A
small room
A rain-soaked evening, one day after arrival.
Liam jolts awake with the surging, panicked energy of a man freshly woken from the grave.
Hazel eyes jitter back and forth. He's in a small room. No windows. There's what looks like a small table against the wall near him, with a foul-smelling candle glowing with a gentle orange light. He's on a small cot, swathed in a simple linen sheet. The door is shut.
He reaches up, feeling something wrong. He feels... clean. Indeed, his patchy beard and mustache feel like they were trimmed down; None of the singed or burnt strands remain, and what patches of scrag and bush there were are gone. The mane of orange hair on his head feels straightened out for the first time in decades, and his skin actually itches and aches from the lack of grime, sweat, and salt.
He looks down at his right hand as he feels that weight and hears that clanking metal. He can feel the new clothing over his form, but it looks like that shackle is still clutching on. It's been scorched black, and as he looks at that metal reminder, his eyes wander to his left hand. Devoid of any tanning, scars, and demarcation; As pale as when he still called Scotland home. Not a bloody stump blasted off by a lucky gunshot. And that weird, jarring shift from pale and unblemished to tanned, leathery, and marked.
He hears the dull thump, thump, thump of approaching footsteps on wooden flooring, and the creak of the door beginning to open. Liam swiftly lies back down, closing his eyes. Carefully, he measures his breath like a man deep in slumber; A skill trained by the harshness of British naval masters, and the fickleness of fellow sea dogs.
The door opens, and he hears one- No. Two sets of feet walk in. One's slightly heavier than the other, coming up behind. The heavier feet stop, and the door is shut behind them. The lighter feet carried on, and he feels the presence of someone immediately at his bedside. A leathery, callous hand lightly touches upon his shoulder.
“Sagart Urramach.” A deep, croaking voice, from the direction of the heavy footsteps. “Thaan mi air crìocsh ah chuir air na teacsaichean a lorgadh mi.”
“Dè an freadhaine? Agus a bheil thu cinnteach ghun dwùisg ea dh'aithghearr?” That lighter voice, like wind blowing through the reeds of a marsh, came from his immediate right. The lighter footsteps and the weathered hand of work and age.
“Cluinnidh mi buille a chridhe. Tha e na dhùisg, ged a tha e a’ beachdachadh air na sgarfaichean agus na comharran a bhios air, tha coltas ann gu bheil e a’ cluich possume.” That croaking voice chuckled, the lilt to it giving the impression of an old woman's voice. Another weathered hand slaps at his leg as those heavy footfalls approach the figure at Liam's bedside. “A thaobh nan teacsaichean? Bu chòir dhut cuimhneachadh air Garrom.”
That reedy voice, the 'Sagart Urramach,' takes a short hissing breath at this statement. “Chaidh amaideachd Garrom a dhubhadh às. Cò aig a bheil cuimhne fhathast? Cò a chuireadh-”
“Agus cò a chumas na clàran sin nuair a thèid na Cinnidhean gu cogadh mu chùisean suarach?“ Another cackle. “Tha barrachd eolais caillte againn na dh' fhaodas an t-sagartachd ionnsachadh.” Liam feels her gnarled hands and sharp nails pick up one of his arms, and start deliberately poking at various points on it. The arm is placed back down on the bed, and she pulls away the linen sheet to begin poking and prodding at various places on his chest. “Tha e air gluasad astar fada gus ruighinn an seo,” An authoritative poke at his forehead. “Agus ma bha an sealladh a bha aig Grauld ceart, tha na h-aon chomas aige a thaobh na ceird spioradail.”
The male voice to his right says with a small tremor in his voice: “Beothalakt.”
The elderly female voice gives a grunt of affirmation. And then that hand that poked at his forehead starts aggressively slapping at his cheek.
“A'RIGHT! A'RIGHT! I'M FUCKEN' WAKE!” Liam growls out with a voice like ocean-washed gravel, opening his eyes and pushing himself up on his elbows. Keeping the facade of slumber failed at some point, especially as he looks into that old crone's glowing orange eyes. That same crone utters a truly bone-shivering cackle as her provocations bear fruit, seemingly sliding herself back away from the bed.
“Faic? Thuert mii ribh. Bha ena dhùisg.” She lets out another giggle, her eyes raking over Liam's form. Those glowing orange pupils, deep and hypnotic. The longer he looks at her, the more that old lady – mouth full of disturbingly sharp teeth and split into a grin as her eyes rake over his form – feels less and less like any other human. His blood begins to chill as he holds that gaze, as if he were a small rat caught before the ship's cat.
Shaking himself out of that deep, horrifying stare, the bedridden ex-pirate looks to this right at the other voice. He's a tall man, and at first glance is rail-thin and shrouded in a tar-black robe. The 'Sagart Urramach,' whatever those words meant. The top of his head is nearly bald, but for a dimly-regrowing carpet of grey-brown hair. His eyes are a deep and comforting brown, set into a slightly gaunt and long face.
“Chan eil a’ chainnt sin air a labhairt le gin de na coigrich gu ruige seo,” the tall, dark-robed man says, briefly turning to the crone. “Tha neadhon nas fhaide air falbh.” He turns back, and his grey eyebrows furrow in equal parts concentration and befuddlement; Evident on his face, even with a stark barrier of language. He begins making a strange motion with his hands – forming a bowl shape with one hand, scooping up to his face, then pointing. Wait. Eating. That means 'eating,' but is he asking if-
As if prompted by some primordial force, Liam's gut pipes up for what may be the first time in days, with a skin-shaking gurgle of guttural famine. If this tall, noble-looking man is asking if he's hungry, then the answer is becoming abundantly clear. With that, Liam just nods rather than trying to answer by some other method.
The door is opened, and the old orange-eyed hag drifts her way out. The taller man simply beckons for Liam to follow as he makes his own exit from the small, windowless room.
Liam rises, standing up and wobbling on unsteady feet. He doesn't move immediately after the mysterious bald man, not immediately. His thoughts are confused, a jumbled mess: He doesn't know where he is. Who these people are.
His stomach gurgles, and his eyes move once again to that stark white hand. His mind's eye recalling a blade cleft deep into his back, and a musket ball rolling in his organs.
He should be dead.
Second chances don't come for people like him.
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Whoowee, it's been a while hasn't it.
I do apologize for the gap in time between the last update and this one. Finding time for writing with my current employment schedule has been rough. Hopefully I can start updating more often.