Dark Waters Rising

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Wesley sat on the shore for the better part of the day, staring out into the open ocean. Some part of him hoped it was all a joke and that Valentine would walk out of the waves at any moment. The other part of him knew that wouldn't happen though. He was almost certain he had felt the moment Valentine had died. It was like an invisible tether had connected them, and in that single moment, it had snapped.

Wesley hugged his knees to his chest, unsure of how to cope with the unarguable emptiness he felt within him. 

Shadows moved around his body as the day moved forward, but Wesley was stuck in place. He watched as the tides receded—his only indication that the monster was gone—but still could not move.

It was only when dark clouds rumbled on the horizon that he willed himself to get up. It had been a miracle that the weather had held up for the time they had been stranded, but now as it threatened to rain, Wesley realized they still had not built a shelter. 

Such a task was a welcomed distraction, but it didn't last long.

That night Wesley found himself in a great battle with the storm. He fought to keep his fire from dying while the storm fought to destroy every comfort he had left. 

Valentine's tricorn perched atop Wesley's head, directing the rain that reached him away from his face, moving it instead along the brim and letting it trickle off whichever of the three corners was lowest to the ground. He sat in his leaning palm-frond shelter, staring at the fire as if sheer will would keep it alight and struggling to stay warm. Shivers wracked his body. He wore his own coat around his shoulders, and Valentine's was draped across the front of his body. It was doing quite a bit to keep his body dry, but he could tell both articles were beginning to soak through.

It must've been sheer exhaustion that brought sleep to Wesley, but when he woke some hours later, the storm had passed. 

For a moment, everything felt all right, but when Wesley remembered Valentine was gone, that heavy emptiness settled within him once again.

He did not cry. He did not cry because he felt nothing but an awful hollowness and numbness. When Valentine had left, he had taken a piece of Wesley with him, and had he been able to feel anything in that moment, Wesley might be afraid he might never feel anything again.

When the sun breached the horizon, Wesley shed both waistcoats and laid them out on the sand to dry. Unsure of what possessed him to, Wesley searched through the pockets in Valentine's coat. He found a dagger first. There was a large blue gemstone inlaid in the handle, and as Wesley held it in his hand, he recognized it as the very blade he had used to stab the pirate. It was curious how the pirate had elected to keep it with him. Even more curious was the realization that Wesley looked back on the memory with a small tickle of fondness. 

Setting it aside, he reached again into one of the pockets. This time he pulled out a folded piece of paper. Though a bit damp, it hadn't been too damaged by the rain. Wesley was certain it was torn from a captain's log, and nearly as soon as he unfolded it, he dropped it into the sand. 

The lines were roughly sketched and a bit messy, but the subject was unmistakable. Wesley would've never thought Valentine to be an artist, but it appeared that the man had quite a bit of skill with a quill. Wesley tried to think when Valentine might've had an opportunity to sketch the merchant's face with such detail, but all he could come up with was when he had been asleep. Likely while they were still on the ship, since he did not remember Valentine packing a quill and ink when they left for the island. 

Wesley gently moved the portrait of himself aside and ran his hand over his face. 

Sentimental bastard, he thought as he steeled himself for what he might find next. 

There were a few more weapons, one of which was the pistol Wesley had been issued by his benefactors before setting sail on this trip. The one Valentine had taken from him after taking him captive.

The last thing he found in one of the inside pockets was also something he recognized. The familiar, circular frame of a portrait miniature fit snugly in his palm. The face that stared back at him was his little sister's. 

Portraits had always been considered an unworthy expense in his household growing up. Food and treatment for Waverly had always been more important. However, when she was nearing the end, she expressed a great wish to have a portrait of her own done so she could feel like a proper high born girl, though Wesley had always suspected it was so he and his mother could have something to remember her by after she was gone. Wesley remembered tracking down a man to commission such a piece, but when the kind elderly gentleman met Waverly, he had been charmed by her personality, which had been radiant even on her death bed, and had refused to take payment for his work.

Valentine must have swiped it from his personal quarters during the raid. He recalled the pirate had left him in his own quarters that night to oversee the transfer of cargo onto the ship. It must've been then that he went to snoop through Wesley's things. Wesley wasn't sure whether to feel angry or grateful at the thought. Valentine had stolen something precious to him, but at the same time, Wesley realized that the only person such an item had value to was he himself. Valentine likely took it because he knew it was important to him, because even then, Valentine had been aware that Wesley was the other half of his soul.

He wasn't sure why the pirate had kept it so long, but Wesley was grateful to have it now, when he needed it most. It meant a lot.

Valentine's parting words echoed in his mind, and he realized he had told Wesley that these things meant a lot to him because of the fact that they meant a lot to Wesley himself.

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Wesley was surprised that the crew of the Blight of the Sea held up their end of the bargain. After spending approximately a month on the island, Wesley spotted the black speck of a ship on the horizon. Wesley did not speak a single word to any of the pirates on the two week journey back to his desired port. Instead he existed in a sort of catatonic state: barely eating, barely breathing, barely existing. The world seemed so dull and lifeless. Food tasted like ash and alcohol did little but numb his already numb mind. The fleeting thoughts that occasionally broke the dark silence in his head asked if he'd ever feel normal again. He didn't have the answers.

When he finally set foot in a familiar harbor town, it was raining.

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A/N

Would you rather find your soulmate and lose them, or never find them at all?

Until Tuesday
-Mora Montgomery