The Colors of Fortune

Coming Up On Black Cove

The words were meaningless to Technoblade, unlike the rage blazing in the red and green eyes mere inches away from his own. He dropped, causing Ranboo to stumble at the unexpected weight. They hit the floor together, where Technoblade drew in his limbs and simultaneously kicked and pushed the boy away from himself. This time the blow was effective, and Ranboo flew across the floor, the breath driven from his body. He hit the far wall with a thud and lay there a moment, trying to gasp for air.

Technoblade picked himself up without wasting a moment. Now it was his turn to spring, and he picked Ranboo up by his collar, then dashed him to the ground. There he pinned Ranboo, ensuring he couldn't hit back again. The boy's mouth opened and shut, revealing vaguely sharp canines, as he tried to breathe. "Stay down." Technoblade told him. "It's no use fightin' me. Nothin' you do will make your pain any easier to bear, understand?" When Ranboo growled in his face, Technoblade cuffed him and repeated the question. At length Ranboo relaxed, though his anger remained. He nodded sullenly. Technoblade got off him and waited. But there was no continuation of the fight; Ranboo lay there and stared at the ceiling.

With a shrug, Technoblade went back to cleaning one of the cell doors, but he took care to keep Ranboo in sight, in case the boy decided to try again. More memories, triggered by Ranboo's words, opened up in his mind, and Technoblade saw all the allies he'd ever lost. Too many of them had been young fighters, hungry for the freedom they all fought for. Technoblade believed in souls; he hadn't grieved when he found out about their deaths. He knew this. And in some way, it had begun to bother him. All his compatriots cried when their brothers died, when their sisters were carried back mere corpses. But he had looked at them and known they were living another life beyond the pain they had suffered in this one and he had not grieved. His fellows had not understood. They asked if he even cared, if the deaths of their people mattered to him at all. Over the course of time, they'd stopped accepting his answers, eventually dropping away until only he was left, dodging soldiers and keeping the king on his toes. Would it have better if he'd at least pretended to grieve? The question didn't last long in Technoblade's mind before being replaced with one just as potent. Why don't I feel anything when they die?

However, this too died away quickly, answered by the years of Gourounáki culture he had lived in since his birth. Technoblade sighed and gave another glance at Ranboo. Still on his back, though now both hands were clenched and his face was screwed up in concentration or determination. Technoblade watched him carefully.

It ended up coming to nothing, for Ranboo soon got up and went back to work without a word. And so he remained for the next few days. Technoblade continued helping out on deck whenever he could, keeping an eye on those around him and learning what he could. Sailing turned out so much more complicated than he'd anticipated. There were tops'ls and foresails, nor' nor' east and sou' sou' west(points of the compass he'd never dreamed existed), reefing and letting go, and ropes, ropes, ropes everywhere. Technoblade began to see the ship he was on as less of a boat and more of a complex machine that also had the property of being buoyant. And it was a machine only one person knew how to run completely: the Captain. Technoblade watched as Drake preformed maneuvers he could barely comprehend the importance of, in both calm weather and stormy. All the while the pirates were heading one direction, and they talked more and more as time went on about their sea-mates, about pirates gone before and the children who would go on to become just as great.

What was even more significant to Technoblade, the cargo grew as well. He saw royal coins piled in boxes and set on shelves in great leather bags, flags and food like rum, sugar, molasses, salted meat and wines from lands warm with a sun that was sweet to the skin. Or at least that's what Technoblade liked to imagine. It reminded him of the sun of his youth.

At length, Drake made certain changes to his course, leading his men straight into a fog. From the deck, Technoblade watched it come on towards them, large and grey and thick. He did not realize just how thick until he realized the ship's rail was disappearing before his eyes. Another moment, and many of the crew were obscured by the clinging mist. It formed tiny droplets on his arms, in his hair, all over his clothes; Technoblade glanced about him on every side: he could see no more than three or four feet before him. The very air felt thick in his throat when he breathed.