Dead-or-Alive

-Chapter 6.4-

-Chapter 6.4 🌊 FIRE-

Sybil's hands fell to her sides as if encumbered by stones, but her feet and eyes would not move. The boy she'd put to sleep not moments before stared up at the sky, frozen in time. She waited for him - for it - to blink, or get back up, or even for its index finger to twitch. She waited for a sign it still lived, but its chest didn't rise or fall and its cheeks no longer flushed pink. What moved was not it, but the blood. There was so much blood. Against its alabaster skin, the red trailing down its throat, onto its arms and chest could not be ignored. She had killed it. She had killed him. The boy would never move again.

The battle that raged on around her quickly neared its end, the merchants no match against seasoned pirates, even with their armed guards. She could consider herself lucky in that way because if the battle had gone awry she surely would've been cut down. It would be her lying cold on the ground. Others took note of that fact, particularly Thatcher. Her ignorance drove him to the brink of insanity, but he did not wish her dead. Inside his head, he screamed at her to lift the scimitar back up and defend herself, but she never did. All Sybil could do was listen to the mangled last breath the boy took, echoing inside her head.

Finishing off the last mercenary, Thatcher reached a merchant who had been huddled behind a crate of cargo throughout the entirety of the scuffle, clothed in the finest silks. "Call off your men and surrender or die," he stated calmly, his insouciant tone unusual in the heat of battle.

The merchant looked up at him with wide eyes and nodded his head rapidly. "Y-Yes, right away."

Standing up, the man ran his hand through his thinning grey hair, surveying the scene that played out before his eyes. "Men, stand down," he called out rather weakly.

"Men!" he tried again, but it was no better than his former attempt.

"Avast ye deaf shites!" Thatcher intruded, his voice loud enough to shake the stars.

At his command, the fighting gradually died down. The sight of the merchant lord bowing in defeat beside the pirate captain also helped in that regard. With one last freebooter smashing a broken glass bottle over someone's head, the ship became still aside from the gentle rock of the waves. "Much better," Thatcher began, "Now gather all of your cargo and prepare to have it moved aboard me ship. Try you any fishy business and I'll flog ye until your spine peaks through your back."

The merchants ran to their stores and many other cabins filled to the brim with cargo as Thatcher knew they would, but it didn't make him as joyous as it did his companions. Still tucked away in the back of the ship, Sybil stared catatonically at the boy she had slain. Thatcher had almost forgotten how much pain his first kill had brought him, but upon seeing the expression etched onto her face he wondered how he had ever forgotten.

Sybil hadn't noticed Thatcher walked up beside her, his soft footsteps no louder than a whisper. The boy's throat mesmerized her. The cut made a perfect curve, matching a crescent moon. Did he like the moons? She bet he did. Unlike the pirates surrounding her, she somehow knew he would appreciate their beauty as she did. "Sybil?" Thatcher began tentatively.

Turning her head, she laughed. Thatcher thought he had hit his head, but no, she genuinely laughed. "Bloody mess I made. What poor soul will have to clean this up? Oh no, I hope it doesn't stain," she babbled, her eyes looking everywhere at this point, except for the boy.

Her attitude stunned him momentarily, before he realized the cause was most likely hysteria. Deeming it best to move her away, he placed his hand delicately on the small of her back and led her off the merchant ship, onto his. She continued to chatter away about menial things. For a reason unknown to him, most of her talk contained incessant questions about the moons. He kindly reminded her he had never been and therefore knew no more than she prior to entering her cabin. "Go to sleep, lassie. Ye need not rise in the morning, nor the one that follows. Take a caulk and I'll consider your duty on this ship paid."

He went to leave, but her sudden gentle voice gave him reason to pause, "Am I going mad Thatcher? This feeling, I know it is how it starts. I can't get his face out of my head. It's all I see, even now looking at you. I remember this feeling back when my father vanished from the mines. For weeks, I couldn't find the motivation to get out of bed. Only when I told myself I would save him and began to do something did it go away, but I can't bring that boy back. What am I to do?"

Tears quickly formed and despite blinking hastily to make them go away, they started falling. She cursed herself upon hearing the whimpers bubbling up in her throat. She was stronger than that, but no matter how hard she fought, she couldn't win. Her knuckles had long since gone white clenching the scimitar. Taking in a shaky breath, she let go and the weapon clattered against the floor. "Just go Thatcher. I need to be alone," she muttered angrily when he didn't say anything.

Too exhausted to change clothes, she fell onto her smooth sheets, drinking in the scent of salt and sweat. Anything that didn't reek of horrid, sickeningly sweet metal smelled marvelous.

Watching her curl up next to a pillow, Thatcher furrowed his brows. There were no words suitable for the situation, but he gave it his best shot, "Sybil, do you remember what I told you about those merchants? They're no better than us. In fact, they're worse because they are only in this for the money. That boy may not have seemed like a threat, but imagine how many he had killed or would've killed if you hadn't stopped him. This isn't on you. Blame the capital for allowing things to get this far. Not too long ago there was no need to steal or kill, but they went ahead and stole everything. We're only trying to take some of that back," he took a step out the door before he added, "You did well out there. Never call yourself anything less than what you are, and that is clever."

Sybil didn't say anything, but with her back towards Thatcher and her face concealed in a pillow, she smiled.

Outside of her cabin, the Captain came across Matthias. The first mate nodded his head in greeting and asked his question, despite already knowing the answer, "Shall we let them leave or sink the ship?"

"Give no quarter."

A/N: I felt the need to add an extra part to this chapter because it does not fit well in the next, but starting Wednesday Chapter 7.1 🌊 Gnomes should be posted. :)

-Max-