Tempest: A Captain Duckling Tale, Chapter One (again)
Hello friends!
As some of you know, I started this re-write earlier this year. I love this tale, but it wasn’t going the way I wanted it to and I wasn’t happy with how it was turning out. So! Instead of turfing it - which I did consider - I am decided to re-write this whole thing to line up with where I was actually planning on having it go in the first place. It’s a little darker and a whole lot better (in my humble opinion).
Some of chapter one is different, but the changes will really start rolling in for chapter two (and onwards).
I really hope you all like this and thank you for sticking around (please note - rating had been updated) and I truly hope you all like this new direction as much as I do.
Also - so many hugs to @elizabeethan & @donteattheappleshook for beta'ing this feral creature and helping me tame her into something much better ♥️
And now, on with the new Chapter One!
♥️♥️♥️
In the end, there wasn’t much on board worth salvaging, a few trunks and several bags of coin; standard fare. The crew made fast work of it, and it hadn’t taken more than a quarter hour to transfer the goods from the Revenge to the lower hold on the Jolly.
“Captain!” Smee’s voice rang clear in the now quiet night, cannons having stopped their unrelenting assault, the soft crack-hissing of the still smouldering fire from the Revenge’s forecastle popping in the background.
Killian turned, giving the first mate his undivided attention. “We’re missing Scarlet, sir.”
Of bloody course they were.
He barely contained his eye roll, as undignified as it was, and pushed away from the helm.
“Get her ready to set sail, I’ll find him.” He moved across the wide gangplank connecting the two ships, the Revenge now resting heavily on her port side. He took the stairs two at a time, the creaking of the hull ominous in the dark hallway.
“Scarlet!” He called, irritation colouring his voice, ears straining against the crackling of wood. He had been pulling the lad out from where he had no business being since he was the height of Killian’s hip, sallow faced and serious. You’re a pirate- Killian remembered his voice, sharp despite his size, ears too large for his head while the bruise on his face had bloomed into a dark shade of purple.
Killian had nodded solemnly before lowering down, his knee in the pool of blood which ran through the street- aye, I am that.
He had always had a soft place for children, the wide-eyed stares which reminded him so much of himself as he and Liam scrapped and survived despite the cruelness of men, had been unable to protect so many of them while under the service of Pan, he had done what he could for the ones he encountered along the way.
But this boy was different, and when he held out his hook, the lad took the curve of the metal, wiped quickly clean of the blood and gore which had clung to it from the skirmish on the street only moments before. Killian produced the small knife, having pulled it free from where the lad had lodged in the kidney of the man who had pulled a pistol on Smee.
The boy had followed him, knife tucked carefully into the leather pouch, trotting dutifully at his heels into the tavern and hovered safely behind the swirl of his long coat. A sharp exchange of words and a slash across the barman's face, rivers of blood on the polished wood, and the child was free.
The walk back to the Jolly has been a short one, but the boy's small stride had slowed them considerably- what’s your name, lad?- and as the sails of the Jolly came into view, crisp and white and pulling tightly on her lines like a beast ready for battle, he felt a small hand tug once on his jacket before curling itself around his hook.
They call me Scarlet, ‘cause of me mum.
♥️♥️♥️
Read the new & improved Chapter One here on A03
Tag List (let me know if you would like to be added!):
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I think something a lot of other people can relate to is the way that you get so conditioned to discomfort that you stop registering it.
I remember sitting at the table with my family, eating dinner as a child. I’d try to eat, because of course I was hungry. But sometimes the flavor or texture was so repugnant that it moved into a category of Not Food.
“Two more bites before you can leave the table.”
“I can’t,” I’d say, trying to explain the impossibility.
But because I was a child they heard, “I won’t,” and made me sit at the table. I’d sit in dull agonized silence, bored and hungry for hours until bedtime when they’d give up. I’d hate myself for not eating and my parents for forcing me to sit there. The few forcefeeding moments ended in vomit.
They’d say, “If you don’t eat this you can’t eat a snack later,” and I moved past trying to communicate my discomfort into accepting that I’d just be hungry.
That state of affairs didn’t last, because my parents realized nothing could force me to eat so they catered to my palate, worrying they’d starve me. But the message stuck. If you can’t do anything about a situation, just accept the suffering.
A few years later my mother called me off the playground to ask, “Are you limping?”
I shrugged. My feet had hurt for a long time, but that was just the way things were now. My mom pulled my socks and shoes off and gasped. The soles of my feet were covered in huge painful planters warts.
“Why didn’t you say anything?!” She demanded but I could only shrug at her. I’d learned a long time ago that saying things about my discomfort didn’t matter, so now I had no words. Sometimes things hurt and sometimes they don’t. I simply accepted and did my best.
Now as an adult trying to learn to improve my own conditions can be hard. If I make food that I can’t eat I’ll force myself to sit at the counter still, full of guilt and self loathing, trying to will myself to eat it.
At first I needed my betrothed to gently take it away to present me with something I could eat. Now on my own I can usually admit that it’s not happening before too long and get something else, but I still feel guilty.
Laying in bed at night waiting for my betrothed to finish getting ready I let out a huge sigh of relief when they turned the lights off.
“Why didn’t you turn them off if they bothered you?” they asked the first time it happened.
“I didn’t even know it was bothering me until it was gone.”
Assessing my physical state now to see if I can improve it is something I’m still relearning but I’m relieved to finally have the space and support to do it.
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it's about the small acts of intimacy... forehead kisses, putting jewelry on you, rubbing your hand with their thumb, putting a jacket on you, touching your necklace, running your hands through their hair, wiping away their tears, peeling them an orange, un/zipping their dress, tying their shoelaces, holding hands, removing an eyelash from their cheek, washing their hair, putting an anklet on them, tucking their hair behind their ear, sorting out their collar, untangling their necklaces, drinking out of a cup in their hands
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