I'm back! I've been writing loads lately, but I haven't been bothered to actually post any of it up here. So, I give you this~ I had the urge to write some pirate stuff, so this was born. As per usual I own nothing but the words.
Francis Bonnefoy, the handsome only son of the most well respected French trader on the face of the planet, could do nothing but watch as his entire life sunk before him, floating to the murky depths of this God-forsaken ocean. Everything he had worked so hard for vanished right in front of his eyes in the space of only a few seconds; his ship, his crew, his wealth, gone in an instant and all because of one filthy pirate. Francis had never liked pirates, but one pirate in particular was now at the top of his list.
Captain Arthur Kirkland. The most notorious, and merciless, pirate sailing the seven seas.
He was the one that had done this to him and Lord knows he would pay dearly for it if ever Francis caught up with him, but for the time being, the Frenchman was concentrating on staying afloat. His only lifeline was the scrap of drift wood he was clinging to. His white clothes, which were accented with blue here and there along with the odd strand of gold braid, were dirty and were made up of more water than actual fabric now, some of the edges were singed from where the pirate crew had set his beloved ship alight. He didn't even know where he was. Could things get any worse?
The blonde man floated for what seemed like a lifetime in a world of shimmering azure waves and smooth pale blue skies and soon enough he was sick of the colour so he shut his eyes. It was hard to tell but he could've sworn he had fallen asleep for a while. He couldn't blame himself; his eyes were so heavy and he was exhausted from fighting of the motley crew of dirty seadogs earlier, and even just staying afloat was slowly sapping the energy from him. Every muscle in his body ached and his head was throbbing, so of course he thought he was seeing things when a blip appeared on the horizon between one shade of blue and another. Francis squinted hard and tried to figure out if he was really seeing a ship approach him. Suddenly his body didn't seem to ache anymore and the headache went away. The vessel came into view quickly, but the blonde's hopes sank when he saw the unique flag that the ship was flying; a white rectangle with a pair of crossed cutlasses and in the middle of them was a crimson rose, blood dripping from the petals.
Captain Arthur Kirkland…
..Or his ship at least…
Francis tried to decide whether he would rather die than board that ship but he soon found he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. The pirate vessel was soon up alongside him and after a moment of shuffling from on deck a rope was thrown out into the sea, the knotted hissing worryingly close to Francis' face and landing just to his right. A voice called out from aboard; "Garb it would ya!" The voice was gruff and sounded European. The Frenchman wasn't sure what to do, after all, this was the ship that was commanded by the man that had just sent his own ship to Davy Jones' Locker. "Grab it!"
Scared that if he didn't take the rope that something worse would happen to him, Francis timidly let go of his scrap of driftwood and clung to the rope, giving the end a sharp tug to let the man aboard know that he was ready. After a moment or two of nothing happening, the rope was jerked upwards. Francis decided it was in his best interests to cooperate so he walked himself up the side of the ship before reaching the top and falling rather ungracefully onto the deck, looking more like a fish out of water than the respected French nobleman he was.
The motley crew of the vessel all gathered around the blonde to see what was going on, his expensive looking clothing drawing most of the attention. "What should we do wi'is one?" One of the crowd called.
"Grab 'is fancy lookin' clothes and throw 'im back, I say!" Cried another.
"We could 'ave ourselves a good ol' time seein' 'ow long 'e'll survive against a shark!"
One of the filthy men began prodding the Frenchman, no doubt trying to judge if there was anything of significant worth in his pockets. "What if we made 'im tell us where 'is riches are? We'd be rollin' in it!"
"The Captain don't need to know about this one. 'Ow 'bout we keep 'im to ourselves?" This idea won a roar of approval from the rest of the men, and some of the crew stood nearer the front of the gathering began scrabbling to get first in line to "greet" their guest. Francis figured this was probably the end for him and clenched his eyes when he heard a shot from a pistol fire off.
Opening his eyes slowly, the Frenchman steadily sat up. It took a moment for the scenery around him to fall into place again but he wasn't sure if he was glad or not; he was still sat amongst the pirate rabble on board the Kirkland man's ship. But now, they had all taken a step or two backwards, giving him some space to turn around and see where the shot had been fired from. His crystal blue eyes scanned the deck for a smoking weapon. He found one. It was being held to the sky by a black gloved hand and that hand was attached to and arm that was dressed in a plain white shirt, well, it was probably plain a few years ago, there were stains here and there. The shirt opened up at the front to reveal a stunningly pale chest, only obscured by the red sash that was tied tightly around the man's waist. The colour of the sash perfectly matched the colour of the man's flowing frock coat that was draped over his shoulders, the sleeves empty and fluttering in the wind by his sides. The man wore black breeches, but only a small portion of them could be seen as the majority of his legs were covered up by his battered black leather boots that looked like they had seen better days. Francis took in the sight of the man's elegant clothing and the fact that he was relatively clean considering his profession. The Frenchman dared to look this newcomer in the eyes. The blond slowly raised his head and met the emerald gaze of the man. His eyes, they seemed familiar. Suddenly, Francis realized where he knew this stare from.
Captain Arthur Kirkland.
Francis had never seen him face to face before, but there were "Wanted" posters of him at every port, pub and parlour all over the world. His scruffy blonde hair visible under the scruffy old brown tricorn hat that sat rather comfortably upon the Brit's head, the distinct eyebrows and the cocky smirk seemed all too familiar. But it was him, alright. The Englishman lowered the pistol from the air and slung it back into its place inside the sash around his waist and waltzed almost absentmindedly towards the crowd and the Frenchman that was still sat on the deck. "So," the captain began. He didn't sound anything like what Francis thought he would; he sounded upper class almost and not at all rough or harsh. It was almost nice to hear him speak. "What have you mangy lot fished out this time, eh?" He strode up to where his men were gathered and turned to the fist mate, the man who had thrown the rope to Francis.
"Well, I found 'im floatin' around out there an' I thought we should, y'know, 'aul 'im up 'n see what was goin' on."
Captain Kirkland nodded thoughtfully, "So, you decided to take him aboard and not inform me because…?"
The first mate thought for a moment, obviously struggling to think up a reason for his Captain, who was smiling devilishly.
"I see, you wanted to knock him around a bit, steal what little wealth he would have on his person then throw him back? Is that it?" His emerald eyes were boring holes into the side of the First Mate's head as he waited almost intently for the man to respond. When he didn't answer, Arthur swept him up bridal style and walked through the crowd of gasping crew members, before stopping next to the edge of the deck. The Captain leant over the edge, making the man in his arms hang just over the edge and above the ocean. "It's an awfully long was to land from here, do you know that?"
Without another word from anyone, the Englishman drew back his arms and allowed the Mate to fall to the water below. Ignoring the screams for help, the Brit strolled back to where the crew were gathered. All the men took a step back from Kirkland when he passed them, afraid that they would be next to join the First Mate. Francis, who was still sat on the splintered, wooden floor, couldn't believe what he had just seen. The Pirate Captain had seemed so nice, yet he had just sent that man to his death without batting an eyelid. He had heard stories, but there was something about seeing it with his own eyes that made the French man realize the extremity of his situation. He had a moment of clarity. And he didn't like it. "Well now," The nobleman turned around sharply when he noticed the voice of the Captain was right behind him, to find himself merely centimetres from the Englishman's own face, " it seems I find myself short of a First Mate." Francis couldn't form a response out of pure terror. "I'd like to offer you a position." The pirate smiled, and without warning he grabbed the Frenchman by the hand, pulled him up from the floor and practically dragged him into his cabin, leaving the crew to stew in their confusion.
I'm actually pretty proud of this one~ A proper plotted story isn't something I would consider a strong point of mine, but this one has gone pretty well so far…
…Right, that's it, I've jinxed it! The story will be horrible from now on…
Well, I hope it won't be…
Hope you enjoy this and the chapters that are to follow~