Friendship and Bloody Tolls

James sits in his room, looking at gifts from friends he never would have imagined he'd have in this life. Simple things, but heart felt, all of them. He opens the bottle of rum and pours a finger into a cup before recorking it. Picking one of Nel's cookies from the basket, he takes a bite. They say the best foods are made with love. As he savors the flavor, he swears he can taste the love, the friendship that Nel has for him. A taste of the rum next, and memories of days spent with a friend, playing cards, long nights standing watch, helping each other to their hammocks when the rum ration was extra generous. Next to the bottle are several packages of spices, a gift from a friend he barely knows, but is grateful to have nonetheless. And flowers, more flowers than he's ever had in his entire life, colors he's seen in the setting sun, pure white clouds, and that of growing things, and colors only seen in rainbows. This hovel he has been given for a living space smells of love, of affection, of friendship unbound and unbothered by who he is.
 
And sitting over by his bed, set lovingly on his pillow, is a book. A simple book. But a book that holds promise and possibility. His heart does not know how to handle all of this. Quiet tears slowly roll down his face as he sits there, surrounded by the undeniable proof that he is wanted in this world, that he has a place in it, that he has made a positive mark on the lives of some. He slowly drinks his rum, while unfamiliar tears fall. He smiles though, and he knows the tears are for joy, for happiness that he's never had. At least not like he does now. This is friendship not forced by proximity, but friendship genuinely sought and freely given. "I only hope that I am worthy of the love you all show me. That I do not break these tenuous bonds of fidelity. To all of you, I give thanks." He raises his cup in salute to each of the gifts, then downs the rest of his drink.
 
Putting the cup down, James strips before laying in his bed, dousing the light, and pulls the warm covers over him. And quickly he is taken by sleep.
 
Floating, drifting in a warm sea. Under the water, the light above shines through, shimmering. He looks up slowly, his eyes feeling heavy, and the gentle waves pass over, both close and far above. In this place, he could stay forever. It is safe, it is warm. The distant sound of thunder can be heard, a rolling of deep sound through the water. He closes his eyes, only meaning to blink, but in this place a moment is an eternity. The thunder approaches, growing more frequent, becoming sharper, higher, no longer just a bass rumble. His eyes open, the light turned crimson. A sea of blood, and he is floating in it. The sharp whistling sound of balls of iron tearing their way through the air to deliver death and destruction upon whatever they encounter. One, two, a dozen or more all ripping through the air above. The sound of the hammer blow of impacts, shattering wood, denting metal, tearing flesh. The light above is disturbed, pieces float on the wave tops, on the surface. Wood, canvas, and bodies.
 
Accompanying the sound of the guns are shouts, both painful and joyous. The sounds of people torn apart, limbs severed from their still living forms. The sounds of victory, of joy at a conquest, the cheers of people reveling in spilt blood, and ended lives. One voice carries above the rest, above the din and crash of the battle, the slaughter. A voice so young to be so hot with blood, with gruesome death. "Alright mates, take the ship, and let all who stand against be sent to the depths! Blood and Treasure!" Voices, dozens raised in salute with the same phrase before shouting incoherent screams as they rush over, the owner of the young voice joining the fray with a fury and passion unmatched. Sword swinging, guns firing, limbs severed and lives cut short. And from it all, blood, an ocean of blood.
 
Terror grips him, seizes his heart. He wants to shout NO, to stand in the way of the bloody tithe. He tries to surge toward the surface, but he is held back by chains and weights he cannot see. The owner of the young voice, fine clothes, silks and more now covered, drenched in the crimson gore of slaughter, an almost rictus grin as the sword strikes again, and again, and again, endlessly. He cries out, screaming his very soul for them to stop, but no words come, no sounds come from him in this crimson sea, this ocean of blood. In the distance he sees it again, the predator stalking this place. The massive shark who always takes what's his, and cares not about the goings on above the waves. Maybe it simply doesn't care, maybe it's come to grips with what the strange beings do above his home, but none of that matters now, as there is prey in its home, and it is hungry.
 
So many times James has faced this creature, and every time it ended the same. Every time his heart was gripped by fear, terror so intense he was unable to move, and just sat there, waiting to die. NO! The thought rings out clear. Fear grips his heart, terror, but something else now too. An anger, a rage building within him. He knows he's going to die, and nothing can be done about that. But he'll be damned if he just lets it happen without even trying to fight back. It comes for him again, as it always has, it's form swift and silent, it's eyes locked on him, the teeth showing, the only white things in this crimson sea. James shouts his anger, his hate, his rage at the creature, throwing fists of nothing at it, knowing it won't stop what is to come, but refusing to just accept that fate silently. The same happens as it always does, jaws open, teeth flash and bite, and he is torn asunder, flesh stripped from bone, and pain, so much pain. Pain of the teeth, and pain for what's happening above. He feels his life slipping away, his anger, his rage, his fear, his sorrow, all of it means little as the beast continues to bite down, bones being no impediment to the blades it wields. The last though he has as the waters now go dark is, "at least I tried this time".
 
In his room, James's body twitches fitfully, he cries out in his sleep, thrashes, arms lash out and back, and then calm. A form of peace comes over his sleeping form, a wistful smile comes to unconscious lips as dreamless sleep washes over him.