Two months. One may argue the statement that is a long time, unless one is out at sea with regular near death battles. It was a battle of tooth and nail for survival when it came down to it. It was more about pride and position rather than gold and jewels. Blood was bound to be spilled, but the amount tended to be excessive. Death was uncountable after time.

Yet there were rules of preserving honor. They could be broken but at a loss of honor, a high price to pay in those times. Unless the breaker of them was an immortal Captain who was also a nation and had committed the act for fun. Then it could be excused by an enemy of the same status. But that was the only acceptable situation.

Currently, in this ongoing chaos and conflict, Arthur Kirkland had been dueling Francis Bonnefoy a mere day after a loss to Antonio Carriedo Fernandez. The fight had neared it's end, the victory in favor of the British. A retreat was issued for the French, yet one stray pirate had other plans of bitterness, with no heed for his honor.

Arthur frowned at the wounded, and ordered for Jonathan to be tended to first. The stab was in the chest, near the heart. Extremely worrying and likely fatal. It was another third of an hour before he was given up on and pronounced dead, to be dumped into the sea along with the rest of the cold-blooded.

Arthur grit his teeth upon hearing it, and made a rash decision to assist in his own manner. All it took was a flick of the wrist, a few whispered words tumbling from thin, cracked lips, a glow of the emerald irises, and all was well, with not a single soul aware of the necromancy.

The blood ceased it's gushing, and the heart sped up. A miracle in the eyes of an ignorant mortal. A weakness in the eyes of a knowing villain. A shard of assistance in the eyes of a sensible person.

Which of those was Jonathan was rather obvious, but as for Arthur, the answer remains clouded in the dark.