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Captain Collie Parker cast his gaze at the horizon, where the strikingly blue sky met the tumultuous sea.
Today was the day. Collie could feel the prickles of excitement echo in his fingers, erupting immediately after reaching their tips. He squeezed the handle of his knife tighter. He knew other captains ridiculed him for it, making puns about its size — too small, unbecoming of a real captain — but he hardly found the thoughts of the others to be any of his concern. This tiny blade has won him countless battles, and it was about to win another one. And after this one… Well, Collie thought, smirking, after this battle their opinions will cease to matter altogether.
Because today he was finally going to do it. It was, of course, referring to dealing with captain Gary Barkovitch once and for all. Collie winced, tasting his opponents name on his tongue. It somehow felt weird. Wrong. The necessity of calling him captain annoyed Collie indescribably. He wanted to deny it all, to claim that there was nothing special about Barkovitch and that he's just a fly in the ointment that would soon be taken care of. But of course, nothing had ever been that easy; not when it came to Barkovitch's blond curls.
Collie gritted his teeth together in frustration. Something was definitely wrong with him, to the point where sometimes it seemed like Barkovitch was favored by the gods themselves. Why choose this light-haired devil as their pet, though, Collie couldn't grasp. From what he knew, there wasn't anything striking about him. He was good with a blade, but not masterful enough to instill that deep, irrational sense of fear that overcame many pirates when faced with a truly formidable foe. He was tall, but not gigantic. And he surely wasn't sculpted by the gods themselves, because, according to Collie's spies' reports, his looks were rather average. And he bled. He wasn't immune to injuries, which gave Collie a little more hope. He wasn't unbeatable.
Yet, Collie knew better than to underestimate his rival. Plenty of scars he gained from that, and not nearly enough gold or fame. Collie's fleet numbered fifty-eight ships — enough to be called an admiral, should he ever desire to claim this title. Barkovitch's had one, and yet, somehow he persevered. His body wasn't feeding the fish at the bottom of the ocean, so the stars must've definitely aligned in his favor. There was a reason to how an underdog like Barkovitch could survive for so long, and Untunktahe be his witness, Collie would find it out today.
He sighed. Zuck was steering the ship towards the cliffs — a perfect place to hide the second, much bigger ship. They needed to be far enough to avoid getting caught, but also near enough to be able to raid Barkovitch's vessel when it would come closer. Another ship was anchored nearby. Collie's crew spent a few days filling it with treasure, picking out the least valuable pieces in case something would go wrong and Barkovitch would escape again. His fame of being a smart weasel preceded the pirate himself.
At first, Collie wanted to use one of the smaller ships as a bait, but Harkness, his right-hand man, argued that Barkovitch may not be tempted by something too small. So, with a heavy heart, he decided to let Iktomi go. If everything went well, they would soon reunite, Collie tried to console himself. She was a lovely ship; he'd hate to lose her, even if it was absolutely needed.
But Barkovitch wasn't exactly renowned for his mercy. He was used to taking away the things Collie loved.
Mica was one of his first ships. It carried quite an array of memories, and even now, after the pain has seemingly dulled, Mica visited Collie in his dreams. She was just like he'd seen her the last time. Caught in fire, surrounded by so much smoke it seemed to fill Collie's lungs until he couldn't breathe. And yet, despite everything, she'd been so achingly beautiful, and Collie couldn't tear his eyes away. He forced himself to watch. To remember what exactly happened the last time he dared to make a foolish mistake of letting Barkovitch get under his skin.
The worst part was that Barkovitch wasn't targeting specifically him. A few other ships suffered, too, but the others seemed to move on way too fast, and only Collie continued to hold a grudge. Not that he ever planned to stop, because it only got worse. Barkovitch knew he was a problem, and meddling with Collie's business had become a new hobby of his. He was everywhere Collie went to, stealing the spotlight from him, and the floor underneath his feet along with it. And Collie, no matter how hard he tried, never seemed to be able to catch him. Barkovitch was like a ghost, gone long before Collie could even get a glimpse of him.
Until today. They were going to get him today.
Collie sheathed his knife again. The fateful battle was just a few hours away.
Collie hissed, twisting around himself, movements akin to those of a professional dancer. Only his hand held a blade instead of an ornate fan or another quirky decoration. He just blocked a jab directed at him when another manifested itself seemingly out of thin air, not giving Collie a minute to catch his breath. Barkovitch's team was fierce, as if they knew this was going to be their last battle. They fought like beasts, creatures straight out of a nightmare, flashing their toothy grins and swatting their limbs haphazardly, without any visible order or pattern.
Somehow, this worked in their favor.
The situation was making Collie reconsider his fighting tactics, and rather quickly at that. He was an avid supporter of structure; everyone had their place and role assigned to them, making them look like separate parts of the same mechanism. Up until now, this strategy had only been showing its positive aspects, but Collie was starting to see its downsides as well. Unlike Barkovitch's team, his crew had limited space for maneuvers. Their movements were awkward, constricted. They didn't look like a threat at all.
The ship was swarming with people. A few times Collie bumped into someone, and even though he had no way of saying if that was someone from his team or not, he couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude for the absence of a knife thrusted into his side or back. The scuffle was turning messier, more chaotic with each passing second. And try as he might, he couldn't keep every single one of Barkovitch's folks in his line of sight. He was gonna lose at least someone inevitably, and even that was a misstep Collie could not afford.
He needed to find the captain, and quickly.
Collie eyed his surroundings. It was extremely hard to focus. The clash of steel and hisses of pain interlaced with occasional screams were deafening, and Collie found his vision getting blurry. He was also getting annoyed with himself. What was his problem, for heaven's sake? This was hardly his first fight, and even though he wasn't exactly used to operating in such a scant space, he should've known better than this. He ducked down, avoiding a sharp blade pointed right in his eye, and stretched out his leg to try and make the opponent to trip. The boy yelped as he got tangled in his own lanky legs, exposed skin scraping against the wooden planks. Collie regarded him with a hasty glance. His eyes registered the ash-blond hair first, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. But the brain tuned in right after: the boy was too young to be Barkovitch. He was too young to be on this ship at all. Collie struggled to determine his exact age, but his guess landed between fourteen and sixteen. Nowhere near being old enough to find himself in a middle of such a violent clash.
Collie blinked at him in surprise. The boy blinked back, scooted farther away and scrambled to his feet, and then Collie lost him.
Collie gave an annoyed hiss. He wasn't going to cut out the whole crew; after all, he was only going after Barkovitch. But he was growing week. Clumsy. And in his line of work, those things spelled imminent death.
Collie whipped his head up. There, not too far away from him, another glimpse of blond hair. Its owner was shameless, not bothering to hide or be careful whatsoever. Collie suspected he didn't even need a blade to fight, seeing as his hands were perfectly capable of sending anyone who dared to come close flying even while being empty. Was this Barkovitch? Collie hesitated. It could be. From what he heard, Barkovitch's hair was significantly longer, but that was easily fixable with any razor the blond devil could get his hands on. Even whatever tatty blade he was using would've probably done the job.
But something felt awfully wrong about the man Collie was currently surveying. Surveying, possibly, was an exaggeration, since he was mostly just catching intermittent glimpses of the other pirate, but his point stood anyway. It wasn't the irrational fear the man instilled in Collie, no no. All his senses screamed to stay away, away from that unhinged gaze and unrestrained behavior, but that wasn't relevant to the matter. This man could not be Barkovitch, and if someone asked Collie why he was so sure of that, he probably couldn't explain it himself. He just knew.
Suddenly, a mocking voice pulled Collie out of his thought. He whirled around to face the intruder. And even before he saw him, Collie knew whom that biting tone belonged to. "Would you look at that! Whatcha doing here, admiral? Silly old me could theorize you'd have enough treasure to your name. Won't you let me have this one?"
Collie stood before him, dumbfounded. Admiral. He detested the word, loathed it with the entirety of his soul. Barkovitch, of course, didn't know that. He was just a little nuisance that liked to get on people's nerves. That's what fueled his entire existence in Collie's eyes.
"Barkovitch," he hissed. Gary, his brain added.
Collie could feel himself going limp. Anger flooded him in broad waves, suffocating him, immobilizing him. Instead of going after the fiend he just stood there, eyeing his frame. Same long blond hair, just as his spies reported. Same height, same posture, same limbs length and same infuriating smirk. But the eyes… They omitted the eyes, and only for that Collie should have them punished. No human should be allowed to have eyes like these, of this shade of blue that was awfully reminiscent of the sea roaring around them, of the sky stretching above their heads and of snow that Collie missed to the bottom of his soul, all at the same time.
He started towards Barkovitch in wobbly steps, drawing his blade. All of those foolish things he made up for himself just a few moments earlier didn't matter. He was going to kill Barkovitch, once and for all.
He swung a blade in the enemy's direction, but his opponent ducked down as if it cost nothing. His movements were annoyingly fluid, like he danced instead of fighting. And Collie had long lost his dancing skills. Even so, Barkovitch remained on the defensive, which, as Collie knew, was a losing strategy. He just needed to tire Barkovitch out. He wasn't blessed by the gods, no matter what the residual superstitions on Collie might have to say on that matter.
They sparred for what felt like ages. Barkovitch couldn't get to him, but he also did a laudable job of keeping Collie out of his space. His blade was no match for Collie's, but, as Collie was beginning to notice, Barkovitch was excellent at working with what little freedom he had. That went beyond fighting, Collie supposed.
But things rarely went as orchestrated in a fight. Too many variables, too many unsteady points that could change at any time.
Barkovitch winced, suddenly pulling back. Collie's eyes widened in surprise, and then he saw a blade sticking out of Barkovitch's side. It wasn't embedded deep enough to warrant ineluctable death, but the suddenness of it all caused Barkovitch to stumble. He scattered backwards, his back hitting the side of the ship. His fingers curled around the blade, and Collie watched him, transfixed, as Barkovitch pulled the bloodied knife out of his flesh. That was what fueled his existence in reality. Spite, yes. Will to survive, yes, even with a dash of insolence, Collie would say. But beneath all of this was blood all the same. Grimly red and sticky, just like Collie's own.
Stupid, Collie's mind jabbered, stupid, stupid, so stupid! Didn't he know you shouldn't pull the blade out until you got help?
It would be so easy to deliver the final hit. Barkovitch already was disoriented, his arresting blue orbs glossed over. He blinked at Collie, awaiting his next move. Maybe the injury was worse than Collie expected, because the next thing he noticed was Barkovitch prodding the bleeding area and wincing. His fingers, already stained with blood, emerged even darker.
"What are you waiting for?" Barkovitch hissed. "Get to it already. And be quick."
Collie would laugh if he still remembered how to make any sounds. His throat constricted, intent on not letting any air out. He balled his hands into fists, trying to shake the image off. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. Because Barkovitch indeed looked like a cornered animal. Worse, even: he looked like an animal that knew it was about to die. And to think that he still had the nerve to make demands. It was laughable indeed. It was commendable.
Collie stopped. His blade was just a few inches away from Barkovitch's face. As if frightened by the sudden proximity, he drew back, turned around and jumped back into the tussle. They could still get Iktomi back. That's what was important, not taking someone's life when they would inevitably die on their own. Most likely. Barkovitch's wound looked bad, but not pernicious.
So why the hell did he let him go?
The eyes, something within him supplied. The eyes were so distracting. Exuding helplessnes, which, in retrospect, might've been just a trick to save Gary's — Barkovitch's, Collie reprimanded himself — life. But one way or another, it worked. Barkovitch was alive, even if just for now. He missed his chance.
Collie's mind reeled. It was all a mistake; a colossal mistake that would cost his people their lives. Maybe he would die because of it. Barkovitch was utterly unpredictable; it was virtually impossible to determine where and how he would strike back. Collie only knew that he would. He had to believe that, or else his judgment would crumble. He had to think Barkovitch a deadly foe, or else his hatred would die down.
Swishing his blade at the next assailant, Collie could only think that it died the very moment he caught a fleeting glimpse of those damned eyes.