On the other end of the ship, a loud crack split the night as the mast collapsed in a fiery crash, rocking the ship, promising its slow but sure sinking. Brand did not move, his gaze remained fixed on the lifeless form before him. His friend, his rescuer. He had seen death before, in the many years of being a captive, but never had he witnessed the death of a friend, and one so close.
"Ste… Stephen…" he choked.
How could he be dead? And so easily?
He brought his eyes away from the dead man, and locked them onto Balfour's "You shall not go unpunished." His voice was a bare whisper.
"Brave words from a child," Balfour derided. "I tremble now with fear." Laughter echoed from his men. "Bring him to me." He commanded.
They began to advance. Brand backed up against the starboard, attempting away from them. He glanced over his shoulder at the dark, churning waters below and somehow, the waters called him, lying and promising the protection it could not give.
"Attempt that, and yer end shall come sooner than ye would prefer. Do not be foolish, boy."
Why could he not? He had been sensible for far too long. A little foolishness, an ounce of recklessness was perchance what he needed. Besides, he would rather die than let Balfour have him, than let Balfour own him again.
As Balfour's men rushed for him, he took a hard breath, and with one final look at Stephen's body, hurled himself, and leapt over the side, plunging into the cold, unforgiving depths.
Darkness, pain, and oblivion were all he could feel about him. The darkness beckoned him to go with it, urging him to surrender. Pain radiated from every part of his body, sharp and unrelenting, from the gash across his chest to the throbbing agony in his broken leg. And oblivion clouded his mind, whispering words of guidance, an invitation to slip into the darkness and let it all fade away. Brand groaned, the pain trapping him in his own body, and the dark, cold waters trapping him in fear. A fear of his own.
But he would not give in so easily.
With great struggle, he fought against the waves, pulling against it, forcefully bringing himself to the distant shore, breathing rather heavily. He swam until he could feel the sand and, with a gasp, collapsed against it. The fallen ladder had shattered his leg, inhibiting his will and ability to walk, and his strength all but drained from the bitter cold waters. If he compelled his body, he was sure he could move, but it was tired from swimming and it was dark, even the moon was not party to the troubled night, and the rising smoke hid whatever light the tiny stars managed to provide.
Gripping a handful of sand, he let out a frustrated sigh, unwilling even to attempt rising. His will to live flickered, dissipating from his body, faint now as the distant starlight above. His gaze drifted upward, his eyes blinking slowly, fixed on the empty skies.
The young prince lay sprawled on the sand, cold and disoriented, ignorant of where next to turn. Soaked to the skin and cold to the bones, his clothes held fast to him. How Stephen had decided to rescue him, choosing even to betray his fellow pirates would remain a mystery—a mystery he felt fiercely grateful to, for it could not simply be for the sake of being a rescuer.
When his head ached, Brand reached up, and felt for his temple. Wincing, he pulled the bloodstained fingers away from his face, and hissed. Balfour's blow had bloodied him. He hissed again.
Blood. He knew the feeling, familiar with the scent, but knew too little of death.
Stephen had died for him, protecting him. A man had sacrificed everything to grant him freedom. He would not let that sacrifice be in vain; he would not lie still waiting for death to take him. Brand's sigh deepened as his eyes began to sting. Unsure whether it was the grit of soot or the sharp edge of guilt, he shut them again.
He was wasting time. Brand told himself. He knew he needed to move; this was his chance. His captors might not yet realise he had washed ashore. They could still be on the burning wreck of the ship, distracted, unaware of his escape. But his body ached, his limbs too heavy to move. A quiet voice in him whispered to give up, to stop running and let them catch him, or wait for death to claim him, saving him from the horror of being dragged back to his prison: the tiny room he had endured for four long years.
But he would not. He was no coward.
A man had given his life to secure his freedom! He would not lay still, waiting for death. He would not let that sacrifice be ridiculed.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to move, but instantly, a sharp, excruciating pain shot from his chest to his head. His body recoiled, and he fell back, eyes staring up at the sky, his breath shallow and ragged. The night was thick and dark, wrapping around him like a cloak. Oddly, he felt protected by it, as though the shadows themselves wanted to hide him, to help him escape.
He wanted to escape.
Yes! Freedom! Liberty!! It was so close.
Where are you, Alexander?! Where are you?!! He yelled in his thoughts, his chest heaving with frustration. He could not dare to shout aloud, not with the risk of those damned pirates discovering his whereabouts. Blood continued to seep from his wound, pooling lightly around him, while his battered, exhausted body refused to aid him.
Four years!
For four years he had been held captive by men who claimed themselves the owners of the seas, ruthless souls who had promised him adventure, vast horizons and the sights of them. He had been young, a fool to think to voyage with men of questionable taste and look, to trust men who wore their greed and violence like badges.
They had demanded a mighty ransom for his life, a staggering price. And when he was taken aboard, he had assumed—prayed—that Alexander would forfeit the amount, choosing not to abandon him to such a fate.
He had been forced to live in a dark, cramped room aboard their ship. Like a man of no means, they forced him to labour in menial tasks on each shore they reached, never the shore he longed for, the one he called home. They had stripped him of his dignity, his name, and his freedom, all while laughing at his title.
In the name of all that was righteous and just, he was a prince!
Four years he had waited for this day. Redemption was within reach, so close he could almost feel it. Nothing could shatter this moment—not his battered, exhausted body, nor the pain that clung to every breath. He would not return to that tiny room, that prison, that hell. His hell.
With a low groan, Brand pulled himself up, wrestling against the screaming protest of his muscles. He managed to crawl only a few inches, before collapsing again, his face pressed against the gritty sand. The chill of the ocean crept over his feet, and he realised, wearily, that he had been dragging himself back toward the sea, rather than away. He sighed and laid there.
Another wave lapped over him, cold and comforting. He lay still, letting it wash over him, wondering if perchance the waters would take him again, this time toward death rather than salvation. If he could not escape, perhaps death would be quicker—a far more honourable recourse to captivity. If only Alexander would come as Stephen had sworn he would.
'I have sent a missive, and only received the reply this afternoon. The king is riding for you as we speak, you only need to escape from this ship and go to him.'
'Balfour is somewhat wary; I cannot fathom why.'
'Do not be impatient. When you see the smoke rising, head for the starboard and course through the waters to your freedom.'
The very words they had exchanged played over in his mind, echoing like fragments of a promise now lost. The plan had been drawn out so carefully, so desperately—only for the ladder to collapse and all to unravel. Alexander was to come? Where was he then? Where was the blasted freedom?