“…Falling?”

You get the joke; held aloft as you are, you say falling and they let you fall; very original. Still, better to be let go than to hold on to your pride. You prepare for the drop.

“Falling?”

The moods shifts, the man’s face falling to a grim reserve, and that did not follow its meaning can follow his features. Those that laughed before shake their heads, some solemn, some disappointed. All look predatory.

“See, what did I say? Don’t know their place.” One man shouts angrily. He’s a small weasel of a man, definitely the runt of the group. Still, he seems to be following the riddle better than you. You wait for the drop with increasing confusion.

The others begin to talk over each other.

“What?”

“Rather be on the Falling Blade over the Proud Gull!?”

“She’s a woman as well.”

“That just means shorty Roland’s done er.”

“It’s a bloody sloop!”

“Easy.”

“Full o fuckin whores!”

“Easy!”

They quiet down at the riddle givers insistence, his hand out, his head looking between the men and past them, to any attention they may have brought. “She answered right. She answered right.” He nods to the others, placating them “She just doesn’t know it.”

Damn straight you don’t know it! You’re still held in the air by your arms and legs, pinned and waiting for the punch line to fall. You give a test tug on hands gripping your arms, making their owner shift but little else, and when the one conducting the attention of the crowd steps forward and runs a finger down your cheek, you consider biteing it to convey your **** anger. How dare they?! They should just let you go! Drop you and laugh and let you go! Get it done with!

“’If Pride comes before the Falling,” the man repeats in lecture, “’which would you rather be?’ She said ‘Falling’”

His tracing finger leaves the line of your jaw, dragging it to your mouth as though begging for the bite. He leans in, and you let out a muffled cry as his hand clamps over your mouth, eyes widening and limbs tugging harder than ever. The men don’t move. Definitely not good!

After craning his neck, looking between the men for what’s likely your crew, he goes on.

“-and we, bein the Pride of the Proud Gull, get to cum first.”

You don’t get it, and you’re in no state to get it. The men haul you, carrying you, and you try to scream past the hand over your mouth. The humour in their faces is still there, but no longer the cruelty saved for an insect. In its place instead is a hunger, practical, as though you meat and far more delicious than before.

A door opens, and darkness replaces the night sky above. The thirteen strong groups twenty six feet thunk on wooden boards, some with booted soles and some bare, some with a workman like step and some with nervous energy. You thrash, pulling and twisting with all you have.

“Put her on the bed.”

The door closes.

Of the group that filtered in, only one remained outside, lingering on the wood boards of the buildings shanty porch. He leaned against the wall, watching the empty road and the empty alleys, the empty building and their empty windows, arms crossed and waiting for what he didn’t see.

The house behind him stood, still and silent. Old and tall, yet ripped to exposed beams on its skyward side. Its shuttered windows were like closed eyes, its closed door like sealed lips. Its owner, if one could call her that as _claimant _may be better, was currently down at the docks plying her trade. Homes here went to the squatters who could keep them, and like the laws of the animal kingdom, territory shifted often.

The man, content that his vigil was unchallenged, drew his pipe; a small clay thing hardy enough for life at sea. After that, he drew his pipe kit. From it, he took and pressed to his pipe unspiced tobacco followed by oil paper, his thick fingers gently tapping it down. The endeavour took its own time.

There was a bang that stilled his movements. Something had fallen over inside. It sounded deep; far away, which was fortunate for his watch; the buildings upper floor had been promoted to roof in light of the actual roofs absenteeism, yet clearly the place was still left with room enough for distance and stability enough to keep any noises contained. No other sounds could be heard; the party at the nearby inn was in full swing, and the party inside was too deep to compete. With a shrug, he continued his operation, withdrawing the spring steel lighter he won so many years ago and striking out sparks enough for the oil paper to ignite. In a flash, it was gone, and he drew his first contented puff.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

Clouds blew from the house in a steady rhythm, each watched until dissipation by a glowing eye of orange light lingering in the darkness of the porch. When one was gone and the moonlight shone clear, another would come to replace it, steadily counting out the minutes.

A while later, the door opened and the house disgorged its first man, the ringleader, who stepped out while adjusting himself. Sweat was on his brow, and his breathing, while steady, was deep. He looked to the lookout, taking a moment before motioning for the pipe, still half full, and the other man seemed to debate to himself its worth. Still, he relented, and on handing it over, he was nodded in without a word and given a hard pat on the back for his trouble.

After a wipe of the pipe end, he began to burn up its contents.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

The house was still and quiet. When properly motivated, men could be as silent as the grave. The taverns sounds of cheers and shouting -the levity of red and yellows mixing with red and whites- permeated the streets, while true feelings went largely unspoken. Only occasionally, when the odds were in one sides favour, did they spill out and become visible, the will of the stronger pounded into the will of the weaker.

The street was empty.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

A second while later gave the second man to leave, which suited the boredom of the first. After having a near empty pipe shoved into his tired hands and being shoved into the wall, he watched the first leave, to the inn, where the ale flowed freely. It was no mind to the second man though. After topping it up from his own spiced reserve and keeping it alive, he lent back, slumping to a sit, grinning from ear to ear and exuding satisfaction. There was no point cleaning its end before popping it into his mouth.

The next man came out soon after, too soon, with tears in his eyes, this time with the first sounds audible to any casual observer; jeers and jests that chase, smothered with the closing of the door.

There is no one to hear them, save the younger man and the grinning guard.

Smoke -tobacco spiced with raw wyvern weed- travelled in rings from the porch, until the weed did its work and the man began to blow careless clouds. Time marched on, three times the length between the first two men, and while the word turned and the moon shifted, the man noticed none of it. Even as the floorboards rumbled with steps, one set of which belonged to the beefy strongman and shook the boards considerably, the guard took no notice. Three men strode from the abode, one after the other, their business done and the night still young. The big one turns a length of shining darkness in his hands, glinting with the fallen moon; a treasure claimed after a treasure claimed. It disappeared into his pocket; best not to be seen with it by the opposing crew.

The next man took his allotted time and left alone, trotting after his friends in the direction he thought they had gone. He headed to the tavern instead of the docks, showing his understanding of their course to be as strong as their desire to wait for him. For all he is the seventh, the house remains quiet, still, unfazed by the ongoing activity within.

The night pushes on, darkening the dirt road of the narrow street. Its lonely **** watchman looks out, having had to refill the pipe once more than he should, even for it being his night for such pleasures. His eyes drift to a half close. Too heavy is the spice, and too cheap for such volume. There is a reason such things are processed.

The eighth man to leave was the last to join, the previous watchman stepping out and dropping his satisfied expression at the sight of the other man, near comatose on his pipe. Some do not like Wyvern, and the ex-watchman proves himself to be one, snatching the pipe and tapping it out. The slumped man doesn’t even react.

His fingers still glistened wetly from his time inside, and he used them to his advantage, cleaning out the tainted tobacco by scraping the hot clay clean. He blew hard down the pipe as well, also finding little reason to clean where it was previously bitten, and he began the process of filling again, tobacco first, then oil paper.

Footsteps. Not from within, but without; the first stranger to walk the street since the house played host to its party. He walked the mansion path, sleeveless coat billowing red and yellow with each step, hard face still lit with the same happy satisfaction infecting so many men walking that night, especially before the still and silent house. The man was not a member of Captain Rolands crew, but Captain Roland himself, hands resting on the brutal daggers about his hips and eyes searching the houses. It wasn’t long before he saw the man and his pipe, and even the slumped man by his feet, but he walked on, uncaring, unknowing. The pipe readying man spat, after waiting a good long while for the street to empty.

A strike and a puff, and clouds of leisure blew once more.

The next to walk the road was a woman, up from the docks, short red dress pinned up at the front to show more of her creamy thighs. The busy night had held no time for cleanliness, and she was rich for it; thirty coppers pressed against her richly tanned skin, just below her blouse.

She cursed on sight of the man, stopping short. The influx of bodies from the two galleons had flooded the town, and the sight of her house being occupied brought only temporary inconvenience. Even if they robbed her, nothing but the ratty bed was kept there, in the open. Three dresses were kept below the floorboards, and a purse, mostly empty, was kept under a loose brick inside the broken woodshed at the back. Things were stable enough for that. It was there she had hoped to deposit her earnings, but no such luck; she would have to find somewhere else for now, and then, back at it. The night was dying, full of men staggering to their bunks, willing, but incapable, perhaps with coppers to spare, and she was eager to return to the docks and cash in such a windfall. The dockworkers had claimed the better houses; her ‘home’ was not even good enough to bring customers to. Even if it was, she couldn’t compete with the brothel nearby.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

The girl who arrived was gone without notice, missing the two men exiting. They no longer needed her services anyway. They walked together to the inn, out of sight, passing others that stand before the building wearing yellow red colours. The watchman listens to the words they exchange as they sound loudly into the night.

“I was wrong about yous lot. Y-you lot can really take it! Real good in a tight spot!”

“Yeah! Cheers!”

Their howling laughs and words of thanks were met with sounds of confused, yet mostly courteous acceptance, heaped with suspicion. The lingering red and yellows don’t look around the street corner, for which the pipe smoker is grateful.

Cloud after cloud after cloud, going until he could content himself with the sight of an empty pipe, tapping out its ash and spitting within to cool it for his pocket. The hook nosed man left next, walking tall and superior, led by his proud beak and watched with obvious dislike by the watchman. Perhaps seeing the type he was left watching out for, he moved to finally leave, abandoning his vigil to fate, or the stewardship of the passed out man, smoked to oblivion. He left long before the next road walkers passed by, six in all, coming from the mansion. Only one wore red and yellow, bald headed and flanked by the others: a rare sign of cooperation. On one side was a great wall of muscle, and on the other was a man with a head overflowing with hair. A woman who was his similar walked with them as well, along with an older man and a man with a terrible scar across his face. They all smell the same; of sweat and satiation: the same as Roland; the same as each who left the house before. They pass it by without notice, its only sign of life slumped in the doorway, still and quiet.

The twelfth man, second to last, limped out the door, leaning briefly on its fame and doubled up, weary at the hips and drained fully of fatigue. He remained there, alone with the man smelling of wyvern weed, both recovering from their excess, for many minutes, until the responsibility unasked -of the watch and warning- fell to him with the approach of others. Three men, coming from the tavern, each smiling, each unfamiliar to the house, each in red and white. Drawn by whispered tales, they walk past the faux guard unchallenged, jumping as the final thirteenth man steps out and near clobbers one with the door.

“Fuck!”

“Sorry bout that.”

“Mmm,” the new man grumbled, rubbing his jaw, though it was not hit. “she in there?”

The man stepped aside nodding wordlessly to the back room, letting the three pass. Only the worn-out guard’s word slow them for the briefest moment.

“Remember to untie her when you’re done.”

The door closed, the two men walked away, and silence returned to the front of the house. For a time at least. Untamed by words of caution, the quiet did not last, but there was no one left to care in the late hour, and by some combined effort, the three were done quickly. They all left in the time it took one man to leave, and apart from a piss against another building, they did not linger in the street.

It was dark. The moon had set.

It took a lot longer for the last to walk free.

You hold the door, unsteady.

…

The street is dark.

…

You begin to walk toward the mansion. Shuffling. Limping. Holding the buildings as you go.

…

The path is long, its walk hard, the stone gate posts in sight.

“What is it?”

You blink, standing before the mansion building you saw before, seeing it as though for the first time. The words come from the man, guarding the front door; a wall of muscle, broad in the shoulder and hard in the face.

“…”

No words come. You close your mouth.

“Captains asleep. Fuck off.”

“…”

Gravel crunches underfoot. The woods on each side. Your legs had taken you back; back to the bend in the path. You stop. Where next?

The hard gravel slams your knees, your body falling, scrunching, hands raking through the stones and into your flyaway hair, gripping your head, squeezing it, clawing it. They shake. You shake; your whole body vibrating with a boiling scream that strangles from your throat, choked into a whimper, whistling from you in a broken kettle squeal and open mouthed silence.

They…

They…

You rock back and forth.

The hook-nosed one was the worst. You know that much. He waited. He was among this first, leading the charge, and then he waited. He waited and he… his second time…

You look at the deep marks about your wrists, wishing not for the first time that they went to the bone.

They…

They hurt you. Hurt all over.

You taste blood; a split lip’s trickle. You also taste…

A convulsion shakes you, squeezing you, spilling your stomach on the broken stones. You hurl, sour acid suppurating your senses, smothering the taste of-

Another, rolling and heaving, emptying you, making you clench everything and wince for it, reminding you that not every orifice can be emptied so easy.

You fall, present enough in mind to fall sideways, avoiding your own sick, shaking in the middle of the path, arms wrapped about your belly. You feel hollow. You feel bloated. Your own self squeeze grips the empty parts and the full parts. Tears roll from your eyes.

If anyone were to come across you now -if they walked the empty gravel path, for whatever reason such a late hour could provide- they would find you as the men made you: pliable, unresistant; a weak sickly child who’s only hope was that _this _one would be the last. No _this _one. No _this _one. _This _one. A girl that just wants to go home, but is _powerless _to do so.

But nobody finds that girl. There are no three more this time.

The stars twinkle down, shaping the woods with the impression of light. Close to your eyes, the gravel looks like an endless mountain range. Night birds call, distant from each other’s nests, and flies and other such creatures go about their inhuman ways. The world feels over, but it also feels alive, unmoved and natural. Peaceful, and so divorced from human life. You begin to imagine yourself simply staying here, impassive and unfeeling, rotting into the gravel and becoming the undergrowth, leaving old careless bones behind, to be found by those that still walk the earth.

Gods but you want that.

Common sense, which you had not yet been cured of, argues different. ‘Where next?’ it asks, ‘Where next? What next? Why next?’

Must there be a next? It seems so. You push yourself up, sitting on the hard ground, looking at the turn and the way back to the village. Behind you, the mansion stands, no guards or lights or peering faces from the windows.

Why are you here? The specifics feel murky to you, like a dream, but the mission remains. You came here to kill Captain Wendy ‘Go’ Washkin, infamous pirate, scourge of the sea, who’s men…

Who’s men, wear red and white.

You should go. You should have gone, or have never came, but that ship had sailed. You don’t even have a weapon any more. They took it from you. There is no hope of finishing you mission now; you’d be cut down in moments for trying.

Your eyes linger. You should leave. It would be suicide.

Suicide.

Your eyes linger.

One way to go, to home, to live. You’ll fetch your clothes and swim as you planned, to the boatman waiting to take you home. He’ll disappear with the sunrise if you don’t and you’ll be stuck here, tied to this island and buried beneath its whims. You could see your parents again.

…