The salt spray stings his eyes.

He stands on the deck of the ship, looking out over the ocean, watching the waves crash against the hull of the ship. The first signs of a storm are there, in the black clouds looming above his very head. Soon, fresh water will fall. Soon, the sea will be whipped up into a frenzy that threatens to break apart the very wood beneath his feet.

If only freedom were that simple to obtain.

The Captain turns from the edge, his indigo hair whipping round his face as he surveys the men running back and forth across the deck. Loud, caustic shouts reach his ears. Once so used to hearing nothing but dulcet tones and soft melodies, the man standing on the wooden deck now is a far cry from the Prince once wreathed in silks and expensive jewels. Now, the only softness that remains on his body comes from the clothing he wears.

He moves in a slow, liquid dance, his body flowing across the deck with ease. A clasp to a shoulder here, a whispered word there. A shouted instruction to those up in the masts as they prepare to sail into the very depths of the storm.

They meet it like an army charging into war. The very violence of the storm hits like a slap in the face. The Captain's hair streams behind him and he closes his eyes for just an instant, breathing in the familiar taste of salt and despair that always lingers in the air of one of these storms.

The boom of a cannon and his eyes fly open, catching sight of the other ship caught in the storm. Its sails, unfurled like a banner of white, are torn rags, fluttering desperately in a wind that's too strong for them to hold their shape.

The burst from the cannon rips through the deck below him, but he pays it no heed. The splintered wood will mend in an instance. Fires will burn themselves to ash before he can even draw breath to shout a warning. There is no danger here. Not to him. Not to the ship. Not to the crew.

But for the other ship...

His eyes narrow as they draw alongside the other ship. It's a chaotic frenzy of movement. Men with tatterd clothing and weapons coated in rusted blood have a group tied to the mast. Even from where he stands, the Captain can see many of the prisoners are bleeding from mortal wounds. At least two are already limp, only upright because of how tight the rope is around their midsections.

"Captain. I can get a clear shot."

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see him. Caspan. His bowman. Tall and gaunt, dressed in black with red curls pulled back with a simple tie, the man has never been known to miss.

The Captain opens his mouth, not taking his eyes from the bound prisoners on the other ship.

And then there's a movement. A small, slim figure...not much bigger than a child...dances from the shadows. The Captain sees a head of dishevelled black hair and catches a glimpse of green before a glint of silver slices through the air.

The pirate cries out and falls to the deck.

The Captain bares his teeth in an expression that's far from a smile and turns to Caspan, giving a sharp nod. "Now."

On the other ship, the pirates' attention turn to the small figure, who dodges an attempt at a grab. The silver flashes again, and one falls back cursing, blood spurting bright and red, a sudden shock of colour in the darkness.

Caspan looses an arrow, and at the same time, the Captain leaps across the gap between the two ships, landing with a dull thump that's drowned out by the hum of the arrow, and another body falling to the deck.

A sharp cry from one of the other pirates is suddenly and abruptly cut off as the Captain's blade slices deep into his throat, sending a fountain of thick crimson fluid spilling to the wood underfoot.

As the Captain spins to face another threat, the storm hits. Rain pours from the heavens, lashing against people and ships alike. Underneath the Captain's feet, the deck grows slippery and treacherous...but he moves with a dangerous, fluid grace, ducking swings and flicking his blade in a deadly dance that ends with his partners on the ground, never to rise again.

For a heartbeat, he pauses, risking a look around. He's not naive enough to believe the threat is over, but he's moved too fast for the alarm to be raised...enough time to get help to the survivors.

"You took your time."

The voice is small, carrying an edge that isn't quite fear...isn't quite anger...but something in between. The Captain's eyes are drawn to the small, slight figure of the shadow who stood against the pirates, now desperately working to free the sailors from their bonds.

The Captain walks over, gaze sliding over the trapped sailors before his hand comes to rest on the shoulder of the small figure. Not a child...as sea-green eyes look up at him from under a wealth of dishevelled black hair, he can see that who he thought was a child is older...closer to nineteen, perhaps twenty.

Something jars in the Captain's chest as he stares at the boy. A flash of recognition; a weight that comes from a centuries-old ache that has never healed. One hand reaches out, fingers trembling just slightly, to brush a lock of dark hair from that forehead creased in a frown.

The boy twists away before the Captain's fingers can touch him. His small dagger slices its way through the ropes that bind the sailors to the mast.

"Wait." The Captain lifts a hand to halt the movement.

It's too late, and the bodies of the sailors crash to the deck...a noise that echoes far louder than the earlier falling pirates.

A shout erupts from below deck, and the Captain doesn't waste any time. He wraps an arm around the boy's waist and pulls him up easily against his chest. "Hold on tight!" he orders, before sheathing his sword and then turning. He runs and leaps onto the deck of his own ship, focused on only two things: the need to get away from the ship of death, and the feel of thin arms wrapped around his neck, clinging on for dear life.

As soon as his feet hit the deck of his own ship, his crew is moving. The Captain knows what the pirates on the other ship will see: the faint, shimmering outline of a ship...transparent as mist...as it disappears into the very depths of the storm. He carefully places the boy on his feet and brushes a strand of damp indigo hair out of his eyes as he looks down into that sea-green gaze that pierces something inside him. "Welcome to your new home." He holds a hand out in an almost-forgotten act of courtesy. "I am the Captain of this cursed vessel. What is your name?"

"Aqua." The boy peers up at him, then looks around...taking in the crew moving back and forth across the deck, making hardly any noise. "What is this ship called?" he asks.

The Captain gives a faint smile that doesn't reach his eyes, even as he answers in a grave tone. "That depends on who you speak to. Some call this the Ship of the Damned. Others the Ship of the Dead." His eyes focus on the waters ahead of them and he whispers, almost under his breath, "I prefer the Ship of Redemption."

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls...and for the first time in a thousand years, the Captain feels hope leap in his chest.