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A Storm for Blackwing, or, Former Glory

The sea stretches outwards, vast and glittering, beneath brilliant blue skies. It's hot today. Unbearably so, were it not for the breeze. The heat ripples down in waves from the white disc of the sun, everything shimmering in its light. A stench of brine and seasoned wood drifts lazily through the air.

In a word--it's perfect.

A wild wind blows from behind, and The Powder Keg lurches underfoot; her sails full, she cuts through the seas like an arrow. A lone figure in the rigging basks in the day's glory.

The bat's tangled curls come alive, her coat stirring, wings unfurled and scooping the wind. Hands behind her head, she hovers in place above the deck, bootheels hooked around lengths of salt-crusted rope. Life has never been quite so good to Vivian--to Captain Blackwing--as in this moment. Closing her eyes and drinking in the heady scent of the sea, she feels alive. Alive, and unstoppable! Who else could be a captain so young? Who else could guide this crew to riches untold? To infamy? To glory?

None but Blackwing!

The wind changes, and she angles her wings to keep herself suspended. Blackwing retrieves her spyglass and cracks a gold-fanged smile before telescoping it outwards. The unmarked island behind them is barely a smudge on the horizon, now... But still she swears she can see Vicious Quint O'Gilly, lying gutshot on the beach where she's left him to rot--along with a host of dissidents who'd failed to support her claim to the ship. Just before she slashed their throats, they'd huffed at her and called it mutiny. Mutiny! They weren't exactly wrong, at that, but mutiny seemed such an ugly word.

Hocking a gob of spit out into the sea, Blackwing's grin grows ever wider--who ever said ugly meant bad?

"Not so vicious now, eh, O'Gilly?"

Unhooking her bootheels from the rigging, she allows herself a moment to dip towards the deck, then swoops over the waves, catching the air and cackling. She flies around the bulk of the ship, earning nods and cheers from her crew. Well that they should cheer her on; she'd rather not spill more blood this day, even in the name of discipline.

Circling the hull once more for good measure, she alights at last on the bowsprit and throws both arms out, as if to embrace the horizon. This day belongs to her and to no one else--this day, this year, this lifetime--this wind, these waves, these seas!

Hers, all hers!

"Just you try!" she bellows her challenge to the sky, above the din of the creaking ship. "Just try to take this away from me!"

*

The sea in storm did not care who she was, who she'd been, what she'd done. It had no time or patience for such things; it harbored no ill-will, and it bore no grudges. Vivian Blackwing, one-time captain of The Powder Keg, was tossed about on the waves with the same grace and care afforded to common flotsam--which is to say, none at all.

Violent wind lashed her limbs. Stinging water filled her eyes and throat. Blood seeped from the wound in her belly, where she'd been struck by a broken spar. Her wings were heavy, the membranes slashed to tatters by splintering wood. She could hardly remember when, exactly, she'd been ripped from the deck--it had happened too quickly, the moments since then a nightmarish haze--but she knew by now that the ship was long gone. Sailed off into the distance, or sunk to the bottom of the sea. She couldn't say which.

Lightning cracked overhead, the blinding white flash illuminating her surroundings for the briefest of moments; Blackwing saw waves towering like mountains around her, a hundred feet tall or more. A sickening rush seized her marrow as the surface heaved beneath her, dragging her to the top of a cresting wave. Atop this peak, she felt rather than saw the hideous distance she'd risen--could sense the depths of the valleys between waves, dizzying despite the blackness of the scene. She could hear nothing but a chorus of shrieking spirits, pandemonium unleashed along the track of the wind. Then she felt a terrible shift in the weight of the world. Her stomach opened like a pit and the wave dropped beneath her. She was pulled bodily into the deep.

Minutes or hours later--she could not say which--she came to, her arms wrapped around a barrel bobbing in gentler waters. The storm had passed. Against all odds, she was alive.

Her wings were still useless, and she felt pitifully weak. She didn't want to consider how much blood she'd lost, her side still aching with the pain of her wound; though even that pain was dull now, numbed by the oceanic chill.

Blackwing groaned. Death was something that only happened to other people. Not to her. Never to her. Yet here she was, and here was her situation, and what could she do? Death was coming.

No.

She would not face that reality now. Could not face that reality now. Even while it was staring her in the face...

Some Pirate Queen you are, she thought, struggling to stay afloat. She snorted, blowing snot and salt from her nose. Then she saw it. There, in the distance, just beyond a crimson morning sun... A faint smear, a line on the horizon.

Land!

But how far away was she, and how long would it take to swim such a distance? Could she even make it, before the sea took her?

Only one way to find out.

Still clinging to the barrel, she began to paddle towards the shore. A lesser mortal might have prayed in a moment like this, but Blackwing held to no gods, held to no faith but that in herself, in her strength of will. And she was a Pirate Queen, dammit! She was Captain Blackwing, scourge of the seas! Death was something that happened to other people!

She pushed a limp lock of hair from her eyes and bared her gold-fanged teeth to the world. Blackwing laughed, a short, sharp bark dislodged from deep within her soul.

"You're gonna have to try harder'n that," she breathed.

*

"...and bared my gold-fanged teeth to the world," Blackwing said, flashing those selfsame teeth to her audience now; the low light of the tavern gleamed off fangs that were indeed gold. "I struck out towards shore and I laughed--just once! Ha!--a laugh I didn't even know I had in me. 'You're gonna have to try harder'n that!' I roared. 'It's more'n a simple storm that'll take down the Blackwing!'"

The once-captain raised her tankard to her lips and drank deep, amber ale spilling down her chin. Her audience looked on with awe. In their eyes, she was still the Pirate Queen--bloody, furious, full of piss and vinegar--not to mention, ready to kill at the drop of a hat. They didn't know that she'd abandoned the sea; or, rather, that the sea had abandoned her. Ewhait was far, far away, and so was her old crew. The Powder Keg wouldn't be caught dead around these parts of the globe. And so, over the past year, she'd claimed this spot as her own. The common rooms in minor port towns and coastal taverns were her new purview. There was no threat amidst the low rabble here, and she could coast on reputation alone--and, hell, what a reputation! So what if she bent the truth here or there? Nobody needed to know what had really happened to her--and that bit about Vicious Quint O'Gilly, aye, that had been the truth, had it not?

She grinned, popping a match beneath the bar and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette. Blackwing snarled at one of the locals, scaring him off a bar stool, upon which she promptly propped her booted feet. She blew smoke from the end of her blunt snout and tossed her hair around her shoulders. A quick snap of the fingers and some sorry sailor thrust his own mug of ale into her hands.

Oh, but she loved to be feared!

Then, much as the sea stills before a squall, the room grew deathly quiet. The crowd around Blackwing had parted. The effect stole across the room suddenly, so that at first she didn't even notice. The bat opened one eye, annoyed that her fawning admirers had gone silent. When at last she saw him, the shock of sudden recognition temporarily rooted her to the spot. A newcomer leaned against the common room's doorframe. A newcomer who looked all too familiar.

Blackwing bolted upright. Could it really be? The longer she studied his face, the more she knew. He looked exactly as she remembered--same pockmarked skin and dimpled chin, same rumpled features, same eyebrow scar; heaven knows she'd never forget those eyes--dark, and hungry, like a shark's. With a sinking certainty, the name she'd tried her damndest to forget came rushing to the surface.

Finn Dellaney.

He'd been first mate of her crew, back in the day. Back before they'd turned against her. Before she'd been thrown to the deep...

"F-Finn?" She reached for her rapier, hand trembling around the hilt. This couldn't be happening--by the gods, this could not be happening! "What are you doin' here? How did you find me?" She inhaled sharply, seized by a cold terror. "Don't tell me the others are with you."

The man chuckled, a sandpaper rumble in the back of his throat. He ignored her questions.

"Struck by a spar? Knocked overboard, lost in stormy seas? Why, Viv, I've gots t'say, I don't remember it quite like that. Then again..." he chuckled, tapping his temple, "...Me ol' skull's suffered more'n a few knocks. Memory ain't what it used t'be, eh?"

"Leave me alone, Finn. I mean it."

She'd risen to her feet, was backing away slowly. Patrons of the tavern scuttled aside to make way. Even now, in this moment, they were afraid of her. That counted for something, at least--but Blackwing wasn't paying attention to them. Not now.

"Didn't we toss ya overboard? Would've bet me life on it." Finn clapped his hands, as if remembering a long-lost memory. "That's right! Just befores ya tried to strike that bargain wit' the law."

Blackwing was silent, her face contorted--whether in anger or pain, it was hard to tell. Even for her.

"I did no such thing," she hissed. "I'd never."

Finn ignored her, carrying on with his tirade. He was performing for the sake of the crowd as much as he was for her. "Oh, it right near broke me heart t'see ya go over the ol' Keg's rails. But what choice did we have? See, Viv, it's all comin' back to me now. Painful memories, those... Though, I'd imagine, hardly as painful as that stick in the ribs I gave ya." The man patted the shortsword strapped to his belt. "Thought you'd've taken the hint, and died--guess ya didn't get the message." He threw his head back and guffawed.

The crowd surrounding the two pirates began chattering amongst themselves. This was an event unlike any they'd ever seen. Blackwing's eyes darted madly about the tavern. Well, suppose now they know I ain't full of shit, she thought.

Finn took a step towards her, both arms out as if to hug his old captain.

"D'ya remember that day? No storms, oh no. In fact, if'n I recall, the waves were quite calm whens they took ya." It was Finn's turn to grin, revealing rotten teeth and swollen gums. "Seein' as you're still alive'n all, I gots t'ask--how's them wings healin'?"

She winced. Like the wound in her side, her wings had healed over the past year. Poorly, yes--they still bore wicked scars, and she could only sustain flight for a minute or two, at best--but they'd healed... Everything save the memory of their mangling, that is. Reflexively, her free hand reached up to her left ear; ragged flesh marked the places where her jewelry had been torn away. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't forget. It was Finn who'd turned the crew against her. Finn who'd led the assault. And though she'd never even tried, she refused to forgive. Her grip tightened on her blade.

"So what gives, Finn? You the captain, now that I'm gone? Why bother comin' after me?"

"Me? Comin' after the likes of--?" He broke into fresh peals of laughter. "Ye gods, woman! Ya think I'd waste my time huntin' down scum? Call this reunion a happy accident!" His face fell, a look of mock sadness obscuring his twisted features. "What's the matter, Viv? Y'don't look none too happy t'be seein' me."

Blackwing drew her sword, still backing up. Ye gods, why me? Why can't I catch a break? She darted her eyes to the back of the room, then to Finn. There was a grimy window behind her, through which she just might escape. But at what cost? Inwardly, she frowned. So much for my reputation...

"Don't do this, Finn. The girl you knew died that day--you hear me?--she died. I'm no one now. No one. Ain't no good reason to bother me anymore. For once in your miserable life, do the smart thing. Leave. Me. Alone."

"You? No one? Here I thought you was the great Captain Blackwing! Seems to me y'ought not snatch a dead woman's name."

It was finally too much. She felt a bloodlust come over her, and acted without thinking. Now or never, Blackwing!

Snarling, she lunged. Too late she saw that he'd planned on this. Finn knew her too well. He'd laid this trap carefully, word by word, gesture by gesture--and she'd fallen for every inch of it. Finn effortlessly stepped out of the way of her attack, and her blade lodged itself firmly in the bar.

Dammit! Blackwing thought. Her arm rang, numb with the shock of the blow. Finn stepped towards her, and Blackwing caught a glint of steel as he thrust an unseen dagger towards her chest.

The dagger came up short. Finn's wrist was caught in the hand of one of the locals, a brawny fisherman with tattooed biceps. Blackwing watched in awe as the fisherman yanked Finn away.

"That's Captain Blackwing," the fisherman said, "And y'don't fuck with our Captain."

As she watched, flabbergasted, Blackwing saw the crowd of locals encroach on Finn. They formed a barrier around him, grabbed his limbs and held him fast, that he might not move.

"Let go of me, y'bastards!" Finn seethed, writhing against his captors. "D'ya know who I am? D'ya know who she is? She's a sham--a disgrace! Get yer filthy hands off me, y'scum! What the living hell d'ya think y--" Finn stopped short as Blackwing's fist met his face. There was a resounding crack, followed by the whispered skitter of a tooth dancing across floorboards.

The Pirate Queen had regained her composure. She smoothed her coat, took another long drag off her cigarette and blew the smoke in her former mate's eyes; then for good measure, she ground the smoldering butt against his chest. The man struggled weakly, still dazed. She took a step away, snatched her mug up off the bar, and surveyed his bloodied face.

"Right, Finn--where were we?"

Blackwing drained her mug of ale, then yanked her rapier where it had been wedged. She held the swordpoint up to his throat, considering punching it through--how good would it feel to watch him die? Until moments ago, she'd rarely spared a thought for this man. She thought of her disgrace often, oh, aye, she thought of it daily. But Finn? She'd tried to forget about him. She'd called him a friend, once. After all that had happened--after all of this--she couldn't possibly leave him alive... Could she?

Blackwing surveyed the crowd. These locals had taken her side. Every last one, to the man--and without even being asked. They'd stopped Finn from killing her, and what's more, they seemed ready and willing to follow her orders. Not a one of them moved, waiting for her to issue some command. Mayhaps my reputation ain't so tarnished as I'd thought...

"I've had enough of you," Blackwing said, spitting on Finn's boots. She let the swordpoint fall and took a step back, reclaiming her spot on the stool. An idle wave of the hand signified that she was done with him, without even sparing him a final glance. "Take this trash outside. Show him what happens to those who stand against Captain Blackwing."

Finns' protestations rang in her ears as the crowd dragged him outside. She ignored them. Blackwing had no clue how violent these fisherfolk could be, nor did she care. The Finn she'd known was already dead. This man was nothing. All she needed was for him to be gone.

She snapped her fingers, and a fresh mug of ale was thrust into her waiting hands. Baring her teeth at the stragglers in the crowd, the scourge of the seas outwardly relaxed. Inwardly, dark clouds clustered. Towering clouds. Black columns of thunder and smoke, manifestations of her terror and uncertainty. Oh yes--a mighty storm was brewing. Blackwing pushed those feelings down, down, down. She'd reckon with them later. For now she projected confidence, resumed her swagger. Intimidation marked her every move. Barking another laugh, she slopped more ale down her chin and lit another cigarette.

Nobody could see that her hands were shaking.