A few hours earlier...

A faint waft of saltwater and petrichor greeted Gabriel's senses, morphing ever so slightly into a repugnant sulfuric scent.

He jerked awake; his surroundings dark and decrepit. He remembered collapsing onto the bed a few hours earlier—onto Mari; the memory embarrassed him more than he had hoped, as it was unbecoming for a man of his repute to behave in such a crude manner. Indecent thoughts had seized him the night before, though he tried his utmost to repel them. But it seemed strange, for the subject of his self-consciousness appeared to be missing entirely. The pungent odor, meanwhile, seemed to be intensifying—a copper stench melding into it.

It was only when a blotch of red stained his sheets that he realized the source of the repulsive smell. He fell into a cold sweat as the second blotch dropped, this time upon his hand. He swallowed his spittle which had now been tainted with a sour, metallic tang. Not a sound emanated from his surroundings, and only the pitch black of the portholes served to aid his temporal sense.

Paralyzed in his half-seated position, wishing not to tilt his head an inch higher, he shut his eyes taut and prayed. A third blotch splattered, congealing near his upper thigh. A sudden gust of sulfur and ash blew from his right, and his arms instinctively rose to shield his eyes. The burning vapors served to scorch his pupils, and he blinked fervently to wash away their effect. He blinked, and blinked, and blinked—until his peripheral gaze peeked momentarily at that which he tried so desperately to avoid.

Blood slithered its way along the contours of bare legs, set free to descend from the tapering toes—lacerated feet nailed to a mildewed plank suspended from the chamber ceiling. Gabriel could hear his heartbeat rise as his gaze traversed laboriously. Halfway apprised him of the sinner's sex. Sorrow welled up in his eyes—eyes which settled upon the accursed's arms—affixed to a similar plank with a rusted nail. Sweat and tears coagulated on his face as he swallowed for a second time. He did not wish to move his eyes any further, a singular hope remaining in his heart for it all to be a feverish dream. But he could not prevent his rheumy eyes from meandering forward, to confer him the identity of the crucified.

And thus, with his neck craned, his gaze paused abruptly on a sight so abominable, so basally horrifying, so outright daemonic, that his frostbitten blood curdled in his veins. A decapitated head lay right above him—inverted; the crown sewn into the body's severed neck; a feminine chin concealing the other end that now rested where it can not. A delirium spread through his mind as he stared into the familiar dark eyes. The lips—located where those beautiful beads once were—appeared to move without voice. Then, a gurgling cough. His face splashed with ruby—eyes bloodstained, ears ringing, the melody of caws and crows, a cacophony of bells; saltwater and petrichor.

He jolted awake, a faint waft of saltwater and petrichor filled the room. The first rays of sunshine glided their way through the portholes and onto the bed. Upon touching his face, he realized he had been crying during his sleep. And the girl that he had just witnessed crucified a moment prior was sleeping soundly by his side.

"Sir, are you alright?"

The dazed Gabriel was taken aback.

"You were screaming Mari's name, so I came to check up on you."

Gabriel wiped a swathe of perspiration that had amassed on his forehead. "Get me some water."

Rakkah nodded and went to fetch a jug.

Gabriel sat at the edge of the bed, his arms resting at his sides.

Why is this happening to me? These nightmares...

The cursed land had laid bare his sinful soul, he concluded after a concerted pause. Though, looking toward Mari now accrued an alternate conclusion in his troubled mind.

"Where did you sleep, Rakkah?"

"I knew I could not interrupt you lovebirds," he said, pouring the water into a mug, "so I spent the night in the adjoining chamber."

Gabriel sighed and pinched his nose bridge. "I had much to speak to you about, but I must have dozed off..."

Rakkah handed him the mug of fresh water.

Upon glugging it whole, Gabriel resumed, "What hour is it?"

"A few minutes past six."

"Perfect. Get your things ready. You are to depart to the Esperança with Mari post-haste."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Though I wish she could stay longer, this island is no longer safe for her. The Esperança will depart to Saragossa at half-past eight, and you two need to smuggle yourselves into its lower deck."

The sudden news shocked the subordinate.

"Fret not, Rakkah. I wish for you to return as soon as you ensure Mari's safety."

A puzzled look.

Gabriel tore a piece of parchment and scribbled onto it a name and address.

"Go here. It is a Convent owned by a woman of God whom I know and trust. Say Dom. Bragança sent you, she will understand."

Rakkah nodded slowly, staring at the parchment in his palm.

"If I had any other soldier I could trust with this task, I would."

"Say no more, sir. I accept. Mari is kin, we are born of the same soil. I shall see her to safety; you have my word."

This evoked a feeble smile. "Thank you."

He tilted his neck back towards the girl who now adjusted into a fetal position, slumbering snugly next to him. He paused for a while, and the room was plunged into silence. Not a soul whispered a single word; the girl's rhythmic breath being the most prominent sound over the faint drizzle outside.

"...Goodbye, Mari." He muttered silently as he caressed her cheek. "Make good this freedom you have earned. May God be with ye."

Standing up, he grabbed his cloak, gathered his gear and smokes, and strode out of the room without turning back. This is for the best, he decided.

***

The captain fastened his trousers after taking a piss in the waters between the Coração and the shore. He yawned, stretching his burly muscles taut to force the sleep out of him.

He plodded up the incline of the shallow shoreline, his boots sinking into the loose sands below. His loose-fitting garment fluttered in the breeze; and his large oppressive presence was corroborated by his slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair tied into a ponytail, showcasing the entirety of his forehead. A strong wind blew the gentle drizzle into his face, making his climb all the more displeasing.

Upon reaching the muddy plateau, he turned left towards the tents where most of the soldiers slept. He made his way to the center, and—serving the singular duty of a man of importance surrounded by incompetents—he picked up an iron rod that rested nearby. Twisting his arm backwards, breathing deep, he unleashed a Herculean strike upon the tiny, unassuming bell.

CLANG.

"WAKE UP, YE FUCKING SLUGGARDS!"

Another barrage of clangs followed. They coalesced with the rising clamor of groans and moans that grew from within the tents.

A third barrage.

Men began exiting their abodes, rubbing at their eyes and yawning. Some hobbled over to the forest to take a piss, some went to check for leftovers, while others sat atop the crates lodged into the mud—cleaning their teeth and washing their languid faces.

I swear te God, this here weather's makin' everyone a fucking loafer. The captain sighed. He was not one to curse his luck. Indeed, he believed every man deserved the hand he was dealt. But he had begun to question if this were truly what the Lord wished from him. Did He truly wish for him to slog the rest of his days in this soulless husk of a land? It felt cruel. Men of his kind, he thought, belonged in the open Sea. There was a certain Order to the Sea, he felt. It tested the faith of Man, liberating those who learned of its secrets. The Sea flowed unceasingly through his veins, it mesmerized him; calling upon him to rein in its chaotic disposition, to calm its tides, to tame it whole.

"Oye, old fart..."

His musings cut short, Mattheus turned to face his beckoner—

TWANG.

The attacker failed miserably in his attempt at incapacitating the source of his fury. The captain's iron rod unceremoniously hovered between him and the bare-chested man.

"Tch— Whatever." Daniel dropped his wooden club and began to stretch side-to-side.

The captain laid his hands upon his bulky stomach and bellowed with laughter.

"...Suck it, geezer."

Throwing his own rod to the side, Mattheus inquired, "Say, did ye brother speak to ye after that meeting with Gáv?"

"Huh? Oh," he turned to search for Ezekiel, "I passed out in my tent before he'd reached back. Seems like he's made off to the City already."

"Hrm...if ye find out anything, let me know."

"Eh? Why don't you ask him yourself?"

"Well..." Mattheus stroked his lengthy, well-groomed beard. "Aye suppose."

"Relax, gramps, boss ain't replacing you anytime soon."

"Who knows what the boy's thinkin'. I sure don't."

A clattering sound interrupted the conversation.

"Speak of the Devil."

Their liege's steel boots clanked as he tramped across the muddy stretch.

"Captain! Dan!" His distant voice called out.

"Good mornin' to ye!" The captain yelled.

"A terrible one, that's for sure." The half-asleep Daniel mumbled.

The echoes of their superior's voice grew nearer.

"Oye boss, the ol' geezer here has somethin' to ask—"

An elbow to the chest. The captain glared at him.

"Fuck! Relax!"

The clanks had finally reached the two, and its owner gestured them into the nearby tent. The drizzle had crescendoed into a storm, and all the men had slithered their way back into their hearths.

"Mattheus." Gabriel grabbed onto the captain's shoulder which stood an inch higher than him. "Dan. I have an important mission for you both."

"Eh? But we just got here, boss."

"Shut ye yapper, sluggard!"

Gabriel chuckled. He missed this. The unending, onerous bickering between these two. It felt a welcome change from the travails he had faced the past two days. "Do not worry. It will interest you both."

"Is it outside of the itinerary, Gáv?"

"Ah, yes, this was a personal request from the King himself."

"Hrm... that so?" Mattheus muttered under his breath.

Gabriel continued, "As you may already know, our relations with the Gauls are... tremulous at best. The only bond keeping us from going at each other's throats being our bipartisan treaty over the Eastern Archipelagos, over Tartarus in particular."

The subordinates, still in a shoulder embrace by their liege, nodded in response.

"You especially, captain, do not need a history lesson on this fact. You know all too well the blood spilled to wrest West Tartarus into our hold."

"Those fuckin' bastards. The King shoulda never given them a single piece of land!"

"Relax, Mattheus. All in due time. The King knows what is best for the Empire, and for now, that is peace with our enemies."

"All those smooth-brained wusses know is to play the lute and get drunk on wine." Mattheus spat onto the ground.

"Ain't you two related?"

A boiling rage built up within the brute unto whom the question was posed. Every vein in his Herculean body bulged. He grabbed the shirtless man by his neck and raised him skyward; his feet hovering above the ground.

"Gallaecia non é Galia," the captain recited, clenching his lower teeth to stress the kh phoneme of the former.

"Enough. Both of you."

The hulking giant dropped Daniel onto the ground like a wooden doll. If there were one thing the captain believed in more religiously than the Lord God Almighty, it would be the glory of his Tribe.

The half-naked vice-general coughed, massaging his now unconstricted neck to ease the pain.

"Good. Now listen closely. You two are to depart aboard the Esperança on a three-day voyage to Saragossa—"

"Say no more!" The revitalized Daniel rose to his feet. "I have heard tales that the women there fulfill every desire a man might need."

"Keep yer rancid thoughts te yerself, boy," the captain growled and then turned towards Gabriel. "Are ye not joining us, Gáv? I cannot think either me or muttonmonger o'er here would be skilled at the art of diplomacy, especially with 'em galos."

"I have business here on the island, captain. The Grand Ceremony is approaching. Regardless—"

"Don't you worry boss, I've got this." The ecstatic Daniel half-embraced his superior.

"You have got nothing, Dan. The mission I am sending you two on is not one of politicking. It is one of intrigue. Listen closely. The Princess of Lyon is visiting there two days hence. You are to meet with her at the ball and gift her this amulet." 

Gabriel pulled out an amethyst-encrusted gold amulet from one of his many pockets. "Alas, that is not all. The dance that you two shall be attending will undoubtedly be visited by other Gallic gentry. It is your task to gather as much information on the trade secrets that the Gauls keep close to their chest."

"What makes ye think the galos will spill their secrets to us of all people? They be all the more tight-lipped around us Tartessians."

"That's why he's sending us, geezer. It's up to us to figure it out." Daniel interrupted Gabriel who was primed to answer the obvious question. "We're no longer on the Continent, old man, nor the Seven Seas. Things work differently out here. 'Kill or be killed' no longer applies. Here, in this corner of the world, Knowledge is Power."

A smile blossomed across Gabriel's face, the mission was in good hands. However, he was ignorant of the frown that crept up on the adjacent onlooker. The captain was, in every aspect, a Man of War. A Man of the merciless Sea which pays no heed to one's position or intellect. And as with the tempered Sea, he worshipped Order, being wrathfully averse to the disruption of the status quo. And he now looked upon not just one, but two boys equal in rank to him—though not in his eye—who wished to do just that.

"I shall deliver yer pendant, Gáv." Mattheus responded solemnly. "And gather yer information."

"So, when do we depart?"

"Half-past eight."

"Ain't that too early, boss?" Daniel ruffled his unkempt hair.

"Time and tide wait for no man, Dan." Gabriel tilted his neck to look towards both. "Ah, and I shall be visiting Eleazar in the City, join me if you so wish."

"Aye, I have business in the City as well. Call for me before ye leave, I shall be by the galeóns until then." Mattheus turned to leave, and as soon as he had left the tent, a deafening roar reverberated louder than the crashing thunder.

"GET TO WORK, YE GOOD FUR NOTHIN LOAFERS! TO THE ESPERANÇA!"

Only the thin linen of the tent served to muffle the terrible sound. Daniel stuck a finger into his ear to make certain he had not gone deaf for the second time that day.

"Dan," a hand rested on his shoulder, "I have one more important task for you."

"Your wish is my command, boss."

"Take this letter. Deliver it to the Carolingian Jesuits in Saragossa without fail."

"The Gallic baldies?" Daniel raised an eyebrow.

Gabriel nodded, "They shall become a valuable asset to us in the months to come. I entrust you, and only you, with this task. Understood?"

Daniel eyed the carefully sealed letter, stamped with the molten wax Brasão da Família Bragança. Odd, he thought, as letters of such import to the King were usually stamped with the Brasão da Casa de Aviz—the brasão of the Crown.

"Understood," Daniel replied.

As they both walked out of the tent, the raucous crowd that had just previously been scattered about were now performing their tasks in extraordinary discipline and order. The infantry packed rations into barrels, while the navy buzzed like bees—carrying the barrels to and fro—a handful unfurling the sails and tightening the rigging. The tumult had coalesced into synchrony, the entire mechanism flowing like clockwork. And there stood a single Man at the center of this Grand Orchestra, arms akimbo—roaring thunder unto thunder—soaked to the bone with Rain and Sea.