Freedom

The feast is too loud for his tired mind, and he retreats into the confines of Fortune’s shrine.

From behind the walls, he can still hear the constant conversation and the crackle of the cooking fires. Wisps of smoke drift inside with him, hanging in the air and filling his mouth with the taste of ash.

His men had been happy to see him make a recovery; even happier when he announced they could take a short leave to attend the feast. It was a well-deserved reward. They had worked themselves half to death with the sudden appearance of so many monsters, and some had lost close comrades in their attempts to slay them. He had led the gaggle of sailors and officers down to the feast, where they had promptly found the closest supply of mead and drank it dry.

Their drunken voices were the loudest. Some were still digging into the banquet laid out on the spindly wooden tables, which were buckling under the weight of both the food and his men as they leaned heavily on them to grab more food for their own plates. Others were making raucous conversation with the civilians, sharing stories of their time at sea only to giggle at the total lies they had just fed to the people now enamored by their exploits.

He is fairly sure Percival and Hardy, a pair of able seamen known for their antics, were the two currently describing how they’d slain a colossal serpent monster using only a piece of yarn and a needle. The young man listening was nodding along, a grin on his face, as he pretended to believe their exciting narrative.

Those who weren’t stumbling around intoxicated were chatting amongst themselves and watching the sun sink toward the horizon. Some were smoking, and the scent of it had traveled to Cinnte on the breeze, along with the stench of cooking smoke and the aroma of well-seasoned food. He hears the voice of another familiar face.

Perrault was a young officer rapidly climbing the ranks of the navy. He was laughing with his own men. Loudly. He says something about Mages and how eager they are to become monsters. He laughs again.

He pulls his own pipe out of his coat. He lacks a lighter, but a quick flip through his sketchbook reveals a drawing of a tiny flame. It springs out of the paper, and he lights his pipe before snapping the book shut.

He stands there for a while, watching the puffs of smoke he produces disappear in the breeze.

The bandages beneath his coat were still slightly bloody. Every step he took getting over here had made him wince and bite his tongue to stop himself from yelping. Still, his curiosity over Fortune had dragged him into the shrine.

What drove men to throw themselves into the clutches of such a being? As he’d concluded before, on the day he’d woken half-dead in his bed, it was power. Not much different from his own motivations. He had already told himself he would be careful doing this, but he realized now hundreds had probably come here with careful intent.

He desires strength. He wants what Fortune can give him. It is the only way he can continue down the path he has chosen to walk. If he is to be a mage he will embrace it, and if he wants to keep his power he has to use it and use it well.

This is what he tells himself. But his line of thought is interrupted by the appearance of someone shuffling down the hall toward him.

The newcomer is short and cloaked in heavy robes. Their face is covered by a large wooden mask, painted white except for the wide, red smile stretched across it. Their hands, which they hold clasped in front of them, are wrinkled and thin.

‘What brings you here, rear admiral?’ They croak. Their voice sounds old and they wheeze as they talk.

He extinguishes his pipe and turns to face them.

‘You know me?’

‘Oh, yes!’ They continue, wringing their hands eagerly.

‘Rear Admiral Cinnte. The one who almost died fighting a monster. The one who is a mage. The one who is an artist. They say things about you.’

He sighs, and shakes his head, but keeps his eyes locked on the devotee of Fortune.

‘Do they really?’ He muses. ‘I thought, to be perfectly honest, to have achieved a bit more than that.’

‘Oh?’ Their tone changes. There is something very welcoming in their voice. ‘I wonder what that is, sir? You are high in the ranks of the navy. You have fought monsters. You are no disappointment.’

They move closer, placing an arm on his shoulder. He shivers at their touch but stays still. He is confident they are smiling beneath the mask.

‘I’m not sure.’ He finally replies.

‘I long for something. I need to do something. It is just a… mystery, I suppose.’

‘Hmmm. You are an interesting one, Cinnte.’

They turn away and make their way back into the depths of the shrine. Shadow shrouds their face as they tilt their head back toward him for a moment.

‘Perhaps, considering you are here hiding away, you want freedom?’ They shrug at the suggestion. As if they haven’t just discovered exactly what he desired.

‘Maybe the Order and the Navy weigh you down. Perhaps you need to cut loose. Feel alive again. I’m sure Fortune will find you when you do go down that path.’

They leave. He is alone and shivering.

Is that what Fortune was, then? Not a grand, sudden, gift of magic but something that knew just what you needed? The exact kind of person you were?

He draws his coat tightly around him and makes his way back toward the feast. The evening sun hits his face and he is blinded by its light as he walks quickly back towards his men, face pale with fear.

-

Cinnte did cut himself loose. Feel alive again.

He had turned their words over for days in his head. It was exactly what he wanted and it made him sick to his stomach. Did he take the leap and hope he had the fortune to land on his feet? Or did he sit and fester because he was scared of getting tangled in a force he didn’t understand?

It is another warm evening at the harbour. Cinnte is led down the docks by a group of officers towards the largest ship in his fleet, the Preservance, which was being prepared to sail. Men were crawling across the mast like insects, lacing ropes into a delicate lattice and securing the billowing sails.

Perrault, the officer from the feast that day, greets him as he boards.

‘All good, sir?’ He asks, saluting as Cinnte merely sighs and walks past him.

The crew is adequate. They’re climbing down from the rigging and lining up on the deck for inspection. Their salutes aren’t held for long and their are covered palms in grazes.

The entourage of officers follows him onto the ship. Like clockwork, they slip into their usual routine of shouting orders at people. Perrault is standing behind him.

It is no longer a secret that he is a mage. At first, his magic was a silly rumor among men but after his display in the harbour a few months ago, where he summoned a wall of water to protect some lousy Witchfinder. Now everyone knew he was a mage. Most of his men had accepted it well enough, but he couldn’t ignore the trace of fear in their eyes when they looked at him now.

Behind the officers that have just boarded are, unfortunately, the Witchfinders assigned to the ship. Command had decided it was wise to have one or two on every ship as a precaution. Besides, they had proved their effectiveness in slaying monsters.

Perhaps they had just caught him in the middle of bad memories. Perhaps he’d just been wanting to do it. He turns around and points at the new arrivals.

‘There’s no need to board. This is a training voyage.’ He growls.

They look at him, eyes wide.

‘Sir, we-’

‘I don’t care what Command has said. This is my ship. Get off it.’

It’s then he realizes that the leading Witchfinder is the one he rescued months ago. Ishmael, was it? Regardless, he was now staring at Cinnte. Slowly, he looks at his men and nods.

‘Alright.’ He gives Cinnte a glance that says ‘i’m only doing this because you saved my life, you asshole.’

He could care less what they think of him as they backtrack toward the stairs.

‘Hey. That was a direct order from command.’

Perrault has started now. His brow furrowed, he stepped forward and grabbed Cinnte’s arm.

‘You can’t just go around disobeying-’

‘If I believe something detrimental to my ship, Perrault, I am fully allowed to go against direct orders.’ He snaps, yanking his arm away.

Perrault scowls and rests a hand on the saber hanging from his hip.

‘Oh, but of course they’re detrimental, aren’t they?’

He starts to circle Cinnte.

‘These Witchfinders are good. I saw them in action myself, so it isn’t because you think them useless.’

Cinnte moves grab his own rapier.

‘Are you questioning me?’

‘Yes. I am. The only reason you don’t want them here is so you don’t feel threatened. You want to throw your magic around without regard for who it hurts. You think you deserve to use it uninhibited when time and time again it's been proved dangerous.’

He shakes his head.

‘For all we know, you could corrupt yourself at any moment. We need those Witchfinders to deal with you if- when that happens.’

At the mention of the word corruption, Cinnte’s rapier is drawn and pointed at Perrault’s throat.

‘Come on, then. Seeing as you want to hunt a monster so badly.’

The sentence is barely past his lips when Perrault sweeps his blade away with his saber and suddenly Cinnte is parrying frantic strikes at his torso.

The crew forms a circle, debating whether to pull the pair apart or sit and watch the show. They choose the latter.

They tussle, parrying and striking sloppily and trying to kick each other in the shins. Cinnte throws him against a mast, he staggers up and punches Cinnte in the stomach. He stumbles, and Perrault beats his face in with the hilt of his blade.

Blood dripping onto the wooden deck, Cinnte trys to get up but Perrault kicks him across the deck. His old wounds sting and he can’t get himself up off the floor. He watches as his rapier is thrown overboard. It clatters into the water with a heavy splash.

‘You’ve gotten old.’ Perrault hisses, breathing heavily as he stands over him.

When he raises his saber, some of the crew start to shout for Perrault to leave him be. Others start urging him to strike him down. The witchfinders are trying to fight their way to them but are held back by the mass of sailors.

From the corner of his eye, Cinnte spots his sketchbook. Fallen open on a sketch of a blade. He inches his hand toward it.

‘I know killing you is a terrible idea.’ Perrault raises his sabre.

‘But who says I can’t hurt you a bit more?’

It is over in an instant for everyone else, but for Cinnte it takes an eternity. Seizing the blade from between the pages, he thrusts blindly toward Perrault’s face.

It takes a moment for him to register the screaming. Even longer for him to feel the blood dripping down his hand. He manages to look up.

Perrault is writhing in agony, trying to pull Cinnte’s blade from his now empty and bleeding eye.

The sailors groan. Some look away. Cinnte pulls the blade away and it dissipates into thin air as Perrault collapses onto the deck, clutching his face.

‘You… my fucking… fuck… my eye!’ He howls. The deck bursts into commotion. Several men converge on Perrault while he is dragged away by someone else. His face is blank as he watches Perrault turn to him, face dripping with red, lips curled into a snarl.

‘I’ll kill you!’

Cinnte can only hear what is playing over and over in his head.

You want to throw your magic around without regard for who it hurts.

Look at him now. Being dragged away from a man he’d just stabbed. Perrault would be a different man now. He’d taken a part of him that couldn’t be replaced. If that was his eye or his trust in Cinnte, he didn’t know.

Is this what being free was? Is this what he craved?

He didn’t know.

It was very fortunate that he had survived, but he doubts he’s a lucky man.

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