends.