"Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure, or nothing." - Hellen Keller

Arthur woke up shivering. He looked around himself, feeling disoriented. He was curled on a small patch of hay, two pigs cuddled into his side. He wrinkled his nose, but was glad for their warmth. Winter was not to be beaten by spring so easily, and was fighting hard.

Arthur's entire body ached. His shoulders were pinched up, and his legs felt like liquid. He wanted nothing more than to stay curled up with the two pigs and die in the dirty hay.

A gruff voice interrupted his demise.

"Arthur, wake up," it said. Arthur squinted at the space above him, and found it occupied by Jones' figure. The man was frowning down at him from a respectful distance. Arthur appreciated the gentle waking, even if he had not really been asleep.

He sat up and groaned, shooing the pigs as he did. They snorted at him in discontent, but went to sleep with Francis on the other side of the stall.

"Here," Jones said, shoving a loaf of bread at him. "Eat."

Arthur snatched the bread away from Jones before he even processed what was being offered. He bit into it and moaned. It was stale and flavorless, but Arthur was starving. The bread slid down his throat with a dry scratch.

Jones sat across from him, his legs tucked under himself like an Indian. He said nothing, simply watched Arthur eat. It was unsettling. Jones was a big man. Jones was a killer. Jones just gave him breakfast.

Arthur swallowed thickly. "I have a question."

Jones lifted an eyebrow. "Most people do."

"Why am I...why am I the golden-eyed one? Why is it me?"

"I don't know."

Arthur frowned.

"How did you get the key? How do you know about it?"

"You don't want to know."

Silence fell between the two. Arthur's bread slowly disappeared. The pigs snorted at one another. It was oddly calm, and chills ran up Arthur's spine that were not caused entirely by the weather.

"What happens next?" Arthur asked meekly. He knew he did not have a choice about coming with Jones. He would be forced to, that much was clear. Arthur eyed Francis and hoped the man would not come with them. Arthur had made far too many dealings with drunkards in the past, being such an experienced barkeep.

"We need to procure a crew, as well as a ship. Then we sail west."

Arthur's eyes widened. "How are we meant to do that? I know you to be a wealthy man, Jones, but I doubt that you have enough for a ship."

Jones pointed his chin towards Francis, who'd slung his arm over one of the pigs in his slumber. His face was screwed tight, as if he were in pain.

"Francis will procure them for us. He may not look it, but he is the best pirate known to earth. He is respected here, as much as a man can be."

Arthur tried to see Francis in a different light. A light that did not involve rum or pigs. He couldn't.

"Speaking of which," Jones began, standing. He cracked his neck and walked over to Francis. Arthur watched from his place in the hay, nibbling at the last bits of bread. His hunger was still not sated.

"Bonnefoy!" Jones yelled, kicking at the drunkard. The pigs around him squealed and ran away from Jones, some of them trampling Francis in their haste.

Francis sat up, his eyes wide. He had two flintlock guns perched in his hands, one pointed at Jones' unsurprised face and the other at Arthur's rumbling stomach.

Arthur did not remember seeing Francis with guns the night before.

"Ah," Francis sighed, lowering the guns. "It iz you two. For a moment zhere I could 'ave sworn I was back in zhe Azores."

"Why?" Arthur piqued. "What happened in the Azores?"

Francis smirked and waggled his eyebrows in Arthur's direction before turning to Alfred. "I suppose you 'ave decided now is zhe time to search for a crew?"

Jones nodded. "You're almost sober."

Francis laughed and stood up, brushing the hay out of his long hair. "I cannot confirm zhat, mon ami, but I can see about zhe crew. Not too many can say no to moi!" Here, Francis sent a heavy look in Arthur's direction. Arthur only sent back a scarring glare and stood up, feeling small.

"Arthur and I will take care of the ship. What was her name?"

Francis smiled. "Zhe Promisit. She's a sloop. Fourteen cannons. Beautiful woodwork, but not too fancy, oui?"

Jones nodded. "But is she...prepared?"

Arthur did not like the look that spread over Francis' features. He shivered, despite himself. Perhaps he did not want to see Francis as anything more than another pig. Francis in the light was terrifying.

"Oui, my friend. I always keep one ship prepared. She 'as been for weeks."

…

Jones walked like a man who was used to the swaying of rough seas. His hips swishing in odd coordination, his boots clacking at the heels, his hands held out slightly, prepped to catch an object rolling his way.

Arthur walked like a man who was very tired of living. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes unwilling to do more than the bare necessities of their job, his hands bumping into his thighs, ready to accept the fate of being hit or thrown at.

Arthur supposed that the two of them made a very odd pair. Especially because he was plodding behind Jones like he was on his way to an oubliette.

The docks, though far different, were crowded once again. Arthur did not recognize anyone, and he hoped no one recognized him. There was not a single respectable man in sight. All of them swayed like Jones, to various degrees, and all of them sneered and shouted and spat.

"There she is," Jones whispered.

He reached behind himself and snatched Arthur with a firm grip, not bothering to check he was the right person. He pulled Arthur next to him and sighed.

"Now she is a beauty. I have a fancy for sloops, I must admit."

Arthur nodded. He didn't know one boat from another. He was just glad Jones had released his tight grip in favor of tracing the ship's outline with his hand and one eye squeezed shut.

"So, what shall we do?" Arthur asked. "Climb aboard? I assume that by 'prepared' Francis meant she was fitted for sailing."

"Oh yes, she should be, by the way she's sinking so low into the water," Jones agreed. "But that is not what Francis meant."

Arthur blinked. He looked up at Jones. "Then what did he mean?"

Jones smiled down at him, his teeth cutting into his cheek, eyes filled with an oddly boyish mischief. "He meant that the traps were set and that the crew are minimal and indulgent in sloth."

"Traps? What?"

Jones reached into his vest and pulled out a small silver dagger. He pressed it into Arthur's hand. It was cold and heavy. So was Alfred's hand.

"Have you ever heard of 'piracy,' Arthur?"

…

Arthur was glad he had long come to terms with the fact that Jones was going to kill him, because Jones was going to kill him. He inched his way up the fishing net. The rope was slimy in a very unpleasant way. The goop stayed on his hands, and the way only grew more slippery as he ascended. He held the dagger Jones had thrust at him between his teeth and cursed the man for all he was worth silently.

They stopped at the top of the net, and Jones pressed a finger to his lips, quietly mouthing, "on three."

He held up one finger. Arthur tightened his hold on the net.

He held up two fingers. Arthur tensed his muscles.

He held up three fingers. Arthur heaved himself up and over the railing. He pulled the knife from his mouth and held it out towards the first man he saw.

"Give me you ship or I shall stab you!" Arthur exclaimed.

The man eyed him like he'd gone mad, which was of course the absolute truth. Arthur had just enough time to readjust his hold on the small dagger before the man reached towards his hips and unsheathed a horribly wide sword. He grasped it with two hands.

Behind the brute, four other men gathered, weapons drawn, but only laughing.

"Aren't you a bit short to be stealin' a ship?" The man with the wide sword asked.

Arthur growled. "I'm of perfectly average height! Forgive me from not descending from archaic, brutish giants!"

The man stepped forward and swung his sword at Arthur's hands. It clashed with the dagger and ripped it from Arthur's grip. The metal shone brightly as it skidded across the rough wood of the ship.

Arthur looked up at the man. The four others were closer now. They wore the same smile that a cat does after it traps a mouse between its paws.

"Kill him!" One of them shouted.

"Jones, what do we do?" Arthur screamed, looking behind him.

He hissed a curse.

Jones' tall, bearish figure was nowhere in sight. Arthur was alone. Jones was a dead man if Arthur ever got his hands on him again. The pirates charged with a bellow. Arthur ran screaming in the other direction. His heels clacked hard on the wood. He could see the path to freedom-straight over the edge of the ship and into the sea, which he was starting to think was becoming his trademark move.

"I knew this was a suicide mission but I had been under the impression there would be two suicides!" He screamed at the sky, and then promptly tripped over a rope.

He landed on his nose which made an awful crack. Arthur moaned and scrambled to his knees, scampering forwards. He was too late. A boot smacked down heavily on his back. It pushed him back onto his stomach, and he felt the cold lick of a sword press against his neck.

Arthur thought I'm going to die, and tilted his head to the side, rolling his eyes to the sky. He thought about praying, but did not get the chance to give it serious pondering.

Suddenly, there was a great whoop of joy from above and a corpse fell from the main mast. A corpse. In landed on Arthur's legs with a very heavy thud. He could feel blood seep into his trousers the same time the sword jerked away from his neck. Men shouted and leaped backwards, craning their necks into the crow's nest.

Jones waved at them from the top of the mast. "Hello, everyone!" He yelled. "I know he might deserve it, but I'm afraid I can't let you kill the short fellow. I rather fancy his eyes."

While the pirates stood frozen in shock, Jones grabbed a rope and threw himself from the nest, gliding through the air like he'd been born with wings. He slid elegantly towards the brute with the broad sword and kicked him directly at the center of the chest, sending the man flying backwards.

He landed with a thump and brandished yet another dagger towards his enemies, who wore expressions of both contempt and utter confusion.

"I'm going to kill you for this Jones!" Arthur screamed, slowly picking himself off the ground. He scrambled away from the corpse with horrible distaste and a deep shudder.

"Wait until I save you life first, yeah?" Jones shouted back, and then plunged his knife into a man's stomach.

Arthur quickly moved away from the fighting. He was very careful to avoid stray ropes, and gave quite a thought that someone should coil them properly. Meanwhile, Jones was busy taking three men, and seemed to be doing rather well for himself, actually. Arthur thought that perhaps it could all go in their favor when suddenly two heavy hands grabbed him from behind and pressed a very familiar dagger to his neck. It was cold a gleamed in the sun, and Arthur took great irony in the fact that he was going to be killed with his own weapon.

"Jones!" Arthur roared.

Jones turned only for a moment, but it was a moment too many. The three men grabbed at him simultaneously, knocking the blade from his hand.

The man holding Arthur spoke into his ear. His breath smelled wretched and Arthur had to hold back a gag, for fear of slitting his own throat.

"I have seen some very stupid things in my time," the man hissed, putrid breath flowing everywhere. "But a two-man attack on a fully stocked ship? This surpasses the stupidity of humans. The demons in hell are cleverer than you."

Arthur didn't really want to die. He suspected that no matter their wretched position in life, a human being would always want to claw their way out of the icy grip of Death's hands, if for no other reason than the fact that his breath was absolutely foul.

Arthur looked around with wild eyes. The sun was shining brightly now, which was a little offensive. Arthur always imagined himself dying on a rainy day, and since he lived in England, he had thought it was quite a possible dream to achieve. Arthur's eyes landed on Jones, who was snarling at the man holding Arthur. Six hands secured him, and his dagger was gone.

Then Jones tugged his shoulder forward violently, and something shiny flew out of his shirt. It arced towards the sky before falling just below Jones' collar bone, hanging from a bit of twine. It was the key.

Arthur's eyes were glued to it within seconds. Nothing mattered. Not death, not the sun, not the smell of decay wafting towards his nose. A rushing noise filled his ears, he grew lightheaded, his heart hammered at his ribs.

His whole being was for one purpose, and it was to posses that key.

Suddenly, a great wave burst out of the ocean and smacked onto the deck, right over Arthur. He felt the fat hands gripping him disappear, but cared not. He picked his way across the deck slowly, eyes intent on the silver key, hands shaking in anticipation. Water dripped down the nape of his neck, his clothes stuck to his sides.

"Demon!" He heard somewhere. He paid no attention to it.

Another wave rushed onto the deck with a great roar and pushed the three men surrounding Jones overboard. Jones himself stood unharmed, completely drenched, and seemingly frozen in shock. Arthur reached forwards, and closed his hand around the key. It was cold, like when he used to go down to the docks as a young man in the winter and ice-fish. Smooth, like his mother's hands when he was very young, pushing down his hair. He smelled salt, felt heavier than lead, and had only one direction he would ever want to go: West.

Before the want could overwhelm him, a strong hand ripped the key from his grasp and tucked it away beneath Jones' shirt.

The rushing left Arthur's ears. He felt dizzy.

"Whoa there," Jones hushed, hands gripping Arthur's shoulders. "Stay with me, shortie."

Arthur's knees buckled underneath him and he sank to the floor, Jones following. He kept him upright.

"How the hell did you manage that?" Jones asked, eyes wide.

Arthur couldn't answer. His throat was dry enough for a man stranded in a desert. His vision was cloudy and littered with small black dots.

"Arthur?" Jones called, but his voice sounded far away. "Arthur!"

…

Arthur woke in a small wooden room, swinging from a hammock. It was dark and musky, and his back creaked when he twisted to look around him. He was alone except for another bundle in the hammock below him. Whoever was in it was facing down, and their frame was unfamiliar. Arthur edged to the side of his hammock and hopped down, trying to even most of the noise by landing on his toes and rolling onto his heels.

He thought he'd succeeded when the man in the hammock made no move to stop him. He smiled to himself and brushed off his clothes-which were still slightly damp. His trousers had browned blood stains near the knees. The shoulder seam of his tunic was ripped. He looked around and saw narrow stairs heading towards what he thought must be the deck. He started towards them, but before he could take a step, and hand shot out and wrapped around the fabric of his trousers.

"BOOM!" A voice shouted.

Arthur whipped around. The man holding him was scrawny and shorter than Arthur himself. His hair hung in strands around his face, which was bombarded with a long nose and a lazy eye. The man began cackling.

"You're finally up!" He shouted. "Took you long enough. BOOM! No offense meant, of course. Some men just spend more time unconscious than others. BOOM!" The man burst into cackles again.

Arthur backed up as much as the man's grip would let him.

"Who the devil are you?"

He ceased his laughter immediately. His face fell to a severe seriousness. He released Arthur's trousers and stood, offering a calloused hand for Arthur to shake.

"My name's Eugene Keith Fitzgerald, but most everyone calls me Prawn. I suggest you should too, because I like it better. I'm going to be your bunkmate, and also, your weapon and cannon specialist. Mostly cannons though, BOOM!"

Here, Prawn's serious expression faded into cackling once more.

"What? Where am I?" Arthur was beginning to feel as if he was caught in a dream.

"Aboard the Promisit of course! Or did you mean where you are in life? Seeing that you're now aboard a pirate ship, I'd say nowhere good. BOOM!"

Arthur clasped his head in his hands. "I've got the worst headache."

Prawn clapped his shoulder compassionately. "I should suspect so, BOOM! After the magic you pulled back there? We all saw from the dock. Very impressive. Very wet. Even Captain Bonnefoy was impressed. He was a bit mad that you didn't just use the traps he set, but in my own opinion it was a much better technique. BOOM!"

"Why do you keep doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Shouting boom!"

"BOOM! What do you mean?"

Arthur sighed.

AN:

Wow, okay, this was a hard chapter, but I suspect all the chapters are going to be hard. I did have fun with Prawn, and I hope he'll help Arthur's development along. For those of you who don't like OCs, run. Run away and don't look back. The next few chapters are going to have a lot of OCs to introduce Arthur to the life of piracy and to help with some comedic relief. I also want to exercise my character creation as a writer, and this is a rare opportunity. Fanfics don't normally allow for it, so I'm jumping on that plane before it takes off. (They'll eventually just become artifact tropes.)

The OCs will become less prominent as the plot moves and the main antagonist is introduced (HINT: HE'S NOT AN OC.)

I have a lot planned for this, and I'm very excited to be back writing!

-Mallory

[EDIT]

This is the unbetad, but updated version of this chapter. If you spot any grammar/spelling mistakes, let me know. Enjoy!