The heat and smell of burned gun powder lay in the air, masking the iron of blood soaking the deck as the English Navy men shot and sliced their way trough the men and women of their crew.
Harry fought and fought hard, letting the men of the English navy pay dearly for their insolence. He would hold on. He would hold. If only to see her again. The ringing of her cutlass echoing through shouts and yells of war across the ship. Somewhere aboard this ship she was fighting. Holding on just as he was. Waiting. Bidding her time for when he'd find her.
They were doomed. He knew that. Long has it been whispered that the empty spaces of the world map were slowly but surely being filled. Gradually, the places in the world in which he and her could find solace to hold each of the other. Drowning themselves in the other. Bathing in the freedom they had called their own. A freedom carved in mud, blood and steel. It hadn't been much. But it had been theirs. Until now.
"Captain," a sailor, a loyal man who'd served Harry for many years, pleaded. "We must abandon this futility, I beg of you. We must flee."
"I can't Riley. Not without her. I can't leave," he replied to his crewman before giving him a solemn smile. "Take the men and run."
"Cap-...Harry. Please..." the man eyes pleaded with his leader, the raven haired fearless man they'd called Blackbeard. "What will become of us? The crew? What will we be without you?"
"Go and take them, man, " Harry tried with as much comfort as he could muster. The pain of a gunshot wound almost numbing his mind to eternal sleep. "Take them far away from here. Only death awaits you here."
With a reluctant nod, the loyal man was loyal no longer and roared at the top his lungs. "Abandon ship. Abandon ship. All abandon ship."
The crew, almost dazed by the order, stilled before following the shouts by their quartermaster and leaping for the open ocean and swimming back to their ship.(edited)
Harry, still fighting to stay on his feet, used the moment of chaos to make his way across the deck to where he heard her sword’s distinctive clang of metal. The navy men seemed to not notice him walk past them, too much his their focus drawn to the escaping forms of his men. He would have raised his hat to them, had he had the energy left to do so.
His steps were heavy and slow but resolute. He climbed the stairs to the bow of the now burning ship. A natural tactic of retreat. Burn the prize, if none was to be had. His arm burned as he pulled himself up to the uppermost deck of the burning vessel. There she was. His love. His mate. His world. Fighting against the men who would mean her the worst kind of harm. The greed and hunger for more than shiny metal was evident in their bloodied eyes.
He roared a last time. One last time. He would butcher them. Draw and quarter them. Feed them to the depth of the sea. To Davy Jones’ locker. Never to rise again.
“Come here then you bastards. Come and kill me, you sons of whores. I’ll send you straight to hell, you maggots.” They turned and blanched at his sight. The fear of death clear in their faces. But it only lasted a mere second before they charged.
He killed and killed and killed. He killed many. But they kept coming. For each kill, two came in their place. He felt the stabs, the slices, the pains grew heavier in his back. He’d been shot. Shot more than once, he was sure. He had to hold on. For her.
“Fleur,” he called. “Fleur, answer me.”
“Oui, amour,” her voice croaked breathily. “‘old on.”
She held her own against maybe a dozen men. He couldn’t quite count them. Too dulled by sweat and blood was his sight. They were many more than he could have possibly fought off. But she could and had many times before had she done so to earn her own moniker.
La Dame Blanche
His own moniker came after. He had grown a long beard by then. Harry of the Blackbeard It was almost humorous how the fates had strung their thread. They were man and woman. Black and White. Human and Creature.
Yes, his love wasn’t human. Not by what was associated with the word, by any means.
He hadn’t cared when he learned that night. He’d loved her and she him.
“Men! Retreat! They rigged the magazine to blow!” A naval officer shouted in panic before dropping his gun and jumping across the gap between the ships attached by ropes with hooks. The men surrounding didn’t think long and followed their commanding officer in his feverish escape, despite their victory having been only a few more strikes and shots away.
The snapping of ropes and breaking of wood announced the end of the engagement, the shouts of men and sound of whistles growing weaker as moments passed him.
He felt a hand grapes his arm, his healthy arm. The rest of his body was a map of injury and gore. He didn’t dare look. Afraid the heat of battle would leave him and allow the pain of the world back into his body, undoubtedly signalling the end of his voyage.
“Fleur,” he whispered.
“Je sais,” she replied calmly. “I am wiz you, Arry.”
The legs gave out and he dropped onto the battered wooden deck of her ship. He was prepared for the pain. Breathing slowly and calmly as he waited. Holding on.
“It won’t be long anymore, mon amour,” she spoke soothingly, kneeling beside his broken form, holding him. “I’m wiz you. Until the end am wiz you.”
The weight of his head fought him but he held on, stubbornly looking into the ocean of her eyes. The clear water, a rarity even in the Carribean.
“Will I be alone, Fleur? Will you leave me?”
“Never, my love. I will never leave you. We are one. Tu es à moi pour toujours.” Her soft hand held his head to her chest, the warmth of her being caressing his tired existence.
“In a world without gold, my love, we might have been free.”
He felt her face rub at his head, a kiss touching his brow. “Non, we are free...we are free.”
A bright blinding light erased what little sight he had left. He could have sworn to have seen wings.