Chapter Text
“As long as it takes people to forget I had a son.”
Oh it was all just a cruel, cruel game that Van Eck had been playing.
“I’ve secured you a position at the music school in Belendt.”
A music school, that Wylan would never reach.
That Wylan was never supposed to reach.
“I treat you no more harshly then the world will.”
Jan Van Eck, was a filthy fucking liar.
The wold had been kind to Wylan, once he’d escaped the harsh clutches of his father and took his chances in the open sea. He’d started as a bottom feeder, just a scrawny boy with no heads or tails for the world outside his fathers oppressive mansion. But he’d crawled his way up the ladder –literally—and while he may not carry a significant position aboard The Gunman, he was more then happy to play his part, taking down landmarks and marking the positions of the constellations.
There were worse jobs, to be had aboard a ship. And besides, he liked the drawing.
Wylan loved life on the sea. The pure, utter freedom had been something he’d craved for a long time, ever since he was old enough to know that Pirates existed. When his mother had died, and his father had doubled down on him, Wylan found that he would spend nights upon nights hanging out his bedroom window, staring out at the sea. And wishing. At first he used to wish that someone would save him. That, like in his mother’s stories, a handsome Knight would climb up the walls of the mansion and whisk him away to a place far, far away. As he got older, Wylan lost faith that anyone would help him, and he resolved to saving himself.
That was when he decided he wanted to be a pirate. Not for the money or the boasting or really any of it at all, but being part of a pirates crew came with the kind of protection Wylan worried that he would need.
Unless, of course, they figured out he was the son of the richest merchant in Kerch. Then he’d be strung up and sold for a bounty.
But that was just life, really.
The work was hard, it wasn’t all sailing and drawing and singing rowdy songs until your throat burned. The job of a pirate was never easy, certainly not when another pirate wanted your wares.
Like, right now.
“Hendriks! Get out here now!”
Wylan rolled his eyes, still hurriedly rummaging through his satchel. He’d used up the explosives that he carried around in his brown trench coat on a daily basis and unfortunately the Captain of their ship had been too impatient to let Wylan restock their supply. Now he was forced to make do with the dwindling amount of stock left in his ratty satchel, the only thing he’d brought with him when he’d left Kerch.
“I need to ask for a raise,” he swore under his breath, finally managing to close his fist around one of the last explosives he owned, “I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”
He got paid to catalogue the stars and the landmarks, making explosives was a side job of his that he did not get paid for. Screw pirates and their need to hoard all the money.
Another loud boom exploded overhead and Wylan ducked, feeling the ship lurch under his feet. They’d been attacked multiple times before, it was only natural when you sailed under a pirates flag, but this attack was different.
There was a lot more men that had bounded over the gangplank then normal, and the majority of them carried rifles and revolvers instead of plain old swords like most if the pirates aboard The Gunman. Which was ironic, really, considering the name.
The ship was bigger, bulkier and carried twice the amount of canons then his own did. And Wylan, in the brief moment he’d seen the monster under the moonlight before he’d been forced to hide, had a horrible, dreadful feeling that he knew that ship.
Something about the shape of its stern, the colour of its sails, that even in the pitch dark was tugging on a memory string. One that he’d tucked far, far back into the recesses of his mind.
“Hendriks! Now!”
“I’m coming!” Wylan yelled back, feeling more then a little overwhelmed. He’d never been great with loud noises and death defying feats, and especially not when it was dark and he was running low on ammo. Saints he really needed a raise.
Then, Wylan made his first mistake.
He stood, not bothering to check behind him –all the action was in front of him after all— and pulled the string from the small black sphere, chucking it into the mass of fighting bodies with as much force as he could.
Then, he made his second mistake.
“Away!” he shouted, the ships code word for ‘bomb.’ He didn’t want to kill any of his fellow crewmates, that would be unfortunate.
Perhaps it was the word itself, or maybe it was the volume that he’d shouted the warning. But whatever it was, the next thing Wylan knew there were hands wrapped around his throat and his back was being slammed against the wooden railing of the swaying ship.
And just like that, Wylan knew where he’d seen that ship before.
He’d been on that ship before, a lifetime ago, with hands wrapped around his throat and the empty promise of a school in Belendt running through his mind. He’d been on that ship once and only once, and Wylan had never wanted to see it again.
It was Jan Van Eck’s least favourite ship, the one he used for less then satisfactory jobs, it seemed.
Time slowed for Wylan, just like it had the last time. The hands on his throat tightened and then tightened again, squeezing the life out of him with every second. And Wylan—his mind kept slipping back to that night three years ago, when he’d come to the horrible, gruelling realisation that his was never, ever, supposed to reach the damn music school.
The only differences between this time and the last, was the screaming on deck, as his crew was brutally slaughtered.
That, and the one, remaining vial of acid in his coat pocket.
“Nowhere to go this time kid,” Prior hissed at him, dirty nails digging into the side of Wylan’s neck, “Nowhere to jump, nowhere to swim from.”
And he was right, in a sense.
They were in the middle of the fucking ocean, at night, and from what Wylan could remember they were days away from the nearest sighting of land. If he jumped into the water this time, he’d never make it out alive.
But Wylan was a petty little shit, and he’d rather die by his own choice then let his father’s men wring the life out of him.
With one hand still scrabbling against the one holding him by the throat, Wylan reached inside his pocket and closed his fingers around the vial of acid. The glass was thin, designed to break easy, and Wylan—
Wylan brought his fist up swiftly, and smashed the vial into Prior’s face.
This time, Wylan didn’t actually mean to fall into the water. He’d planned to grab Prior’s gun and join the fighting, to give his life helping protect his crew. His family, even if he hated the sorry lot of them.
This time, Wylan didn’t want to run away or to hide.
The ship lurched at the same moment that he pushed Prior away from him and he stumbled, back, back, back until he hit the railing and then—
With a boom, a canon hit the deck and sent everything exploding upwards and there was nothing Wylan could do to prevent the inevitable.
He fell, down, down, down, because the ship was big and Wylan only had a moment to think ‘fuck’ before his back hit the devastatingly cold waters below.
The water was cold, so cold, and it pressed in around him with a tightness he’d never felt in the sea before, choking him just like the hand in his throat. He tried to swim upwards, towards the air and the light but it was like the water had shocked him to the very core, and his limbs refused to work for him. He flailed his arms, kicked his legs, pushed and pushed against the forces surrounding him until his lungs burned from the lack of air.
He was going to die.
That was the truth of it. The water was too cold and too dark and when Wylan managed to start moving he had no idea if he was swimming in the right direction or not. Everything was too muddled, too fuzzy and he couldn’t breathe and—
Wylan’s last thought, before his body forced him to open his mouth, was just a sick, twisted feeling of finality. That this was how it was always supposed to be, that Wylan would die at his father’s hands.
At least no one got the satisfaction of seeing him suffer.
He kicked out one last time, reaching desperately for something to grab onto. His hand brushed against something solid but a second later it was gone, and Wylan welcomed the sweet, comforting darkness that enveloped him.