"Fortunately, my theories have been confirmed."
Admiral Bryce's Autobiography, 20 P.C.
It didn't take long for Francis to spot the ship he'd call home for the next few weeks. How could it? His hometown was a speck of green in an ocean of… well, blue.
He pushed the romanticism aside and kept moving, which brought him right to where Valeria and her first mate stood.
"Going to miss me?" Valeria asked with her usual smirk, prompting Robert to sigh.
I'd be tired too if I had to deal with her nonsense daily.
"It would be less lively, that's for sure," Francis replied—saying a lot about the captain if half a dozen rowdy pirates weren't as loud as she was.
"A win is a win," she said with a grin, then pulled a deck from her coat pocket.
"A memento?" Francis asked flatly. Sentimentality didn't fit her.
"Not exactly. I'm going to perform a divination."
"A divination."
"Yeah, a divination. It's a ritual of mine. I do it before every voyage."
Oh well. At least it's not as problematic as your nightly baths.
He nearly made a joke about the Divination Stanza, then remembered it wasn't common knowledge. Best to keep his potential quiet. The fewer who knew, the better.
Valeria started shuffling the deck with a swiftness only she could manage.
"You'll pick three cards—one shuffle after each," she said, presenting the deck.
"Here goes nothing," Francis muttered, drawing the first. He flipped it: a man hanging upside down. THE HANGED MAN.
"Figures," Valeria said.
"Is this some English pagan ritual?" he asked, baffled. It was his first time seeing something this bizarre.
Valeria laughed mockingly. "No, buffoon. It's called Tarot. It's supposed to aid in divining certain matters."
"Basically an English pagan ritual," he replied. Only then did he realize how blunt the whole exchange had become. Unthinkable days ago. But now he was an Acolyte—the worst she could do was glare and move on.
"Francis. You can summon fire and breathe underwater. Don't you think a bunch of cards is nothing in comparison?"
"Fair enough," he conceded. "So… what does the card mean?"
"I'm doing a past, present, future reading. First one is the past."
"I don't remember getting hanged."
"You will soon if you keep this up," she said in a tone he couldn't decipher. "It means your past has been mired in stagnation. Feeling stuck. Ring any bells?"
He hadn't taken her superstition seriously at first, but that hit too close, and discomfort crept in.
"Give me a second," he said, as if testing her accuracy.
"Ask and you shall receive," Valeria said, shuffling again.
He flipped the second card: a carriage wheel. WHEEL OF FORTUNE.
"This means change—or rather, that you're experiencing a turning point. Present tense."
Okay, this is creepy.
He accepted the inhuman things Saint Agnes could do—that had an anchor, a source, someone to make sense of it. But this? Cards with no clear cause or perpetrator? It sent a chill through him—the kind that came with being watched.
Valeria, either oblivious or indifferent, shuffled for the last time.
"Ready to see the future?" she asked, tone mischievous.
Ready he was not, but he drew the card anyway.
"The drawing is certainly morbid," he said, staring at THE TOWER. "So… what does this one mean?"
Valeria's playful demeanor vanished before she forced it back into place—poorly. It did nothing to ease him.
"You'll find out soon enough," she said, feigning indifference.
"Can you please be more specific?" Francis asked, panic creeping in. Vagueness was the last thing he needed.
"It symbolizes sudden change. Change that often has negative connotations," she explained, clearly trying to soften it. "I wouldn't worry, though. The scale is left to interpretation."
"Besides," Robert cut in, "my navigation skills are second to none. I'll steer clear of Royal Navy bases and Church vessels."
Knowing both would be hostile didn't help, but Francis kept that to himself.
He half expected Valeria to give him a hug, but to his disappointment she only patted him on the back before heading off.
He assumed he'd be the first aboard as he climbed the gangway. Instead, six crew members were already there—half of them flinching at the sight of him.
"Francis!"
"Please don't do the thing again."
"Is this a punishment from the captain?"
Their reactions confused him at first—until the guilt hit. He remembered exactly what he'd put them through yesterday.
"Nothing personal, Francis, but you won't be drinking during this voyage," Robert said, as if reading his thoughts.
Or using his eyes.
Francis only nodded and walked toward the bow, refusing to take his gaze off his hometown.
He was sailing. He was actually sailing. The moment he'd dreamed of for so long was seconds away. And as bleak as the last week had been, it paled beside the surge of something joy as his dream came to life.
He looked around and spotted Camila, standing at a distance, her face unreadable—something the space between them only made worse. Their eyes met for a long moment before she finally broke away and turned aside.
Valeria, in contrast, was far too enthusiastic, and the crew even more so as they cheered and waved.
"You better tell us all about it!"
"Bring a fine lass with you, will you?"
"No drinks for you, Francis!" Valeria shouted, waving just like the rest.
The locals looked uncomfortable, understandably unsettled by the idea of pirates lingering in their town. But they were alive and unharmed, so they had no grounds to complain.
The town shrank quickly, turning from familiar buildings to a thin line of color. Then a speck. Then nothing. Everything Francis had ever known or cared about, reduced to a dot.
***
A few hours later, Francis came to a daunting realization. Sailing was shaping up to be as monotonous as his life back home.
True, the scenery was miles ahead—literally and figuratively—but the activity itself left a lot to be desired. He quickly remembered that his company merely consisted of seven people, excluding himself, which gave him renewed hope for the time being.
The issue at hand still lingered; however, he had to find something to do other than observe the endless blue.
Luckily, the pirates offered just that, as they gathered in a circle on deck. Francis approached and was quickly met with frightened gazes.
"Relax. I'm not drunk," he said quickly, softening them a little.
"Francis!" said Rodrigo, who was thankfully not afraid of him. "We're talking about some of our past adventures, wanna join?"
Terribly eloquent, I see.
Francis didn't see himself enjoying their company much, but it was still preferable to the alternative—that being nothing—so he sat as they made space for him.
"Got anything to share, Francis?" one of the pirates asked, undoubtedly trying to embarrass him.
"Yeah. Plenty," he replied flatly, catching the pirate by surprise.
He appreciated that half of them no longer regarded him with the same fear, but being underestimated was even worse, especially after his recent odyssey.
"I burned half an island to the ground," he said evenly, drawing looks of realization.
"So it was you!" Rodrigo shouted.
"No wonder you came back safe and sound," another exclaimed. Francis felt guilty for not memorizing their names, but he couldn't be faulted, not when he had spent half his time pursuing other matters.
"I also drowned after sailing on a skiff during a storm," he added with an expressionless face. He immediately felt moronic. How was he supposed to weather what lay ahead if a basic taunt from a pirate affected him to such an extent?
The realization came far too late, however, as the crew had already started pestering him.
He tried, to the best of his ability, to answer with half-lies and omitted truths, but it eventually became too much to bear—at least until Robert noticed the commotion.
"Now, now. Stop asking questions you wouldn't want answered," he said in a gentle but firm voice, prompting the lot to calm down. It wasn't until then that Francis realized the influence the first mate wielded. Lanky, timid look aside, he was still an Acolyte at the end of the day—an Acolyte of a Shanty Francis barely understood—making him the most dangerous person on the ship.
"Sir Robert, we were just trying to understand how he survived all of that," Rodrigo said.
"Sir Robert," Francis echoed flatly.
"Indeed, Master Francis. I was named a Sir by the Iberian crown months ago," Robert replied, seemingly mocking Francis's tone.
Et tu, Robert?
The question thankfully led to a far more interesting discussion, and Francis wasted no time.
"So I'm assuming we're under the Iberian crown, correct?"
"Yes. Which makes the Royal Navy our number one enemy," Robert said, the teasing tone gone, thankfully.
"Are we their number one enemy?" Francis asked sardonically.
"Are we still alive?" Robert retorted.
"Touché."
The lads quickly dispersed, realizing that their presence was, quite frankly, no longer needed—something that suited Francis just fine.