Rain

Three loud knocks thundered through the small town house's door with the same fervor as the sky above. Thick sheets of unforgiving rain formed rivulets through the cobblestone streets. Wesley's eyes were shielded from the downpour by the brim of a black leather tricorn, but the rest of him had been thoroughly soaked through within moments of venturing out of his hole.

A few heavy footsteps from within warned the merchant moments before latches were flipped and the door was swung inward with an ungodly screech.

"Can I help you?" A familiar voice asked.

The merchant slowly lifted his head, revealing more of his face from beneath the tricorn. His eyes were dull, his features thin, and his heart numb, as they had been for over a month, but in that moment, Wesley felt a stir of relief in his chest at the sight of Castor Williams.

"By the gods," his former first mate breathed with wide brown eyes. "Captain?"

He didn't respond verbally. In truth, he hadn't spoken much since leaving the island. It didn't matter though, as Castor was already ushering him inside and out of the rain.

"Gods, we thought you were dead."

Wesley wasn't so sure that he wasn't anymore.

The merchant soon found a blanket over his shoulders and a warm mug of bitter, but welcomed coffee in his hands as he and his oldest friend sat near the hearth. Wesley stared into the flames numbly, and Castor seemed to accept that his former captain would not speak until he was ready to.

Castor couldn't imagine the horrors his friend had endured aboard the Blight of the Sea, but judging by the way he was acting and by the gauntness of his once healthy face, it had to have been hell.

After a long, thick period of silence, Wesley finally found the will to break it.

"The artifact."

"It's safe," Castor responded after a moment. A nervous half chuckle slipped past his lips as he continued with, "Thank the gods they didn't find it during the raid."

"Where is it now?"

"We tried to deliver it to the buyer once we finally limped into port, but she wouldn't take it. Said she would accept it from no hand but your own."

The edges of Wesley's lips tugged downward ever so slightly.

"We told her you were dead, but she wasn't convinced. She said you'd be back and that she'd come for it when the time was right. I thought she was crazy, but. . . here you are."

"Give it to me."

Castor sighed briefly before getting up and walking out of the room. Moments later, he returned with the piece in question dangling at the end of a long leather chord. Wesley eyed the key as Castor laid it in his palm. It was made entirely of bone. Ornately crafted details spun the ivory into a literal skeleton key. Ancient runes from a language long dead were carved into its surface. It was beautiful, but haunting.

Wesley had had his suspicions about it before setting sail from Estoria, but after spending so much time with Valentine, he was sure now that it held magic. He could feel it in his bones, and in the stale air that pulsed almost imperceptive around the object.

The merchant donned the key as a necklace, tucking it into his shirt to conceal it.

"What will you do now?" Castor asked curiously as Wesley stood and shrugged on his long leather coat again.

"Wait," he said with finality, throwing one last glance at his friend before slipping back into the sobbing night.

----+------+----

Three months later.

Wesley listened halfheartedly to the drunken laughter of the other men in the tavern as he stared into the cup of ale that occupied his hands. He had found himself in the establishment more often than not as of late, for drowning his sorrows in spirits was much more appealing than pondering how the world had been drained of its color and all food had lost its taste.

He was a shell of his former self: hollow on the inside and brittle on the outside. He hadn't thought Valentine's death would have such a lasting effect on him. At one point, he had even thought he would celebrate it, but now he felt as though he was wasting away in a cloud of gloom and heartache.

Wesley glanced up from his ale and lazily surveyed the room. A good majority of the patrons were local, and he recognized them from his previous visits. Good men, the lot of them, and many he knew from the docks. Others were travelers and merchants who had happened upon the tavern while their ships slept in the harbor. These faces were the more interesting to observe. Many of the visitors were from far away places, with fascinatingly foreign features and equally as fascinating stories to overhear.

Wesley was content with the fact that he went unnoticed by most of the strangers. It wasn't very often that any of them dared to bother him. He gave them no reason to. However, when his gaze swept over one of the tables, he caught a pair of lavender eyes already on him. His heart stuttered, for at first he had thought it was Valentine. But Valentine was dead, and the eyes, upon further inspection, belonged to a woman.

She was a curious creature, he decided. Her hair was cropped close to her head, but the longest strands revealed tight ringlets of curls. It was a warm, healthy shade of black that complimented her caramel skin nicely. She was beautiful, unarguably, and as she stood and sauntered toward him, Wesley noticed more of her features. Swirls of moonlight painted select strands of her hair and age etched a tiredness into her skin. She had the grace of a queen and the gauntness of a widow. There was something about her that screamed dangerous to Wesley, but he found it difficult to look away.

"Are you the one they call Wesley Roberts?" she asked once she was beside him. Her voice was like honey: sweet and smooth on the surface, but a sticky trap should he fall too far into it.

"Depends. Who's asking?" he forced his gaze to his undrunk ale so he would not have to look into those eyes.

She did not answer his question. Instead she said, "I believe we can help each other."

He waited patiently for her to continue, neither confirming nor denying his interest in her words.

"My son," she said cryptically. "I believe you know him."

Wesley turned his head and looked at her again. It was plain as day that she was referring to Valentine. If the unique eyes hadn't been a dead giveaway, her other features would've been. She was practically Valentine in the female form with a few decades more of stress starting to show as lines on her otherwise perfect face.

Wesley finally took a swig of his ale, and after swallowing the fiery liquid, he set down his cup and said, "I'm sorry. You must be mistaken. I can't help you."

Valentine was dead. If she didn't know that yet, he did not want to be the one to tell her.

Her next words told him he wouldn't have to be.

"I think I know a way to bring him back."

It took a moment for the words to register since Wesley's mind kept tripping over them. By the time he made sense of them, he realized his body had gone completely still. For the first time in a long time, he felt real emotions igniting within him. Hope. Fear. Anger. Doubt.

As his eyes met hers, she continued.

"I just need two more things: that key around your neck," she paused, eyeing where the object was hidden beneath his shirt before flicking her eyes up to his face again, "and you."

The silence between them hung heavily as Wesley's mind raced again. He was sure he was dreaming, because this couldn't possibly be his reality. But somehow, he knew it was real. Everything was so vivid, and he knew he wouldn't have been able to conjure such a scenario in his subconscious mind.

"Say I believe you," Wesley said in a low tone so the other patrons couldn't overhear their conversation. "What warrants bringing a black hearted killer back from the dead?"

"There's a storm brewing, Mr. Roberts. The Aurelian King has gone completely mad over the last few years. He's started enslaving every magic wielder he can find so that he may mobilize his armies in a war against the surface."

"And what does Valentine have to do with that?" Wesley asked, keeping his emotions behind a stony front. The news of a possible war was deeply troubling, he had to admit, but he failed to see where resurrecting a dead pirate was of any consequence to it.

"I don't know what he told you before he died, but Valentine was deeply loved by the people of Aurelia. He was kind to them, and he helped those in need whenever he could. Compared to the other royals, he was a beacon of light and hope. There were many factions of people who wished for him to rule instead of his brother, despite not having a legitimate claim to the throne. Many still hold that sentiment, and I believe that if we can bring Valentine back, we will have all we need to mobilize a rebellion against the corrupt monarchy. Valentine is the key for stopping this plight before it ever reaches your shores."

Wesley's eyes flitted back and forth across the bar top as he thought. Was there really a way? A way to get him back? And if there was, would he come back the same? He doubted it. This was probably just a cruel way of getting his hopes up. There was no way it could work. He'd end up disappointed and twice as miserable as he already was. He didn't want that. Though it pained him to admit, the world was better off without Valentine, even if Wesley's world didn't feel like it.

"I'm sorry," he bit out eventually, albeit a bit forcefully. "That's not the man I knew."

A disapproving frown stretched across the woman's lips and Wesley suddenly got the distinct impression that she was a coiled viper getting ready to strike.

The unnamed woman slammed enough coins down on the bar top to more than cover their drinks and leaned forward. With a scarily calm voice she said, "If you would ever like to see your mate again, I suggest you come with me right now."

Wesley felt extremely threatened, and as he watched her leave the tavern in a whoosh of skirts, he regained his ability to breathe. He sat, blinking stupidly at his unfinished drink for a moment before throwing it back in one long chug and slamming the empty mug back down on the table.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath before following after the crazy lady that looked like his pirate.

Gods forgive me.

End of Part One

----+------+----

A/N

Tell me what you think of this story so far! Favorite parts? Least favorite? Favorite character?

Anything you want to see out of a Part Two?

Until Thursday,

-Mora Montgomery