Drink and the devil had done for the rest || English translation

I.

Port Royal, 1685.

A light sea breeze ruffled the young boy's hair who, unintentionally, squinted whilst slightly turning his neck and letting that hint of wind brush on him. He fixed his gaze on the horizon in front of him, admiring the limitless panorama that the large terrace of his manor offered him: Port Royal's coasts.

He sighed deeply and, almost sadly, observed all those ships that were docking at their port, returning from who knows what journeys and adventures. At the same time, he envied the ships that were leaving and that, unlike him, could have explored whichever part of the world.

While he meditated over these sad thoughts, a tray with his five o'clock tea on it was settled, not too gently, on the table in front of him. But the boy didn't even deign to lift his head. In fact, he would have much prefered to snatch that damned tray and throw it away, away from him. He would have preferred to call everything off, all those boring habits he was forced to endure every day.

But even so, he didn't. He simply sighed, lowered his head between his shoulders and surrendered before his monotone and glum fate that had no apparent purpose.

He slightly stretched his arm to grab the handle of his tea cup, when he accidentally directed his glance at his butler's wrist. From under the white gloves he could clearly see an ink mark, though it wasn't very defined due to the glove that covered its shape. It was a tattoo, but François, the butler, didn't have tattoos.

"Something's wrong, sir?" asked a high-pitched voice that sounded remotely feminine.

The boy lifted his gaze with a frown on his face and found that, indeed, François was not in front of him; but rather a boy of nearly his age, maybe a couple of years older. He blinked repeatedly, getting lost longer than necessary in those strangely familiar blue eyes, staring at him.

His heart skipped a beat without him realising.

"Who are you?" he asked, after realizing that he has been watching him for too long. "Where is François?" he questioned once again.

"François doesn't feel very good, sir" answered the boy. "I'm his nephew, I'm here to cover for him." he explained.

"I didn't know he had a nephew." he stated, looking suspiciously at the boy. So he started to study him from head to toe, noticing how his clothes weren't perfectly in order, how a black line under his eyes made his pupils smaller, how that boy in front of him did not resemble in any way Port Royal's inhabitants.

Or at least, not respectable ones.

At that point he should have called someone to make sure that the person in front of him wasn't a criminal but, as a matter of fact, he just simply started to analyse him with more interest. His life was so monotone and still, that that encounter could not have made things worse.

In the worst case he would have died and, yes, it was an idea that had already been taken in consideration.

"I've never seen you around here" he said then, tilting his head and lingering on a scar apparently fresh that lay on his neck. "Have you arrived recently?"

"Kind of" he lightly nodded. "I've been missing from Port Royal for many years, sir." he explained, smiling.

The young man blinked several times, observing that smile - those pink thin lips turned upwards - with a frown. Incomprehensibly, he wanted to smile too. "And where have you been?" he asked. "If I may ask."

"The right question would be where have I not been, sir." he specified good-naturedly.

The boy was momentarily puzzled by his words but, immediately after, hit by a sudden curiosity he didn't know he had, he opened his eyes wide with admiration for the person in front of him. "Did you travel a lot?" he asked.