The Admiral

Arden Lexington

“Oh, for fucks sake,” I mutter and toss the comb onto the dresser. I look at the white mess of hair on my head and lose the battle to tame it once again. Then again, it’s not much of a battle when I don’t care enough to pull the comb through more than twice.

The only reason I haven’t shaved my head is because of potential sunburn. That and I can’t stand hats. All they’re good for is throwing playing cards into when you’re having a drink with the crew to see whose aim is better after five rums and three pints of ale, and then maybe, just maybe, to catch all the sick into after mixing drinks that aren’t meant to be mixed and you can’t make it onto deck fast enough. It’s never happened to me personally, but a lifetime trapped on a ship with the same people makes everyone very comfortable with one another, and you see a lot of things you can’t unsee or forget.

No matter how hard you try.

Like the time William tried a mushroom he found on an uncharted island, we found and started doing questionable things that will not be mentioned any further. Fine, you squeezed it out of me. Ostrich feathers and coconuts were involved, let your imagination run wild.

At least my hair has a practical purpose and shields my neck from the sun. The collar on my jacket is high for that purpose, but when you mainly like to stay in the equator part of the sea it never sees much use.

Today, however, I’m wearing the jacket, and my coat, and my scarf, even gloves for crying out loud. It’s so bloody cold I’ve had to ask Jack to get the wood-burning stove in my cabin lit.

When we got the news that the self-proclaimed Pirate King build a naval jammer and tested it on a British Naval ship near Iceland, we started heading North straight away in search of him. Maniac.

I swear he’s taken it too far and I’m going to do everything in my power to shut him down. If it sounds personal, it’s because it is.

Wyatt Grayson, AKA The Pirate King was supposed to be my second in command if I was ever to make Admiral. If it were him, I would be his second in command. That was the deal. That was the oath we made to one another. But when it was finally me who was chosen, Wyatt couldn’t live in my shadow. He didn’t even try. Whatever had soured within him manifested towards me and he decided to not only join the enemy, and become the very thing we hunt, but to proclaim himself King of all Pirates. That’s personal.

I’m coming for you, “your majesty.” I’ll gleefully add regicide to my long list of achievements. Prick.

I make my way out of my cabin and onto the deck just as the sun begins to break the horizon. The wall of crisp icy air hits my warm face and wakes me up like a slap in the face.

“Holy fucking shit it’s cold,” I can’t help but exclaim to no one in particular. I hear round muffled laughter and make my way up to the quarterdeck to meet with Thomas, Captain of my ship. Her name is The Morning Star, a 200-gun ship I’ve had the honor of living on for the last ten years.

I chuckle as I spot Captain Dabang shivering in his boots. He’s originally from India and like me prefers warmer climates.

“Why would anyone come to this forsaken place?” He mutters.

“Because Wyatt is a cunt,” Dabang nods in agreement. He’s made his thoughts known that he believes I swear too much, and I completely agree, but I like the way he looks at me whenever I do it, so I keep doing it.

I get one wrinkle between the brows for a "shit," or a, " fuck". "Cunt" gets me all three wrinkles just now, and I can’t help but smile at achieving my daily wrinkle quota for the day, and I’ve only just started. Success.

I huddle up closer to him and he puts his arm around me and rubs my back and we watch the sun rise over the horizon.

The sun won’t be up for long this time of year, we have maybe thirty minutes of sunlight to look around. I won’t allow my men to suffer through this cold longer than necessary.

The Pirate King can stay here, rule these frozen wastelands, and freeze to death or all I care.

“Thomas, as soon as that sun starts to touch the horizon again I want us out of here.”

“Good, we’re on the same page.”

A whistle blows from the crow’s nest, “Longboat! Longboat in the water ahead!”

The crew scurries to look out onto the water ahead. Thomas hands me a spyglass and when I look through I quickly find the longboat.

“There doesn’t seem to be anyone inside,” I say and lower the glass.

My helmsman, a gorgeous Hungarian woman named Eve looks at me for orders. I nod and she steers the ship towards the longboat. How does Eve manage to keep her hair so neat?

We reach the boat and I see a few crew members take off their hats and hold them to their chest. I rush to the deck, and look down into the boat to see the bodies inside wearing our uniforms. Those are my men down there.

“Those are our boys, Admiral,” Hopper states the obvious that no one else had the balls to say out loud. Saying things aloud makes them real. This can’t be real.

Doc climbs down the awkward rope ladder and starts to check for signs of life. He goes from frozen corpse to frozen corpse and looks dejected at each one. I count seven crew members in all, three women, and four men.

Doc reaches a young boy and after checking his pulse he looks up at us with hope written all over him, “This one’s alive, the boy’s alive.”

Doc checks on the large man next to him; by the looks of it he seems to have wrapped himself around the boy to keep him warm. He’s probably saved his life with that simple gesture of kindness, and I quickly wipe away a tear threatening to escape.

Wyatt will pay for this. As I think of new ways to torture and kill Wyatt Doc looks at me, “There’s a pulse, it’s weak, but it’s there.”

Ox climbs down into the boat. He’s our biggest man and easily lifts the boy up into the arms of my crew who quickly rush to take him inside.

“Take off all his clothes, get him warm, but not too quickly,” I hear Doc yelling after them, “rub his chest, get the blood flowing.”

I watch as Ox struggles to get the man over his shoulders in the wobbly boat.

Ox has to lay him on the deck before he can move him again, struggling with the man’s size. He’s huge.

As the frozen, golden-haired godlike man lies on the deck of my ship his face brings long forgotten memories surfacing.

“I know this man,” I mutter and feel all heads turn to look at me.

I rush to my knees and open the man’s eyes. The boy from my past had the most incredible, grey stormy eyes, and when I see the same cloudy eyes hiding under those lids my heart skips a beat.

“Morgan?”