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carewyncromwell · 4 months

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Carewyn’s eyes grew a little smaller upon his face.

“…You thought of me?”

Something flickered at the back of Orion’s eyes – was it uncertainty? His gaze flitted back down to their hands.

“…Yes,” he murmured. “Not…constantly, but…the memory of your voice was very soothing, on the most restless nights at sea.”

~POTC AU, Act I, Part II: A Maid in Bedlam

“Carewyn…what Beckett did to me was make it so that I’m no longer able to live a normal life. What he did to me was make it so that the only life I can lead is that of a pirate – a creature of few friends, adrift on an unfriendly sea. However much I’ve been able to find independence and camaraderie on the high seas, that doesn’t mean I’ve ever been truly free. For I was never free to stop being a pirate. I was never free to stop running. I was never free…to return to the island where I first met the girl who would flit in and out of my dreams, like a songbird on the wing…see if she was happy…see if…she even still remembered me…”

Carewyn’s eyes widened.

“When I met you, I was an orphan with no name or home to call my own,” murmured Orion. “Although I’ve since crafted a name for myself…thanks to Beckett, I can never have the second. And even if I somehow ever could…that home would not be complete without you.”

~POTC AU, Act II, Part IX: Uranus and Saturn Collide

x~x~x~x

Before Orion Amari became the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea or took command of the sloop called the Artemis -- hell, even before he took on the name “Orion Amari” -- he was merely an orphan raised in a monastery who was forced, at the ripe old age of fourteen, to take on a position with the East India Trading Company as a cabin boy.

The prospect of sailing the sea on its own appealed to the boy who would one day be known as Orion Amari. He loved the thought of being free to travel the world and perhaps find his place in it. Unfortunately the boy was not truly free -- a fact that was made all too plain when he arrived at the ship that would become his place of employment, the Wicked Wench. Almost as soon as he arrived, the fourteen-year-old was yanked backward by his shirt and thrown into a straight line with the other sailors, so as to be inspected by the ship’s owner, the young master Cutler Beckett.

At that time, prior to being named a lord by the King, Cutler Beckett was but the Director for the East India Trading Company. Even at the age of 21, however, he was just as cold, cruel, and calculating as he was in his later years. And upon laying eyes on this ragamuffin boy with dark hair and black eyes who didn’t immediately straighten up and salute at the sight of him, Director Beckett decided to make an example out of him.

“Your name?” he asked very coolly.

The boy frowned up at the young white-wigged man before him. He’d never seen anyone with a face hard and blank enough to rival a marble statue’s before -- did all wealthy man have such an aura, or was it just this one?

“...I have no name of my own,” the boy responded mellowly at last. “Just one I’ve used, in place of one.”

Before the boy knew what was happening, Cutler Beckett had snatched the sword right out of the ship captain’s scabbard and used it to slash into the teenage boy’s arm.

“Ah!”

The boy’s hand flew to his arm, clutching the gash. Blood soaked the torn fabric of his shirt.

“I asked for a name, not an anecdote on your sorry circumstances,” Beckett said very coldly. “Now give me your name.”

The teenage boy choked through his pain. He stared up at Beckett, stunned, as he subconsciously took a step back, his shoulders coming up beside his head.

“They...call me Smith -- ” he mumbled.

Beckett took another swing at him -- this time, though, the boy called Smith managed to dodge: something Beckett did not take kindly to, for he shot a furious look at the ship’s captain, who grabbed the teenager from behind to prevent him from dodging again. Beckett then brought the blade around to cut deep into Smith’s left shoulder.

“Ahhh!”

Smith clutched his bleeding shoulder, crumpling in on himself as the captain released him. Beckett took the opportunity to grab the back of the boy’s shirt, yanking him forward enough to hiss in his ear.

“Well, Mr. Smith,” he said very icily, “take heed that in signing the papers to join this crew, you became one of my laymen. And given you have no family of your own to support you, let alone any title to make you valuable to me, that means that I am the one who controls your fate, future, and fortune. Your life and your livelihood are now contingent on serving my interests. Serve me well, and you’ll be rewarded -- but displease me in any way...and I will be sure to make my feelings known.”

He tossed Smith backward with such force that the boy nearly fell back-first onto the deck -- he only just barely managed to catch himself.

“I am a businessman first and foremost, Mr. Smith,” Beckett said very coolly as he turned his back and strode away. “Give me what I need to thrive -- and you shall have what you need to survive.”

~*~

The boy called Smith (or “Smithy,” to the crew he’d been assigned to) ultimately did not give Beckett what he wanted -- for ultimately, that would’ve involved helping transport a whole ship full of slaves to the Caribbean, to line the East India Trading Company’s coffers. So Smithy instead helped the enslaved people onboard spark a mutiny and then helped them sail back to Africa and freedom. Sadly their leader -- a king called Amari -- did not survive the East India Trading Company’s attack trying to recapture them, but he did give Smithy a gift, to help his people return home.

“This compass...is far more than it appears,” Amari explained, smiling weakly through his coughs. “It doesn’t point your way north -- it points you toward your greatest desire on this Earth...”

With difficulty, he placed the compass in both of Smithy’s hands, enclosing his fingers around it.

“Promise me,” Amari rasped. “Promise me -- you’ll take my people home...”

Smithy glanced at the men and women surrounding them on the deck, all of whom looked terrified and distraught. Then he turned back to Amari and nodded solemnly.

“I give you my word,” Smithy said very lowly.

Amari smiled. “...E dupe...kekere olori...”

Smithy didn’t need to know the King’s native language to know that this was a thank you. And indeed, they were the last words the King would say before he took his last breath.

~*~

True to his word, Smithy brought Amari’s people back to Africa. Unfortunately, upon taking the next ship out of Africa and ending up in Port Royal, Jamaica, the boy called Smith found himself immediately under arrest, on the orders of Director Cutler Beckett, for “theft of Company property.” The fourteen-year-old was clapped in irons, branded, and set for execution the following day. While being transported to another cell by some newly recruited soldiers, however, Smith somehow managed to break free and dashed into the town. He dodged and weaved, swinging down clotheslines and ducking around shops in a frantic attempt to get away -- his heart was beating so fast, he could hardly breathe --

In the midst of running, Smithy heard something clatter to the ground. When he whirled around, he saw that Amari’s compass had slipped out from the inside of his shirt where he’d hidden it.

His heart leaping up into his throat, Smithy doubled back to grab the compass and then set off again at a faster run than ever. It was as his hands clutched desperately at the tiny black-lidded gift, though, that Smithy remembered what Amari had said --

“It points you toward your greatest desire on this Earth.”

I want safety, Smithy thought desperately. I want a safe place -- a place to hide --

He opened up the lid on the compass, to see it pointing to the right.

Too terrified to do anything but run, Smithy actively chose to run in the direction the arrow pointed. It kept veering him right, and right, and right, until he’d nearly made a full circle. At last it finally directed him to a tiny house clustered among some shops with a swallow carved into the corner of the door. Taking no time for a second thought, Smithy barreled up to the door and opened it.

He’d been expecting the house to be empty -- but when he opened the door, to his horror, he realized it wasn’t.

Sitting in a chair made for a much taller person and sewing up a worn dress draped across her lap was a small girl, only about a year or two younger than Smithy himself, dressed in green with a red-ribboned ponytail of ginger hair poking out under her white mobcap. When she looked up, her light blue eyes went to Smithy’s face like a shot.

“Who -- ?”

She stopped at once, though, when she took in the sight of the thick iron manacles around Smithy’s wrists.

Smithy warily backed up, holding up his hands defensively in such a way that the chains attaching his manacles together rattled terribly. The girl’s eyes flew down to the “P” brand on the inside of his arm, gleaming in the candlelight.

“...Pl...please...” was all Smith could stammer.

I’m not here to harm you -- please -- please, just help me --

“Go look over there!”

“That little arsworm’s not getting away -- ”

The sound of raucous yelling in the distance made Smithy flinch. It was the soldiers -- they were catching up -- !

Smithy was about ready to give up and run for cover -- but for what reason Smithy didn’t know, the ginger-haired girl leapt to her feet, her blue eyes narrowed. Smithy was fully prepared to run, thinking she meant to attack him, but instead she darted past him and immediately shut the door, trapping him inside.

Smithy’s face lost all of its color.

“Please -- ” he stammered again weakly. His blood was pumping too loudly in his ears for him to conjure up a better response. “Please -- please -- ”

But the girl with the ginger ponytail brought a hand up to her lips.

“Shh,” she whispered, attempting a smile. “It’s all right. I’m going to help you.”

Smithy watched the girl warily as she darted over to the window to look out. She quickly shut the curtains and then dashed back over to him -- the sudden movement made him back up again, withdrawing like a startled horse.

“It’s all right,” the girl said again.

Her blue eyes flickered with hesitation. Then she brought a hand up to unbutton the back of her dress’s collar and slip a chain out from under it. Once she’d pulled the chain up and out, she showed Smithy the pendent on the end -- a solid gold medallion, emblazoned with a skull.

Smithy’s eyes widened.

“My brother stole this from our grandfather’s cabin, before we were able to escape his ship,” the girl explained. “He was a pirate too -- a much meaner one, though. Charles Cromwell is his name...don’t know if you’ve heard of him...”

Smithy had heard of him. Rumor said that Charles Cromwell’s ship, the Revenge, was the fastest ship in the Caribbean -- able to reappear and disappear like fog on the sea, with a crew more demonic than human...

“So you see, I’m not afraid of pirates,” the girl said with a wry smile, tucking her necklace back under her dress. “Especially not unarmed ones being hunted down by soldiers twice his age.”

Smithy stared at the girl as she set about rebuttoning her collar. His wariness was ebbing away slowly, just enough that he managed to regain some power over his vocal cords.

“...You...do not...”

She looked up with raised eyebrows, surprised by the sound of his voice. Perhaps it was softer than she’d been expecting.

“...You do not fear...working against the likes of the British Navy?” his whisper came out uneasily.

The girl gave a light huff. “Not a whit. I don’t like bullies, no matter who they are.”

Despite himself, Smithy found his lips turning up in a softer, almost awed smile. For such a small maiden, it seemed she had bravery akin to a small lion.

Rap, rap, rap!

A loud, aggressive knock at the door made both Smithy and the girl stiffen like cats. In an instant, the girl snatched one of Smithy’s filthy hands and pulled him across the room toward the back of the house. She led him into a tiny room, where she immediately shoved the bed there to the side so she could get at the worn rug underneath. Then she pulled the rug aside and started sliding out the loose floorboards they’d been hiding. Little by little, a tiny crawl space was revealed, about the size of a small dingy.

“In here,” she hissed. “Hide!”

The knocking at the door grew louder. Smith clutched at his own hands anxiously, for a moment too scared to move -- suddenly looking tense herself, the girl steered him down into the small cellar in the floor. Once he was inside, she slid the floorboards haphazardly back into place and quickly threw the rug over them as a loud, stern voice came from the other side of the door alongside more rapping.

“Open up! Open up in there!”

“Ah -- one moment, please!” the young girl called.

Smithy could hear the girl straining to push the bed back into place. It got a lot darker in his hiding space, as the bed was undoubtedly pushed over it to better conceal it. Then he heard the girl kick off her shoes and dart back across the floor, as if returning to the door.

“One moment more!” Smithy heard her cry, sounding almost frantic, as the knocking grew even more aggressive. “I’m nearly suitable!”

Somewhere in the distance, there was a creak of a door opening. Smithy clutched his hands tightly around the legs folded up against his chest, trying desperately to steady his lightning-fast heart rate and breathing.

“Officers?” said the girl, sounding worried. “Whatever is the matter, sirs?”

“Ahem -- begging your pardon, little lady,” said one of the officers, clearing his throat. “Is there anyone else in the home, with you?”

“Not for a few moments more, sir,” said the girl. “Until my brother arrives home...”

“There’s a fugitive that’s escaped into the area. Just over five feet tall, scrawny, dark hair and a yellow bandana -- manacles on his wrists?”

“Manacles?” the girl repeated, her voice going up a few pitches as if scared. “Is he an escaped convict?”

“Indeed he is, little miss -- wanted by the East India Trading Company itself, for acts of piracy.”

“Acts of piracy...” breathed the girl. “Oh, that’s horrid...”

She sounded very convincing. If it weren’t for how high her voice sounded, compared to the tone of voice she’d used earlier, Smithy almost would’ve believed she truly was as scared as she seemed...

His ears were pounding with pressure. Smithy found himself staring up at the ceiling, trying to visualize what was happening above him. How many soldiers were up there? He’d heard at least two voices...

“He was seen running down this block,” said one of the who-knows-how-many soldiers. “We strongly suspect he may be hiding in one of the houses or shops on this street...”

“Hiding?” said the girl, alarmed. “Oh, sirs, you won’t find him here -- I’ve been sewing in the main room all day! No one could break in here without me hearing them...”

“Yes, well...all the same, we should make sure...the boy’s awfully sneaky...”

“I don’t suppose you’d agree to let us search the premises? Just to ensure your safety, miss?”

There was a pause. Smith clasped his hands more tightly together.

“...Well, I...I suppose...” the girl said reluctantly. “But I’m afraid there’s not much to search...ours is but a very small house...”

Footsteps echoed through the room next door. Smith hunched in on himself subconsciously, cringing as furniture was shifted over and the clopping of boots slapped across the floor.

“Nothing over here.”

“Nor here.”

“The window’s clear -- no sign of any forced entry...”

“Check the other rooms.”

Footsteps in the next room. Footsteps in the same room. Smith’s heart was in his throat hearing a set of footsteps clap closer to his hiding spot. His hands were drenched with sweat and he squeezed them and his eyes tight, trying hard to slow his breathing.

Focus on the smells -- focus on the space -- focus on your breaths. In. And out. In -- and out. Peace -- calm --

They had to hear him. They had to hear him breathing so hard and his heart beating so loudly -- they were deafening, in his own ears, so surely the whole world heard them just as loudly --

Peace -- calm -- peace -- calm --

There was some scurrying outside. Another unfamiliar voice suddenly rang out from a distance, so far away Smithy couldn’t make his words out. The footsteps over Smithy’s head seemed to retreat.

“Nothing in here, sir,” the soldier’s voice rang out a ways away, likely closer to the door frame.

Smithy felt close to collapsing in on himself in relief.

“Begging your pardon, sir -- just here searching for a fugitive,” said the soldier formally.

“A fugitive?” said a dynamic, but oddly sharp voice. “And what makes you think that my little sister would be any sort of criminal?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all!” said one of the other soldiers. There was a note of intimidation in his voice.

“W-we’re just trying to do our duty, sir!”

“Well, see that you do it in a home that doesn’t contain my sister only half-dressed in it,” spat the voice.

Smithy gave a double-blink. “Only half-dressed?” But the girl had been fully dressed when he’d seen her...

Of course, Smithy realized. She did it to explain why she hadn’t come to the door right away. Not only that, but seeing any lady only half-dressed, even a young one, would throw any man of honor off-guard, and would make her look all the more fragile and innocent.

This girl really was clever.

“It’s all right, Jacob,” the girl said reassuringly. “They were just looking for a pirate spotted in the area. But he’s not here -- so now they can check in with the neighbors and make sure they’re safe.”

“Ahem...yes,” said one of the soldiers stiffly. “Sorry to disturb you, little lady...sir. About face, men -- move out!”

With this, the soldiers’ footsteps faded away. A moment later, the front door closed, and Smithy at last felt like he could breathe half-way normally.

They were gone...they were gone. They didn’t find him. They didn’t hear him -- they had gone...

He was safe.

Smithy closed his eyes and bowed his head, repeating this phrase to himself several more times over as he finally managed to slow his breathing.

You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.

“...going, Wyn?”

There was a rustling overhead. Smithy opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling, tensing at once as he heard the bed and rug being moved again. Fortunately, when the floorboards were peeled off, he was faced with the ginger-haired girl from before, who looked very pale, but was smiling fully. Right behind her was a young man of about twenty with a ponytail of curly black-brown hair and eyes just like the girl’s, who looked completely taken back.

“What in the -- ?”

“It’s all right,” the girl said to Smithy. “You can come out now.”

She still had her shoes and stockings off, but she’d clearly retied the bow in her hair (it was noticeably crooked) and tossed a shawl off her shoulders onto the bed so that it’d be easier to hold her hands out to the boy.

Smithy stared up at her, his black eyes running over her face and hands -- there was some trace of blood staining her palm.

“Are you hurt?” Smithy asked, concerned.

The girl blinked, before she realized he was staring at her hand.

“Oh...no...this is your blood, not mine.”

She indicated Smithy’s right arm -- a bullet had grazed it in his initial escape, and it was indeed now bleeding. Even now, looking at the floor more closely, Smithy could see some small blood stains on the floor.

“...I see,” said Smithy. “Forgive me...that must’ve been hard to hide from the soldiers...”

The girl shook her head. “I let them see it. Let the older officers with sisters or daughters think I was changing clothes for personal reasons.”

Smithy blinked, taken aback. Then his face broke into another impressed smile.

“...It seems with your lion’s courage, small maiden, you also have a fox’s guile.”

Carewyn's blue eyes sparkled brightly as she smiled, charmed by the witty compliment.

“Here -- let me help you out of there,” she said kindly. She extended her hands again.

With some difficulty, Smithy took her hands and hoisted himself up and out of the cellar. His dark eyes flitting to the girl’s older brother (who was watching him warily), Smithy tried to wrap his wounded arm a bit more in his sleeve, to prevent the blood from spilling further.

“I thank you for your kindness,” he told the girl quietly, “but I dare not infringe on it more. I must go...”

The girl looked incredibly upset.

“You’re not going anywhere in that state!” she argued. “You’re still locked up in those manacles! And you need bandages on those wounds, or they’re going to get worse. Not to mention it looks like you haven’t eaten anything substantial in days -- ”

“We ran out of rations outside of hard tack a week ago,” Smithy said airily. “But all the same...I cannot impose further hardship on you or your brother, with my continued presence...”

“If you wish to spare me further hardship, let me use a proper lockpick on those chains and feed and bandage you properly -- then you can stay the night to regain your strength,” the girl shot back. “You’re in no fit state to get much of anywhere, as you are now.”

Smithy opened his mouth to speak, but she shut him down.

“You’re staying the night, and that’s that,” she said very firmly.

~*~

This night -- the one in which Carewyn Cromwell fed, bandaged, and sung to sleep the boy who would soon take on the name Captain Orion Amari -- ended up changing both of their lives. One could argue that it was the night the boy Smithy lost his heart -- even if Orion himself would’ve never gone that far, he never forgot the little red-haired maid of Port Royal. If nothing else, she appeared in more than a few of his dreams over the years.

Some of those nighttime fantasies where Orion found his childhood savior again had “realistic” endings, such as Carewyn happily married and mothering several children and/or not remembering Orion, but wishing him well anyway. One particularly unpleasant dream during a storm featured Orion and his crew plundering a ship with Carewyn and her new family on board and them being completely terrified of him. But the ones Orion would dwell on way more than he sometimes felt he should’ve were those with overly romantic trajectories -- dreams where Carewyn recognized the pirate captain at once as the boy she’d saved all those years ago...dreams where Orion returned to Port Royal, only to find that Carewyn had grown up into the town beauty, refusing to wed none but the boy who’d captured her heart so long ago. Dreams where Orion would follow Carewyn’s song through darkness until he found her singing alone in the night and they would embrace and talk as if no time had passed at all...

Orion Amari couldn’t have envisioned just how he and Carewyn Cromwell would meet again or the epic adventure that their unlikely reunion would spark. And as it turned out, the idea of Carewyn harboring the same fondness he’d nurtured in his heart for so long was not as fanciful as Orion might’ve believed.

#hphm #hogwarts mystery #potc au #my writing #my art #aesthetic #moodboard #orion amari #carewyn cromwell #jacob cromwell #I've actually had this 85% finished in my drafts for a while now XD #figured since I'm on a POTC au binge I may as well finish it at last #sorry orion you might claim you never held a torch for carewyn in this canon but yeah right you really kind of did #fortunately carewyn never really forgot you either and was truly just as fond of you even if you were so anxious so much of the time #you're witty and sensitive and soft-spoken and sweet and that's nice :)

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