Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Into the Silent Sea ❯ The Art of Betrayal ( Prologue )

Author's Notes: Hello, and welcome! A few months ago, I posted a teaser titled 'The Art of Betrayal', which has now become the prologue to this story, 'Into the Silent Sea'. I had offered a giftfic to the 1000th visitor of my humble little archive, and Rachel, the winner, requested that I write a Brad/Schu centered sequel to 'Upon a Painted Ocean'. Thus, here it is - a story dedicated to Rachel. I would highly recommended reading its predecessor if this story is to make sense, since it is alternate universe and makes references to events that have nothing to do with what we know of the characters. Other that, enjoy the new adventure! ^_^

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Into the Silent Sea
Prologue: The Art of Betrayal

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Port city of Marseilles, France
1593

He heard shouts, thunderous, booming shouts that echoed through the squeaking boards overhead, and undoubtedly throughout the whole ship. Wide, emerald eyes looked upward and strained against the dank darkness of the hold in an unconscious bid to discern what was happening above deck. But not surprisingly, all that greeted his efforts was the continued obscurity of his unfamiliar environment.

He didn't like this.

He hated this uncertainty and this unawareness of his surroundings.

But then again, it was better than where he had been.

Even now, the filth and stench of the Marseilles underworld clung to his body like a damn plague, thoroughly saturating his tattered clothing and suffusing into every pore of his skin. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever be clean again, no matter how much soap and water he might one day have the luxury of using.

Christ's Blood, when was the last time he'd worn clothing that wasn't threadbare and didn't stink of human refuse? When was the last time he could actually see the creamy paleness of his own skin beneath all this dirt? When was the last time he'd had somewhere warm and safe to sleep?

Days? Weeks? Months?

Time had colluded into an endless cycle of slumber and wakefulness for him, intermittently sprinkled with the few necessary acts of survival. Had someone told him a year ago that he would've been relegated into living such a pathetic existence, he would've laughed off the very notion, and easily dispatched that person to his Maker without a second thought.

But now, faced with the harsh reality of his circumstances, he honestly couldn't make himself care. The only thing that concerned him was the fact that he was free ... free to live his life away from the heavy scrutiny of his youth, and to explore the world to his heart's content, which was the very reason he had stowed away on this ship.

He had arrived in Marseilles just a couple of weeks ago, road weary, hungry, and without a single denier to his name. It hadn't taken him long to seek out the lower elements of the city's underground society, asking, begging, and outright stealing the necessities of food, clothing, and shelter. It had been much the same in the other cities he had visited in his travels: the same old fight to find his daily bread, the same old fight to merely stay alive. So when a scraggily, swarthy man named Renard had offered him food in exchange for a small favour, he had readily agreed.

His sojourn through the roads of Europe must've softened him too much because oddly enough, he had actually believed his shifty-eyed so-called benefactor's offer. Or now that he thought about it, perhaps it had been the hunger pains that had caused the momentary lapse in judgment. After filching the fancy ring from that rich bloke as Renard had asked, he had expected his payment like those despicable naïve children he'd once scoffed. Instead, he'd been shoved into a room, and attacked by his very employer.

Betrayed.

As he had always been.

He could still feel Renard's bony hand grasping him, holding him down while his other hand eagerly worked at the drawstring of his pants. Only his continued resistance and a well-placed rum bottle to the older man's head had allowed him to get away relatively intact. But that was not to say that he'd escaped.

No, far from it. He knew that Renard was a fairly powerful man in the criminal underworld, and to knock him unconscious meant an almost guaranteed act of retaliation.

Thus, he had ran, ran until his breath scorched his throat, until his heart threatened to leap out of his chest, and until he had no more land to run on. The docks of Marseilles were something he had become familiar with during his brief stay, having had to sleep there for several nights in that time, and the looming ship with her towering topsails and proud foremast that he had stumbled upon had seemed the perfect solution in his time of need.

Escape. Freedom. An incredible journey to the ends of the earth ... the vessel practically screamed an invitation in his ears.

And so, he had snuck on board, finding a gap between the loading of the cargo and pre-departure preparations when he could run up the gangplank and hide away in the hold.

Now, sitting restlessly behind a wooden crate, he wondered when the ship would cast off and leave Renard behind, leave Marseilles behind ... leave Europe behind.

He smirked whimsically as an image of an outraged Renard came to mind; the man would probably shout a string of French curses that would paint the air blue once he found out that his quarry had left the continent. In many ways, that man reminded him of his Uncle Friedrich, though in attitude more than appearance.

Ah, yes, good old Uncle Friedrich ... the dear, beloved uncle who had invited him into his chambers when he had been but the tender age of eleven, forced him down on his knees, and taught him what was required of a dutiful nephew. But whereas Renard had been crude and unsophisticated in his advances, Uncle Friedrich had been considerate enough to give him a cushion to kneel on while he was made to suck on the older man's cock. When he'd finally been old enough to realize what his own relation had made him do, and had refused to continue, the man had been outraged.

To this day, he vividly remembered Uncle Friedrich's temper, even though the physical scars had long healed.

One would think that he had learned from his dear uncle about the wicked art of betrayal that dominated the real world, but apparently, he'd been denser than he'd thought because he'd accepted Renard's offer without question. He would have to watch himself from now on.

A sudden lurch in his surroundings abruptly cut his reminiscing short. Eagerness and anticipation danced merrily in his chest as he heard the welcomed keening of the hull and the distinct flapping of the canvas sails.

They were leaving!

An almost ecstatic smile broke on his grime-smudged face at the very prospect. He patiently waited - or rather, 'semi-patiently' waited since he had never been a patient man by nature - and fought the urge to shout in celebration when he felt the boards beneath him begin to sway rhythmically.

He tried to sit still, tried and failed because after what seemed like an eternity, he finally gave into the need to see the disappearing shoreline. Quietly as he could, he made his way over to the ladder and cautiously climbed out of the hold. Curious green eyes peeked out from the hatch, and were painfully blinded by the overwhelming brightness of the late afternoon sun. After a brief moment of adjustment, he carefully opened his eyes wider without discomfort and made certain no sailor - or worse yet, the captain - was around.

No one.

He was close enough to the captain's quarters that he would be cast into shadow if he stayed in this corner of the main deck behind the water barrels. Who'd see him if he just took a quick peek at the continent that had been his home his entire life? He'd take one small glance and hurry back into the hold - no harm done. Besides, the only thing truly noticeable about him was his bright orange-red hair, and even that was now a shade of muted brown thanks to the days of filth it had accumulated.

Darting the five feet from the hatch to the side rail, he turned his eyes upon the horizon, his gaze alighting on the diminishing shoreline of Marseilles's Vieux Port. Mentally, he bid a fond farewell to the hated place; somehow, he felt much lighter in leaving rather than experiencing the heavy burden of sadness one might expect in departing the land of one's youth.

"'ey, what 'ave we 'ere?" A rough hand that literally grabbed him by the scruff of his neck accompanied the scratchy voice. "A stowaway?"

He jerked and fought to get away from the ruffian who'd so unceremoniously waylaid him, but one well-placed punch quieted him easily. As he fell heavily to the boards, dazed and stinging from the unseen hit, thickly muscled arms grabbed him from behind and effectively immobilized him.

"Get the captain!" he heard his captor shout. "We've found ourselves a stowaway."

He felt the man's chest rumble with amused laughter as he leaned forward to whisper, "And ye know what we do with stowaways? We toss 'em o'erboard."

Again, the burly sailor laughed as his smaller captive stiffened.

He'd be thrown overboard? No, not yet! He hadn't had the chance to taste real freedom yet ... he hadn't had a chance to do anything yet!

"What's going on here? Where's the stowaway?" The crisp educated voice reached his ears before he caught sight of the man stepping purposefully down from the quarterdeck. He discreetly looked the new arrival up and down: polished black boots, fine dark breeches, and an expensive-looking white lawn shirt - this was undoubtedly the captain, he concluded.

"Interesting," the said man noted with an apathetic air as he stepped closer to observe the caught culprit.

The stowaway looked up, and his breath nearly caught at the intensity of the golden eyes that seemed to pierce right through him. Locks of ebony hair fluttered freely in the sea breeze, each strand moving in almost perfect unison with the others as if the captain himself had willed them into compliance. If anything, this man simply exuded authority.

"Do you know what I do with stowaways on my ship?" the dark-haired man asked, leaning closer so he could catch the captive's gaze.

Defiant green eyes glared back. "Clothe them in your best finery and invite them to stay for dinner?" the stowaway answered caustically.

If the brief twitch of the captain's lips could've been called an emotion, then the immobilized captive would've guessed that he'd amused the other man.

"Not even close," came the brunette's response. "We throw them overboard."

Suddenly, he felt the arms holding him tighten, as if the sailor who had caught him was overly eager to perform the duty. And yet, he didn't say anything, or do anything; he merely stared back at those brilliant, golden eyes - cold and distant, but still powerful enough to render a smaller mortal speechless.

He didn't back down. He refused to, because if there was one thing he'd retained from his previous life, it was the necessity of his arrogance. Without it, he would be nothing ... lost, lonely, and scared - something he had promised himself that would never come to pass. Precarious as his situation was, he held his head high and waited regally for the vessel's captain to officially announce the sentence.

'I dare you,' the captive's sparkling eyes said. 'Betray me ... betray me as they've all betrayed me. Show me that you're like the rest of them ... '

The dark-haired man crossed his arms, a look of assessment on his face as he analyzed the spirit in his stowaway for an instance that stretched toward oblivion as the captive's silent challenge echoed between them. And then, with finality, the brunette said, "I could use another deckhand."

After a quick nod from the captain, the recently caught man felt the sailor behind him release his hold. He tested his newfound freedom for a brief moment before turning a questioning gaze to his impromptu saviour.

"My name's Crawford and this is my ship, the Valiant," the captain explained. "You will address me as 'Captain' from here on in. My word is law aboard this ship, and if you ever disobey my orders by even one letter, I assure you that the consequences could be fatal. Understood?"

Emerald eyes narrowed at being issued such a threat, but slowly, and reluctantly, the stowaway nodded.

"Good. Now go get cleaned up and report to the first mate. The crew quarters are up by the forecastle," Crawford added, and turned to head back up to the quarterdeck.

The ship's newest addition turned too, an inexplicable energy simmering in his stomach at the future that had just been given to him as he started to make his way toward the bow. Why the man had let him stay, he didn't know and didn't care; he would question it later. All that mattered now was that he could.

"Crewman!"

The captain's strong voice stopped him in his tracks. With a nervousness he dared not show, he twisted around to face the man who'd just ascended the first step of the quarterdeck stairs.

"What's your name?"

The stowaway smirked at the question, his answer having already been created the day he had left the so-called home of his youth.

"Schuldich," he replied with a mocking bow. "Simply Schuldich. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Cap-tain." He drawled the last word as if to publicly display his hatred of authority.

True to form, Crawford paid him no mind and continued his short trek up the stairs.

And so, with that, Schuldich turned away smiling, heading toward the crew's quarters ... and the whole new world that awaited him.

End Prologue