...get your hands untied, and do what you can to keep them unbroken.

“So they break my hands and you just let me go?”

It’s not the answer she was expecting and you feel a small slice of the mirth she must have felt seeing the look of shock on her face.

“Your-” she sighs “Yes, I suppose so... You would really go for that?” Her semi-naked form seems to slump with dejection.

“Yes.” You try not to look at the knife as you mentally plan for the second they untie you.

“Well...er, so be it.” She seems genuinely hurt and somewhat flustered. This isn’t the path she expected you to take. That’s good. Your whole body burns for a fight; the mix of fear and excitement coursing through you. “Errr, ok, well, you two heard her. Break her hands, I guess.”

They move to do so; the big one going for one of the metal bars with sickening readiness while the moderately more handsome one works on the knots around your arms. You don’t resist. Captain Washkin blows out her cheeks.

“You’ve got some stones Agent, I’ll give you that. Once this is done, you can- well, you’ll go in our brig and I’ll let you go when we’re far away from here. You have my word.”

The man behind you bends you forward as he unties you, as though you’re bowing to the captain.

“Thanks.” It’s all you can think of to say.

“I don’t know why anyone would choose this over eating a woman out....” There is no way it would end there and you’ll be damned before debasing yourself for this woman’s sick perversion. “...I guess it’s true what they say about agents-“

The rope come loose, and so do you, like an arrow from a bow. The man behind is caught off guard and your wrists slip through his grip as you dive for the knife, its handle sitting raised and snug in its pile of loose clothes. The man with the poker stands too far away, while the Captain takes a step back. The man behind you fumbles, grasping at the air in your wake.

You soar for a brief rushing moment before crashing down on the floor, hand mixing with the loose material that holds your freedom, and the man behind follows, slamming down on you, reaching for whatever you’re reaching for. You find it first, pulling the familiar blade out of the pile. The man on top of you see and rushes to grab it, but you thrust forward into air, keeping the weapon out of his reach while turning and elbowing back with your other arm. A lucky blow connects with his head and disorientates him just long enough to throw him off by rolling onto your back. You shift to straddle him and you look at each other: a brief moment shared before you bring the knife to bear.

Before it sinks into his skin, cold steel presses against your cheek. You kneel, half straddling the handsome man, stiletto raised and frozen, poised to plunge, and your eyes follow the length of the thin sword resting against your face, all the way up to the captain’s steady hand.

“Drop it.”

You do. The stiletto sticks in the wooden floor next to the man head with the sound of a coffin nail.

“Stand.”

You do so, carefully.

“Nice try.” She lifts her sword away. The two men rush to restrain you, grabbing your arms and dragging you over to the nearby table. The excitement you felt melts away. The fear doesn’t. They both struggle with you as you pull and thrash under the gaze of Captain Washkin. The two men handle you with ease though, placing your right hand onto the table before pinning it in place with their weight and muscle.

“NO!” Why did you choose this! “Please!”

There’s no escape. Your eyes roll. Your breath comes in pants. Reality dawns.

The big one raises the sturdy metal rod.

You close your eyes.

The ship tips and ducks again as it rides another wave. The bars and straw and smell of hopelessness do nothing to tell you where you are in the world, but the waves have been getting bigger. Your hands ache. This is at least somewhat good. Ache is better than the burning, drilling pain you had all yesterday, and it’s a long ways better than the screaming red hot pain of the day before. Apart from the dim recollection of crying in a cell all night or being dragged into the brig of The Proud Gull, Captain Washkins flag ship, the last few days have been consumed by the pain in your hands. Ignoring the stares and jeers of the crew had been surprisingly easy, thanks to that pain. Eating and drinking the scraps they gave less so, but not for the reasons they think. Last night, you had tried to set the bones in your right hand. It felt worst than breaking them, probably because you have no idea what you’re doing, but they do feel better now. Whether that’s just compared to the pain you felt in the attempt, you don’t know. What you did learn is that your left hand isn’t broken! Horribly bruised and possibly fractured in some way, but not broken. Thinking back to what little you can remember of the moment, the table must have taken the brunt of the poorly angled hit. Eating off the floor with no hands had been difficult, but keeping your working left hand a secret was paramount. There’s still hope. If you can make it back to civilisation, there’s still hope.

The door opens and a man enters. It’s not the big one that had pleasured himself in front of you. Not the one who had tried to urinate on you either. Fortunately, you share the wide cell with no-one and had managed to avoid the projections of both. It wasn’t one of the ones that threatened you or promised to do or not do things if you got naked. You ignored all of those. This one was a man you have never seen before.

“Get out. Come on. Captain wants you on deck.”

You look at him with suspicion. “Why?”

He rolls his eyes and marches in, grabbing your arm and hauling you up. “To let you go, apparently.”

You walk with him, up several decks to the top of the boat.

Sunlight hits your eyes as though it’s been years instead of days. You squint enough to tell its morning, the sun sitting over the far horizon, high enough to shorten the shadows. Around nine or ten by the dial, you would guess. Some of the crew are gathered, forming a forest of men. Some busy themselves with work while others rest on the deck. All spare a moment to look your way.

“Ahhh! Her she is! Our little Agent of the Principalities!” Captain Washkin stands on the bow of the ship. Bow? You think it’s the bow. Either way, it’s the raised front section that sees her looking over the head of all those gathered. She’s significantly more dressed than the last time you saw her. “Came for my head but left with some nasty arthritis!” The crew guffaw stupidly, some having to explain to others what arthritis is. Your hands throb in response.

“I swore I’d let you go and today’s the day!” Another worrying snicker rises from the crew and you’re dragged through the crowd to the side of the ship. Hands grab you as you’re **** to step up onto the short wooden handrail. The sea extends before you. You look around. There are only two distant islands of the archipelago visible. You calculate the odds of making it to one with your hands and weakened state. They aren’t good.

You turn to the captain to remind her of her promise but the words die on your lips. She smiles at you. “Ah, this ain’t right!” A voice comes from the crowd. “Not without a send off!” There’s a chuckle and a mutter of protest and debate. Eyes turn to the captain. The hands still hold you fast. She rolls her eyes, before nodding.

You’re yanked back with a cheer, stumbling against the man behind you before being shoved into the crowd. You scream as your lifted, heavy inked arms throwing you up into the air with ease. Several hands catch you and you scream as they throw you up again. Sea air crashes against your face for a second before you drop again into the unwashed mass. The next throw is more horizontal and you flail your arms and legs as you fly low over the crowd. A few men at back start singing some song you’ve never heard of, about a maid from the south who could apparently make men fly. Their baritone mixes with your screams of terror and you land in the arms of bald man twice your size. He grabs your arms and hold you pinned before planting a big wet kiss on your lips. You shut your mouth and eye until he pulls away. A cheer rises. He puts you down on your feet before grabbing your black top and ripping it open. A bigger cheer rises.

You barely have time to notice before another man picks you up and throws you over his shoulders. You kick and plead for him to put you down but your words are lost in the crowd and its growing chorus of singing; even you barely hear yourself. He spins. You think you lose a shoe.

Everything is disorientating, the people, the noise, the smell. He tosses you again, throwing any equilibrium you had in the opposite direction. This time you land on the floor, staying there only for a second before a hand hauls you up by your dirty black trousers. There’s a ripping sound.

You’re shoved forward, into the arms of another man, who wraps an arm around your waist, putting your hips to his and leaning down for a kiss. You try to back away, leaning back, looking for a way out, and he keeps moving forward and down when your lips escape him. His mouth clamps around one of your exposed breasts instead. You scream again as he sucks, pulling your nipple before tonguing it. He squeezes your behind before you’re pulled away.

You can barely stay upright. Hands grab you, squeezing your breasts, your rear, grabbing your crotch, pulling your cloths and hair. A man licks up the side of your face, cutting your scream off as you shut your mouth tight. Tears stream down your cheeks as you feel your trousers pull away. You mewl and beg and scream at the men get closer, their attentions more frenzied and hungry. Fingers dip in and slip up, lost to a tug of your hair, now loosed and spilling about your shoulders, that sends you sprawling to the deck. It feels cold and dirty. A man climbs onto you and, with no hesitation, enters between your legs.

You scream throughout; a hoarse high note drowned out by the rest of their crude song. He works you, like a smith works an anvil; his thrusts hard and brutal with no care for your tears and sobbing begging pleas. They shake every part of you, inside and out. It’s the big man; the one who broke your hand now breaking something else. He holds your shoulders, heedless of the hands he broke pushing against him as he slams away. His stamina takes him to the end of the song; where the maid fly’s off with the men and the brute seeds your womb with uncaring pleasure. He climbs off and the next man climbs on. It’s the bald man who ripped your top. He feels bigger.

“Oh the fisherman’s daughter so sublime an free, a delicate princess of the old salty sea.”

Amid your crying and the man’s grunting, you recognise the tune. Others do to and much more of the men join in singing this time, so much so that the next few line are lost in their lack of coordination. It’s ‘The Farmers Daughter’ sung in some rowdy taverns by drunk men who should know better. They harmonise as flecks of spittle land on your face.

“We drag out yer daughter and bring her to knee, beggin an pleadin to spare er pussy!”

The words are clearly different. This song would never be sung where even a shred of decency holds true. You close your eyes, seeking escape from the laughing, panting red face of the bald man. The real words come to you in the dark, audible only in the back of your own mind. ‘I sing out your daughter and bring her from thee, to the old oak in grindbottle bree.’ You feel the man release inside of you, his seed joining that which already stains your plundered bounty. Much sooner than the other man. He keeps thrusting for a while, to keep up appearances.

“With a nod to er father, we spread wide er thighs! To air out er future puss pie surprise!”

The bald man is pulled away. Closing your legs is hopeless; the next man is between them in a heartbeat. As he starts to mince your tender meat as you try and bring some sense into the world. Their words are wrong, it should be ‘Under sway branches she shows her surprise, and neeth starlight and moonlight we kiss till sunrise’. The man grabs you arms and slams them into the deck. Your legs kick and twist around his grinding penetration, going nowhere.

“I’ll lay with er now till er belly’s all fat, or me mates want a turn to get some o that, or your wife comes to give me a suckin reprieve, or yer sisters tits are bigger than these! I’ll fuck er till she beggin for more, till yer daughter be just a broken ol ‘hore, then kick yer int scrote and we’re off to the boat, to do it again on next shore!”

The cheer is deafening. You feel him release. Captain Washkin is watching. You can’t see her, but you know it. Feel it. Shutting your eyes as hard as you can to block them out, you think you feel another man take hold. There isn’t exactly a great space between them, but this one grabs your chest, squeezing your breast as hard as he can. It feels like they’re going to burst! How many men does she have? How many hundreds?

You retreat, to the tavern in your memory and the song you overheard. A little girl peeking around a corner way after her bedtime, listening to a song she didn’t understand.

‘I’ll lay with you always till were old and grey, or the tides of time take you away, or the wind turns fair skin ragged and blue, or blows fairer beauty between me and you. I’ll stay till your body gets heavy with child, till your nagging gets heavy and shrew, till your brothers all see me, the neighbours all hear you or gods if your fathers does too. Till the ends of that day, it’s safe I can say, that nothing will stop me an you.’

Your father took you home then, face red with drink and guilt and consternation. As the man stops and squeezes hard as he fills you like the others, fresh tears pour. You wish your father was here now. Here to take you home. Another man comes instead.

Take me home.

The sun was setting when they throw you overboard. The islands you saw are long gone, replaced by new land; closer islands floating all around you on strange and distant waters. You don’t see them as you fall. You don’t swim for them when you land. The sea rushes in; your last partner, cold and stinging. It drags you down, and sings a song of its own...

…quiet and eternal.