Chapter Text
Chapter 6: False Flags
The days at sea blurred together, marked only by the rise and fall of the sun and the steady rhythm of the waves. For Matthias, the past two weeks had been a crash course in survival. The ropes that once seemed like a tangled mess of knots and coils now made a sort of sense—though his fingers were still raw from practice. He’d learned to climb the rigging without looking down, to tie knots that wouldn’t slip, and to coil lines with the same practiced ease as the others, though not without earning a few blisters and bruises along the way.
Mornings often found him hunched over maps and charts with Captain River, tracing routes and learning to read the compass. The captain’s lessons were sharp and to the point, but Matthias had started to notice the small moments of patience that slipped through when River thought he wasn’t paying attention. At times, his uncle’s patience felt like trust—but other times, it left Matthias wondering if the captain thought he still needed hand-holding.
Despite his progress, Matthias couldn’t shake the feeling that he was walking a fine line. He wasn’t a sailor—not yet—but he wasn’t a land-bound farm boy anymore, either. The crew accepted his presence, but their glances still carried a weight he couldn’t quite place. Respect? Doubt? Or something darker, like they were waiting to see what kind of man he’d become. It was hard to tell. He did his best to keep his head down and work hard, but the question of where he truly belonged gnawed at him. He felt the ache in his hands and shoulders, a reminder of the work it took to stay afloat—not just on the ship, but in the eyes of the crew. He wondered if the others had felt this way once—unsteady, unsure. Or maybe that was just him.
The Black Gull’s routine gave him little time to dwell on it. There were sails to trim, decks to scrub, and barrels to secure, and the Captain’s lessons on navigation left little room for daydreams. But every so often, Matthias caught himself staring at the horizon, chasing questions he couldn’t answer.
Then came the shout from above—sharp and clear, slicing through the morning’s quiet. "Sails! Off the starboard bow!" His pulse quickened, and his hands went instinctively to the nearest rope, steadying himself against the sudden shift in the air.
The Black Gull rocked gently on the waves, but the tension on deck was anything but calm. Matthias tightened the knot he’d been securing and glanced toward the horizon. The sails of the distant ship had grown larger, more defined, over the past hour. It was close enough now that even he could tell it wasn’t a merchant vessel.
“Flags up!” called Edward Flex, his sharp voice cutting through the murmurs. Crew members scrambled, raising the colors of a merchant ship instead of their own. Matthias’s stomach tightened. The deception felt deliberate, practiced—and dangerous.
Captain River stood at the helm, his expression unreadable as he gave quiet orders. Matthias couldn’t look away from him, searching for some sign of unease, but the captain’s steady presence never wavered.
Jamison appeared at Matthias’s side, his face tight with forced humor. “Hope you ready,” he said, his accent thicker than usual. “Not all fights with swords. Sometimes words sharper.” He pointed toward the ship. “But still bring sword. Just in case.” Jamison exhaled sharply and adjusted the knife at his side. "Don’t drop it, yeah? You swing, not stab. Unless you’re desperate." He managed a crooked grin that didn’t quite mask his nerves.
Matthias swallowed hard. His eyes darted to the cutlass strapped to his belt—a weapon that looked almost comically large on his still-growing frame. It clanked awkwardly against his hip when he moved, more burden than tool. The weight of it felt foreign, wrong, and his hands itched to trade it for something familiar, like the bow he’d once used to hunt rabbits back home. But there were no rabbits here, no quiet forest clearing. This wasn’t a hunt. It was survival.
Around him, the crew moved with swift efficiency, double-checking lines and weapons. One of the older crew members—likely the quartermaster—paced between the cannon crews, barking sharp instructions that snapped the men into motion. The man moved on, his boots thudding against the deck with the sharp precision of someone who expected every order to be followed—or else. Matthias flinched at the sharpness in his tone, the urgency making his stomach tighten. The deck felt smaller, more crowded, with the weight of preparation pressing down like the thick, salty air.
The quartermaster paused near Matthias, his sharp eyes raking over him and the oversized cutlass at his side. "That thing better stay in your hand if it’s needed," he said, his voice low but gruff. Matthias swallowed and nodded, but the man’s lingering look made his chest tighten further. Was it doubt? Disapproval? Or something worse? Matthias didn’t know, but he didn’t have time to figure it out before the quartermaster moved on, barking orders at the next man in line.
"You see that hull?" River’s voice cut through Matthias’s thoughts. The captain’s sharp eyes were fixed on the distant ship. Matthias turned his gaze back to the horizon, following River’s line of sight. "That’s Tesharan work."
Matthias’s brow furrowed. "Like ours?"
River nodded once. "Sleek lines, reinforced rigging. Tesharans build their ships to outpace and outlast anything on the water. The Black Gull may not have all her original fittings, but she’s still one of theirs. That’s why we’ve got speed on our side."
Matthias hesitated. "Does that mean they’ll know it’s—"
“It means they’ll notice,” River interrupted, his voice heavy. “And if they know what they’re looking at, they won’t be happy to see it.” He turned back to the helm, his expression grim. "Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that."
Matthias’s grip on the railing tightened as he tried to process River’s words. The thought of the ship being recognized, of their deception falling apart, added a new weight to the tension pressing down on him. Around him, the crew moved with practiced precision, their movements sharp and efficient, but Matthias couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to snap.
Jamison nudged him, a crooked grin on his face. "Keep your head on, yeah? They no need to know anything’s different."
Matthias nodded, though his chest felt tight. He glanced back toward the ship, its sails catching the wind and pulling it ever closer. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter. The Tesharans built their ships to be better, faster. What else had they built them to do?
Matthias exchanged a glance with Jamison, who gave him a tight, uncertain nod. It wasn’t much, but it felt like a silent agreement—they were in this together, whatever 'this' turned out to be.
When his eyes met Elliot's, it was brief and perfunctory, however. The older boy hovered close to the hatch leading below deck, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his blade. Matthias couldn’t tell if Elliot was eager or nervous, but the tension in his stance felt contagious. Matthias wondered if Elliot’s nerves mirrored his own—or if the older boy saw something on the horizon that he didn’t. Matthias noticed as the sharp boy's eyes flicked between the horizon and the deck, as though expecting danger to spring from both at once. His fingers tapped lightly against the hilt, the motion almost too controlled, as though he was trying to steady himself—or cover up the shake. It made Matthias’s own grip on the railing tighten.
Also nearby stood Somerled at the edge of the deck, his face pale as his eyes darted between the approaching ship and the chaos unfolding around him. He muttered a curse under his breath, the sharp word cutting through the tension before he turned and disappeared below deck. Matthias watched him go, part of him wishing he had the excuse to follow. But there was nowhere to hide from this—not the ship, not the crew, and certainly not himself. Likewise, the rest of the crew stayed, pistols primed, cutlasses checked, and cannon crews prepared the guns without needing to be told. It was a performance rehearsed many times before, but Matthias felt the weight of it now more than ever.
River’s voice rang out. “Hold your course and keep steady hands,” he called out, his voice cutting clean through the noise. “If they come for us, we’ll be ready—but we won’t fire first.”
Matthias gripped the railing, trying to mimic the crew’s calm. But the closer the ship came, the harder it was to ignore the pounding of his heart—or the cold sweat gathering on his palms.
The Black Gull’s false flags fluttered in the wind, but the tension below them felt like a taut rope ready to snap. Matthias stood near the railing, his palms slick against the wood as he stared out at the approaching ship. The sails drew closer, too fast for comfort, and the sharp tang of salt in the air only heightened the tightness in his chest.
Edward Flex strode past, barking orders for the crew to prepare for any sudden change in course. His eyes swept the deck, sharp and calculating. “Be ready to raise our true colors on my command,” he said, his voice low but loud enough for Matthias to hear. The words sent a chill down Matthias’s spine.
Matthias turned toward Jamison, who was tying down a line nearby. “What happens if they see through it?” Matthias asked, his voice barely steady.
Jamison paused long enough to give him a hard look. "Then we fight," he said. "And you pray they no see through it." Jamison’s words were rough, but there was no mistaking their weight—or how much clearer his Common Tongue had grown in just two weeks. Either that or Matthias had just gotten better at understanding his thick accent through all their conversations during shared duties. Regardless, he just hoped they'd be able to have more after this. Maybe they were both learning—Jamison with words and Matthias with survival.
Matthias nodded, his fingers brushing the hilt of the too-large cutlass at his hip.It still felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to him, but he didn’t dare let it show. Around him, the crew moved with practiced precision, their steps quick and sure. He tried to mirror them, though the knot in his stomach made every movement feel wrong. Death was no stranger to him—not after the plague had swept through his village, leaving empty chairs at tables and graves marked too shallow. But this was different. The Black Death had taken silently, invisibly. Here, death came with iron and fire, loud and deliberate.
The Captain’s voice rang out from the helm. “Keep steady! Don’t flinch!” His words snapped through the tension like a whip, and Matthias forced himself to breathe. The ship groaned beneath them as the sails caught the wind, surging forward.
Elliot stepped up beside Matthias, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his blade. “First time seeing real danger, farm boy?” he asked, though there was no mockery in his voice this time—only quiet focus.
Matthias swallowed hard. “Does it show?” He resisted the urge to tell him he’d seen death, plenty of it, just not like this. Not when it stared back at you.
Elliot smirked faintly, but his eyes didn’t leave the horizon. “Only to someone who’s seen it before.” He shifted slightly, his shoulders squaring. “Don’t lose your nerve. Captain Attewater won’t hesitate if this goes south. Neither should you.”
The words settled heavily in Matthias’s chest, but before he could answer, Edward’s voice rang out again. “Raise the colors!” The deck quieted for a breath, but Matthias could feel the tension humming beneath it, ready to explode.
A flurry of movement erupted across the deck as the false flags were lowered and the Black Gull’s true colors unfurled. Matthias’s breath caught as the colors snapped in the wind, a field of black emblazoned with a silver gull in flight, wings outstretched and talons poised, as if diving toward prey. It was bold, sharp, and alive with defiance, a promise to any who dared challenge them. Matthias squared his shoulders and tightened his grip on the railing, determined to face whatever came next. He hadn’t fought to survive the plague just to fall here. Not without a fight. There was no turning back now.
The clash of iron and the crack of muskets split the air as the enemy ship came alongside the Black Gull. Grappling hooks sailed through the air, biting into wood with hollow thuds, and Matthias flinched at each sound. The deck lurched as the ships locked together, and suddenly the enemy was there—faces grim, weapons drawn.
Matthias’s breath came fast, and his hand clenched around the hilt of his cutlass. The weight of it still felt awkward, but there was no time to dwell on that now. Around him, the crew surged into motion. Edward Flex led the charge, his cutlass flashing as he barked orders. Jamison stayed close, his knife drawn and eyes sharp, though Matthias could see the tension in his shoulders.
Captain Attewater stood at the helm, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold the line! Push them back!”
Matthias barely registered the command as the first enemy sailor lunged toward him. He stumbled back, raising his cutlass just in time to deflect the blow. The impact jarred his arms, but he held his ground, stepping to the side as Jamison darted past him to finish the attacker with a quick, brutal strike.
“Keep moving!” Jamison snapped, his accent thick but his focus unwavering. “No freeze now!”
Matthias swallowed and forced himself to step forward, slashing clumsily at another opponent. The blade connected, but it wasn’t clean—his cutlass caught on the man’s arm, and Matthias barely dodged the retaliatory strike.
Elliot appeared at his side, his movements quick and practiced. “Watch your angles,” he said, knocking the enemy’s blade aside before driving his own sword home. He shot Matthias a sharp look. “Don’t swing wild. Make it count.”
Matthias nodded, gritting his teeth as he adjusted his grip. Around him, the fight raged on, and the deck was a blur of steel and smoke. He had no choice but to keep moving, keep fighting. The taste of fear was sharp in his mouth, but beneath it burned something else—determination.
Edward Flex’s voice rang out above the din. “Cut those lines or they’ll drag us down!” Men scrambled to hack at the grappling hooks biting into the Black Gull’s hull, axes ringing against iron as they worked to sever the connections. A shout went up as one hook splashed into the sea, and then another. The ships strained against each other, ropes snapping as the crew fought to break free. Cannon fire roared, the recoil rocking the ship as smoke rolled across the deck.
Matthias risked a glance toward Captain Attewater. The captain moved like the sea itself—steady, unrelenting, his cutlass flashing as he defended the helm. "Bring her around!" Attewater bellowed, pointing toward the enemy’s stern. "Keep them off balance! Push them back!" His voice cut through the chaos, a steady anchor in the storm. The men obeyed without hesitation, and Matthias felt the pull of their confidence, even as his hands shook. When the enemy pressed too close, The Captain’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding. “Steady hands! Don’t give them an inch!” The men responded without hesitation, their actions quick and sure, as if the words themselves steadied their nerves.
Matthias braced himself, pushing back against the chaos. Another attacker came at him, and this time Matthias stepped into the strike, deflecting the blade and driving his own cutlass forward. The man fell back, and Matthias didn’t give him time to recover. His chest heaved, but for the first time, he felt steady—like he belonged.
A cry rose from the enemy’s deck, and Matthias looked up in time to see their crew scrambling to disengage. Captain Attewater stepped forward, his blade still dripping, and raised his voice above the chaos. "Let them go," he commanded, his tone sharp and sure. "They know what happens if they come back." The order rippled through the crew, and the cannon fire ceased as the enemy ship pulled away, trailing smoke and debris. Matthias exhaled, his grip on the cutlass loosening as the tension on deck began to ease. The shouts faded, leaving only the groan of wood and Matthias’s own heavy breaths. The cutlass in his hand no longer felt like a weapon—it felt like a weight he couldn’t let go of. The grappling hooks fell away, and the ships began to drift apart. Smoke lingered in the air, and the deck was slick with seawater and blood. The crew’s victory felt hollow as Matthias took in the wreckage—the scattered bodies, the dark stains where men had fallen. He staggered back, his cutlass suddenly heavy in his hand, and looked to Captain Attewater. The captain stood tall, already issuing quiet orders as the crew regrouped. Matthias couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever stand as steady as that. Matthias staggered back, his cutlass suddenly heavy in his hand. Around him, the crew moved like shadows, tending to wounds and hauling bodies. The fight was over, but Matthias wasn’t sure he’d ever feel steady again.
The Black Gull drifted free, the enemy ship little more than a smudge on the horizon. Smoke still hung in the air, mingling with the scent of salt and gunpowder. The crew moved slowly now, tending wounds, repairing damage, and dragging the fallen to one side of the deck.
Matthias’s legs wobbled as he stepped away from the railing, his cutlass finally sheathed. The weight of it lingered, though, a phantom presence at his side. His hands ached, blistered and raw, but it was the faces of the fallen that stayed with him. Blood had painted the wood, and though the sea spray had begun to wash it away, the stains still showed.
Captain Attewater stood near the helm, speaking in low tones to Edward Flex. From this angle, the captain’s cutlass still looked sharp, untouched by the chaos. Matthias doubted that was true, but the sight of Attewater—steady and unshaken—gave him something to cling to.
Jamison sank down beside him, wiping a streak of grime from his cheek. “Still stand, yeah?” he asked, his voice rough but steady.
Matthias nodded, though he wasn’t sure how. “Yeah. Still stand.”
Jamison grinned and patted Matthias’s shoulder. “Good. Now sit before you fall.”
Matthias sank onto a crate, exhaustion finally taking hold. He looked around at the crew and saw something new—not just scars and sweat but relief, even pride. They had fought and won, and he had been part of it.
Captain Attewater’s voice rang out one last time. “We live to sail another day.” The crew answered with a ragged cheer, but Matthias only closed his eyes, letting the words settle in. For now, it was enough.
The deck of the Black Gull was quiet now, the echoes of the battle fading into memory. Matthias sat near the railing, his cutlass resting across his lap, its blade cleaned but showing faint scratches from the fight. Matthias shifted the blade slightly, its edge catching the dim light. The scratches felt like scars—marks of survival, but also reminders of how close he’d come to losing. He ran a finger along the hilt, wondering how long it would be before the blade felt like an extension of himself instead of something foreign and heavy. One of the older crew members had shown him how to wipe the blood away and oil the steel, a lesson given with sharp words and sharper glances. Now, the weapon felt both like a tool and a reminder, solid and heavy beneath his hands. The steady creak of the ship and the lapping of waves against the hull were almost soothing, but his thoughts churned like the sea.
He didn’t hear Captain Attewater approach until the man’s shadow fell over him. “You’ll dull that blade with your eyes if you keep staring at it,” Captain Attewater said, his voice calm but edged with something heavier. “Come with me.”
Matthias’s stomach tightened at the words. He straightened quickly, careful not to let the cutlass slip from his lap, but the blade’s weight suddenly felt heavier. Had he done something wrong? Missed an order during the fight? Or worse—had the captain seen him hesitate? He swallowed hard, forcing his legs to stand even as doubt gnawed at the edge of his thoughts.
Matthias moved quickly, following Attewater toward the stern. The captain leaned against the railing, his hands resting lightly on the wood, but his posture held the tension of a man always ready to move. The water stretched endlessly before them, dark and rippling, and Matthias wondered what his uncle saw out there. The captain’s eyes tracked something distant, unreadable, like he was measuring the horizon against an invisible map Matthias wasn’t privy to.
“First fight’s the hardest,” Attewater said, his eyes still on the horizon, cutting through Matthias's thoughts. “But it won’t be the last.”
Matthias swallowed, his fingers twitching at his side. “I didn’t freeze,” he said, though the words felt defensive. “I fought.”
Attewater turned then, studying him with sharp eyes. “You did,” he acknowledged. “And you’ll do better next time. But fighting’s not just about swinging a blade. It’s about keeping your head—and knowing when to fight and when to survive.”
Matthias frowned, uncertain. He wasn’t sure if it was confusion or doubt tugging at him, but the idea of letting the enemy go unsettled him. It felt unfinished, like leaving a wound untended. "Like letting them go?"
A corner of Attewater’s mouth twitched, but there was no humor in it. “Exactly like that. You fight when it matters. You live to sail another day.”
Matthias let the words settle, though they didn’t quite ease the tension in his chest. “And if they come back?”
Attewater’s gaze hardened. “Then we’re ready.” His hand tightened briefly on the railing, the only sign of tension Matthias had seen from him. It passed quickly, but it was enough to make Matthias wonder what it cost the captain to hold steady when everyone else leaned on him.
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the groan of wood and the call of a gull overhead. Matthias shifted, unsure if the conversation was over, but Attewater spoke again.
“You’ve done more than most your age ever will,” the captain said, softer now. “But don’t think for a second this life gets easier. The sea doesn’t care who you are or what you’ve been through. It’ll test you, over and over again.”
Matthias nodded slowly. “I’ll be ready.”
The captain clapped him on the shoulder, a rare gesture of approval. “Good. Because storms don’t give warnings.”
Matthias looked out at the darkening horizon, his fingers steadying against the railing. The wind shifted, carrying a cooler edge that prickled his skin. Clouds gathered in the distance, heavy and bruised, and Matthias knew without being told—the sea wasn’t finished testing them. He wasn’t sure if Attewater had meant the weather—or something worse—but either way, he knew there’d be no turning back.