"When I was but a lad, I believed the sea to be treacherous."
Admiral Bryce's Autobiography, 20 P.C.
"I almost forgot to ask," Francis said shortly after. "Just what was that Stanza you used to stun me?"
Valeria looked flustered for a heartbeat before quickly hiding it. "An artifact I'd much rather not use unless absolutely necessary."
That prompted Francis to raise a brow. "A spar doesn't sound like an emergency to me."
Whatever it was, it made the feral creature sitting across from him look… alluring. Truly a cursed item, even by artifact standards.
"Let's not talk about it," Valeria said assertively, posture shifting.
"At least tell me the Shanty," Francis pressed, to Valeria's annoyance. "You beat me to a pulp thanks to it, so it's only fair."
"The Shanty of Enthral," she answered with a tight jaw, before going silent.
Whatever the Shanty was about, it certainly left a bad taste in Valeria's mouth. Assuming this wasn't just another manipulation attempt to stop him from prying further. Luckily, Francis wasn't as much of a moron anymore. He vowed to look into it further once he could.
"Robert and a few others will go with you, by the way, since you'll need a crew to man the ship," she added swiftly, confirming his theory.
Francis nearly forgot that—aside from the skiff blunder—his trip to Grenada would be his first time sailing. His first on a real ship, full of hardened sailors who were no strangers to the sea's intricacies.
What a romantic way of saying sweaty pirates.
Cheer himself up as he might, the Descension—coupled with the breakup—left no room for actual joy. A few days ago, the idea of sailing would've thrilled him. Now it was merely a stepping stone rather than a goal.
And all it took was his humanity.
"Come on, let's get you wasted," Valeria said as she got up, apparently sensing his grief.
Francis nearly refused, but then he remembered he had nothing better to do. That, and the sweaty crew was the only thing he had left, since the town would most certainly ostracize him from this point forward.
"Eh, why not?" he said, following Valeria to the campfire.
As they approached, he noticed the pirates were having a rare moment of focus.
"And then everyone turned into mindless undead!" one of the men announced, undoubtedly recounting some sailor-nonsense story.
"Still telling that ridiculous story, Lars?" Valeria said, thoroughly unamused.
"Captain! I swear it happened!" Lars insisted, ready to die on a hill as stupid as he was.
"Ugh, forget it. Not that it matters," Valeria muttered as she sat down with the others.
Francis had no idea what the man was talking about, but he figured there had to be some truth behind it. Several Shanties had clear ties to the dead, after all. Announcing that discovery wouldn't help anyone, though, so he simply took a seat beside Valeria.
"Here," Valeria said, handing him a mug.
"That is…?"
"Rum," she said simply.
"But I don't dri—"
"Exactly," Valeria cut in. "It's the second part of your initiation."
We're making up rules now?
Francis wanted to protest, but he barely had the energy to talk, let alone argue with a feral English woman. So he drank.
The drink was… sweeter than he expected, with the vanilla in particular standing out. He then felt idiotic for having spent years of his life in a bar, yet never trying anything other than ale and wine.
"More!" he shouted after gulping the entire mug, earning a hearty laugh from the crew.
"Captain, you're ruining the lad," one of the pirates said.
"Well, he might as well unwind after the horrible week he had," Valeria replied, drawing Francis' attention to just how bad it actually was.
Two snakes, the wolves, the forest fire, drowning, Saint Agnes, the breakup. It would've been too much for anyone, let alone a timid bartender. Whether it was the alcohol or pure self-pity, tears ran freely as he finally let loose.
"More!" he repeated, his voice shaky this time.
The pirates obliged, again and again, letting him drink to his heart's content.
So what if he lost Camila? It was a blessing, wasn't it? He could roam the world without a care. He didn't have to worry about widowing a woman or orphaning a child—it was all about him now, and it was liberating.
"Yeah!" Francis shouted as he wobbled uncontrollably.
He was destined for greatness! He was invincible! All who stood in his way would feel his wrath!
Hard liquor and people seldom mixed, and when the combination included a Submerged, it was even messier—something Francis was all too happy to demonstrate as he released a wave of Intimidation. He heard bodies drop while others screamed, then he fainted.
***
It didn't take long for Francis to wake up. Then again, dreamless nights were hard to quantify.
He woke for the second time in a few hours and noticed he was back in his room—this time without Valeria sitting beside him, which disappointed him a bit. Still, she'd had the decency to haul him back to his house rather than leave him sleeping in the dirt, and that counted for something.
He got up with great difficulty thanks to the hangover he'd earned through sheer idiocy.
No—that wasn't fair. He had gone through a great deal of hardship recently. Coping by getting drunk once wasn't lamentable; it was commendable.
And so the bartender decreed:
None shall scorn me for mead.
Go through tribulations I did.
Thus drink you will not forbid.
…That was surprisingly good.
Intoxicated or not, the guilt, shame, and wistfulness still weighed on him. And while sitting idle and feeling sorry for himself for a couple of days—or weeks—might've helped in the past, he had no time for that anymore. Saint Agnes would come knocking again, and so would Valeria. Every moment he spent not improving himself was a moment closer to being bested.
And so it became clearer than ever that his trip to Grenada was a necessity, even if danger waited there—no, precisely because it waited there.
Speaking of leaving. I should start packing.
Luckily, Francis didn't have much to take. Aside from his life savings—little more than two hundred silver coins—and a few heirlooms and keepsakes, the whole room could've ignited and he wouldn't have spared it a glance. Most would have found that depressing, but to him it felt liberating.
It took a painfully long moment for him to realize he was romanticizing his suffering again. He cut the thought short, grabbed a bag, and began stuffing his belongings into it.
He gave the crowded yet cozy apartment one last look before locking the door and heading out. The flicker of sentimentality almost made him scoff at himself, but it wasn't without cause; even Logreef had nearly killed him, never mind whatever waited hundreds of kilometers away.
"Or miles, as those pesky Brits say."
Francis stepped outside, and sure enough, the townsfolk were not the friendliest. Every stare and whisper confirmed it. He didn't know what the priests had told them, but he was sure it wasn't flattering. Camila was another possibility as well, but he didn't dare think of his betrothed—former betrothed, that way.
As if to confirm his thoughts, he heard her shouting his name from a dozen meters away, much to the dismay of the locals. Why is she still talking to this heretic? they undoubtedly thought.
"I heard you were leaving," she said once she finally closed the distance.
"You heard right," he said flatly, not trusting himself around her.
"Is it because of our argument?" she asked, tucking a few locks behind her ear and revealing the gold ring in the process.
"No. I just figured it's about time I start sailing in reality rather than inside my head."
Camila took a long moment to reply. "Are you going to be okay?"
"I didn't know it mattered to you," Francis replied, letting a bit of his bitterness show. How could it not, when she'd barely given him time to explain?
She scowled at that.
"Of course it does!" she said, indignant. "What you worship now doesn't change my feelings toward you."
"Then why didn't you stay?" he answered bluntly.
"You're basically asking me to go against everything and everyone I know," she said, voice tightening with the hint of tears. "Would that be fair?"
"I suppose not," he sighed, before turning to leave.
"Wait!" Camila said urgently. "Take this with you."
She extended a hand and offered him a rosary. At first he thought she was mocking him, but her expression said nothing of the sort.
"You can always seek the Lord," she whispered, "even if you have already sold your soul."
"Farewell, Camila. May our paths cross again," he said, closing his hand around the rosary before turning away and heading toward the ship.