Winds of Fate [Books I-III]

Chapter 124: Separate Lives

Anton scowls at the innocent glass sitting on the tiny table before him. The silence inside this tiny room no longer comforts as it should have before.

For some odd seconds, he finds himself wondering about Nigel, who must be exhausting every way he knows and every medicine Thibaud can scavenge to help their crewmembers; of the young quartermaster, James, left to the task of running a ship with new faces. While Anton did leave Sparta all sorted out, with preparations finished and both guests and patients have been taken care of, he also knows those aren't enough.

But he can only do so much, seeing he is not the captain of the ship, merely acting in her stead. And one does not simply usurp a captain, even with good intentions.

Especially if she's your wife.

Anton takes a deep breath and pours himself another round. He hopes this decision does bring the good for all, both her and the crew, but some part of him does accept that this idea hinges on whether she would give him a chance, after their strained encounter this afternoon.

"Bold of you to think you're the one she needs." Anton rests his elbow on the window sill and presses his forehead on his knuckles. His throat dries up. His mind flies far away... to a painful memory that line of thinking brings.

"It's not about money! I don't want your money!"

His brows furl and he downs the rum in the glass in defense. Perhaps he is, cursed, and cursed probably by the foreign gods of the people that his ancestors had trampled upon, conquered, and driven out of their lands. Here he is, the last prince of Seville, doomed to marry women who never did need him. Not his money. Not his title. Not his strength. Not... him.

Anton opens his eyes, much to his distaste, for his chair is apparently facing a mirror dangerously hanging up on the wall. He stares at the man in that reflection - with his wild brown hair curling about, frayed with gray, and his eyes all but closing for good with every minute longer he stays awake in a drunken stupor.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers the glass on the table again, intent on staying awake. At least, to finally accept that she might never come.

He should accept many things. Her many roles, for example. Anton crosses his arms over his chest and stares at the still-awake and lit Tortuga beyond the windows. Truly, it is good she doesn't need him, because then, it would be harder for her to come to terms with her power - on sea or on land. Want it or not, the power has been given to her because of her character. And she does, more than deserve it. She brings that kind of grace and serenity no sailor cut from his own kind could have brought. Not because of her sex, no. Mostly because she truly is gentle and kind, from the very start until now, even when the world around her has been brutal and callous.

Even if the world within her has been merciless.

He grasps his chin and looks up at the night sky - devoid of any light, for March 9th is the new moon. To think, she converses with the Aztec God of the Night, and many more, no doubt of it, still astounds him at times.  To think, that flimsy golden medallion he had been so angry at that first night would lead her to this, still boggles his mind.

To think, she is meant to end Jones, who deceived him and stole his very heart...

Anton shakes his head. No, he wants to say, to refuse. There is no such thing as fate, because if there is, then his choices do not amount to anything at all. His decision to sail with that last journey, to take up that offer... all of it - contrived - just to spin this tale.

If he had refused Jones, he probably would be in Seville...

He grips the arms of the chair.

You might have lived, Theresa. He covers his face with his hand, bitterly knowing no amount of shame would bring her back. Theresa did not deserve it all. Her only fault is that she believed him, and his love.