Possessed - Harry Styles

Chapter Two / Storm

Harry

The night is calm. Soft waves lap against the ship's hull, creaking the steady dock boards.

The ship-the Black Thorn-is nothing more than a black dot in the middle of the Ruined Sea, a single raven coasting across the surface of inky waters at the dead of night, its wings spread wide in mischief. It is most definitely not a force to be reckoned with.

At the bow of the ship stands a lone dark figure. The black cloak he wears veils the inhabiter: Harry, in the strangely calm midnight air. Moonlight shines down on his upturned face, highlighting the whites of his eyes and electrifying the green of his irises. He leans against the railing of the Black Thorn-his ship-and breathes out fibrous wisps of cool air. His eyes settle on the nothingness in front of him, the far distance between him and nowhere. There is a feeling deep within his chest that feels comparable to this growing nothingness, but he shuts it out as he watches his breath curl once again into the starless night sky. Even the moon is nothing but a thin sliver tonight. It is cursing him, wishing his crew bad tidings and chaotic days. The gods must have whispered to the moon who he is and all that he has done wrong in his fairly short lifetime. Harry laughs to himself and continues to stare into the nothingness.

He shuts his eyes and thinks of what will be. In a few short days, they will unconventionally dock in the Southern harbor of Krest. They will wrap a scrapped rope around a lone pillar and jump off of the sullied vessel one by one.

But of course, none of this would be a Harry Styles, bastard-son-of-the-king, good-for-nothing-Mutant entrance without a little surprise.

This is why they have captured the Lieutenant of the Command.

The shrill but gruff scream of a middle-aged man rings in Harry's ears. He grins as he re-enters the ship, where the Lieutenant of the Command sits gagged and bound to a stool, his eyes weeping tears, his nose dripping snot, his temple oozing blood. The crew of the Black Thorn, Harry's crew, stand scattered around the Lieutenant. Some prod the Lieutenant with vulgar comments and teasing tones, but with one look from Harry them stop immediately. Beneath Harry's gaze, the room falls silent. Isn't that power: commanding a room with just one look? Harry would like to think so. Their silence makes his pulse quicken.

The faint candlelight flickering in the corner of the room illuminates the Lieutenant's thin features, elongating them ten times their actual size. In this lighting, Harry thinks to himself contently, the Lieutenant looks like an utter fool.

If he is right, then the Lieutenant is the Commander's right hand man, the person he turns to in times of dire need. Harry wonders if the Command has been looking for him . . .

One of Harry's crew members, Levi, approach him. "Should we give the man a chunk of bread? Water? Don't want him dyin' on us, now."

Harry raises a hand to silence Levi. "Not now," he mutters. The Lieutenant's eyes refuse to meet Harry's; instead, he stares at the ground, eyes furrowed, nostrils flaring. "Wait until he's suffering. I want him to beg."

Levi nods and returns to his post.

The lieutenant sweats nervously beneath Harry's gaze. This is because he knows exactly who he has the displeasure of dealing with. The cloaked boy is unpredictable. When he was younger, not yet banished from his father's kingdom, Harry had quite the reputation. On his ninth birthday, Harry had disappeared from the royal palace, Serena Palace, almost out of thin air. The king and his men searched everywhere for the boy, who, in the end, had taken his horse, Flynn, to the closest village to buy a birthday cake for himself. So it had seemed the king had forgotten his son's birthday.

This was only the beginning of the king's hatred for the bastard prince. Ever since his mistress died from fever a few months after Harry's birth, he had despised the child deeply. Even sometimes, deep within the early morning hours, the king would whisper to Harry that it was his fault his mother had died.

Of course, Harry was a restless sleeper. He had heard it all.

Harry pulls the knife out from beneath his sleeve. He twists the metal object over and over by its hilt, taunting the Lieutenant to shear dread and intense panting. Sometimes Harry imagines that the Lieutenant's chubby, round face is his father's, and all he wants to do is smash the life out of him for good with his fists. But of course, he stops himself every time. Harry almost fears the man will faint, or worse: seize up in cardiac arrest. If the man dies, then the entire plan and surprise factor of their arrival in Krest is botched.

Harry slides the knife back up his sleeve and holds out his palms in surrender.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says to the Lieutenant. "I just need you to answer a few questions."

The Lieutenant's eyes still refuse to meet Harry's. It's starting to tick him off. Harry's steel-toed boot clamps down on the Lieutenant's foot, hardly a threatening gesture, but it is enough for the Lieutenant to slightly cock his head.

"Good," Harry breaths, "you're listening. I feared you'd gone deaf." He steps back, hands crossing over his chest. "Now tell me the Command Post's code."

The Command Post's code is what allows a guard of the Command to enter and leave the Command Post. The guards of the Command must remember the code or they will be punished severely. They must also never share it with outside sources, or they will be sentenced to death. Harry needs the code in order to enter the Command Post and kill the Commander. With the Commander dead, the kingdom will erupt into chaos. He doesn't really give a shit as to what happens to the Lieutenant after such an event.

The Lieutenant remains silent.

Harry clicks his tongue. "Must I repeat myself always?"

"NEVER," the Lieutenant seethes, "I will never give you the code."

Harry pulls the knife back out from under his sleeve. He twists it by the hilt and takes joy in the Lieutenant's rather loud intake of breath.

Crew members flank either side of Harry, each one carrying their own torture device of choice: a metal pole, a kitchen fork, a pair of tongs. In the territory of banished Mutants, pain is the only known way to gain.

"Well, it has been said that I can be rather persuasive."