The Feather

He sat with his back against the wall, scraping the straw-covered stone floor with stiff, sore fingers. It was the only way he could distract himself from the searing pain in the empty socket where, not long ago, there had still been an eye.

The last thing he had seen was the Brine Queen approaching him as he was forced to his knees, her thin, bony fingers grasping a serrated iron tool. She had smiled down at him and grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding his head firmly in place as she claimed her prize. He had passed out from the pain, and woke up in the pitch black cell, with no clue how much time had passed.

By now he knew all the dimensions of his prison. Three paces wide, four and a half long. Where the ceiling was, he couldn't tell. When he first awoke he had discovered a bucket of water while blindly feeling his way along the wall. That bucket was now empty. Every time he awoke, he hoped to find it refilled, but it still stood in the corner, empty. The only other notable feature of the cell was a tiny hole in its centre, from which the stench of sewage arose.

His fingertips stung sharply, and he stopped scratching the rough stone. His hands began to pulse with pain, distracting him from the ache where his eye was.

"Whitehair! What do you think you're doing?" the captain called after him. He glanced back at the port, clutching the heavy wooden barrel. A trail of copper, silver and gold coins marked his path clearly, but he didn't care. He had to get away from the captain. They had betrayed him, if he didn't flee now, he'd never get away. But the crew was running after him, and his legs were made of rubber.

He heard screams and the clashing of steel on steel behind him, but he didn't look back. Gripping the barrel tightly, he stumbled forward. Suddenly, the sand gave way, and he began to sink into the ground. He dropped the barrel. He was knee-deep, then hip-deep, sinking, sinking, until the ground gave way entirely. Down, down, down, until he landed on a hard surface, accompanied by the crash of breaking glass.

"Now, stay still, this will only sting a little," said a disembodied voice. He whirled around but all he could see was fire. The smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils as his head went up in flames. He opened his mouth to scream, but it was useless, his throat was filling up with soot and ash, he tried to run away but his body was paralysed.

He sat bolt upright. His head was aching again, worse than before. He was thirsty. Using as little energy as possible, he crawled towards the bucket. Still empty. Thirsty, he thought, I need to drink. He rubbed his head and silently cursed the captain.

He never thought that piracy would be the career path he'd end up picking, but the captain had made that choice easy. Their goal had always been "liberating the wealthy from the pains of being rich" and he saw nothing wrong with that. As they continued their raids and heists, though, the captain had become more and more interested in the Brine Queen and her kingdom. He could tell that they saw the power that she held, and that they were tempted by it. Thirsty.

Conquering would be the wrong word to describe the attempts to take the Salt Isles. They had no plan and no coordination. Thirsty. When the captain finally realised that they stood no chance, they made a bargain. Thirsty. He began to scratch the floor again, this time trying to distract from the rage he felt towards the captain. Thirsty. Thirsty. He hated them. Thirsty. He scraped harder and harder, almost as if he were trying to tear away the cold stone. Thirsty. He had trusted the captain, he had loved them. Thirsty. He couldn't bear it anymore, his fragile fingers pressed deeper, until he heard a soft cracking sound and felt a fresh pang of pain in one of his fingers.

Thirsty. A thick, warm liquid began to build up where a fingernail should be. Thirsty. The liquid crept over his skin, tickling the back of his hand. So thirsty. He raised his hand. Blood was dripping onto the torn remains of the leather armour that still clung to his body. Pat. Pat. Pat. His body locked up, as if his very nature was holding him back. Pat. Pat. Pat. He swallowed dryly. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He was so thirsty. Pat. Pat. It tasted metallic.

A rush of satisfaction hit as the moisture trickled down his throat, instantly followed by disgust. It was nowhere near enough.

"Really, brother?" His sister was frowning down at him.

"No," he croaked, "you're... you're not..."

"Not real?"

"No!" he said. She approached him, laughing. Then the captain was there too, dressed in fine clothes, wearing the Salt Crown on their head.

"No! Leave me alone!" He crawled backwards until he reached the corner. His sister and the captain were cackling as they got closer and closer. He pushed himself towards the wall, wishing he could melt into it. He heard metal clashing and thunder rumbling, but loudest of all were the mocking laughs of his sister and the captain. He shut his eyes and held his hands over his ears, but that only made the sounds louder. The world was spinning and he felt sick. He heard explosions and screams and saw flashes of bright light, his head spinning faster and faster.

Then, a strong hand grabbed his shoulder, and teared him to his feet.

"No! Please, no!" he screamed, but it wasn't his sister, nor the captain, who answered. It was a gruff voice, more a growl than anything else.

"Stay still! I'm here to get you out."