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birrdies · 6 months

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the art of ship burning

2.6k, smalletho / boat boys ficlet set in my pirate au (reading the original fic is not required to understand this)

If you asked Joel, ship-burning was more an artform than a science. The matters weren’t as simple as a few dry pieces of timber and a spark to light them. To Etho, those matters probably extended into levels of moisture and the direction of the wind. However the objectively correct and all-around better matters— Joel’s matters— lay entirely with one thing: presentation.

Swords clashed on the deck. Streaks of silver cut through the midnight black sky, rivaling that of the moonlight hidden behind a thick weave of clouds. The ocean roared beneath the hull, waves thrashing the side of the ship this way and that— a storm was coming. The electricity danced in the air, teasing and coy. Gods, what a lovely night for a ship to burn.

Joel threw himself at the starboard side of the military ship, climbing up onto the rusted deadeyes to reach the shrouds. His heart hammered in his chest as the song of gnashing blades and pained yells accompanied his great climb. His sweaty palms gripped tight onto the rope, but with one violent lurch of the ship to the right, Joel lost his grip. Terror swept through him, a coldness sinking in his gut like he’d swallowed a cannonball. Perhaps it was his heart.

His legs, tangled in the rungs of the shroud, caught his fall. He dangled upside down from the ropes, all the blood rushing to his head. The frantic beat of his heart pulsed in his temples. Below him the deck’s action continued to brew. In the center of it all: Etho. He fought wildly through a crowd of butter-spined men who, by uniform alone, could be considered naval officers. They came for him at all angles, but whereas the King’s men relied on brute force, Etho relied on something far stronger: strategy.

He weaved between jabbing elbows and sweeping swords, slipping through gaps in the onslaught of soldiers. One officer lunged with his blade aimed at Etho’s chest. He side-stepped it and grabbed the officer by the sword-wielding arm, pulling the both of them backwards until the officer’s blade pierced one of his own men in the shoulder. Without missing a beat, he disappeared from the space between them. They might’ve out-numbered him about a dozen to one, but to keep Etho locked down was like trying to bottle lightning up in a jar. You simply couldn’t, and you looked ridiculously stupid if you tried.

Joel’s vision grew spotty. He’d been dangling too long, his head overfilled with blood and his legs tingling and numb. He heaved himself upright, gripping the shroud and hauling himself the rest of the way upright. Heat rushed down his spine, through his limbs, as the blood returned to its rightful place. He waited for the spots in his vision to clear before continuing his climb up the shrouds.

Usually, Joel liked to let things simmer for a bit before bringing them to a boil. It was nice to savor their targets’ panic, to watch them scurry across the decks like headless chickens as the water filled up to their ankles and they hauled away every valuable thing they had to their name. But there were more of these peacocks than either of them had anticipated; Etho was good, but he was only so good. If Joel didn’t speed things up he wasn’t sure he’d still have a partner to split his earnings with at the end of the day. Good for his wallet, but bad for the ship. Upkeep and raids were much easier when you had someone to split it up with.

So, Joel reached the top of the shrouds, swaying back and forth with the rock of the sea and wind alike. He dug around in his pockets for his flint-and-steel. It was powerful enough to take down the thickest of sails. Tongue stuck between his teeth, Joel leaned out as far as his arms could stretch, sparking the flint-and-steel inches beneath the fabric of one of two large, layered sails. It caught instantly, orange and gold flecks turning into small yet promising flames. A flash of heat kissed Joel’s face; he grinned madly.

If they thought those ridiculously oversized crimson sails stood out, stark and proud, then they weren’t ready for the show in store.

The flames consumed the sail stitch by stitch, fiber by fiber. Joel climbed down the shrouds to keep himself out of the fire’s reach but kept close enough to feel the heat of it. He should’ve quickly moved on to the other sail, to the ratline, to the sacs of flour and fruit on deck— anything to get the flames to catch quicker and get him and Etho both out of there. But don’t blame him for wanting to admire his own handiwork. They didn’t get to do this often, especially not against a military ship. This was a special treat. Etho would be fine for an extra second. Or ten.

The skin of his hands buzzed. The ropes under him shook, a rattle carried down the entire length of the shrouds up towards the nest. At the base, a broad-chested soldier climbed the dead-eyes and climbed after Joel. He was only a few feet away, a sword in his hand.

“You’ve got to be bloody kidding,” Joel groaned.

The flames quickly ate a hole in the center of the front-most sail. The further they traveled, the closer they got to the central mast. They’d start eating away at it any second now. Once the mast gave out, there would be nowhere else to go. Joel needed to get off of the shrouds, preferably before that happened and he got crushed in a mess of wood and embers.

If he got lucky, the Gods would quit toying with him and let the storm break. If lightning struck, it’d either knock this guy off and give Joel some breathing room, or it would strike the ship and fan the flames that much faster. The latter ensured almost certain death, but Joel couldn’t exactly afford to be picky. He’d rather die at the hands of some spiteful god than a military peacock who wore wigs at dinner parties for fun.

But said peacock had him cornered. There was nowhere for Joel to climb except for up, closer to the flames where the fire would burn him and the smoke would suffocate him. He had not one weapon on him aside from the fire-starter, and Joel wasn’t so stupid as to burn his literal life-line while he was still on it, suspended forty feet in the air above solid wood and thrashing blades. That was probably second on his list of least preferred ways to die.

The soldier growled and reached for Joel’s ankles. He kicked like mad, hoping he could at least crunch a bone or two under the force of his steel-heeled boots. But the soldier was tougher than he looked. He took each kick without so much as a wince, and in a second he grabbed Joel’s ankle with one hand. He balanced precariously on the shroud, one hand dragging Joel down and the other raising his sword.

“Shit!” Joel threw an arm up to shield his face from the worst bite of the blade.

But it never came. Instead, a much sweeter sound: the soldier’s cry of pain as a bolt whizzed through the air and buried in his neck. Blood sputtered from around the arrowhead; he immediately lost his grip on Joel and the shroud alike, rolling over. With him, the shroud twisted, but this time Joel was ready.

He hung on tight as it flipped over like a tangled hammock, dumping the soldier’s body unceremoniously onto the now still deck beneath. Several bodies were either dead or unconscious, stacked unceremoniously in piles where they’d fallen. The rest were either tied at the wrists and ankles or cowering with their foreheads pressed into the wood like they really thought any sort of god was helping them.

Beneath him, Etho held a crossbow still aimed at the sky. His cheek bled sluggishly.

“You sure took your sweet time up there, Joel!” he jeered, breathing heavy. “Should I grab you a pillow? Rub your feet?”

“Shut up, Etho!” Joel yelled from where he dangled overhead. “The bloody thing’s already lit, we just need to— woah, woah, watch out!”

It was close. Etho spun right as a cutlass swept through the air over his head. But not close enough. Not fast enough— a blade caught Etho in the shoulder. His pained sound was quiet, but to Joel it might as well have sounded like cannonfire. Etho staggered as the general who had snuck up on him reached for the back of Etho’s collar, hauling him back.

The cannonball he’d swallowed turned into hot, active steel. Shot directly out of a cannon, Joel slid down and leapt from the shrouds when he was confident he was low enough not to break both his ankles.

“Nope, no you don't!” His pulse pounded furiously in his ears as he snatched a sword from one of the bodies at his feet. All it took was a single lunge. A dangerous, incredibly stupid and risky lunge. But a successful one nonetheless. Even with Etho held up between them like a human shield, Joel slipped the tip of the sword in the gap under Etho’s armpit, burying the sword in the general’s gut.

He fell into a heap of limbs on the deck, blood bubbling up between his fingers where he clutched at the wound in the center of his stomach. Joel sneered and kicked him as far away from Etho as he could manage. Which wasn’t very far, he was a lot bigger than Joel, but it was about the principle of the thing.

Furious, sweaty, and buzzing with fear, Joel whirled on Etho. “You bloody idiot, what were you thinking, turning your back?! Let me see—”

Etho swatted his hand away. With the other hand he clutched at the wound. “Next time I’ll let someone poke you full of holes, then,” he said, voice strained.

It bled from the junction where his neck met his shoulder. Blood slicked his hands and dripped down the front of his white shirt, but he wasn’t bleeding as much as the guy he’d shot did. It was bleeding, but it wasn’t oh my gods I’m going to die bleeding. Which was a comfort to Joel, no matter how little. He’d be hurt and whiny, but he wasn’t going to die. He could deal with that.

Joel tilted his head back to admire his handiwork. The red sails blazed a brilliant gold and orange. Embers and ash rained from the sky, a storm of their own making. They didn’t need any gods. The ship went up like a torch, more beautiful than any damn lighthouse or painted sail on the seven seas. It was a mark to be made permanently in the way of ash. It won’t be faded by time or bleached by the sun. Joel’s grin grew wickedly sharp.

He put a hand on Etho’s back. “Let’s get the goods and get the bloody hell out of here.”

***

“Ow! Joel, careful!”

“How can I be careful if you aren’t holding blummin’ still?” Joel snapped, grabbing the back of Etho’s neck forcefully. He sat on a stool behind Etho, armed with a rag doused in drinking alcohol. He examined the wound that bit the worst into the back of his shoulder. It wasn’t as deep as Joel initially feared. The wound’s edges were puffy and oozy (everything Joel detested), but the worst of the bleeding finally stopped. Not that that spared Joel’s sleeves any; he looked forward to burning his shirt as soon as Etho was bandaged and put to bed.

He kept one hand on the back of Etho’s neck while the other dabbed at the edges of the wound. Etho shivered with each touch, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end every time so much as Joel shifted his hold. Cold air wafted through the ship's calm hull, the steady rise and fall of the sea like a lullaby. A gift for their hard work today (as if the gold and diamonds hadn’t been enough).

“It stings,” Etho complained.

Joel sighed. “You’re the one who told me to do this part.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, but it still hurts.”

He was a great partner to fare the seas with, but by the gods, Etho could be bloody annoying when he wanted to be. How could a man who was capable of cutting down an entire naval crew be capable of complaining so much? Little about him made sense, and while Joel gave up long ago trying to piece him together, it didn’t stop the puzzle from grating on his nerves often.

With a groan, Joel draped the rag over his thigh, feet tapping a restless, agitated beat on the floorboards. “Alright, it’s clean or whatever,” he said, then hesitated. “… You don’t need stitches, do you? I am not poking a bloody needle through your skin.”

“If I don’t want it to scar, probably,” Etho said, and Joel understood what he meant.

Etho was no stranger to scars. It wasn’t the first time Joel had seen him without a shirt, but it was the first time seeing things this close— close enough to touch. His back was littered with them. Thin cross-hatching lines covered the expanse of his back, some silvery and pale with their age, from a time before Joel, others still red and fresh. As fresh as scars come, at least. A gash on the right flank, a spearhead Etho caught with his body during a rowdy raid on a clan of fishermen. A long, straight cut down the length of his spine. A burn scar to his left shoulder. That one was Joel’s fault — don’t ask.

What was one more to the collection? Besides, Joel wasn’t going to complain about not having to sew Etho’s skin shut. Instead he, without complaint, reached for a roll of bandages he had set out on the table. He called it a roll of bandages, but really it was one of the finer shirts they’d stolen among one of the officer’s luggage cut up into long, thin strips. He was proud of himself for the innovation, even if Etho had pursed his lips at the side of it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Etho would have to just get over it.

As he wound the makeshift bandages around Etho’s shoulder and under his armpit, Joel held his breath. Etho didn’t say anything, only lightly wincing when Joel lifted his arm too quickly, which happened every time he needed to reach under the wrap the bandages around. But he endured it without much more complaint. Suddenly, Joel wished he would. Just so he didn’t have to be the one to start talking.

“That was bloody stupid what you did,” he said. “I’ll kill you if you die pulling something like that again.”

“No promises,” Etho said, and by gods Joel could hear the mischievous smirk in his voice. “Someone’s gotta watch your back, Joel.”

Joel scoffed and tucked the edge of the bandage into itself, patting them down. This time Etho groaned and recoiled from his touch, protecting his shoulder with his hands as best he could. “Now you’re just being mean.”

“I’ll stop being mean when you stop being useless and annoying,” Joel said, quickly climbing to his feet and rummaging around in the armoire (another fixture they’d stolen on a previous raid, a rare and expensive mahogany piece that both Joel and Etho found incredibly ugly but both refusing to be the first to admit it). He pulled out a shirt, wadded it up, and tossed it against Etho’s bare chest.

“Cover up before I throw up,” he said. “More ships to burn, more stuff to steal. Up and at ‘em.”

#i wrote this in a feverish haze after worm brought upon a boat boys relapse #thank you worm #birdie writes #smalletho #boat boys #smalletho fic #double life #double life fic #secret life #hermitshipping #<- tagging just in case

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