Chapter Text
The wooden plank creaks underneath Zhao's weight, the noise an undercurrent to the loud, booming voice that calls out to him from beyond the blindfold.
“If only your backbone was as strong as your balance!”
Zhao can hear the Liumang crew’s laughter over the crashing waves below. The ship sways with the ocean, the plank wobbles, and Zhao frantically adjusts his stance to keep himself from plummeting into the depths.
“Then perhaps you wouldn't be in this precarious position!”
They all laugh, again, and the ship rocks, again, and for the first time in his entire life, Captain Zhao Tianyou feels seasick.
“You’re a traitorous f*cking dog, Mabuchi!” He spits back out in the direction of the voice, into the dark. “All of you– you're all bastard dogs!”
The plank shudders with the impact of a heavy boot, Mabuchi stomping atop the board to get it to waver erratically, but Zhao keeps his balance–barely.
“Now what are you hoping to achieve, sayin’ hurtful things like that?”
The ropes are tight around him, biting into his now-bare wrists, hands and body stripped of most of his gold and silver jewellery, the once-captain of the Liumang beaten, bloody, bound and blind at the end of the plank. It's a miracle he's held on for this long, but the shaking in his muscles indicates that it's not going to last.
“Too proud to even beg for your life… Just as I expected. You never cared for yourself, Zhao… just as you never cared for us!”
“That's a–” The crew laughs, once more, this time at the tremor in Zhao’s voice as he teeters on the edge. “That's a goddamn lie!”
“Don't worry!” Mabuchi continues, tone patronising– Zhao can practically see the sneering grin on his face. “We’ll take real good care of ourselves when you're gone!” More laughter. More waves. Zhao tilts, can swear he feels ocean spray on his hands– or is it just that his palms are sweating?
“You're making a mistake, Mabuchi! The Geomijul– they’ll tear you to shreds!” If Zhao dies, here, now– he knows that it will be a matter of moments before the Liumang turn their murderous intent towards the Geomijul ship that has been tailing them for the past two days.
Zhao, the Captain, ordered them to ignore it. Mabuchi, the First Mate, disagreed.
Now, one mutiny and a Liumang-specialty torture session later, here they are.
Other people’s misery was the only entertainment that Mabuchi could afford to give the crew that he has now stolen.
“Listen to me, for once in your miserable life!”
“I’m done taking orders from cowards like you!”
This is it. A decade of watching over his men, his ship, his own cherished bit of sea–gone.
He's going to drown in it.
A fitting end, really.
“Give my regards to your father.”
“Mabuchi–!”
One final wave of laughter, and the plank falls out from under him– whether he had misstepped or if it was pulled back, Zhao doesn't know. He doesn't have the time to figure out which– he’s screaming, falling, then colliding with the surface of the water, the weight of his clothes dragging him fast underneath the surface.
He struggles–because what else is there to do– fighting the rapid loss of air left in him, kicking as best he can against the weight, thrashing against his bindings and the merciless swell of the ocean.
He is not ready to die.
He's sinking–water rushing past his ears, filling his sinuses, pressure crushing around his head, his chest. He can't die like this. Refuses to. His ribcage spasms, and he gasps–no air for his efforts, but seawater, brine, filling up his lungs. He can’t see anything, he wouldn't anyway, even without the blindfold.
It won't be long.
Drowning isn't as messy as he expected it to be. If he stopped fighting, it could almost be peaceful. He feels warm. The tides hold him like a mother rocking their child to sleep.
Stop fighting, darling. It's time for bed. Go to sleep. Aren't you tired, Tianyou? Aren't you tired of fighting?
He is tired. But he doesn't want to die.
He doesn't stop fighting, not even when his limbs refuse to move. Not even when his head goes light, and he feels like he's falling, rather than sinking. He clings onto life, stubbornly, petulantly, painfully.
Rest, Tianyou. You deserve to rest.
He can't fight forever. Blood pounds in his head, swells behind his eyes, heavy, heavy lids, heavy limbs. He’s so tired. It is painful. Fighting. Living. He wants to sleep. He's been fighting, leading, living, running, for so long… Doesn't he deserve this? Just a moment to rest… Just… one moment of respite?
Just… one…
One moment…
One…
Noise fills his head, violent, crashing waves, and bile is in his chest, his throat, his mouth–
Zhao coughs and retches water, expelling it from his airways, gasps burning lungfuls of sea air– the sea–blue– he can see?–
“You're breathing!!” A voice, barely there amongst the water and the hammering of his pulse and the retching, the strangled breathing– “That's good, keep doing that!”
How–how is he–
Zhao turns in the direction of the voice– and isn't quite sure whether to believe what he sees.
Keeping him above the surface is a man, a man Zhao has never seen before– strong features, thick brow, eyes the colour of a storm. He's handsome. He’s–not quite like anything Zhao has seen before.
He must be dead. Or dreaming.
There’s shimmering colour at the crest of his saviour’s cheekbone, spreading further back to cascade across and down his jaw, into the dark waves of hair– colour? On his face? Paint? No.
Scales?
Zhao quickly loses strength trying to figure out the pearlescent markings, head too full of punches from men and sea, body too tired and battered to remain awake.
“Who…” He doesn't finish the question, too heavy, so heavy, head slumping against the body hauling him across the waves.
Who are you?
What are you?
Questions he doesn't ask, questions that aren't answered.
“Just hang on.” The man tells him, cradling him like the ocean did. If this was death, Zhao thinks, as he slips back into darkness, there are worse ways to go. Maybe this man was an angel, pulling him up to heaven. “Keep breathing.”
Zhao tries his best to obey, as consciousness slips away from him.
“That’s definitely him.” A woman’s voice.
“Are you sure?” A man's.
“Look at him! Do those tattoos say ‘regular castaway’ to you?!” Another man.
“Kasuga said he was pushed off a plank.” ‘Kasuga’?
“Could have been a mutiny.”
“Or he could have been a prisoner.”
“No. I remember him.” The woman, again.
“I remember the portrait, too. The warrant.” This voice– a soldier? Navy? Guard? “I’m certain. This is him. Zhao Tianyou.”
Oh, yes. That was his name, wasn't it?
“The Dread Captain of the Liumang.”
The name Liumang triggers gunpowder inside Zhao and he sits bolt upright, eyes flying open, reaching for weapons at a belt that is no longer there.
They mutinied.
They tried to kill him.
Mabuchi.
“Woah–easy!!” Shouts the gruffest voice. There's an immediate shuffle of bodies, scrambling, the group of people who were huddled around him stepping back, at various levels of unease. Zhao, now on his feet, crouched like a cornered animal, ready to pounce, arms and hands outstretched in martial preparation, counts. One, two, three. Three faces.
None of them are the man he remembers in the ocean waves.
“Who–”
He's outside. The sky is blue around them– they're on a beach. He’s covered in sand.
Had he washed ashore on his own?
“... Where am I?” Zhao asks, looking around at the mix of concerned expressions. Two men, and a woman. He doesn't recognise them. They stare at him, apprehensive.
He expected jail. A brig. Or at least indoors.
“Well?!”
“You're— On an island.” The woman attempts, hands in front of her. She's not afraid, but she's definitely aggressive– brow furrowed, eyes wide. Tense. “We don't know where, exactly.”
Zhao squints at her. She's not too young, or inexperienced– the lack of fear told him as much. She's been through her fair share of things, mouse-brown hair lightened by the sun, the slightest of fine lines in the corners of her eyes. She wears the years mostly in the way she stands (ready for a fight), in her expression (ready to kill).
She does not trust him.
This is fair.
Zhao looks around at the other two faces. The man in the middle is shorter, head topped with what seems like too much hair for one man to have, tangled and swollen with salt spray and sand. He wears eyeglasses–though one lens has a significant crack all the way across it, the wire frames sitting slightly askew. He's equally as wary as the woman, though perhaps with a more defensive stance, both hands clutching tight to a spear-like piece of wood in front of him. He, too, has seen some years, but unlike the woman, it shows– lines around his mouth, under his eyes. From years of frowning—worrying, no doubt.
The oldest of the three is definitely the tallest amongst them, the one who had been speculating on his identity earlier with regards to portraits and warrants, with a voice that was as gritty as sand on stone. He's grey, has long hair pushed back, away from his eyes, and the start of a very strong, coarse beard. His face is weathered, deep creases of wrinkles– but his eyes are bright, alert. He may not be as old as he looks. But that's what been stranded on an island will do to a man–
Stranded on an island.
He's stranded here?!
“What do you mean you don't know where?!”
“None of us know!” The man with glasses side-steps, slightly, as he talks, inching in front of the woman as Zhao has yelled at her. “We didn't choose to be here!!”
Zhao feels the panic start to rise in his chest. He takes a moment to look around, a little frantic as he turns his head, gaze flickering over the shore, the sea, the sand. There's nothing on the horizon. No ships. No ports. Just the wide, yawning stretch of blue. Once that would have held such promise, such freedom… now, it feels like a prison.
“No–”
“I’ve been here a while,” The oldest of the men starts, approaching with hands outstretched, as if Zhao’s a horse in need of taming. “I can promise you, we’ve tried, and there's no way of knowing where we are.”
Zhao turns his attention upward–to the cloudless sky, the blaring sun. The moon isn't hanging there, no stars, not yet. Perhaps he should try to pray.
“No, no, no…” Zhao returns his attention to his surroundings. There's a treeline behind him, shade from leaves and branches sheltering them from the sun. The island looks untouched by civilization.
Stranded.
“At least you're not dead, right?” The woman speaks up, just a hint of antagonism in her voice. Zhao gets the impression that she thinks he maybe should be dead. He looks back to her–her eyes are wild, now, burning.
“You're the Liumang captain, right?” Her tone has gone from irritated to accusatory. “Zhao Tianyou?”
Zhao grits his teeth.
“No.”
It's not entirely a lie. He's not the Liumang captain, not any more.
“Bullsh*t.” Mutters the older man, narrowing his eyes. He holds himself with all the authority of a soldier–a type of man Zhao's had far too many run-ins with to not recognise.
“Adachi!”
“Look at him, Nanba! Even if he's not the captain, he's definitely a pirate!”
“Why do you care?” Zhao interrupts, taking a step back, towards the trees. “Which navy are you in?”
Maybe he could lose them in there, the foliage at his back.
“None of them! We're not in any navy!” The shorter of the two men says, lifting a hand like he's been accused of stealing the branch he’s still holding onto. “Do we look like we're part of any fleet?!”
Zhao frowns. Looks at them.
No, he has to admit. They do not look like they are a part of anything at all.
Their clothes are bedraggled, worn from constant use. None of them have seen a comb, or a barber, in what appears to be weeks. Maybe even months. The shorter man, ‘Nanba’ as the oldest man had called him, is sporting a patchy, stubbly chin and upper lip. Whilst he's definitely the most battered looking of the three, they all look pretty unkempt. No navy lets its sailors look like this. But the tallest, the oldest… that man with the voice, who spoke about him with talk of warrants…
“You talk like you are.”
“I was, if that counts for anything.” Adachi (as Nanba had yelled at him, Zhao can piece together), explains. “But as you can see, none of us are much of anything any more.” He and Zhao stare each other down. “So what's the point in lying to us?”
“I’m not lying. I’m not the Liumang captain.” Zhao smirks a bitter smile. Takes another step back. He wishes he had his saber. Another step, and this time, they don't follow.
Zhao straightens, relaxes a bit more, now that there's some distance. Now that he's determined somewhere to escape into.
“Not anymore, maybe. But you were.” The woman, still unnamed, is the only one to step forward after him. Why was she so…determined? And angry? “You were when the Liumang sank the Second Maiden. When your men killed every man on board.”
Zhao doesn’t remember the name of every merchant ship the Liumang has raided, pillaged, sunk. Probably didn't even know half of their names to begin with. He doesn't recognise the name, and he doesn't recognise this woman.
“When you killed Nonomiya Isao.”
Oh, sh*t.
Zhao backpedals as she starts towards him, and he remembers that name. f*cking Mabuchi, screwing things up again, cutting off the heads of men before they even had a chance to ask the poor merchant much more than his name–
The ship had been under Seiryu protection, but Mabuchi didn't know that when he killed Nonomiya… Right? … Though maybe that's—
A sharp, powerful blow strikes Zhao across the face and he stumbles, backward, tripping over vines and twigs and leaves and landing on his back. The woman is on him instantly, screaming and throwing punches, slaps, anything she can land.
“You f*cking BASTARD! I’m STUCK HERE, because of YOU!”
“Saeko–!” The other two men rush to them as they struggle on the forest floor, Zhao catching one of Saeko’s hands but too slow to catch the other that continues the assault.
“All because of you f*ckING PIRATES!!” Nails bite and claw into his cheek, burn down across his jaw, and Saeko is suddenly being hauled off– caught between Nanba and Adachi. “LET ME GO!!” She roars, kicks Zhao right where it hurts the most as she’s dragged away, Zhao groaning and crumpling instantly.
“You f*cking bitch–” He grunts, tears stinging his eyes, hands clutching over his groin. “Kicking a man when he's down–”
“You're not a man, you're a dog!!” She spits, and then she actually spits at him, and Zhao thinks, yes, he probably deserves this–but did it have to be so soon after his own men had beaten him within an inch of his life? “f*cking piece of sh*t, lowlife, scum-sucking Liumang waste!”
“I’m– not Liumang.” Zhao insists, the truth just as painful to admit as the ache in his body, torture catching up to him. “Not… Liumang.” He grunts as he struggles onto his side, then his knees.
His bare fingers, robbed of their usual jewels and precious metals, dig into dirt and fallen leaves.
“Not…anymore.”
Zhao gets to a knee, then his feet, and staggers forward.
“Don’t walk away from us!” Saeko continues to yell as she thrashes against the men at her side. “Where are you going?!”
“To look for a way to leave this f*cking place–”
“You think we haven't already done that?” Adachi calls out after him.
Zhao walks further into the trees.
“There's nothing out there!” Nanba adds.
Zhao walks further into the trees.
“Tianyou!!” Zhao freezes, then instantly recognises his mistake.
Damn.
This Adachi was definitely in the navy, with tricks like that.
“So you are him.” Adachi concludes, as Saeko continues to growl and struggle.
“What does it matter?” Zhao huffs, hand resting against the trunk of a nearby tree, trying to recover from… well, everything. But mostly from the kick to his crotch.
“It doesn't.” The old man answers, and there's wisdom in it. Because it doesn't matter. Zhao could be a cabin boy or the emperor, and it wouldn't matter, because they're nothing to the world, now, abandoned on a spit of an island in the middle of an uncaring ocean. “But in case some of that seawater washed out some of your brain, I’ll spell it out for you. We’re all stuck here. We have to work together. Whoever you are, it's probably not in your best interests to go wandering off alone.”
Is that a threat?
Zhao looks back at the group, over his shoulder.
“How many of you are there?” He asks, turning to face them fully.
“Just us.”
“Don't lie to me, there's at least one more.”
The name they mentioned when he was just coming to; talking about him… The name… ‘Kasuga’. The man who rescued him.
Why had he rescued him? And where was he now?
“There is, isn't there?” Zhao’s eyes narrow, and Saeko’s gone quiet, movement gone still. “Someone else saved me from drowning. I sure as hell didn't swim here. You mentioned him, when you thought I was still out… ‘Kasuga’, was it?”
There's a pause. Zhao can feel blood trickle down his face, his neck.
Perhaps the sight was enough to slake her need for vengeance, for now, as Nanba and Adachi release Saeko, but she makes no move back towards Zhao.
“It’s just us.” Adachi repeats–lies?– though it’s not much, doesn't answer any of Zhao’s questions.
He turns again, leaves.
“You won't find anything out there!”
Even if Zhao can't find a way off of this hellhole, he can find his answers. He'll find what they’re hiding. Dig up any secrets.
Lie to him, hide whoever had saved him, not tell him he why he has been rescued? He’ll find out.
He has all the time in the world to go treasure hunting, now.
“Zhao–!”
“Let him go. He’ll be back.” Saeko mutters, crosses her arms. She glances at the blood under her fingernails, before she watches Zhao disappear into the trees. “It’s not like he has much of a choice.”
