Treasure of the sea |Lesbian story|

CHAPTER XXXVII

Chaos broke out.

Arenis' crew wasn't even armed, so defending themselves was nearly impossible. Someone tried to escape, but the door was blocked from the outside and there was no way out. I felt like prey, locked in a lion's cage. I drew my dagger and began to wound, stabbing left and right anyone who tried to get near me. Eddie and two other men tried to kick the door in, but were shoved to the side and thrown to the ground. Quinn, on the other hand, had managed to snatch a sword from some opponent and was fighting fiercely.

At that moment my mind lingered on a name, a person.

Arenis.

Captain Thorpe had taken her somewhere far away from everyone. And my heart stopped, my head whirled. It had all been a trap. From the beginning. Thorpe had killed her? Had Arenis been stabbed in the back by the man she thought was a friend? Had she been caught off guard and had had no time to defend herself? With bated breath and my stomach churning with fear, I plunged the dagger into a man's throat. Blood splashed onto my face and stained my white shirt red. The man made a faint, choking sound and collapsed to the ground with a thud. It was strange, to kill someone. I didn't feel horror or guilt as I watched him crumble to the ground. No, just a great relief. I was alive and he wasn't. I was still breathing and he wasn't. Death itself was so banal, so stupid. Those bodies made of bone and blood and veins and skin were all so fragile, so vulnerable. One moment you were there and all it took was a blow to the heart, the head, the throat, the belly, to make you disappear forever.

A man came at me, and I promptly stopped him, twisting his arm, and turning him round with force. My other hand, clutching the dagger, slid swiftly to his chest and sank into his robes. A groan, then a jolt. His body gave way and he crashed to the floor. I bent down. I wrapped my blood-soaked fingers around the handle of the dagger that had been stuck in his heart and pulled it out hard. Blood. Sprays of blood. The man wasn't dead yet and his body began to convulse. His breathing became shallow and increasingly severe.

"No! Quinn!"

I turned around and saw Naade writhing on the floor. His hands and feet were tied and a man was holding him down. Quinn was standing a few feet away from him, a surprised expression on his face. He lowered his gaze to his chest, the tip of a blade sticking out of his stomach. A man, behind him, had stabbed him through and through. Quinn spat blood. Pain soaked into his eyes. Time seemed to stand still. I hoped with all my heart that it was just a nightmare, that I was about to wake up, that I'd just dozed off on the bow of the Black Star, as I often did after lunch. But the smell of blood, rusty and intense, made me understand that it was not a dream, but the crude reality. In dreams, after all, you could never smell anything.

"No..." I murmured.

Quinn died before his body hit the ground. There was terror in his gaze. Terror of death and the unknown and pain, terror of having wasted his life and of leaving forever that world so cruel and indifferent and beautiful and gorgeous and mysterious.

"NO!"

I lunged at him, but was pinned down by firm arms. They slammed me to the ground and rested one knee on my back, preventing me from moving. Tears flooded my face, and I began sobbing and calling out Quinn's name relentlessly. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't...

"Be still!"

They tied my wrists and ankles, dragged me out of the common room. They locked us all in cells. A man named Killian, the chief gunner of the Black Star, bled to death a few moments later and his body lay there at the bottom of that tiny cell.

Then, there was a cannon shot and then another. The Llorona, positioned just within range of the Black Star, was using everything she had to attack our ship. I imagined Dinnington, completely unprepared for the situation, with sails set and the Black Star being hit by a volley of cannon fire. I imagined the agitation of the sailors who remained on the Black Star. I imagined Jackie Jay, confused and frightened. And I also imagined Athena, frightened by the sound of the blasts, desperately searching for a safe place. Dilthey, beside me, was looking out the porthole at the whole scene.

"Get away, Dinnington. Run away. Pull up anchor and leave. Leave us here. Save yourselves. Save Jackie..." he whispered softly, as if in a prayer.

And when the situation became critical and the Black Star began to take on water, she started to turn away, to try to escape. Dinnington, who was a master navigator, took the Black Star out of gun range and began to pick up speed. The Llorona gave chase. And Dilthey kept praying and praying and praying that she would not turn back, that she would continue her flight and make her escape.

"Leave us here," he said, and I couldn't blame him. What chance did they have of saving us, after all? With a wrecked ship and a minimal crew there was no chance of victory. They had no choice but to run.

Dinnington. How much pain must he be in for making that decision? He left Arenis and the rest of us there, at the mercy of the enemy. He condemned us to certain death. He ran away without trying to help us. Still, it was the right thing. He knew it was. We all did.