I am not a Martyr

The smell of gunpowder burned at the edges of Josephine’s nose. The sound of musketfire was too close for comfort yet there would be no reprieve for the pirate. She tightened the straps on her borrowed armor – easier with a companion, to be sure – and tested the braces with a firm tug to see that the straps wouldn’t come undone. The cover that she normally wore aboard her ship was enough to cover her neck and the unruly mess of hair that she sported, it would fit comfortably under the helmet that sat on a low table in the middle of her tent. A light shuffle betrayed someone’s entrance into the tent – the scuffle of fabric with no clank of metal told Josephine enough about who was joining her, she didn’t turn to face that doorway. She toyed with the cover on her shoulders and carefully began to tug her hair back and lift the cover over it, it would prevent the helmet from catching on the curls she bore.

“Jo.”

A soft voice, it made the pirate’s fingers falter – she couldn’t not know that voice. She tilted her head but didn’t face the voice’s owner.

“Josephine.”

Firmer this time, Josephine almost turned to face the woman. It took every ounce of her self-control to not look over her shoulder.

“You know they will not love you.”

Her companion stepped closer, Josephine could practically feel her presence growing closer. She turned, then, and red hair came into view. Red hair and a deep green dress, Adrian in her travel clothes – a princess among her people and nigh on a goddess in Josephine’s mind. The sun that poked through a crack between the tent’s flaps shone off of Adrian’s hair like a halo. Josephine had seen such views in Italian paintings, gold shimmering behind Mary or Jesus while people groveled willingly. Josephine didn’t know if she believed in this God, but she couldn’t blame the idolization of a figure so perfect when she was doing the same.

“They do not have to love me.”

Josephine tightened the cover on her head and stepped closer to Adrian, closed the gap between them. Adrian’s heartbeat was almost audible, steady and patient despite her clear fears.

“They won’t see you as a martyr.”

Josephine knew this, had known this for as long as she had stayed with Adrian – for as long as she had lived, really. Her brow furrowed and she lifted her chin in something that was almost defiance as she stared at Adrian. Adrian placed a hand on the breastplate that separated them, a dent under the left breast said it would hold up to the musketballs that sank into men’s flesh and left them dying.

“Please, stay.”

Josephine did not think she had ever heard Adrian sound so small – fiery hair and sharp, pale features said she was a leader, but this voice said that she was just a girl. Please that lilted toward a child’s begging, as though she had been denied a toy at market and it might convince her mother otherwise. Stay, not for the people who would never love her, but for Adrian – stay, she said, for me hung between them. Josephine brought a hand to Adrian’s cheek, callouses rasped against soft skin and she leaned forward to press a kiss to the woman’s forehead. I cannot.

The duo stood like that for a moment, then two, and eyes flitted shut. The heat of a tear dragged Josephine’s eyes open again and she brushed the liquid from Adrian’s cheek. It would be quick, the battle was half over with the sun hanging low in the sky, but still Josephine did not make the promise that hung on her tongue.

“It will be all right.”

This was a promise that Josephine could keep – if not now, then later it would be all right; if she did not return, eventually it would be all right; if they lost this war, it would be all right by some standard. Adrian pressed her cheek into Josephine’s touch and the duo stayed for a breath longer.

𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝

A pirate fighting on land – the thought almost made Josephine laugh as she tamped a musketball into a bed of gunpowder. More than that, though, a pirate fighting a princess’s war. She had known battle on the sea, Alexander and she had more run-ins with rival pirates than either cared to admit, but this was different. On the open sea, you could not run and hide. On the open sea, there was no grove of trees to get lost in nor piles of rocks and boulders to take the brunt of the gunfire. On the open sea, you faced your enemy with fear in your gut but honesty in every shot.

Josephine peeked around the tree that she had settled behind for refuge, the English soldiers that had been firing at her and a small group of Scots had disappeared. She settled back at her tree and looked for the crew she’d joined – they were scattered, some lying in wait and some clambering up trees for a better vantage. Most used muskets, but a few held crossbows and Josephine admired this about the Scots – unafraid to face an enemy even with inferior technology. But then, she thought, they can fire a dozen bolts in the time it takes to load a musket once.

Something made the leaves in the clearing crunch, break, in a way that said they bore the weight of something unnaturally heavy. Josephine didn’t have to look to see what had been wheeled forwards – a cannon made similar sounds on the wooden planks of a ship. She scrambled from her position and began to run. One of her companions tripped – a younger Josephine would have left him for dead, instead she placed her body between him and the cannon. The fuse was lit now, she stared at it as though her gaze could make it stop.

He was on his feet only moments later and he scrambled forward while Josephine turned to run – her world went black before she could find her footing. When her vision finally returned, she was alone and her ears were ringing. She remembered that she needed to run, that she needed to hide, that she needed to be out of firing range for the English. She staggered to her feet and a shot of pain almost made her pause; fear and panic drove her forward instead.

𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝

Josephine’s breaths were labored – a raspy noise came from her with every exhale and she clutched at her stomach. The taste of blood bit her mouth and she spat red-tinted spittle to the side. She stumbled forward, at once holding her wounds and clutching every tree she approached for stability. She could hardly hold herself upright. Her musket had been lost somewhere, but her pistol still hung heavy on her hip. The shrapnel of a cannonball had sliced through her side and into her belly, she did not know how long she would stand to struggle forward – struggle toward camp.

The pirate remembered her childhood and, almost worse than the taste of blood in her mouth, the ripping of her hands came back to her. Ripped. The sensation she had felt in the moment of injury felt as close to that sensation as she could imagine and she stumbled. Josephine tripped over a root as she attempted to wipe the sensation from her mind – now the wound simply ached. It bit and it ached like sewing pins pricking every nerve; it was steady, but grew worse with every movement. Her body hitting the ground made her cry out.

“Papa!”

The word was warbled, thick in her mouth and tears streamed down Josephine’s face. Another memory surfaced: her father’s bloated body washing to shore days after he had gone to sea – his boat had returned only hours after he had left. She had found him, mottled and rotting, stinking as any corpse caught in the hot summer sun does. In her mind now, though, she saw him as he had been before – a smile like the sun, body firm and unwavering, safety in the worst of moments.

“Papa, save me.”

Her voice was small now, childlike, and she curled in on herself. The French of her youth seemed to be the only thing she could cling to as her vision wavered. She had lost a lot of blood, she knew this even without seeing the red stains across her hands. The armor she’d donned could do little against the force of a cannon. The shuffling of leaves on the ground, someone rushing through the forest and the jingle of metal made Josephine close her eyes.

“I wish I had stayed with mama.”

A whisper to herself, her mother was still alive and well – alive and well and living on the south coast of France in the home Josephine had been born in. Josephine could imagine being there, curled with her mother in front of their fireplace while a stew made the whole house smell thick and meaty. Whoever was approaching, Josephine hoped that they would end her suffering swiftly. Her eyes remained closed, breathing growing more shallow by the second, and Josephine felt herself drifting away – to sleep or death, she did not know.

“Jo! Captain!”

Frederick. Josephine’s eyes fluttered a bit as she sought the man who had called out to her. He had been at camp, he was to stay at camp – why was he here? Why was he by her side in the forest? He was kneeling at her side, prying her hand away from her wounds and prodding – and then he was turned away again.

“We need to have the-” he stumbled for a word, his English was good but he still lost his words, “The medecin!”

“Doctor,” Josephine breathed the word, “In English, it is doctor.”

“The doctor! Have him ready!”

Frederick gathered Josephine into his arms like she weighed nothing. She winced in pain but didn’t fight his aid, body instead going limp against him. The man moved through the woods as though he was born to walk in the forest, quick and sure in every step. Josephine fought to keep her mind conscious – every blink was a fight to reopen her eyes.

“Frederick.”

The man glanced at Josephine’s face, but didn’t slow even as they entered the camp.

“Tell her-”

“No, Captain, you will live.”

Frederick was firm in his statement, Josephine didn’t trust it. How could he know that her time was not coming to an end?

“Please, tell Adrian that I have loved her.”

Her voice was small, secretive and rushed as Frederick finally laid her on a cot in the medical tent. He took her hand briefly, squeezed it in assurance, and was promptly pushed aside by the arriving doctor.

𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝 ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ ༄ 𓊝

Adrian pushed open the flap of Josephine’s tent, the air was hot and smelled sharp; it smelled of blood and sweat. Josephine laid there, on her bedroll, smaller than Adrian had ever seen her – hair plastered to her forehead with sweat and eyes flitting behind closed eyelids. She was covered by a thin blanket, scarcely more than a sheet, and Adrian only knew where her wound was from Frederick’s muddled explanation.

She was quiet, afraid to disturb even this fitful sleep, and she settled on the ground next to Josephine’s bed. All they could do now was wait, but the odds were far from good. Curious fingers eventually peeled the sheet away from Josephine’s body – she was nude save her bandages and the flesh that poked out from those was beginning to turn a sick shade of green. Rot. Adrian bit back the bile that started to rise in her throat; even covered, even still alive, this smelled like a corpse. Had they washed the wound? Had it been too deep? Was there nothing to do?

Adrian felt steady eyes on her and she slowly lifted her gaze to meet Josephine’s. She pulled the sheet up again and let it fall over the body and bandages.

“Adrian.”

Josephine sounded small, entirely unlike the pirate captain Adrian had come to love. The princess took one of her hands and squeezed. I am here, this said, I am here.

“I have loved you, I would have given my world for another moment with you.”

Josephine’s breaths were rattly and wet, Frederick had tried to prepare her. Adrian squeezed her eyes shut and felt wetness sink down her cheeks.

“Adrian, Adri.”

Adrian squeezed Josephine’s hand again and met her eyes once more. There was some unnamable desperation there, something that Adrian didn’t – couldn’t – know.

“I am not your martyr.”

Josephine’s chest fell more than before, but she maintained her gaze. Adrian could see wet tears on Josephine’s pale cheeks and fear, terrible and persistent, in her golden eyes.

“Oh, my Josephine,” Adrian struggled to take a breath herself, she had to fight past the growing lump in her throat, “I love you.”

The clammy hand she held went limp and when Adrian looked again to the face of the woman it belonged to, those golden eyes were closed and her body was startlingly slack. A sob wrenched itself from Adrian’s chest and she held tighter to Josephine’s hand, as though that would keep her soul from drifting away. Her breaths rattled and fat tears rolled from her cheeks to the body below her. Adrian pressed a lingering kiss to Josephine’s forehead and tasted the salt of her sweat.