Crimson Blade {inspired by Our Flag Means Death}

What We See When the Sun Sets

The icy, crisp mist sprays across his cheeks as Luka Littleton is shoved downward. He closes his eyes and revels in the salt on his skin, knowing it may be the last time he feels the sea breeze or basks in the glow of a sunset. His hands are bound at his navel, and he lifts them to swipe his bronze curls out of his face.

"Stay quiet, boyo, or it'll be 10 lashings."

Luka knows those are lashings he'll likely never receive, and that knowledge opens up a pit in his stomach that threatens to swallow him whole. A feeling that is at odds with every other day he's spent at sea, every other time he's been threatened with a whip, or a gun, or the sharp end of a sword. Those threats held hope of another day, of another chance to sea the sun rise over the water.

But in his 25 years, he has experienced enough sieges and seen enough bloodshed to know when things are hopeless. And this is one of those moments.

If things were different, if he thought it would matter, he'd offer his service, demand to be released so he could fight to the bitter end. His decade of experience would prove useful, he knows, his combat skills and tactical brain are unmatched. But it matters not in this situation, on this ship, with this inexperienced captain. There's no way they will make it through the next hour, much less to see another dawn.

A ship twice the size of the one Luka is currently bound to is lingering along the horizon, out of range of the cannons, a menacing quiet hanging in the air. He takes one last glance over his shoulder and can make out the shadow of one solitary man etched into the light pink and purple hue of the skyline as the sun sinks below it. Once the light is gone, their vessel will be boarded, his captor and the crew killed, and his fate will surely be the same.

A rough hand closes around the back of his neck and yanks him beneath the opening to the brig and releases sharply, his body falling forward and meeting the splintered wood of the floor below. Before he can haul himself up, the gate slams overhead and he is entrenched in darkness.

The sound of barrels rolling and crates being hauled over the side and crashing into the water below sound from above him, all futile attempts to lighten the load and escape the wrath of whoever is lying in wait. Luka knows this, the crew surely knows it, but it is quite possible 'Captain' Arnie Thomas is unaware. His ship set sail a mere month ago; he has looted little, pillaged none and captured but one. Luka.

Luka was second in command of a well-known vessel, working under a proper captain- finding his place in the world and on the open sea. His captain, Conrad Bellows, was so infamous that there was a bounty placed on his head by the king of England. The British Royal Navy sent out an entire fleet just to capture this one man, who did not go down without a fight. The young lad watched in awe as his mentor took down seven of their ships, and became a real threat to overtake the entire company. And that would just not do for the Brits. Alas, he was captured in a late-night ambush and beheaded in front of his crew, a fate he knew was coming.

Hours before Lilly of the Sea was seized, set on fire and blown to bits, Bellows snuck Luka out onto a dingy and made him promise to row East and never look back. A promise Luka was able to keep, but not in full. He sailed far enough away to be cloaked by the shadows of night, but could not keep himself from watching on as his mateys fought hardily, their screams of determination turning into anguish as they were tortured and killed. It was almost too much to bear.

There were a multitude of moments in which he grabbed the oars and began to row back, but he couldn't get Bellows' whispers out of his head: 'You are my heart, and as long as you remain, it beats on. You must go; I cannot bear to die today.'

'Come with me.'

Luka brushes his index and middle finger across his lips, the ghost of a kiss eight years in the making lingering on his mouth still, months later.