“What?” James heard himself saying stupidly, shouting into René’s closed face and struggling for a moment to hold them both. René was a growing weight in his arms, so much heavier than he had seemed only the day before that James shouted again, a name, the first that came to his mind that was not René.

“Mirena!” Many of her crew were wounded or worse, surely she had others to attend to now. James could hear the last of the fighting above them, knowing that her attention belonged there. And yet she had the manner of a possessive woman where René Villon was concerned, had said so well enough, with her touches and her glances, that he had a small hope that she would tend to René’s wounds now.

There was blood streaming from René’s left shoulder, or mayhap not streaming, merely trickling now. James inhaled, calming himself only a fraction as he pulled the body closer to him with one arm and used the other to tug away the loose bits of cloth to inspect the wound.

The cloth was sticky and hot with fresh blood, and he hissed to see the way the flesh was pulled apart, smooth at first and then jagged as though the blade had been tugged away roughly. He thought he might see the white of bone, and swallowed the burn of vomit.

Almost blindly, he flattened his already bloodstained hand over the wound, not wanting to see the damage and needing the flow of blood to cease, and felt the pulse of René’s heart, right under his palm.

Alive. James inhaled painfully; he had not thought him to be living. His face was as pale as milk, ghostly shadows under his eyes, glaring next to the brightness of the red that coated his chest and stomach and arms. Even his hands had been covered with it, and James licked his lips, remembering the savage joy on René’s face as he had thrust his blade into Marechal’s belly, had slashed it to pieces. And then afterward…

“Let me see him!” A voice rang sharp in his ear, and James had only a dizzy moment to realize that it had been in English and then L’Aranha was before him, squeezing herself between his body and René, tearing his hand away to peer at the wound.

“Please,” James asked her, though what he meant by the question and her strange reaction to it made his mind swirl with confusion. She jerked her head up and her body back, only a moment later seeming to remember her glare and returning to her examination, eyeing James carefully as she stepped closer. She murmured something in her own tongue as she looked at René, but did nothing while James hardly breathed.

“What do you know of medicine?” he put to the silence, and felt L’Aranha stiffen.

“Will he die?” Someone wondered, too far behind them for James to care enough to turn around, though he recalled now that there had been others in the small corridor with him, strong hands holding him in place as though he had been going to leap between the two men facing each other below them. The man who spoke seemed breathless, and James could only think that no one could breathe well in the clouded, dark air of the bowels of this ship.

Above of all this, before, it had been only too easy to breathe, salty sea air and the meat smell of blood nothing to him as he had run across the narrow plank of wood and found himself in the midst of something like Hell. Men screaming and bodies twisting and in the eye of it all, untouched, the man he had thought to be the Devil, smiling as he had spun on his heel and plunged a knife into a man’s heart.

Untouched by naught but a few drops of blood across his face as he had pulled himself away from the man he had killed. A member of his own crew dead, but he had been clean of any sign of harm, just as he had been for the long moments that James had watched his dark form slipping through the melee from one ship to another. He had barely remembered to watch himself, his dry eyes had been so intent, and could still feel the swing of a blade over his head as he had ducked and dashed over the slippery boards toward Villon.

The first of two blades at his back, and he had not been fast enough to stop the second one from sinking into his flesh.

“I will need to sew it,” Mirena’s lips thinned, and James imagined her distaste at such a womanly occupation, noticing the new cut across one of her cheeks, already drying. It would leave no mark on her, and James thought feverishly how odd it was, that neither would he be marked by the events of this day.

“I will not have him here.” James nodded once, to acknowledge her, and then searched the room without seeing, remembering at last that there was more than just this room and this bloody ship.

He did not look at either L’Aranha or the body lying grossly below them as he bent down and carefully slung René’s legs over his other arm, leaving his limp body resting against his chest. René made a pained noise, grunting wordlessly and lifting his head for a moment before dropping it back.

Just like the day before, and James blinked away the sight of the broken body lying on the floor of the inn, dizzy when it blurred with the bloodlust that had shone like gold from the man’s face only moments ago.

Despite himself, James met L’Aranha’s gaze and saw her slight nod before she flicked her eyes down toward René’s face and jerked her head toward the stairs.

Men stood in their path, and James squinted over the rim of his glasses, staring until the their faces took on familiar shapes.

“Pym?” He put a name to one and stopped for a moment, held in surprise to see the man still alive. Surely the lady’s crew had put them all to the sword. And yet there he stood, a frown crossing his scarred face as he stared back. He wore only breeches, and those were tattered, but he looked well enough that James could tear his eyes away, focus upon the steps below his feet.

It hurt to move, and René was heavy, so heavy that James paused at the top, leaning one shoulder against the wooden wall as he peered carefully around the bodies of those still in his way. Some light was reflecting off the thick, low clouds, so bright that tears came to the corners of his eyes and James had to lower his gaze, flinching and looking away to some middle space when he saw the bodies hacked and mutilated on the deck.

Any jewelry the dead men might have been wearing was missing, but James was turning away from the sight of them, jerking his head once behind him as he remembered the flash of gold at Marechal’s neck. That it was the necklace Villon had worn, James was strangely certain, but that was all his mind would allow, and he thrust himself forward onto the deck, hiding his shudders when the ground beneath him was slippery.

Two men were in his way, but James shouldered past them, barely noticing that they resisted. Ahead of him was a familiar door of slashed wood, and he took one hand from René’s body to push it open, sweeping his gaze over the room and no longer surprised to see how little it had been changed.

The desk was the same, though bare of charts, and James shifted his arms to lay his body down upon it, freezing when René tossed and angled his head to murmur inaudible words into his ear.

James looked up, blinking when L’Aranha was there on the opposite side of the desk, already reaching out to pull white hands from his shoulders and urge René back onto the flat surface.

The wound was truly bleeding now, spewing out blood so rich and dark that it seemed impossible that René’s chest moved.

“Hold him down, English,” L’Aranha swore at him when he did not move, and James clenched his jaw and put one hand at René’s shoulder and the other at his side, wincing when without a thought, the lady grabbed fistfuls of Villon’s shirt and tore it into two wide pieces, baring his mangled shoulder.

Slim hands appeared before James’ eyes, and he jerked his head up to see one of the men from moments ago, now holding out a spool of coarse thread and a long needle. He frowned down at René’s body and then up at James, and James remembered him at last, the navigator who had held the scorched maps and had watched Carter executed with barely a twitch.

The woman took them and swiftly threaded the needle, even humming softly to herself as she did, and James was suddenly sure that he was dreaming, that he had been dreaming for some time now. Why else would he have boarded this ship at all, or done the horrible thing that he had done, whatever his reasons? There was no other reason for this madness, for a part of him knew that René Villon was not a man who bled to death on a desk, or allowed himself to be carried like the dead hero in a play.

“Honoré.” Mirena barked the man’s name once, without hesitation, and he jumped to attention, turning to grab a stub of a candle then hurriedly dashing around until he had lit the wick. He held it aloft though it added only a little light, and placed a hand next to James’ on René’s good shoulder.

As if that was all she had needed, L’Aranha ducked her head and went to work, pinching the torn sides of flesh together and sliding the needle and thread through them. James had only a moment to contemplate how smooth and small her stitch was, and René’s eyes fluttered open, his mouth opening and twisting in obvious pain though he made no sound.

The muscles under James’ fingers jerked and tensed and James pushed back down without thinking, his eyes trained on the other man’s face as L’Aranha inserted her needle into his flesh once again. This time Villon’s mouth moved, small gasps escaping, that quickly became cries, and his wide eyes looked from L’Aranha to James, as full of questions as Ben at his lessons.

But he did not seem to recognize them, for he frowned and renewed his struggles, kicking out when he arms would not budge. Mirena’s hand slipped in the blood, and she cursed crudely over the shocked shout that the touch brought from René. James allowed his eyes to move at last, flicking to her scowling face and then back down to René.

“Move,” he addressed the navigator in the man’s tongue and tossed his head toward René’s legs, already shifting his body to have a better hold on René’s chest. “Quicker,” he snapped at the woman, and kept his eyes on her fingers, swiftly knitting the flesh together with the thick, black thread.

“The blood,” she said once, quietly, and James let out a tense breath, taking one hand from the body to yank free the sash he had been given to carry his borrowed sword. Wanting to turn away, he instead shoved it against the wound, soaking up the blood that interfered with her work.

“Seen many battles, Englishman?” The navigator questioned him in a steady enough voice, and James felt the muscles in his neck stiffen, though he shook his head. Some streets of London were battle enough to satisfy anyone’s thirst for blood, but that was not what the man had meant.

The drying blood on James’ lower arms and wrists itched, but he ignored it, licking the sting from his upper lip as L’Aranha tied the thread and bent her head to cut the loose string with her teeth.

With the snap, René fell back heavily on to the desk, his head cracking on the wood before James had even time to realize that he had been arched up from the desk in those last few moments.

He leaned down over his body, blinking to see some colour now in René’s face, his eyes closed as if he were sleeping.

“It is the pain.” L’Aranha answered him though James knew he had not spoken, and he looked up at her just as she raised her wet hands, red down even beneath her nails, as stained as his own though still fresh, as stained as most of René’s middle. “But he is alive for now.”

“We must wash him,” James told her seriously, already removing the shredded shirt with his shaking hands, carefully sliding it free of limp arms. The breeches would stay for now; James shivered at the memory of René’s near nakedness and felt the shiver under the white skin now, odd since the skin felt warm to the touch.

The lady’s brown eyes were thoughtful as she studied him, and then she shrugged, looking to the door.

“I must see outside now, but I will return.”

“And what of the prisoner?” Honoré spoke with urgency, but it was clear from the way the lady turned back that she did not know what he referred to. James frowned as well, and watched the navigator carefully remove his hands from René’s ankles and step back. “We took a man for ransom, were ordered to before…”

That he did not finish was hardly important, for L’Aranha’s eyes widened. “Who?” she asked harshly, and cursed René viciously when Honoré answered.

“You stupid ass!” she spat at René’s body while the name of Etienne Saint-Cyr still hung in the air. “We cannot return to Port Royal now, if we had wanted to.” She glanced to James as she said it and then turned and left the room without another word.

James licked his lips and found them dry and broken.

“Why?” he asked Honoré quietly, and the man shrugged as the woman had done, looking after her, unwilling to tell or perhaps truly ignorant. “Where is water?”

“Here.” A bottle was tossed at him, and James barely caught it. He swallowed to see Deniau stranding in the frame of the door, but scraped the wax off with his fingernails and yanked the stopper out impatiently. “Villon will want that more than water,” the black man commented impassively when James stared at the deep purple of wine and did not move.

Inhaling sharply, James bent at last and splashed some of the wine carefully over René’s mouth, parting the red lips with his fingers when René did not respond. His thumb smoothed over the slightly rough jaw line, wiping away droplets of the liquor before he removed his hand. Then he took the bloodied sash and splashed more of the wine onto the few clean inches, setting the bottle aside as he wiped clean René’s stomach and chest as best he could.

It smeared pinkly across already rose-coloured skin, and James bit his lip as he poured more wine onto the scrap of cloth and dabbed around the red, raging wound.

“Damne!” René cried into the air, shaking, and James jumped back from him, reaching for the bottle. He let a few more drops fall to René’s lips and watched how quickly they dried, growing alarmed at the flush to René’s cheeks, which had been so pale only moments ago. “Je brûle,” he whispered, his voice rasping as though he had not had a drink in days.

“Fever?” James asked aloud though he knew the answer, just as he knew what it meant. “So quickly,” he finished softly and felt the bottle snatched from his hands. Deniau took a long pull from the top, his throat moving as he swallowed most of it, then he slammed it back down onto the desk, coming to a stop right next to James.

“You could slit his throat now, English, if you don’t want to bother.” The other man grinned coldly into his face, grinning wider when James felt himself frowning, straightening up and reaching for something that he had tossed down onto the deck an age ago. He could recall it clearly, vivid enough to turn his stomach, but his mind swirled around the well-traveled wooden boards, exchanging one memory for another, until James could also remember René walking the deck and ordering a box brought to him.

“Where is the chest of medicines?” James looked from one man to the other, and saw the light enter Honoré’s face. He nodded before dashing from the room, and James turned back to Deniau. “Who do you serve?” James demanded; the words steady though every other part of him was weak and tired, ready to fall if he did not keep one hand at the desk, fingers just brushing against hot flesh.

“Myself.” Deniau looked as though he might laugh. “Who do you serve?”

“I…?” Taken aback, James could think of no answer, and burned inside his chest when Deniau gestured with surprising grace, making a mocking little sign of the cross with the same ease that he had lifted chess pieces from the board.

“You can serve man or you can serve God,” the man offered coolly, without any of the heat that would have been in René’s voice at the same words, yet James lifted his chin.

“To do one is to do both,” James told him tightly before turning away from him and taking the bottle to spill more wine across René’s whispering lips. Whatever he said, he said to himself. He was far too quiet for James to hear his words, but James could see the harsh frown, the lines at the sides of his eyes.

So much blood lost already, and James wondered about the doctors in Port Royal, if they would have sent for leeches to ease the fever, or given him a purgative rather than use these powders now. James had heard of their powers, and their value here on the sea, even if only the brave dared them in London.

“I have the powders,” Honoré declared from the door, holding out a small leather pouch. He came to stand at the other side of René, but then did not move, still holding out the fever powders as though James were to administer them, and James parted his lips to admit that he had no knowledge of the dangerous medicine.

“Give it to me,” Deniau growled at the other man and met James’ eyes as he took the pouch and opened it. A moment later he tapped out some of it into what was left of the wine, and swirled it around in the air for a few moments.

When it was mixed, he leaned over and would have edged James to the side if he had thought to move. One hand closed around René’s throat, urging his head back, and he poured the physick into René’s mouth, swearing when René gagged and began to choke, spewing the stuff back up as though it were poison.

“Jesu,” James heard himself whispering, and reached down to smooth a hand across his burning forehead. “Drink,” he ordered and heard Honoré beg for the same. The red lips moved, forming words and then a ghostly smile that made the skin of James’ neck crawl and the rest of his body grow cold.

But René drank, sighing as the liquid fell past his lips and then swallowing in large, thirsty gulps, protesting when there was no more to give him.

“Is there no water?” James asked of anyone in the room, sliding his hand from René’s brow to the corners of his eyes, where tears lingered before falling down into his hair. It was already wet at the roots of the dark curls, growing more tangled and wet and James brushed them back and pulled the sticky strands from René’s face.

He was so hot to the touch now that he ought to have singed James’ fingers, and his eyes fell on the wound with renewed horror, to see it so raised and red, horrible with its lines of black thread cutting into the flesh.

“Water!” he shouted, and felt the body under his hands begin to shake. But a cool leather bag was pressed into his arm until he had the mind to grab it, and he ripped the stopper from it.

René twitched, jerking his head away from the hand at his brow and moaning lowly.

“Je brûle,” he told them all and opened wide his eyes. They were deep black and starry, reflecting so much light that James wondered if René could see at all. His head thrashed from side to side as he took in those gathered at his sides, and then he swallowed air, shaking his head as though refuting something.

“Non,” he said as though he had said it a thousand times already, and now the brightness in his eyes was more tears.

“Please, René,” James asked of him, and poured water into the palm of his hand, smearing it across René’s dry, scorched lips. It spilled to his nose and cheeks, but René arched up to press his open lips into James’ palm, swallowing the small bit of water as though it were pure and not tainted with a man’s blood. And James nodded, whispering as René fell back and closed his eyes.

“There is nothing to do but wait,” Mirena told him, taking the water bag back from him and sighing noisily. Next to James, Deniau grunted some phrase that James did not understand and moved to turn away, as did the ruddy-faced navigator. James glared at them all, feeling the itch of drying blood on his wrists though he did not scratch it away.

“And pray,” he reminded them fiercely, not at all surprised to see their open, confused expressions, or the frown on René’s sleeping face, as though he somehow knew James’ words and already rejected them.

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