The Death of Ashley Wednesday

The rats in the bilge were one thing. Having a rabid rodent leap into my face and nip and bite me unconscious, my own slip and fall bouncing my skull neatly off the deck below, was plenty to make most re-access the day. In all honesty, after a long night of drinking and betting and watching our large friend Murdoch fight, it wouldn't have been the worst death. Maybe un-attractive, but at least.... unique. But, alas, the dwarf with the gods - Callum? - he saw fit to raise my fading spirit to fight once more.
 
It was the second lethal blow that truly wounded me.
 
As the group hurried Callum and Brom to the infirmary, Piebald Pete and I were ordered up to the empty top-deck to dispose of the rat gore overboard. I had my eye on the oddly unbothered fellow. As we tossed the battle-waste off one side of the boat, I could not help shake the ilk something was off. Too bad it wasn't him.
 
Mr. Starky's blade slid neatly between my ribs from behind. The pain of piercing was missable - probably a well sharpened blade - but the warm watery feeling of blood filling my lungs was unmistakable. It was almost comforting the way he pulled me back and let the blade do it's work. Maybe this death would be a release from the for-ever pain of knowing mother would never be the same, of grandad's disapproved face and the memory of the tavern in ash. Maybe I was done here.
 
He whispered something about a governor's son and assassins and dove off the side. I think Piebald called for help. I remember other things.
 
I remember Bart, big ol' Bart always passing trinkets and treasures from his time on the sea. Kind ol' Bart sharing the best stories, better than most any that came through the bar to run their mouths and yammer away. I remember coming home after 18 months at sea. The eagerness of signing on for a 6 month extension without so much as a letter home. The shame of seeing the wet ash of the Swallow where once a bar stood. Bart's hand on my shoulder and the lie that things would be right.
 
I felt chest compressions and gurgled blood back in the present, but asleep in the space between life and lack thereof I remembered whiskey before I had the taste for it. The memory of drunk off of three beers and not needing a still to myself to fully feel wasted. Bart. Sweet, kind-hearted Bart calling me by my full name as he tried to shake me free of my stupor. The feeling of cracking his two front teeth loose with my mug. The satisfaction.
 
Somewhere on the Vixen I cough blood and 'Umgalla carries me to the infirmary alongside the dwarves. But I am not there. I am in a prison boat. I am beating a man and hearing Bart's voice say "Ashley, Ashley!" and I am seeing fear in the man's eyes. And then I can't see his eyes. Only gore, only blood.
 
The doctor does her best, spells are cast, and cuts are stitched as I spasm. I am held down on the deck spilling more blood than most have seen. I wake in hell. The very air sears my skin and a devil sits on my chest. He weighs more than he should, and I am held down by guilt and fear and pain. He pulls an iron coin from my chest and I scream. He says "not yet" and I claw at him to let me be. Let me die. But he wont.
 
I cough the last of the blood in my throat onto Card's chest and beg for him to finish me, to kill me good and final. He does not, and I pass out from the pain I've been ignoring. In my sleep I hear an old man whistle, and I feel a devil on my chest.