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the-kr8tor · 14 days

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Between the Devil...

Pairing: Pirate! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), CW suggestive, TW blood, CW panic attack, TW death, CW violence.

Between the Devil and the Sea Masterlist

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CHAPTER 14 >>> CHAPTER 15

You wake up to home.

Hobie's arm is slung on top of you, hand holding your own even in his sleep. His leg lays over your own protectively like he's shielding you from unforeseen dangers that lurk in the drafty barn. His hot breath fans your nape, lips brushing along the skin like stone skipping on a lake. You sigh, squeezing his hand, head lying comfortably on his other arm.

You're careful when you shift your weight so that his arm won't fall asleep, but judging by the sun's rays entering the small window behind you— you're sure his arm is already numb.

For a split second from waking up, there's a small part of you that thought you'd wake up alone. You're glad that part of you is wrong.

As if his senses are attuned to yours, he wakes up with a sigh before you felt his smile on your nape. His piercing is warm as he leaves featherlight kisses on your skin.

“Good dream?” You say through the fog of affection.

“I didn't dream,” you twist in his arms to look at him. Those grey eyes you love do much are properly rested, pupils blown out, content and peaceful. “Don't worry, that's a good thing. I haven't slept this well since— a long time. The closest I got was on our island.” He smiles, hand cradling the side of your head, thumb nonchalantly placed on your bottom lashes, careful not to accidentally poke you. You trust him not to.

“You're welcome by the way.” You joke, resisting the urge to kiss the goofy smile on his lips.

“Yes, thank you for eating my face off last night.”

“Please, you loved it. And it's not like you went hungry last night either.” Your skin is still warm from where he touched you. Your lips still remember how he tasted and how he moved with you in tandem.

Humming, he pecks your forehead. “I think I'm gettin' hungry again.” With a laugh, he rubs your bare legs with his frozen foot.

“Your feet are cold.” Instead of moving away, you scoot closer, which was already impossible since you're already laying next to him chest to chest. You can feel his chest rise and fall against the thin cloth of your slip. Nosing his neck, he fixes your fallen collar to hide your shoulder away from the cold. “Hmm, your hands are warm though.” You coo, fingers subtly inside his shirt, fingertips dancing around his hip.

“Can't say the same thing for your hands.”

“You have cold feet but warm hands and I have cold hands but warm feet. We're perfect for eachother.”

Hobie chuckles, you can feel the deep rumble in his chest. “Put ‘em all together and we'd both have normal temperatures.”

Giggling, he buries his nose atop your head, letting himself drown in you. With the comfortable silence, the various animals below the hayloft huff and chew, the hay under your bodies are scratchy and pointy so Hobie lifts you up slightly so he takes the brunt of the pointed hay, so you don't get itchy from the dry material. Your chin rests just below his clavicle, hands caged around his head, lips curled into a smile.

His heart almost stops when the golden rays kisses your face, the light from the window hits your form perfectly, blanketing you in its glow. Eyes shining, linen slip leaving almost nothing to the imagination, dust flying around you like fireflies— he thinks he has died in his sleep and is now in front of heaven's gates. Standing and gawking at the marvelous sight.

“You alright?” You ask like you didn't take his breath away.

“Are you real?”

You snort, “of course I am.”

“Then I'm alright.” Hobie's knuckles knead at your lower back, warming you from the cold. Hand gripping your waist, you feel right at home.

Heart fluttering in your chest, you and Hobie take a minute to bask in the silence and the slowness of the morning; just like on your little island where you learned to appreciate and truly know each other, you both just lay there and stare tenderly like the other would disappear from view.

“I've been meaning to—” You both say at the same time.

Chortling, you gesture for him to go first, “Captain first.”

“Ladies first.” He smirks, patting your back.

“You and I both know I'm not a lady, you're not much of a gentleman either.”

“I know, a lady doesn't snog like that.”

“Fine, I won't kiss you like that anymore.” You joke, acting like you're about to sit up, he brings you back down tutting with a knowing smile. Your cheeks hurt from all the smiling but he quickly remedies that by stealing a kiss right under your nose.

Giggling, nose bumping, you tilt your head to deepen the kiss. Giving him what he needed, Hobie grips your waist tighter as if someone would rip you away from him. With a deep groan, he lifts your face up to breathe. He finds that he loses his breath frequently when you're near him.

Staring at your kiss bitten lips, he flips you back to the makeshift bed, leg hooked around yours. You let out a surprised sound from the back of your throat to which he silences with a peck. Fingers twirling at the little baby hairs on his nape, he unwillingly lets out a laugh against your lips.

Breaking the kiss, you look at him playfully and he knows exactly what you're about to say.

“You're ticklish!” You exclaim, eyes flicking down to the swinging pearl necklace, it hangs above you and you resist the urge to pull it down so you could kiss him again.

“Just on my neck—” you're already wiggling your fingers, “—dont.” He warns you with a stern glare, but it doesn't last as he hides his face on the crook of your neck. Surrendering, melting into.

“Alright, I won't exploit that knowledge. For now at least.” Hugging him, it's your turn to massage his back. His dress shirt is wrinkled under your touch, you guess the random lord from last night had a very rude awakening when he woke up in his knickers.

“You really do love me.” Hobie mumbles into your skin with wonderment. He doesn't recognize your scent with all the perfumes they doused you in, but it's there, it's faint, yet it's still you underneath it all. Still the scuttlebutt he fished out of the sea.

“I think I proved that last night. Do you want me to say it again?” You're prepared to say it a hundred times a day for him, knowing that those three words won't lose any meaning; and with every utterance of it would set it in stone and in his heart.

He hums, content, the rumble echoing throughout your body.

“I love you.” You embrace his head and in turn, he buries his face into the crook of your arm. “Love you,” peppering the side of his face with warm kisses, you smile through it all. “Satisfied, cap’n?”

“Very.” He sniffs, trying to hide his lopsided smile and stuttered breathing. “What was it you were about to ask?” With a sigh, he lets off of you, now laying side by side, hip to hip. He slithers his arm under you to hold you against his chest while his other hand plays with your intertwined fingers. “Were you about to ask why I attacked Miguel first? I figured your injury made you forget.”

“No,” you stare at your dancing hands in the sunlight. He can feel your new calluses that match his own. “I don't wonder about that anymore.”

“You don't want to know about it?” Hobie cranes his neck to look at your content face. “You, who wants to know about everything?”

“It doesn't matter anymore, it got us here, right?” He nods, the creases in between his eyebrows flattens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Does it put us in danger?” He shakes his head. “Will it hurt me?” Shaking his head again, you continue. “Then it doesn't matter. I just know that the tension got you both riled up, and it was enough for you two to lunge at each other.”

“It was pride, love.” Hobie swallows thickly. “But you're right if you don't want to know then I won't tell you.”

“Thank you,” You squeeze his hand, fingers slotting perfectly on his own. “I was about to ask how you are. How are you faring in all of this? Everyone keeps asking how I am but no one has asked how you are. You keep dodging it every time I ask. ”

“Does it matter?”

“It does,” you say breathlessly with a sigh. “How are you? Truly?”

“Tired, I think I just want to stay here with you in this musty barn.” You blink, waiting for the rest. “But I'm alright, keep holding on to me like this and I'll be better.”

You smile, sitting up by your elbow to look down at him, to see him fully. “It'll be over soon,” hand on his chest, you feel his heartbeat. “I promise, then we can do whatever we want. Go wherever we want.”

“Do whatever we want?” He teases with a playful smile.

“Yes,” you lean down to rub your nose against his own. It makes him shiver, hands holding you tight on your waist. “I kind of want to stay at a lighthouse for a bit after we figure it out.”

“A lighthouse?”

“Mm-hmm, easier to defend while we plan out things. Plus,” you brush your lips over his own teasingly. “It can only house two people.”

Hobie's breath hitches in his throat. “What are we waitin’ for then? Let's go find the wanker and stay at our tower.”

You giggle whilst he kicks the thick blanket off you. “Or maybe a new ship.” He pauses, neck slowly moving to look at you with a face that says ‘go on.’ “With better defenses, a hundred cannons and a huge fucking sail that can take us anywhere.”

“You gonna build us a boat then? Made out of bricks and steel like your lighthouse?”

You scoff, “that'll be the day. My uncle has a ship docked in the capital, if something happens—”

“Nothin', nothin' will happen.” He pulls you in closer, heartbeats synching, fingers digging in your arm. Yet, he's careful to not leave a mark or make you feel the dull press.

“If, if something does happen, we'll meet there. She's called ‘The Osprey.’ You have my permission to take it, captain.”

“Why are you talkin’ like this?” Concern wracks his body. “Do you know somethin’ I don't?”

“No, it's just that…it's been too good, too plain sailing—” you've been too happy recently. “That I think something will happen, something that would make our plan fail.”

“What do you mean? You got hurt, that's not good, love.”

“I'll live. I meant that you and the crew got out without a hitch. You found me without getting caught and no one has even tried to actively kill me. And Miguel...he told me it might be the king who did all of it. Who commanded Mathias to do it because he wanted to marry my mother. That's what I'm worried about.”

“Do you trust his word?”

“I just think there's something else he missed. That he might be wrong.”

“Do you trust Miguel?”

“A part of me does, I don't know.”

“Who do you think it was then?”

You exhale sharply. “I think there's another cog we don't know about. Miguel told me the king is a buffoon, an idiot. And from what I've seen— do you think an idiot is capable of orchestrating it?”

“Idiocracy could be dangerous too. I'll dig around the estate.” Before you could protest, he gazes tenderly at your nervous eyes. “I'll be careful, I'll dress like the staff, if I get noticed they won't talk.”

You nod, trusting him.

Sitting up to cradle your head in his calloused hands, he smiles to reassure you, attuned to your own worry. “That won't happen. If somethin' does happen, I won't let it.”

“You don't know that, Hobie.” Your chest feels heavy, hands suddenly tensing up. “We failed the last time and the time before that. If it happens again— leave me.”

“No, do you think I crossed the bloody sea, rowed a million times to this city and fought with my crew— my family, just to leave you behind?” His voice is determined. “'m not leaving you.” Taking your tensed hand, he places it on his chest, letting his steady heartbeat calm you, even though he's terrified too.

“No more sacrifices.” Hobie breathes out, hands trembling.

A tear escapes your eye. Nodding your head, you compose yourself, sniffing, letting the thumping of his heart wash over you. You're scared, rightfully so, knowing that you might be against the crown itself. A powerful being, whose word is law.

You finally have your reason not to flee and he finally has his reason not to carve like the knife that he is.

And you're both holding it in your hands.

“You're good to me, Hobie Brown. Too good.” With your confession, grey pools whirl into guit, he has something to confess too.

“Your mother's letter,” his words make your heart stutter. “She wrote not to trust anyone. I intended to hold that burden for you but it's not my decision, so please, don't trust anyone, Y/N.”

“I trust you.”

“And I, you. I love you, whatever happens, know that I do.” His grey eyes swirl with anxiety, hands trembling for fear of death. Not for him but for you, the thought of you lying dead in his arms burns him inside out. And he's more than willing to spread the fire, to burn everything around him if it happens. “I promise I won't let it happen.” He whispers, head placed on your chest, praying that if fate cuts your thread, that they'll cut his too. “We'll have our lighthouse and our ship one day. I promise.”

In that rickety barn, you whisper promises of life to each other.

—

Sneaking out was easier when you had the darkness on your side. Now that the sun has risen and the residents of Hazelside now flock the land, you skitter around to get back inside the estate.

With a quick peck on your lips that has your knees weak, (that shouldn't even be called a simple peck) he reluctantly lets you go. It's not like you wanted to leave him either when he looks properly kissed by you. With his dress shirt completely opened, chest exposed to the golden rays. Elbow propped up, he lounges on the hay with a grin, a picture of someone who's absolutely satisfied, who knows why your skin is on fire and why your hands shake as you come down the hayloft’s ladder.

You shake your head, waving the image away from your brain, tucking it under the folds like a secret. You have to focus, hands holding the blanket over your shivering body, (not to mention how exposed you feel in the almost sheer nightgown) you hide behind a tree when a worker passes by.

Then something in you clicks, you technically own the place so why should you be ashamed? Granted, you did slip away in the night to spend it with Hobie, but they don't know that. So why sneak when you can confidently walk back inside like you own the place. You do own it, your family owns it, so you straighten up your back with confidence, blanket draped around you like an expensive cloak, you strut back inside the little crevice you came out of.

There's goosebumps rising on your arms when you feel their eyes on you. They stop from harvesting the trees, gawking at the new (disheveled) barefooted duchess trudging the field. Scratching their heads, they shrug and just like you thought, they let you on your way without a word.

Speed walking back to the old wooden door, you tamp down a laugh from how ridiculous you must've looked like.

As you close the door, darkness greets you once again. And you already miss him.

Following the walls with your touch, you stop when you hear muffled voices from the other path that you didn't take last night. Straining your ears, you hear arguing. With your curiosity, you follow the sound.

The path leads to a deadend. Light filters through on your left, touching the wall— it's rough and wooden on your palm. It's a bookshelf, you surmise. Peeking through the cracks, you see Victoria and Frederick arguing. And his wife seems to be winning.

Your uncle has his head in his hands, sitting down on a plush armchair whilst his wife screams at him with urgent words.

“—word is law!” She yells, voice shaking.

“I know.” Frederick says in a defeated tone. “Fucking fuck!” He stands up abruptly, pacing back and forth. “Did my father tell you about it?”

“Me?” Victoria scoffs, “he's your father! Not mine!”

“How could he—” Frederick sounds like there's cotton in his mouth, sentence in full disbelief. “He was close to them…how could he—fuck! And here I thought— I thought he didn't have anything to do with it. I've always had a feeling but…” he wipes his oily face with his hands roughly. “The three of them, christ, that poor girl.” Your heart plunges in your stomach.

“It's either us or her.” Victoria shakes her husband. “What would happen to our children if we refuse? What of John and Collette?”

“I don't want to—” Frederick stutters when his wife holds his face softly.

“But we have to.” She nods and he follows.

The door to their chambers fly open suddenly, and out comes a smiling John, completely oblivious to what transpired.

“The artist’s here!” He pauses mid step when he sees his parents' faces. “Collette’s on her way to wake her up— are you both alright?”

“We're fine, Jojo.” Frederick pats his son's shoulder, “let's greet him.”

As they leave the room, with the door clicking softly, you feel for your dagger. The familiar shape of it is missing on your thigh, you rush towards your room with a heavy heart. Your weak leg hinders you from running full speed but you persevere before they could get to you first.

Wincing, entering your room through the secret passage, you fling the tapestry away. Collette greets you with a blinding smile and a lilac dress on top of your bed.

“Oh there you are! I see you found the passages. Where'd you go off to?”

“I think I need to go.” You rapidly take your sparse belongings.

“Wait—what?” She takes your hand away from your shoes. “Why? You just got here!” Her face contorts into worry and sadness.

“I—” you heave from the exertion. “I'm sorry, Collette.” She's innocent from all of this, you thought as you grip her hand. You hear numerous footsteps outside the halls. It's too late to run. In a split second, you make a decision. “Can you do me a favour?” She nods tentatively. “Go to Miguel and tell him—” there's knocking on your doors. “Tell him I need him. Tell him my mother needs him.”

Collette shakes her head with confusion, her curls bouncing on her head as she moves. “Your mother?”

“Just tell him that, please? When you can…just please.”

He's your only hope, he has the power to take you away because he promised. Even if you and Hobie fight your way out of Hazelside, it won't be enough. Heart in your stomach, you fear for his life, not your own. You decide to act, to play the part until Collette brings Miguel back. So you play the perfect duchess like they've always wanted. For Hobie.

His words echo in your mind— ‘no more sacrifices’ and you apologize to him silently.

“I'll—” she understands the urgency in your tone and from your worried eyes. “— I'll tell him myself. You can trust me, cousin.”

“Thank you.” You embrace her, with an almost silent whisper, you tell her about him. Another promise broken at your feet. “There's a man staying in the barn, tell him to leave. Please.” She doesn't have enough time to reciprocate the hug as the door creaks open.

“Oh good, you're awake.” You don't miss how her voice wavers, so do her children. There's an army of handmaidens behind her, “we need to get you ready for your portrait.”

—

You sit stiffly on the velvet chair. The plush seat is in deep purple to match the soft lilac of your dress. The gown is tight on your body, bodice covered in gold stars and golden threads. Corset tight like a cage around your ribs. Sleeves fully puffed, ruffles looking like the waves of the salty sea. The skirt engulfs you, heeled shoes uncomfortable on your feet, making your weak leg shake under the mass of your skirt.

It all suffocates you as the artist forbids you to even move a muscle. Jaw clenched tightly, hand almost breaking the stem of the rose that they forced you to hold. The jewelry on your ears and neck is heavy, cold rubies making you shiver. With the finest garment and expensive yet heavy jewelry, you miss the weight of the dagger on your thigh. You couldn't get the chance to hide it under your skirt when all eyes were on you. Numerous handmaidens come and go from your room as their hands frantically get you ready for the portrait.

Just like the uneasiness in you, Collette stands shakily near her brother, eyes never leaving your stiff form, nervous and worried. And just like the dagger, she couldn't escape the dozens of eyes on her, she couldn't find the right time to escape and warn Hobie and Miguel. You trust that she will tell them, you have to.

Your mother's voice whispers in your mind, ‘Don't trust anyone’ you feel like you're drowning again.

You can hear Collette's deep sigh from across the violet room. The scratchy sound of the painter’s brush against the canvas irks you, makes your ears twitch from annoyance.

Your so called aunt and uncle sit on the couch like nothing happened, like they're not planning for your demise. A tower of sweets sits at the table, colourful cookies decorating their plates, fragrant teas in their opulent cups.

“Collette, darling.” Frederick calls, “you should play something on the pianoforte. I bet Sir Remus here would appreciate the soothing sound.”

“I prefer the quiet, Monsieur.” The artist says in a rigid tone. He dips his brush into a dollop of purple paint, smearing it on his pallet. You follow his movements like he's about to pounce at you and stab you with his brush. “If you don't mind— my lady, please refrain from moving.” He stares at you sternly, pointing his long finger at you accusingly.

“I wasn't moving.” You say through gritted teeth. He doesn't reply, returning to his canvas.

“Can I please be excused?” Collette asks timidly. Her tone raises an eyebrow on her brother's face.

“No, you may not.” Victoria scoffs out, you wonder if she knows.

The stem on the rose digs at your palms.

“But—” Collette turns to her father.

“Listen to your mother.” Frederick doesn't even look at her.

“It'll be your turn soon enough, Collette. Learn from your cousin, be patient and it'll all be fruitful.” Your aunt stares at you above her cup.

“What will be fruitful?” You ask, tone commanding, eyes alight.

“The portrait. You already look wonderful from here.” You can feel the lie in her throat.

“Bullshit.” Your voice echoes around the silent room.

Everyone pauses, frozen on the spot, eyes trained to your furious face. The painter scoffs with an amused smile.

“Excuse me?” Victoria clutches her pearls. “We do not use that foul language here, especially in front of a guest.”

“I'm terribly sorry. Please tell me what this portrait is for, aunt.” You fake a smile, clearing your throat.

She subtly shakes her head, offended. “It's simply for…” flicking her eyes towards her husband, he nods his head. You can see the guilt in them. “...your engagement.” Collette gasps whilst James blinks in shock.

The rose in your hand snaps in half.

“What?” You ask, breath stuck in your throat.

With a click of Remus’ fingers, a staff rushes in, exchanging the snapped rose for a new one.

“The Viscount called for you last night. He expressed his love for you with a proposal to which we…gratefully accepted.”

She stomps her pointed heel on your heart with every word.

“Who?” You ask tearfully, and the painter clicks his tongue, commanding you to not move.

“Viscount Eugene Thompson.”

“I just met him!” You scream, hands gripping the sides of your seat. “You have no right!”

“Madame!” Remus yells back. Instructing the staff to sit you back down. With their gloved hands, they grip your shoulder with a remorseful face, forcefully sitting you back down.

The walls of the purple room seem to get smaller.

Collette shakes her head subtly. James sees this and he immediately gets that something has gone wrong and it's not just the surprise engagement. His ocean eyes tell you to ‘play along.’

Exhaling, letting a tear escape, you act like the duchess you were supposed to be like if not for the past.

“You should've asked me, dear aunt, I would've gotten to know him more.”

“That’s what marriage is for, dear niece. You marry and then you know them after. That's how it's supposed to be for us who are highborn.”

“It's for the best.” For the first time your uncle looks up from his drink to gaze at you. His fingers tremble as he talks. “You get to be a viscountess and we get to stay here at Hazelside. No one loses.”

I lose, you furiously thought. You now know why they want to marry you off to a stranger. It's for them to keep their titles and house while you rot in somebody else's. Someone who might treat you less, someone who could hurt you. Someone who isn't Hobie.

With a cruel laugh, you cackle in your seat. “I get it now.” Your uncle's face contorts into shame while your aunt clenches her teacup hard with an angry sneer.

Collette turns away from you, hiding behind her brother. She knows and so does John who stares out the window, but will they still choose to help you? Or will they choose their titles over your freedom?

“You should be grateful.” Victoria says above the sudden silence. “With how…used you are, you're lucky that a viscount even wants you.” She says with a scoff. “If you weren't as used then you could've been married off years ago to a duke, an earl or even the prince himself.”

“...Used?” You ask rhetorically, making her say it again, making her face you fully with her cruel words.

“You've been to a pirate ship, I have no idea what your role was but I do know that it's impossible that you weren't soiled in that ship.”

You are scorched by the sun.

You almost pounced on her but a staff member suddenly appeared next to you. Her eyes are warm, jade eyes telling you to hold fast, hands telling you to stay down. She takes your bleeding palms, the sting you just now noticed from the spiked stem of the rose. Carefully bandaging your hands, she wordlessly nods at you.

Lips slightly parted, you have an urge to ask who she is and why she's helping you calm down. But you don't let yourself falter, taking this stranger's advice. With a nod and a familiar knot on your hands, she walks away from you, head down in respect or because it's what she's used to.

You take matters in your own bleeding hands.

“Why don't I meet him again? The viscount, so I could get to know him before I marry him.” You lie through your teeth. If you can't talk down your own family or get Miguel for help, then you'd take your chances with the viscount. Maybe he'll think twice about the engagement once you tell him you don't want it, or him. “For tea, perhaps?”

Victoria turns to her children who cower under her glare. “John, why don't you take Collette and send a messenger for the viscount? I'm sure he'd appreciate it if the invitation was sent by your hand, the future duke of Hazelside.”

“But—” John starts but Collette stops him by grabbing his arm.

“Will do, mother.” As the twins leave, Collette gives you a look, green eyes determined. With a nod, you know she's on your side.

“And Collette, darling, straight to your chambers right after.” As if your aunt knows, she forbades them from going out. With a nod to a broad footman, he follows the twins out of the room.

You indistinctly mouth Miguel's name, hoping Collette gets the message before she disappears from view. You wish that they can at least sneak in a letter to Miguel.

If she can't get to Hobie in time, you'll have to do it yourself. For now, you need Miguel back to Hazelside first and foremost. He might not like Hobie but he seems to care for you and your well being, he'll get you and Hobie out, you just know it. He has the title, the power to help you. And the stature that strikes fear into your aunt and uncle. You just hope that Hobie's in the barn, you'd run to him the moment you get the chance.

With your bandaged hands, you grip the arms of your chair. The velvet is slashed under your nails, fluff spilling out.

Victoria stands up, crossing the threshold towards you. “After your meeting with the viscount, there's no escaping this, no matter how you act. I know you're not one of us but you have to try. Marriage is the best option for the both of us. For the family.” She holds onto the back of your chair as you continue to stare at Remus.

“You’re not my family,” you look up at her with your burning eyes. “Whatever you're planning, you'll regret it soon enough. You have no idea what I'm capable of.”

She exhales through her powdered nose. “Hollow threats, dear niece.”

“It won't be, I promise you that.” You abruptly grab her wrist, nails purposely digging in. “If you're part of the reason why they're dead—” she tries to take her hand back but you're stronger. “I'll bury you under my grandmother's apple trees. Then you'll truly be family.”

Unknowingly, you embrace the same fire he has.

Frederick comes to Victoria's side, quickly making you unhand his wife by roughly unclasping your fingers around her.

Your nails scrape and leave a mark on her soft skin, to which you grin at. She has the look of a woman who's terrified for her life. Her husband shares the same look, but with regret in his eyes.

They leave the room, arms embracing each other, murmuring hurried whispers in their traitorous ears.

“Keep that look.” Remus cuts the thick silence. “I like it better.” He smiles, continuing to paint your likeness.

You wait and bide your time, waiting for your so-called aunt and uncle to fully disappear from the halls outside. You count to thirty.

Five.

You listen for their retreating footfalls.

Twelve.

The sound of the brush against the paper is the only thing that you can hear while you ignore your quickening heartbeat.

Nineteen.

Anger rages in you, Hobie finds something in the duke’s office.

Twenty-five.

You thank the artist for his time, using an excuse of not feeling well. His protests fall on deaf ears as you close the door behind you.

Thirty.

You run to him.

—

You try not to make it obvious as you sprint, only slowing down when someone sees you. After you're away from their view, you continue to run towards the barn like a moth to a flame. The ache in your leg is fiery. A harsh throb in your bones, the pain reverberating through your body.

It makes you wince and groan, slightly limping, you finally make it to your chambers. Quickly throwing off the blasted shoes, you immediately kneel down next to your bed in search of your dagger that you've kept hidden under the mattress.

Feeling the cool steel, you grab it, with no time to lose, you hold it in your hand as you head towards the familiar tapestry. Heart pounding like war drums, blood rushing in your ears, sweat dripping off your brows, you feel the fury in your lungs. It buries inside you, shoveling, tunneling, until it reaches your heart. You fight a sob when your knees almost buckle from under you.

Holding on to the walls, you go further inside the hidden path, in search of his warmth. His name echoes in your head, ‘Hobie, Hobie, Hobie’ it says, and you grip tightly around his name like it's your life line, your guiding light as you finally make it to the rotten wooden door.

The sun hangs low in the sky, the cold grass hitting your bare feet makes you gasp but it's not enough to stop you. It'll take more than that to stop you in your tracks, to stop you from reaching him.

The residents of Hazelside are far and few during this time of day. The ones who are left spare you a curious glance but they let you be whilst you run and run, until you reach him, until you reach your reason to live. You'll run forever if you have to.

Ankles burning, palm throbbing from the steel in your hand, you push the barn door open without a thought.

The smell of manure and hay hits your nose, the familiar scratch of a gun being unholstered rings in your ears.

Your heart finally finds reprieve when you see him bathed in the orange rays. Hobie points his gun away, holsters it once he lays his eyes on you. His pulse quickened further the second he spots the deep worry in your eyes. And how you heave like your lungs are about to give out.

Hobie leaves Bernard‘s side, letting the saddle fall on the horse’s back with a soft thump. Fast strides get himself in front of you at a quick pace. Grasping your face, tear stained cheeks tells him of what he feared, what you feared.

“What happened?”

“T-they're going to marry me off.” You weakly say. Holding his arm, you burst at the seams. The fire in you still burns, but you've had enough of its heat.

Now that you stand in front of him, the firelight in you dims, adrenaline fading, letting you be your true self.

You can't lose him.

“I'm sorry,” your hold on him gets tighter with every plea. You can't say it, say that you've given up even though you were forced to. But to you it's all the same. Failure means death, failure means they've died without justice. But failure also means you get to live, to continue to live with him. You're torn between the family you know and love, and the family you never got the chance to love.

And he understands completely.

You now see the cost of revenge laying at your feet, and it's him— Hobie's head rolling on the floor right next to Gwen's, Miles', Pavitr’s, James' and Yuri's. He has seen the same look in your eyes before in the mirror, the reflection cracked and broken. He can't let it happen to you, won't let the hunger burn you until you can't recognize yourself anymore.

And he can't lose you.

“That's alright,” Hobie embraces you, arms shielding you from everyone. Your face hidden in his leather vest, the familiar material helps ease you from the adrenaline rush. “Let's go then, fuck ‘em.” He says against your head. “Let's get the hell out of here.”

“Thank you,” you look up at him with tearful and restless eyes. “Thank you. Let's go look for the others.”

“I found something, but you're right, we need to go. Let me saddle him then we can—”

The doors burst open with a loud bang. The sheer force unhinges the doors from the frame. The sound scares the animals inside, their terrified cries rising above your own.

Hobie hides you behind him as a dozen or so guards filter through the doorway, their heavy boots thumping louder than the horse’s frantic stomping. They all raise their bayonets at Hobie while he stands with his own gun raised.

The men in uniforms yell at Hobie to let the gun go, to let you go like he's holding you hostage. But it's all muffled noise to you both, everything happens in slow motion. Dust floats in the air like it hangs suspended. You no longer hear the cries of the barn animals as you're more focused on Hobie, and he's focused on your safety.

He's calm amidst the numerous guns aimed at his head. He's in his natural state, but your hand around his arm makes him aware, aware that the bullets would pass through him and into you if they shoot.

For the first time, his hand shakes around his gun.

Outnumbered, he clasps your hand behind him, squeezing once. You already know what he's about to do.

“Hobie, please.” You whisper as you look over his shoulder. “No more sacrifices.”

Your words wake him. The fishbone is stuck in his throat once again. Choking him, strangling him as realization hits him.

It's the end.

“I can't,” you see tears in the corner of his eyes. “I can't let them have you.” There's desperation and grief in his voice. He can't lose you.

“I’m so sorry.” Kissing his clothed shoulder, you whisper a goodbye. “I'm so fucking sorry.” You don't want to lose him, but fate has other plans.

“Unhand her!” Frederick appears like he actually cares for your wellbeing. “Fucking scoundrel! I knew you were up to something, dear niece. Glad I got my footman to follow you. I thought you were just gonna run away on a horse but I did not expect to see the red hydra under my own roof.”

Without a second thought, you stand in front of Hobie. Protecting him with your own body. “Let him go, uncle, and I'll marry Eugene.”

“You know I can't do that.” He points his finger at Hobie. “He has a bounty on his head, you see.” He beckons you over. “Come, Y/N, we're gonna need the money for your upcoming wedding.” When you don't obey, his eyes flashes with remorse that's quickly replaced by the need for survival.

“Let him go!” You scream like a knife twists in your gut. Hobie tries to hide you behind him but you fight him. “Please,” your voice falters with desperation. “Please, uncle. Let him go and I'll marry Eugene, I won't fight it anymore. Just let him go.” You're ashamed, but it's needed for him to live.

“I'm sorry, Y/N, but you don't hold the cards here.” Your heart falls in your stomach, it dissolves in acid. The duke cranes his neck to the officer near him. “Seize them, don't harm a hair on her but take the red hydra to the capital.”

“No!” You try to swipe with your dagger but it's fruitless as the uniformed men yank you away from Hobie. The steel clunks loudly on the ground as Hobie tries to hold onto you, the sleeves of your dress rips away as the men take you away.

His gun falls as one of the taller men punches him in the gut. Hobie spills crimson from his lips but he continues to fight the men. He kicks, scratches and bites. Getting a few hits in, he yells for you, calls your name with desperation.

Almost all of them hold Hobie down, but even with their numbers they still can't keep him still. Using all his strength, he fights back with sheer will alone. His elbow meets a face, nose crunching. His knee smacks someone on the groin, knees buckling. He draws blood with his nails, his mouth snapping at anyone who gets close. Someone made the mistake of getting too close, now the captor's ear is in his bloodied mouth.

Reaching for you as two men try to drag you away, your heels dig in as you try to reach for him too. Fingertips brushing along yours, eyes glued to your terrified face, he decides that his final words to you shouldn't be filled with agony, but with something that should help you survive, something to keep you alive once he can't be your reason anymore.

Because he's a knife born to cut and bleed, not to love. Or to be loved.

“It's not him!” Hobie screams as they continue to drag you away. “It's her! It's—!” A bag is put on his head, shutting him up with the rope tied around his neck. The men laugh menacingly as they cinch the rope tighter.

Hobie tries to resist, clawing at his captors, guttural screams let out from the same lips who called your name softly in his sleep.

“No!” You continue to thrash, nails digging into the arms of your captors. “Hobie!” Your voice cracks as you hear him start to choke.

“Oi!” The duke yells towards the guards. “Bring him to the king first! He needs to stand before him before you bloody execute him! What will he say if you bring the most wanted pirate in the country dead in front of the whole court, hm? You know how much he likes the theater of a trial!”

Air rushes in your lungs as they untie the rope. He coughs, spit darkening the bag. You yell for him again before a bag is placed on your head. Darkness invades your senses, and you're afraid of the unknown, afraid of what they're doing to him as they tow you away on the moist ground. Throat clumping up, hyperventilating, you try to desperately breathe. The guard's hold on you tightens and in turn, your throat tightens, shutting off your air. Heaving, ears ringing, your own breath fans on your face while you hastily try to take breaths in. Black dots dance around your vision until you fall unconscious.

This is the end.

—

You've been staring at the same spot for hours, blank stare, red eyes. Legs tucked, arms enveloping around it, your mind runs like an unhitched horse. Hobie's face is seared into your brain. You can see his wild eyes with every blink of your own. His screams echo in your ears like a death rattle, it might as well be if his fate is to be decided by the crown who hates every fiber of his being.

The soft bed doesn't provide comfort, the blankets don't shield you away from the stern stare of the guards guarding every single opening in your chambers. A behemoth of a man stands in front of the unicorn tapestry, his cutlass on his hip shines in the moonlight as well as your own dagger.

The once comforting eyes of the sea snake around the hilt now mocks you. You did this, you did this. You've killed him, your hubris killed him. You might as well follow him towards the end.

There's no more tears in your eyes left to be shed. Every muscle in your body aches from your wracking sobs. Your nails leave crescent shapes in your palms, tiny dots of crimson drips on the expensive silk bed sheet.

Yet, you want your mother.

The one who truly knows you, the one who saved you all those years ago. There's a part of you that wishes she didn't, that she left you alone in the arms of your doomed birth mother. But there's a bigger part of you who seeks Jessica's comfort. You seek her warmth from her embrace, like you once sought out your family. Family who turned their backs on you, family who locked you in your chambers like a princess in a fairytale. But this isn't a fairytale, it's real, and you can still hear his screams.

You would've given everything to meet your family back then, if only you could warn your younger self to come back to that small cabin in the woods, to beg Jessica to take you back. Even if it means you've never met him, even if it means you'll never feel his touch again as long as he's alive, knowing that he'll survive is enough. You now wonder if you didn't jump on that net that day, would everything still happen? Would Mathias still find the revenge? Would Finn and Ned still be dead if you just ran the other way?

It's too late to come back, it's too late to save them, to save him.

A bird passes by your window, and it's just now you realized it's dawn. The rose-pink sky upsets you further. Your brain concocts an image, an image where everybody lives. Where Finn and Ned drink on the revenge, where the trio plays cards on the rickety table. Where Hobie has his hands around your own as he guides them on the helm.

You haven't moved an inch from the bed, yet you stand in front of the mirror wearing a white dress.

With every pull of the ribbons behind the wedding gown you feel like they're gutting you like a fish ready for supper.

Silver threads weaved around the golden violets on your bust, the fabric is airy yet heavy and suffocating on your form. White gloves decorate your hands to hide the crescent shapes. There're heeled shoes underneath your feet to prevent you from running away, heavy perfume to hide the iron lingering on your skin. Make-up to hide your sorrows, jewelry to get people's attention away from the tears in your eyes. Top it off with a bow on your back and a golden tiara on your head— you're dressed properly for the slaughter.

And Hobie is too. If he had a mirror in the dimly lit prison they threw him in, he'd wonder who's looking back at him. He doesn't look like the captain he was supposed to be, doesn't *feel like the captain he was supposed to be. He's been beaten, his own ichor flowing out of his mouth and open wounds. Body shaking from the cold, he misses your fire.

He's not terrified of the blade that would kiss his neck, he's afraid to leave his family in this world. Afraid to leave you in this world.

He hates the fates for weaving him like this, to let everyone he has ever cared about die or be given a fate worse than death. Why did they shape him to be a knife that kills instead of something better? Something smoother around the edges, something that doesn't let everything he touches die?

Hobie whispers your name in the dark like you would materialize right next to him. The ground is wet under him, iron fills his nose, he wonders how many people lived and died in this cell. He feels the ghost of your touch on his hand, and he cracks at the seams.

Victoria appears next to you like a gust of wind. She fixes your mother's necklace on your neck, hands cold, nervous, terrified.

“You have a guest.” She says lowly, like she's already mourning.

For a moment hope blooms in your chest. Is it him? Did he escape to save you? Is he alive?

But if it was Hobie, Victoria wouldn't announce it. He would come to you like a dream, quick and quiet, touch soft and careful as he takes you away from your hell.

You have no fight left to scream at her, to claw at her painted face. She leaves before you could find the fight in you.

With gloved hands from the handmaidens, they guide you outside. Face blank and limbs limp, you let them.

They halt by twin doors, gold outlining the shape, birds carved on the dark wood. Eyes solemn, you only now notice the finely dressed man in front of you.

Eugene calls your name softly, like how someone would utter a person's name who's currently rotting six feet below the soft ground.

You are scorched by the sun. And you're ready to burn everything in your path.

“I'm so sorry about this—” Your knuckles hitting his cheek makes him stagger on his feet. He spits out blood, crimson coating the polished floors. “I deserved that.” He groans as he tries to straighten up with grace. With one look towards the staff, they all filter out of the hallway, leaving you alone with the object of your ire. “Listen, I didn't intend for this—”

“What did you intend then?” Your voice breaks from all the screaming and the sudden silence you sported after it. “Hm? Wed and bed me for what? Satisfaction? To breed me like a broodmare?”

“That—no! It's not like that!”

You wish you had your dagger to cut him right where he stood. Standing toe to toe with Eugene, he backs away from your heated glare. “What is it then? They're going to execute someone very close to me just because you wanted to marry someone you've only just met—”

“I fancy you and I had every intention to court you properly!” He sighs, and you notice the darkness under his eyes. “But this wasn't my intention. Getting someone in line for the gallows wasn't in my plan, or anyone's plan!”

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, he continues. “Listen, I gushed about you to my family.” There's no lie in his tone, but you still doubt him. Your punch leaves a mark on his posh face. “They encouraged me to call for you, knowing that I needed to marry or my title and estate would be in danger. When my godfather heard your name he did more than to encourage me. He's the one who orchestrated this…quick marriage. Not me.”

“Godfather?” You ask breathlessly.

“He's inside, I have no idea why he would do anything like this! I promise you, I had no hand in this. I was forced, if I had a choice I would have courted you then let you decide if you wanted to marry me or not.” He tentatively takes your hand, “I'd take care of you though, I promise.”

Frowning, you grip his hand in an iron grip. Eugene winces, eyes darting around for help. “You do have a choice, Eugene. You always have a choice.” Your voice shakes. “It's not too late, call off the wedding and we can forget this ever happened—”

“I can't. Your family already paid the dowry, and we already paid our dues.” He says through the pain, voice faltering. You still won't let go. “My godfather did all the work, it's all set in stone. The priest is already waiting at the altar, your family and mine are already there. I'm sorry, Y/N, if the circumstances were different—”

“No,” you shake your head, eyes boring holes in his skull. Nails digging in, refusing to let go. “There's a part of you who wanted this, you're a man and a viscount, you had a choice. Yet you let it all happen.” Eugene frowns deeply, trying to get his hand back from your grip, head turned away in shame. “You were not forced, you're just as bad as your godfather, whoever he is, I'd like to face the fucking asshole.”

Pushing him away and away from the door, he sighs in relief, clutching his hand. You shoulder the heavy doors. Revealing a room that's finely decorated for the reception.

A sparkling chandelier hangs above, your ancestors’ portraits watch on from the walls. White lilies decorate the expansive room, violets are laid on every table. The fine table setting would've taken your breath away if not for the man sitting at the head of the table.

“Hello, little birdy.”

It's the end.

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