The hold and its cages greeted the new occupants with an ancient hunger. The air reeked of rust, damp wood, and despair. One by one, the few survivors of The Wayward were thrown into the cell built to hold slaves.


The men muttered under their breath, their voices cracked and trembling. Their limbs, locked in iron restraints, seemed fused to the ship itself. Prayers, curses, and sobs echoed in the gloom. Pirates made terrible slaves—they loved freedom too fiercely. And worse, there was always the risk someone might recognize them. No one wanted to pay for a shadow with blood on it. That left them with one expectation from Mendoza: death.


Deirdre felt the adrenaline drain from her veins, fading like ink in water. The rage that had kept her alive dissolved into exhaustion—a heavy fog that even the chains biting into her flesh couldn’t shake off.


She thought of the warnings—of Libertaria1, and of Leda's last kiss. Of how her scent lingered through salt and blood. The ache of absence bloomed in her chest as the ship pulled away.


"Damn luck. Damn fate for taking the only thing I ever wanted—Leda."

Exhaustion won. And dreams opened their jaws, swallowing her whole.


* * *


The sun blazed overhead, merciless and unblinking, casting its judgment on the bloated corpses strewn across the blackened sand. Seagulls circled, shrieking as they dove. Over the port of Libertaria, the scent of salt and tar mingled with rotting seaweed. It was a day blessed by Father Mare, patron of those who lived—and died—by the sea.


After months at sea, The Wayward slid into the bay like a beast finally fed—her belly heavy with plunder, her hull marked by battle and pride. Slipping past the blockade that encircled the port was a feat few could pull off. But if anyone could dance through cannon fire and live to brag, it was Deirdre O’Malley. She smiled as the hull thudded against the pier's pilings, the ship exhaling in relief.


The crew swarmed the deck, unloading crates of wine, spices, and stolen jewels with near religious fervor. Peter O’Malley leaned against the stern rail, watching with pride. Casualties had been minimal, the hold was overflowing, but what truly swelled his heart was seeing his daughter among the crew, sweaty, weathered, and respected. In every command she gave, in every knot she tied, he saw the makings of a captain.


When the work was done, Deirdre leapt onto the dock and made her way through the winding streets. Her red hair, tied back in a wild ponytail, whipped in the wind like a flame. There was only a place she could be heading—the Wooden Leg tavern. It wasn’t the biggest dive in Libertaria, nor the cleanest—the air stank of sour wine, dried vomit, and the sailors’ sweat—but Leda worked there. And that made it sacred.


She pushed open the door. The lamplight haze clung to her skin. She passed snoring drunks and men locked in pointless brawls. Eyes turned away in her presence, as if a cold wind had swept through. She dropped into an empty chair and lit a bitter-leaf cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the thick air. Her emerald eyes scanned every shadow, searching for the honey-haired girl who made her pulse race.


The door cracked open again. A dark-haired man in Turesquian robes stepped inside, his smile sharp as the blade he wore. His eyes met hers, and he walked over without asking. With a flick of his wrist, he ordered two jugs of rum. The innkeeper placed them on the table just as the man slid into the seat across from her.

Deirdre raised an eyebrow, lifted one jug, and drank without breaking eye contact.


"You dock and don’t even say hello?," he said, mock-offended.


"You?" Deirdre scoffed playfully. "No need, Antonio. You always invite yourself."


Antonio took a long swig. Sweat beaded on his forehead, glistening in the lamplight.


"I’ve got news," he said, voice low.


"Talk," she said, eyes still scanning the room.


"No welcome kiss?" he teased. "If we head upstairs, I could give you the full story."


"You know that's not my style."


"I could cast a transmutation spell. Turn into a blonde with impossible curves," he joked, cupping imaginary breasts.


Just then, Leda came down the stairs, arms full of linens. Their eyes met. Deirdre bit her lip, heat blooming in her chest.


"Even if you changed shape, you'd still be a man," she said with a dry laugh, taking another swig. "And men disgust me." 


Antonio laughed, raising his jug in a toast that went unanswered.


“A certain Mendoza,” he said, suddenly serious. “A new player in the game of fate. He’s already taken some of my friends. And he’s asking questions about The Wayward. Be careful, Deirdre. His ship’s a monster. And he’s got no soul."


“No man alive can break Deirdre O’Malley,” she said, eyes flashing. “See you around, Antonio. Go find someone to warm your bed.”


She drained the jug and slammed it down. The chair screeched as she stood.


Antonio watched her go, amused, finishing the rum in one gulp.


Deirdre followed Leda's steps to the washhouse. The stream’s murmur filled the air. There she was, kneeling, scrubbing sheets. Her hands, raw from the water, looked both delicate and strong. Deirdre’s heart lurched.


She crept up silently, covering Leda’s eyes from behind.


"Guess who?" she whispered, brushing his lips against Leda’s neck.


"Took you long enough. I thought you’d chicken out." Leda smiled faintly.


"Me? Chicken out?" Deirdre teased, nibbling her earlobe. "I'll show you."


She wrapped her arms around Leda’s waist and kissed her neck. Her hands searched for skin, and Leda arched, breathing hitching, surrendering like someone falling into a dream.


Deirdre led her, giggling, to a nearby hayloft. There, surrounded by the scent of straw and damp earth, they devoured each other. The straw clung to their skin as they kissed again and again, hungry for each other. Each moan broke like a wave; every kiss lit up the dark. The air between them burned. Deirdre's hands claimed her, each touch a conquest. Leda responded with her whole body, as if the moment might vanish.


Finally, spent and bare, Leda lay with her head on Deirdre's chest, trembling.


"Don't leave again," Leda whispered, voice cracking. "Stay."


"Why? Another one of your dreams?" Deirdre teased, stroking her hair.


"It's not a dream. I saw a broken lute. A gravestone with your name." Tears welled in Leda's eyes. "I don't want to see you at the bottom of the sea."


"Don’t be ridiculous," Deirdre said, twirling a piece of straw.


"You're impossible," Leda muttered, dressing quickly. "If you sail again, don't come looking for me." Her eyes lingered on Deirdre’s body one last time. "When will you take me seriously?"


"Leda!" Deirdre called, grabbing her arm.


"I said leave me alone!" Leda turned, cheeks flushed. "This was fun, but it’s over. I’d rather cry now than over your grave."


"Listen to me," Deirdre whispered. "We'll be together. I swear." Her voice trembled beneath the bravado.


"Then stay. Keep your word" Leda pleaded, her last hope flickering.


"We can't stay," Deirdre said, holding her hands. "They won't accept us. Two women together? They never have, they never will."


"I’m not leaving," Leda said. "In Irule, I'm a fisherwoman2. Less than nothing." She shut her eyes, pushing away the ghosts.


"I'll take care of you," Deirdre said, a knot tightening in her chest.


"Then take care of me here," Leda whispered, eyes locked on Deirdre’s emeralds.


Deirdre's silence was answer enough. Leda pulled her hands free and walked away without looking back. Deirdre stood there, her heart burning, her body still steeped in the other woman's scent. She wanted to stay. She wanted to tear the world apart for her. Libertaria was wild and permissive, but love between two women was still taboo. If she wanted a future for them both, she’d have to find it somewhere else—somewhere she could call her own.


By the time she dressed, the moon was high overhead. Its cold, ghostly light turned the island into a graveyard of pale bones. The muddy streets reeked of old blood and piss. Drunks staggered like phantoms, and alley girls bared their chests to faceless shadows.


Deirdre stopped in front of The Wayward. The pier lanterns swayed, casting claw-like shadows across the black water. A chill ran down her spine, but she ignored it.


She entered the cabin without knocking.


"You came" Peter said, his face flushed from rum. "I figured you’d sleep ashore."


"That's what I thought too," she replied, slumping into a chair and lighting another cigarette.


"This life’s a bastard," Peter muttered, taking another swig.


"I saw Antonio," she said, brushing past his comment. "He says someone from Turesca is coming for us. A man named Mendoza." The smoke hung suspended between them, like a storm cloud.


"We sail tomorrow, once the new recruits are aboard," he said, suddenly sober. "The Mendoza and O'Malley names have spilled enough blood." The echo of a gunshot seemed to ripple through his chest.


"I thought we'd stay a few days?" she protested, leaning across the table.


"If a Mendoza’s is hunting us, better he finds us at sea." He drank deep from the bottle. "Better yet, he doesn’t find us at all." He set the bottle down with a dull thud.


"Why so much fear? The Wayward has no rival. We can sink whatever this Mendoza throws at us. Who are you afraid of, Father? Hiding isn’t—"


"Who do you think you're talking to?" Peter's voice cracked through the air like a whip.


"I'm sorry, Captain." she said, looking away, biting her lip.


"That last name gives me a bad feeling. I killed a Mendoza years ago. I don’t want a vengeful bastard catching us in port." He closed his eyes for a moment, haunted by something old and gnawing. "Do what you need to, first officer." He drained the jug and fixed her with a hard stare. "We sail at dawn."


Deirdre lay back on the cot and tried to summon Leda's smile, but all she saw was a gravestone with her own name carved into it. Her dreams were restless: the island sank beneath a red sea, and two amber eyes watched her from the dark.


Somne held her longer than she wanted. She woke to the creaking of wood and the sway of the ship.


By midday, The Wayward was already cutting through the waves. The wind howled as if mourning something unseen. Deirdre rushed to the deck and scanned the dock for familiar faces. She searched for honey, but only found bitterness. She’d never missed a farewell before, and for the first time, she wondered if Leda had been right.


Libertaria’s silhouette shrank behind them, swallowed by the pale light of a rising sun that looked like a tarnished copper coin. The sea carried the scent of death. And Deirdre felt that setting sail was no different than dying.


* * *


She tried to open her eyes. Darkness. All she heard was the echo of distant screams. Metal clanged against metal. Everything felt strange and far away, as if she were trapped in a vivid dream—suspended between Somne and reality.


Then the gunshot.


And her consciousness faded away.


___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


Notes


  1. Libertaria: An island where a pirate "government" has been established. A place with its own laws where maritime criminals find refuge. It is currently under a maritime blockade imposed by the kingdom of Irule.
  2. Fisherwoman: Irule is a kingdom governed by a caste system. Fishermen are the lowest caste. Its members are considered slaves who cannot be bought or sold but are bound to the will of the sea. He who is born a fisherman, dies a fisherman.