A/N: There's a good reason why this took so long to update, but I won't bore you with the reasons. Just please accept my apologies for the delay. ^_^ Also, thank you so much to those who've emailed me about this story during the interim. I really appreciated it.

(***)

Into the Silent Sea
Chapter 3: Rules of Engagement

(***)

Silence was often an underappreciated entity, just as calmness was often an underrated trait. But despite his utmost respect for them, Ken sometimes thought that the world could have easily done without them - like now. In fact, at that very moment, he hated them ... hated what they were doing to him, and especially hated what they were doing to Ran.

"Hold him still."

Omi's steely command came out softly, yet the blatant authority that accompanied the smaller boy's words were enough to make the brunette tighten his restraining hold on the warm body beneath his arms.

A quarter of an hour had passed since they'd managed to force Ran down on his desk - minutes that had seemed to stretch on into eternity for Ken - and they were no closer to removing that damned bullet now than when the stubborn captain had collapsed against his first mate.

The events following their return to the ship were still clouded in a haze of anger, fear, and desperation for Ken - anger at the obstinate redhead for hiding his wound, fear at seeing such a strong man fall so lifelessly to the ground, and desperation at the thought of losing the one person who'd filled a void in him he never knew he had. He remembered calling out for help, duly ignoring the older man's weak protest at letting his crew know of his condition, and loudly yelling through the room's walls for someone to come.

Youji had been the first to arrive, opening the door with a look of annoyance that had quickly turned to shock. Soon thereafter, Mr. Mumbles and Omi had appeared, followed by a few other straggling crew members. And it had been then, with frantic brown eyes searching the surprised faces gathered around him that Ken had realized that the only crewman who could have helped - a one-time barber who'd practiced surgery on the side - had left the ship over three months ago.

For a whole second, Ken teetered on the line between rationality, and complete panic.

And then, "Clear off the desk and help me get him on it."

Just like that, with a clearheaded, unemotional efficiency that the brunette was incapable of at the moment, Omi had taken charge. The young blonde had quickly emptied the room, and had organized the situation with a strictness that would have put a dictator to shame.

Ken hadn't complained. His rational mind had slipped into a state of such incompetence that he had barely been able to help Youji lift Ran onto the desk after the taller man had carelessly cleared off the surface. As he had settled the captain down with as little jostling as possible, the brunette had absently noted Omi sending Mr. Mumbles off with several whispered instructions.

And through it all, the redhead had remained silent, his face maintaining a demeanor of calmness that almost drove Ken to the point of distraction. He couldn't even begin to fathom how the prideful redhead had managed to hide his injury for so long, or how much pain the man was feeling at their delayed ministrations, but instinctively, he knew that Ran was masking everything behind that unflappable veneer of his and was refusing to tarnish his reputation of invulnerability.

Yet, secretly, he wished the wounded man would just simply relent and give up his act. From experience, he understood that the agony would lessen considerably if there was an outlet for the suppressed tension that was building up inside.

Omi had wasted no time in taking a pair of forceps, along with a small bucket of steaming water, from Mr. Mumbles when the dark-skinned man returned. He had then put them to good use without any hesitation. When Youji and Ken had seen what the young blonde intended to do, they had quickly taken up position by the prone redhead; Youji had moved to still the young captain's legs, leaving the brunette to immobilize the upper torso.

"Where?" Omi had asked Ran when he was ready, hands still moist from a quick wash and the small metal instrument at the ready.

"Side," the redhead had managed to whisper hoarsely, violet eyes slightly glazed, but still fully aware and cognizant. "Above the hip ..."

Ken had been surprised the man could string a coherent phrase together, but his personal astonishment soon disappeared when Omi had ripped the bloodied cloth of Ran's shirt apart to assess the wound. Smooth, pale skin peeked out from hapless strokes of varying crimson shades, the stark duet of red and white mutually complimenting a small circle of near-black just above the subtle protrusion of the wounded man's left hipbone.

It had seemed wrong to Ken that there should be such a defacement of sheer flawlessness, and he had found himself fighting the urge to reach out and rub away the mark like it was some tenacious speck of dirt. Instead, he'd settled for reaching an arm over Ran's chest, and firmly gripping the injured captain's shoulder in preparation of things to come. Unconsciously, his other hand had sought out that of the redhead's, their fingers automatically entwining without any thought or fanfare. Likewise, Youji had followed suit by leaning down onto the prone man's legs.

"Just a little more ..." came Omi's quiet voice.

Ken oriented himself back to the present, and reaffirmed his hold on the taut body beneath him. He could feel his grip begin to slip on the sweat-soaked skin, but with a muted snort of determination, he willed his arm to maintain its current position. Ran's muscles literally vibrated with strain beneath his fingers, and Ken could easily see the man's jaw alternatively tightening and relaxing from Omi's exploration.

The brunette deigned to glance over at the smaller blonde, and at the sight of the boy's bloodied handiwork, he could have sworn that the metallic scent that filled the cabin's air thickened.

Ken suppressed the need to gag.

"Do you even know what you're doing, Omi?" He looked questioningly at the furrowed brow of the younger blonde.

Omi didn't bother to acknowledge him - Ken wasn't even sure the boy had heard him - and simply continued to search for the embedded bullet.

"Just trust him," Youji said in a subdued voice from the other end of the desk. "He's done this once before."

Ken shot the taller blonde a wide-eyed look. "Once?" he squeaked. "How do we know if he's doing this right?"

Hard, green eyes locked with Ken's astonished brown ones at that very moment, the absolute seriousness and confidence shining in their depths a complete revelation to behold. If Ken didn't know any better, he would have thought that this man was a stranger, a complete departure from the carefree, nonchalant Youji he'd come to know.

Then, the blonde spoke, his tone succinct and direct. "I'm alive, aren't I?"

At this, Ken looked away, the rhetorical question rapidly quieting any doubts he had had. He was not one to put his faith in anything freely, but just this once, he would ... especially if it meant that Ran would be alive and healthy in the end.

"Hold him still!"

Omi's request coincided with the redhead's sudden jerk, and Ken re-doubled his efforts. Shifting his body, he leaned further onto the wounded man, and tightened his fingers around his captain's. He felt Ran squeeze his hand in return, and slowly, he lowered his gaze to meet the redhead's.

That amethyst glare was bright with pain, but even so, it settled lucidly onto Ken. Soulful brown eyes softened.

'Everything will be fine,' the darker pair said silently, and as if the message had been declared for the entire room to hear, some of the tension eased from the injured man's frame.

Ken allowed a small, reassuring smile to play on his lips, and instantly, Ran seemed transfixed.

It had been an action and consequent reaction that the two of them had unconsciously perfected in their time together. After everything they had been through, after facing countless raids and deadly boarding parties, after coming a hair's breadth from losing their lives, this had become their own private refuge from the harsh claws of reality. For a man such as Ken, who held little value in the flowery escapism of high romance, this was as close as he would come to keeping the world at bay. He wasn't a firm believer in the often idealized concept of love, but he did believe in this; he believed in the reassuring heat that surged with vitality beneath his clasped fingers, he believed in the twinkling violet eyes that showered a tickling warmth over his skin, and he believed in this single, surreal moment when their breaths came in undeniable and synchronized harmony.

But just as swiftly as that connection had been made, it disappeared.

Without warning, the redhead's eyes squeezed shut, and his back arched. Helpless to alleviate the pain, the first mate watched with weary eyes and allowed the death grip on his hand to tighten.

"Got it!"

Omi's victorious shout was accompanied by the dull clang of the offending bullet falling into the small dish sitting on the floor, and in Ken's opinion, the sound couldn't have come soon enough.

"About time," the brunette wheezed out as tension began to leave his body. He couldn't draw his attention away from Ran, whose chest was heaving as if he'd just ran the entire length of San Juan, but he knew his invading sense of responsibility was intent on reasserting itself within seconds.

Thus, he settled for a compromise: allowing his hand to remain in the young captain's, he straightened and looked over at Omi.

"We need to close the wound. Do you have ...?"

The smaller blonde was well ahead of him. "I know. I had Mr. Mumbles bring a needle and ..."

"No."

Ran's protest was soaked with weakness and exhaustion, but its commanding tone deterred any thought of disobedience. "Brand," he continued. "Cleaner. Faster."

"You're jesting, aren't you?" Youji's disbelieving voice came from the other end of the desk. "Damn, I always knew you were bloody crazy."

And for once, the brunette couldn't have agreed with the self-confident man more. "Ran, you're not thinking clearly. It may take a while to heal, but just let Omi patch you up," Ken looked down and said quietly in a voice that only the two of them could hear.

Yet his softly spoken words were lost on the injured man who had already turned away from his first mate and was glaring at the small blonde at his side.

Briefly, the stuffy air of the cabin crackled with pent-up energy and the barely-curbed objections of all the men residing within, but Ran's stubbornness eventually won out, causing Omi to nod silently and march purposefully to the door. Ken watched the boy with disbelief and although a part of him wanted to run and stop the young blonde, the rest of him had succumbed to a strange, inexplicable apathetic calm.

"Stupid, idiotic captain," he whispered hoarsely as he allowed himself one small lapse and lowered his own head onto the polished surface beside Ran's. Closing his eyes, he let a shuddering breath leave his lungs, and resisted the urge to just jump up onto the desk and curl up next to the warm body already on it. At this distance, he could smell the redhead's scent - a clean, enticing musk that seemed to fight valiantly through the enshrouding odors of blood and sweat - and he felt himself being lulled into a serene sense of security, false as it may be.

"Get him ready."

Ken could have sworn that he'd only closed his eyes for one second, but Omi's sure voice brought him back to reality and told him otherwise.

Youji seemed to have been aware of his temporal lapse, and took the initiative. Without preamble, the older man was given what looked like a small wooden peg from the blond boy, and walked solemnly to stand beside the prone redhead. Omi followed, carefully handling a metal poker in his hand that still glowed orange from the recent heating.

"Some of the men just re-stocked the rum," the small blonde said as he neared. "We could get some if you want ..."

The young captain declined and shook his head on the table like a lifeless doll.

Ken heard Youji sigh at the response, but still, unerringly, he placed the wooden peg horizontally across the redhead's mouth. "Bite down hard, and don't swallow your tongue. You'd put all of Omi's efforts to waste."

The captain complied. And if he was irritated at being commanded to do such a simple thing, he didn't show it.

"Ready?" the smaller blonde asked, the apprehensive set of his shoulders easily betraying the steadiness of his voice and actions.

Ran nodded.

The span of time that followed was one that Ken would later hope never to re-live.

His most distinct impression of the ensuing event was the intense pressure exerted on his hand by Ran. The redheaded captain squeezed his appendage so tightly that the possibility of never being able to use that limb again passed through the first mate's mind.

And then, there was the smell...

The burning, acrid smell of sizzling human flesh.

Ken shut his eyes, the action a futile attempt to block out the crackling sound of scarring skin, the strained choke of Ran's intake of breath, and the painful arch of the young captain's body. Oddly enough, he felt suspicious moisture begin to form beneath his eyelashes. He swallowed repeatedly, and reminded himself that this macabre nightmare would end soon.

And it did.

With the hollow clatter of the recently bitten peg falling to the floor and Omi's muted 'done', the whole thing ended.

Letting out a breath that he'd held for the duration of the brand, Ken opened his eyes, and absently, he noticed that the grip on his hand had grown lax. He threw a worried glance down at the injured man and found that the redhead had finally fallen into blessed unconsciousness.

"Wrap the wound up and get him into bed," the brunette managed to croak out as he removed his numb fingers from Ran's grasp.

Omi nodded, and gestured for Youji to help.

Seeing that the young boy had managed to keep a level head through the whole ordeal, Ken relaxed somewhat and turned from the desk to do what he'd been wanting to do since Omi had brought the metal poker into the cabin.

With a shudder, Ken bent over and retched.

(***)

He wasn't much for moping.

He could taunt with the best of them, and he could be an insolent ass when the mood suited him.

But he didn't mope!

Schuldich let out a sigh that bordered on overdramatic and leaned gracelessly against the aged wood of the ship's rail, head hung at a dejected angle.

He should've been happy that he'd been released from that godforsaken brig - grateful and ecstatic even - but for some odd reason, those feelings seemed to have eluded him. All circumstances considered, there was no explanation for this languid, grey pall that had descended over him. Here he stood on the crystalline waters of the ocean, in the loving sunshine of a sickeningly beautiful day, and he couldn't muster up the emotions that should've been evoked by such a scene. In fact, this whole excursion lacked the thrill he had initially thought it would have had.

It lacked the cutthroat intensity he was used to. It lacked the lethal excitement he'd come to expect. It lacked the deceptive ruthlessness he found familiar. It lacked...

"Hey, you! The rigging needs to be untangled. Get up there now!"

Schuldich knew that the guttural Spanish words from the ship's grizzled captain were directed at him, but in his own defiant fashion, he didn't turn to acknowledge the order. Instead, he continued to stare out into the endless blue of sky and sea.

It lacked ... Crawford.

"You! Did you hear what I said?!"

The captain's incessant badgering had long become white noise to Schuldich, his non-existent motivation more a product of boredom than desire. The dankness of his recent stay in the brig still dwelled in the marrow of his bones, and yet, the reminder of the past punishment was duly ignored. He understood that he could push the Spaniard only so far, but even so, he felt like testing the man's limits again for his own amusement. Besides, if there was one thing he did well, it was laughing in the face of authority.

"Get to work! Or else it's back to the brig with you!"

Again, the command was hurled his way, but this time, he smirked, and turned to look at the dark-haired man on the small quarterdeck with an arrogance that would have belittled any mortal. And the old captain was just a man after all, for he took an involuntary step back when he caught the full glare of the redhead's flashing eyes.

One bright eyebrow rose, partially questioning in manner, but completely superior in attitude. "You mean you want me to get to work and ignore the ship that's fast approaching us?" Schuldich said in his sub-par Spanish, tone mockingly sweet.

At this, the tan-skinned captain managed to pull his gaze away from the redhead and onto the bright horizon off his stern. The few other crewmen who'd been near enough to catch his words followed suit and like the sudden onslaught of a squall, the entire atmosphere of the ship went from calm to frantic.

"English sons of whores," Schuldich heard some of the men predict.

"Bastard pirates," some others cursed as they scurried about to ready the small frigate for a mid-sea engagement.

A soft chuckle escaped Schuldich's lips at the chaotic scramble of the mindless drones around him. He leaned back against the rigid girder of the rail, and watched the pre-battle tension build. It was an entertaining sight to say the least, a little less disciplined and much more unskilled than what he'd observed on the Valiant, but the ship he'd spotted was far enough away that he could soak in every inept and clumsy move of the treasure-hunting Spaniards.

From a personal perspective, he wasn't as worried as his fellow crewmates about the upcoming event. Firstly, he didn't have anything to lose in the encounter. He wasn't as intent on retrieving this so-called treasure as the others, and far be it for him to sacrifice his life for a little gold. He'd long ago seen what the promise of riches could do to a person - had experienced it firsthand for that matter - and he had promised himself that he would never give in to such a weakness again. And secondly, he'd sailed with Crawford long enough to understand the laws of the sea. Be they British or brigands, one fact remained constant. The supposed rules of engagement were nothing but fancy ideals written by minds that had romanticized and idolized a sailor's life: honourably follow the code and one risked death at the hands of a man who'd just as easily eschew them without conscience. But discard the code ...

Schuldich smiled mentally at all he'd learned from his time on the Valiant.

Discard the code, and guarantee oneself a higher chance of survival.

And survival was the one lesson he'd learned well in this life.

"Pirates!" Schuldich heard one of the running crewmen shout just then. "Foul stench pirates!"

The redhead turned to assess the decidedly non-British colours of the vessel that had finally come into full view.

Pirates, indeed.

The ship, although equipped with a suitable array of canons, belonged to nothing but a rabble-rousing group of mediocre cutthroats. Had he still been on the Valiant, Crawford would've sunk the pathetic thing without blinking an eye.

'But Crawford isn't here,' a clear, rational voice proclaimed in his head, bringing to light what a complete idiot he'd been for reminiscing about something he'd consciously forgotten. The Valiant and her captain were part of his past now, as dead to him as he was to them. He was a bloody fool for even drawing such a comparison.

Then why did the idea of erasing the very memory sit so heavily in him?

"Weakness. Nothing but a weakness," he muttered to himself as he straightened. Brows furrowed, he strode toward the sailor who'd brought up a bundle of weapons from below, the dismal selection of dull cutlasses and outdated rapiers leaving too much to be desired for his tastes. But select a sturdy weapon he did, intent on proving to himself that he could handle this on his own, without Crawford and without his ship.

After all, he'd done fine before he'd snuck onto the Valiant, and he would do fine now that he'd left it.

"Prepare for ..."

The abrupt blast of a canon cut off the captain's shout, and caused Schuldich to duck.

The shot had been more one of a warning than attack, and not far off the Spanish frigate's bow, he heard the telltale splash of heavy iron striking water. Standing taller, the redhead turned once again to the stern.

For a ship that had appeared inferior to his eyes, the attacking vessel had covered the distance with remarkable speed. It wouldn't be long before they were boarded by the looks of it, and apparently, the entire Spanish crew knew it.

An almost tangible hum filled the air, gliding across Schuldich's sun-warmed skin and seeping into his pores. His surroundings had become nothing more than a bright, surreal haze where nothing seemed solid and where the only sense of self existed in the air that filled the lungs and the hard steel pressed in one's palm. Everything about it - the feeling, the sense, the atmosphere - was just an appetizer, a precursor to the moment when civilized thought gave way to primal bloodlust and when the fear of death gave way to the vigor of life.

The pirates boarded with the ease of men who had done it numerous times before, and the small Spanish ship, a lot of inexperienced treasure seekers who knew nothing of evasive maneuvers or raids, buckled under the assault.

Booming shouts, clashing steel, and fired pistols lent their pollution to the air, and with a yell of battle-induced rage, Schuldich joined his current crew in staving off the intruders. His cutlass met countless times with many opponents, some attacks sending a jarring vibration through his arm, and some not, but he couldn't have cared less. He wasn't fighting for ship or treasure; he was fighting to stay alive, and that, to him, was the worthiest cause of all.

The images of bearded men and baby-faced boys soon became a forgettable blur in his mind as he continued to hack and slash at everything that came near him, and it wasn't until his breath began to sear his throat and his muscles started to burn that he slowly became aware of the lessening noise around him. With one swift strike of his blade, he easily pierced the yielding flesh of his present opponent and stopped to look around.

His fellow crewmembers had been all but decimated. A remaining few, including the captain, were still fighting, but the others had either already surrendered or were lying dead on the scarred boards. It didn't take anymore evidence for Schuldich to realize that further fighting would only prove fruitless, and so thinking, he halted his search for his next opponent. He had never been one for exerting excess energy with no self-beneficial result, and he certainly wasn't going to start now.

Sword lowered, he turned once again to watch the struggling Spanish captain. The dark-haired man had apparently been conceited enough to engage the burly leader of the marauders, and even to the inexperienced eye, one could tell that the Spaniard was both out skilled and overwhelmed.

"Give up, you stupid bastard," the redhead muttered as he watched the sad display of swordsmanship. Even he, as a youth just learning to wield a sword from the best masters in Europe, had outshone the supposed seasoned captain.

The sounds of attack had slowly begun to wither away, forcing Schuldich to deal with the aftermath of post-battle weariness. All that anticipation, all that fervor and pent-up tension felt as if it had been siphoned from his body, leaving nothing but an empty shell. There were the few pirates who came at him when his idleness had become apparent, and he dispatched them easily with a few lackluster and mechanical movements, but the excitement and spontaneity of the moment had passed.

And then, it finally came.

The cry of surrender from the floundering captain halted the remaining skirmishes on board the ravaged ship, and letting out a quiet sigh of bored relief, Schuldich threw his heavy blade down. The ship's attackers cried out in victory at the capitulation, and the redhead took in the situation with an expression of blossoming interest.

Whatever happened next should prove fairly entertaining.

(***)

His knees landed hard on the unyielding wood, causing Schuldich to curse loudly enough that the men around him jerked back automatically. The irate redhead shot a deadly glare at the two culprits who'd shoved him so unceremoniously to the floor but the effect was minimal since the intended recipients had moved on to pulling in the next prisoner.

And he had thought that this would be entertaining?

Schuldich tugged experimentally at the rope binding his wrists, and again, a curse escaped his lips. Sailors may not have been the most intelligent beings to walk the earth, but they could damn well tie a secure knot.

A muffled grunt at his side drew his attention away from his bonds and to the events around him.

Those of the crew still alive had more or less been dumped on deck, a sad and sorry lot tied and kneeling before the marauding victors. It seemed like such a fascinating tableau: the tired and injured men all stooped in defeat as the gentle ocean breeze tickled their skin and the glorious blue sky looked on.

Schuldich chuckled silently.

He had never been much of an artist, and when he had taken an interest in art, his tastes had always veered toward the twisted variety.

"A waste o' time! There's nothin' on this damned ship!"

The deep bellow came from the other side of the deck, and at its sound, every man turned to look at the source.

The pirates' captain stomped angrily across the boards, his fury and course directed at his Spanish counterpart kneeling but three arms length away from Schuldich.

Had there been one word to describe the man, it was big. His stature was big. His voice was big. His black beard was big. Even his nose was big.

Schuldich watched quietly as the large gap-toothed man moved to grasp the Spanish captain by the neck with his meaty hands and give him a hard shake.

"Ye ain't got nothin' on this ship," the pirate said loudly. "Bloody waste o' me time!"

But the Spaniard didn't respond; he just looked frazzled, the residual fear in his dark eyes visible to Schuldich, and undoubtedly, the whole crew.

"Tell me if ye hid any loot, and I might think about not guttin' ye," the burly pirate snarled into the smaller captain's face.

There was no response - only a cowed stare which prompted another hard shake.

The redhead wondered why the spineless Spaniard didn't say anything. From what he'd seen of the man, saving his sorry excuse of a life would've preceded all else.

And then it dawned on him.

The pirate had spoken in English. And the idiotic captain - not to mention the entire crew - hadn't understood a single bloody word!

By now, the large man had lost all patience, and had tossed the Spaniard back onto the floor. He turned away with a dark look and beckoned for a few of his men.

"Kill the crew an' sink the ship. Might as well have some fun since we didn't find no gold," he ordered, his deep voice loud enough for Schuldich to hear. "Start wit' ..."

"Wait!"

The redhead's exclamation halted all activity on the ship and drew every man's eyes on him, prisoners and captors alike.

Schuldich smiled inwardly, but kept his face solemn as he held the pirate captain's gaze. "There may be no gold on board this ship," he said in English, "but we were on a treasure hunt to find a dead man's fortune."

His claim had the pirate intrigued, or so it seemed as the larger sailor moved his bulk close enough for the bound man to catch the rancid odor that emanated from his captor's unwashed body.

"What's this? Who are ye and why should I believe ye?"

Expression still deceivingly serious, the redhead stared unwaveringly into the other man's inquiring blue eyes. "My name is Schuldich, and I speak the truth. Look at me. I'm not Spanish, and I bear no ties to these men save the fact that we all seek a buried treasure. And I can show you the way."

The lie slid glibly off his tongue like satin on skin, and he waited patiently for the large pirate to assimilate his words. He had no idea where the so-called gold was, but it was a detail he'd worry about when the time came.

"You can still have your fun. Kill the others and sink the ship like you originally intended. I don't care," Schuldich continued convincingly. "But keep me alive and I'll show you the way. If I fail, you can kill me as well. From the way I see it, you have nothing to lose from the venture."

The bearded man paused for a moment, deep contemplation etched clearly on his sun-beaten face.

From his kneeling position, the redhead let his eyes wander for a second. He caught the expectant look on the crew's faces at his recent negotiations, and bit his lower lip in an attempt to school his expression into impassiveness. Three years observing Crawford and he had all but conquered the game of deception.

"Done," the baritone reply finally came.

At the response, Schuldich let his lopsided grin appear.

It seemed as though he was making a habit of confronting intimidating captains.

(***)

"And where in bloody hell do you think you're going?"

Ken never would have admitted it, but he thought he sounded more like a nagging fishwife than a first mate at that very moment. In fact, with his face scowling in disapproval and an arm pressed against his hip, he knew he probably looked like one too. But if his stereotype was unwarranted, then it could all be blamed on the stubborn, half-clothed redhead in front of him.

He'd come into the captain's cabin to check on the then unconscious man, and what had he found but a very conscious Ran weaving to the door with a glint of determination in his eyes. And that only meant one thing.

"I need to get my ship ready to set sail," the redhead answered as if he were explaining the obvious to a five year old child. "And I would thank you to let me do my job."

Ken raised a dark eyebrow. "Really?"

With a look of skepticism creasing his forehead, he moved to stand before the injured captain, raised an arm, and pushed the redhead on the shoulder with an index finger. The force behind his movement wasn't much but it was enough to send Ran stumbling backwards until his legs hit the bed and caused the man to fall ungracefully onto the mattress.

"Ken! I - "

"You're in no shape to sail a ship,Captain," the younger man stated in his matter-of-fact tone. "You were shot less than a day ago. A strong wind could knock you over if you go up on deck."

Ran refused to meet his first mate's piercing gaze and turned his head away.

Pride was undoubtedly preventing the man from saying anything. Ken knew that, but he also knew that he was right. Still, there was no way the captain would openly concede that fact.

"Who was she, Ran?" he softly asked the question before he could give it much thought. The matter had been sitting on his mind since the rendezvous the night before, and had been forgotten during the ensuing crisis. But now that Ran was sitting, alive and whole, on the bed, he couldn't quell his curiosity.

'Who, Manx?" The redhead looked back at his first mate.

Ken nodded.

Ran let out a tired breath before replying. "She's an old friend," he explained. "She and her husband once saved me from an unfortunate situation with a Spanish merchant ship ... or what I'd thought was a merchant ship. It turned out to be a heavily armed military vessel dispatched to hunt down British sanctioned privateers."

The redhead paused for a moment and glanced down at the floor before meeting Ken's eyes once more. "It's safe to say, I wouldn't be here if it hadn't been for Manx and her husband. I owe her my life ..."

Ken didn't make any comment at the explanation. Instead, he absorbed the story and the other man's earnest expression with an inscrutable look on his face. Then, he turned and made his way back to the cabin door.

"Where are you going?" Ran asked as he made to stand up again.

The brunette stopped briefly to throw a warning stare at the older man. "Stay in bed, Ran," he ordered, his voice very much that of an injured captain's first mate. "I'm getting your ship ready to set sail."

(***)

"Who are you?"

The voice was childish enough, clueless enough, and innocent enough.

Schuldich glanced down at the boy standing several steps away from him.

"Who am I?" he repeated back to the child.

He looked closely at his miniature companion. Bright orange-red hair and a mischievous blue-green gaze greeted his inspection, the complete and tiny package neatly wrapped in a small satin doublet and immaculate silk stockings. The boy looked quite the little gentleman, Schuldich thought as he turned his attention to his surroundings.

A vaulted ceiling, expensive buttresses, and gold-gilt and mirrored side paneling stared back at him in a show of frivolousness and overindulgence.

"Who am I," Schuldich quietly said again as he stared up at the ornately filigreed frames of the paintings that adorned the walls. A sense of sick realization began to creep through his body, and he returned his gaze back to the little boy. "I'm you," he said with a hint of sadness. "And this is the palace, isn't it? Back in Hohenzollern ..."

The words seemed to have been lost on the child, who shrugged his small shoulders and smiled slightly at the stranger.

"This is a dream, isn't it?" the older man asked the boy. The question was rhetorical, but he felt better for saying and re-affirming it out loud.

In response, the younger version of himself stepped forward and grabbed his hand, the heels of his neatly polished shoes clicking sharply on the marble-tiled floor.

"Come. Play with me," the child demanded.

And, like a puppet, Schuldich followed, the sheer vividness of the rich décor striking a nostalgic chord somewhere deep within him. Through long, winding corridors and countless chambers they walked, a boy leading him by the hand, their pace slow and steady ... until they passed by a partially opened door.

Here, the child stopped briefly and dropped his hand to listen to the voices that floated from the room within.

"But he's in line for the throne, Albert! If we can get rid of him, our claim would be that much more valid," the distinctly feminine voice said ruthlessly. The conviction and ambition behind the statement wasn't entirely lost on the unseen audience as it echoed through the door.

The boy turned to smile at his older counterpart, oblivious of the woman's insinuation. "That's my sister, Sophie," the child explained as if to a new friend. "She's much older than me, and she's talking to her husband, Albert."

"I know," Schuldich replied stonily, the fuzzy memories of the so-called sibling playing on the fringes of his conscious mind. "I remember ..."

But the child looked away as if he hadn't spoken and grabbed his hand again. Once more, he began to lead the older man down the corridor, step after clicking step, but this time, they didn't get very far.

"Your Highness! Your Highness!"

The frantic voice stopped the little boy in his tracks and Schuldich turned to see an old footman chase after them. The man was thin, his face gaunt and his eyes oddly protruding from their sockets, but he approached with a decorum that Schuldich remembered his father drumming into all the palace servants. Acting as if the older companion wasn't there, the footman addressed the young prince.

"Your uncle requests your presence in his chambers, your Highness."

Inexplicably, Schuldich felt his whole body tense at those words, but like before, the boy remained oblivious of the hidden meaning in the invitation.

Obediently, the child nodded and dismissed the servant.

And thus, forgetting about his older self, the small prince turned and started heading in the direction of his uncle's rooms.

Schuldich watched the boy go, the retreating sound of his expensive heels sounding like the constant beat of a far-off war drum in his head. Then, with a reaching arm that he knew was futile, he took one step in the direction of his younger self's path.

"No ..." he protested. But the word was weak, and by all accounts, useless now since the gravity of the years passed were unchangeable and irrefutable.

Still, he tried, however feebly.

"No, wait ... Don't go ..."

(***)

St. Augustine, Florida
1597

It was the shouts from above deck that woke him.

Loud, rancorous shouts that played a symphonic cacophony in his ears yanked him violently from his slumber and dropped him into the painful light of reality.

And painful it was!

Schuldich rolled over from his side onto his back, and then pulled himself up into a sitting position. His muscles screamed in agony as he disturbed the bumps and bruises he'd acquired in the past few days.

The bloodthirsty pirates had definitely lived up to their sinister reputation. His old crew had been quickly slaughtered and now resided at the bottom of the ocean, but the death and destruction that the murderers enjoyed hadn't been enough. No, after dispatching what remained of the Spanish crew, and sinking the sorry ship, the pirate captain had allowed those energetic enough to give him a good beating.

"Hit all you want, boys," that man had said. "Jus' leave 'im alive so 'e can tell us where to find the treasure."

And Schuldich had told them. That was, he had told them some place to dock.

Having no idea where the Spanish captain had intended to sail, Schuldich had randomly picked a port to appease his captors. Once there, he'd intended to make something up if the need arose.

St. Augustine, he had informed the pirates, the city being the first one that came to mind when he'd searched for a Spanish settlement. He had remembered docking there with Crawford once, and hopefully, the place hadn't changed so much that he wouldn't be able to lose himself amongst the population.

And by the sounds that were drifting down to him, it appeared as if they'd docked.

He'd been relegated to the hold, wrists still tied in front of him, but relatively free to move about. Gingerly rubbing what he could of his hands to help with the circulation, he looked up and out of the open hatch. The clear blue sky stared back down at him, its vibrancy and limitless expanse taunting and mocking him with a ferocity that tore at his desire for freedom.

Achingly, he stood. He may have been tied, but that certainly wouldn't prevent him from trying to escape. And now that there was land, his chances of succeeding were infinitely greater.

Rung after rung, he slowly ascended the ladder, his beaten body protesting to the abrupt and awkward motion, and his sensitive eyes hurting from the sudden brightness. Yet, when he finally stood basking in the glorious sunshine on the ship's deck, all his trials seemed to have been momentarily forgotten.

But relief was usually illusory, and enjoyment dangerous - or so his life had taught him - and he mentally shook himself before quickly assessing his situation.

The deck was nearly deserted except for the three crewmen handling the immediate and necessary maintenance repairs to the sails. The captain and the rest of his crew were nowhere to be seen, all probably on land partaking of the local tavern hospitality. The furthest thing from their minds at the moment would've been some beaten quasi-prisoner sleeping in their hold. Schuldich had been at sea long enough that he understood what sailors desired the second they set foot on dry land.

All things considered, it seemed like the ideal time to slip away. The gangplank was but a quick run from him, and those remaining crewmen appeared too inattentive to even notice him.

Silently and surely, he padded his way to the plank, his course halted every so often with a furtive glance back toward the working pirates, and when he finally made it, he let out a muted breath of relief.

One step.

Two steps.

Three ...

He counted his steady departure from the boat, determined eyes cast on the dock in front of him, away from the ship behind him and the standing water below him. He was only several steps from freedom when the shout rang out ... one angry and surprised yell that started his heart pumping and his blood coursing.

Those bloody pirates had actually discovered his escape!

Without thought, he broke out into a run, easily traversing what remained of the plank and diving into the moving bodies of the docks. St. Augustine was a Spanish colony, one of the few that Spain had managed to maintain in light of Britain's expansion, and losing himself in the crowd would be all that much more difficult especially with his distinct coloring and bound hands.

But he had done this before - the running, the evading, and the hiding. He had done it so many times that he wondered if one day, he would ever stop having to do it.

He heard their heavy footsteps pound after him, incessant devils nipping at his heels, but he ran, swerving left and right, dodging here and there, until he lost all sense of direction and his body threatened to collapse from abuse.

Yet, he refused to stop, refused to check behind him, especially when his freedom was at stake. And so, re-doubling his efforts, he continued moving, his lungs and muscles cramping but still complying with his decision.

He didn't know when it happened exactly - perhaps it was when he'd left the docks, or perhaps it was when he'd darted in between two market stalls - but the angry shouts that had been pursuing him soon changed into a different sound ... that of clashing steel and muted grunts.

Hazarding a quick glance behind him, Schuldich tried to see what had altered his captors' chase.

From his perspective, he couldn't make out much, but the forms of his pirate pursuers had encountered a group of rowdy men - a group of rowdy and irritable men at that.

He'd never been one to deny any of Lady Fortune's gifts, and he wasn't about to start now. Those men could fight with each other until all of them died for all he cared. He'd be a fool to wait and find out.

And so, smile on his lips, he turned. He turned and ran without looking back.

End Chapter 3