Chapter Text
The wind was brisk, the sea was lively, and Captain Thorin Oakenshield stood aloft, his boots braced wide on the yardarm and his long dark hair whipping in the breeze beneath his tricorn hat. The sun was rising behind him, setting the various steel buckles and clasps about his person glinting and winking under it’s rays, and highlighting the colour of his steel blue coat and the warm brown fur that lined it. His face was still in shadow, but his short beard and hawk-like nose were still visible beneath the shadow of his hat.
With the sun behind him, the view of Port Royal spread out before him was picked out in exquisite detail by it’s rays. The ships in the harbour, the tree covered hills above, and the array of buildings of all kinds spread out along the curve of the shore. It was a beautiful place, even if it was not, perhaps, Thorin’s preferred place to make port. A glance down at his current ship reminded him why he was planning to dock here, and with a resigned sigh, he caught up a rope and slid down it to the deck below.
His boots landed in four inches of water. Four inches of water rapidly becoming five in the bottom of a very small boat. He grimaced, and searched about for a bucket, because all the frustration in the world at the indignity of his situation wouldn’t get rid of the water in his boat. And he had, he reminded himself as he found the bucket and began bailing out the boat, been in far worse situations than a slightly wet boat not too far from shore.
A glance up as he tossed another bucketful of water over the side of the boat revealed a sight that cause a sharp ache in his chest. Under a naturally formed arch of rock out in the middle of the bay, three corpses were hung from nooses tied to a beam. They’d been defiled by crows and the elements until they were little more than skeletons and rags. Beside them was one more noose, and a sign that read ‘Pirates Ye Be Warned’. A banked rage threatened to howl through Thorin at the sight, at the sheer arrogant disrespect of the spectacle, but he pushed it back, refusing to be overcome by it.
He did rise up and take off his hat to bow his head to the pirates that had lost their lives to the tyranny of the Royal Navy and the foul East India Trading Company. He didn’t know who they were, and may well have tried to kill them himself, had they lived to cross paths with him, but that, at least, would have been an honourable death. This was so far from honourable it was obscene.
After that gruesome display, the port itself was jarring with it’s liveliness and bustle. People were everywhere, loading and unloading boats, preparing fishing vessels and untangling nets, coiling ropes, and carting livestock hither and thither. As one, all of those people paused what they were doing to stare as Thorin sailed into port, once again standing aloft, this time balanced on the crows nest as his little boat sank further and further below the waves.
By the time he reached the dock, Thorin could step clear from the crows nest to the dock without fuss, and he didn’t even pause to readjust his coat before striding down the pier, his head held high and his steps almost a swagger. He didn’t even glance at the official and his little helper that he passed, until that man suddenly called out “Hold up there, you!”
Thorin stopped, raising his eyes to the heavens. Then he turned and fixed his most unimpressed stare on the pompous man. “Yes?”
“It’s a shilling to tie up your boat at the dock,” the man informed him. Thorin glanced back the way he’d come, and gritted his teeth on a curse when he saw that his little boat had failed to do him the final service of sinking properly. No boat wanted to sink, of course, but surely a watery grave would be preferable to retirement in a Navy port. “And I shall need to know your name.”
Thorin tore his attention away from the forlorn little boat to study the official. He did not, as it happened, look much like a man of great virtue and honour. His clothes were too expensive, but not well chosen, and both his manner of speech and his expression spoke of delusions of authority. Thorin reached into his pocket and drew out not one but three coins. “What do you say to three shillings, and we forget the name?” he asked, splaying the coins across the man’s open book.
The young assistant tailing the man looked incredulous, but a greedy light had entered the official’s eyes. Thorin’s hand twitched towards his sword out of instinct, but he halted the movement almost as soon as it began. He had been relying on this man’s greed, after all. Sure enough, after a moment of painful hesitation, the official snapped his book closed on the coins and smiled sickeningly at Thorin. “Welcome to Port Royal, Mr Smith.”
Thorin bowed his head in thanks as the man turned away, not out of any sincerity, but to distract from the hand that reached out and snatched the coin-purse clean off the man’s belt. The man himself didn’t see a thing, but his young helper did. The boy’s eyes, round as saucers, darted up to Thorin’s. Thorin offered him a hint of a smile and a challenging rise of his eyebrows as he flipped a coin from the purse at the boy. He caught it on reflex and stared at it. Then, slowly, he grinned. Sketching an entertainingly deep bow to Thorin, he turned to scamper after his master, and Thorin went on his way, feeling remarkably good about how everything had worked out.
Port Royal was everything he had expected it to be, full and bustling just like any port, but stiflingly restrained in ways that left a sour taste on Thorin’s tongue. Despite that, there was less of a naval presence about the place than he expected, and it wasn’t until he heard the faint strains of music coming from the fort that he realised there must be some kind of event or parade going on. A stroke of luck for Thorin, which put a little more spring in his step.
He explored the docks with casual purpose that made him all but invisible among the crowds of people bustling about with exactly the same attitude. It was enough to carry him all the way to the pier nearest the fort, slightly separate from the rest of the docks, although that didn’t seem to stop people using the nearby stretch of beach as a convenient place to launch their row-boats.
The ship docked at the pier was a beautiful craft, sleek and elegant and, to Thorin’s experienced eye, evidently a speedy vessel. A hint of a smile curled his lips as he considered it, and he nodded to himself as he strode forwards onto the pier. He was a little surprised that he managed to get within a stone’s throw of the ship before he was stopped by two marines, but given they way they’d been lounging about on the piles of cargo waiting to be loaded, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised.
They raced to block his way, thunking the butts of their muskets down on the dock with some force once they were standing shoulder to shoulder in his path. They were similar enough in looks to be brothers, both with the slightly weather-worn complexion common among sailors, scruffs of beard on their chins shorter even than Thorin’s, and shoulder-length brown hair tied back into short tails, though one was more golden-brown than the other. “This dock is off limits to civilians,” the fairer of the two declared.
“I didn’t know that,” Thorin replied dryly, “but if I see any, I shall inform you immediately.” With that said, he attempted to side step them. They followed his move, presenting a fairly impenetrable barrier unless he wanted to resort to force. He wasn’t interested in causing a scene just yet, so he tried a different tack instead. He crossed his arms and studied the pair. “What was it?” he asked.
“Excuse me?” the darker-haired one demanded, baffled.
“What did you do that got you relegated to guard duty when there’s such an important event being held up at the fort?” Thorin wondered with a hint of a smirk, jerking his head towards said building.
“We didn’t do anything!” the darker-haired one protested, riled. “It’s a duty to be proud of, not a punishment.”
The fairer one nodded his agreement. “Someone has to make sure this dock stays off limits to civilians.”
“True,” Thorin acknowledged, “but it seems to me that a ship like that-” He gestured over at another grand warship sitting further out in the water, which was definitely larger than the one currently at the dock, and therefore carried several more guns. Then he turned a critical eye on the smaller – but much faster – ship before him. “-makes this one here a bit superfluous.”
“Oh, the Dauntless is the power in these waters, sure enough,” the darker one agreed proudly.
“But there’s no ship that can match the Interceptor for speed,” the fairer one finished with a smile.
Thorin raised his eyebrows, biting back the temptation to scoff. His Pearl could outstrip either of these ships easily. “I’ve heard of one,” he countered, keeping the pride out of his voice only with supreme effort. He wasn’t sure he was completely successful. “Said to be nigh uncatchable; The Black Pearl.”
The darker-haired one scoffed. “There’s no real ship that can match the Interceptor.”
His companion turned to him with a frown on his face. “The Black Pearl is a real ship.”
“No, it’s not. It’s a ghost story, Faramir.”
“There have been multiple sightings, several different accounts-”
“And how many of those men were rum-sodden when they thought they saw something that might have been tattered black sails somewhere off in the distance?”
“Good, reliable men have seen the Black Pearl, Boromir, you can’t discount their reports just because you don’t want to believe something like that might be possible.”
“It’s not possible! I love those sorts of stories just as much as you do, little brother, but-”
At that point, Thorin was feeling rather exasperated by the whole argument, and was heartily amused when he managed to slip around the pair of bickering sibling and simply stroll up the gangplank and onto the Interceptor. He paused for just a moment, closing his eyes to feel the rise and fall of the deck, to listen to the creaking of wood and the wind through the rigging. She was a young ship, he was certain, and she would be very fast indeed at full sail with a light load. He approached the wheel, running his hand along the railing until he reached it, and then he gripped the handles, testing the ease of the steering and the willingness of the ship.
She was an eager thing, and wilful. There was a bright, trembling sort of excitement in the air for anyone bothering to pay enough attention to feel it. An inexperienced Captain at the helm of this ship would have a good deal of trouble, Thorin decided, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “You must be bored, sitting here at dock like this,” he murmured into the empty air.
“You have no idea.”
“I believe I have some. I’m not happy on shore, either,” Thorin replied, turning his head towards the source of the new voice.
A small figure was sitting perched on the railing, with the height of a child despite being proportioned like a fully grown adult, all tanned and weathered skin and wind-tossed tawny curls, both on her head and on her large bare feet. As Thorin had predicted, she had a young, impish face, and she was dressed in a simple loose white shirt, a green jacket, and short dark brown trousers. “You can hear me?” the little spirit asked in surprise.
“I can,” Thorin confirmed, dipping his head in both acknowledgement and respect. “Has no one been able to before?” There was a hint of judgement in his tone as he asked that.
“Nope, not ever,” the spirit confirmed cheerfully enough.
“Then you have a poor crew indeed.” Thorin had little enough patience for the navy, but for those of them that didn’t even care for their ships he reserved a special kind of scorn.
The spirit shrugged, evidently unbothered by her crew’s lack of perception. “They’re not bad, just a bit dim. Big Folk,” she announced as if that explained everything, giving another small philosophical shrug as if to say ‘what can you do about them?’ She paused, then gave Thorin a long, curious look. “Who’re you, then?” she wondered.
“I’m Captain Thorin Oakenshield, at your service,” Thorin replied, bowing his head respectfully.
“At my service. I like the sound of that,” the spirit declared, sitting straighter and lifting her head with a proud grin. “I’m Pippin, but all the Big Folk call me The Interceptor.” There was a distinct flair of drama in her tone as she announced her epithet, and it put a melancholy smile on Thorin’s face, reminiscent as it was of his youngest nephew.
He shook the mood off before Pippin could notice. “With good reason, I hear.”
“I am the fastest ship in the fleet,” Pippin confirmed, hopping down off the railing and bouncing over to stand by Thorin’s side. She came up to Thorin’s ribs, the top of her head only a little higher than his elbow. “Are you going to be my new Captain?”
Thorin opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, the two guards came charging onto the ship, brandishing their muskets with clear aggression. “Hey! You!” The darker-haired one, Boromir, yelled angrily. “You don’t have permission to be aboard this ship!”
At Thorin’s elbow, Pippin snickered. “I suppose that answers that question, then.”
Thorin had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling. “I’m terribly sorry, it’s just such a pretty boat-”
“Oi!” Pippin protested.
“Ship,” Thorin corrected himself, to which Pippin nodded smugly.
“I am, aren’t I?” she asked the air, clearly not requiring a response.
The two marines shared a long look of exasperation and wariness, before they turned back to Thorin with suspicion written all over their faces. “What’s your name?” The fairer one, Faramir, demanded, gesturing at Thorin with his musket.
“Smith,” Thorin informed him blandly, “or Smithy, if you prefer.”
It was obvious from the looks on their faces that they didn’t believe him for one second, but perhaps they sensed that Thorin was not one to easily be bullied, because they dropped the issue. “What’s your business in Port Royal, ‘Mr Smith’?” Boromir asked, scepticism lacing his voice.
“And lets skip the lies, this time?” Faramir added dryly.
Thorin considered that, then shrugged. “Alright, I confess. It’s my intention to commandeer one of these ships; pick up a crew in Tortuga; raid, pillage, plunder, and otherwise pilfer my weasely black guts out.” This little tirade had Pippin doubled over with laughter, or perhaps it was the incredulous and slightly disturbed looks on the marines’ faces that had provoked her mirth.
“I said no lies,” Faramir declared irritably.
Boromir, on the other hand, was looking at Thorin with eyes narrowed in suspicion. He tipped his head a little closer to Faramir as he said, slowly, “I think he’s telling the truth, brother…” Thorin raised his eyebrows at that, disconcerted and a little impressed despite himself.
“If he was telling the truth, he wouldn’t have told us.” Faramir pointed out, disbelieving.
“Unless I knew you wouldn’t believe the truth, even if I told it to you.” Thorin pointed out, too amused by this conversation to bite his tongue, even if it might have been more helpful to stay quiet. There was a momentary pause, and then both marines readjusted their muskets to aim them more securely at Thorin.
The rows of navy sailors and the small crowd of dignified nobility watched on as red-coated officers marched about with muskets slung over the shoulders and drums and pipes playing keeping time for them. Legolas was less than impressed with the display of military posturing, but he did his best to appear engaged and impressed, for his father’s sake, if nothing else.
It did get slightly more interesting for Legolas when Tauriel finally appeared, looking very proud and dignified in her pristine blue and gold coat, her impressively long red hair tied back into practical braids to keep it out of her face in the wind. It was good to see his friend achieve something he knew she’d wanted for longer than he’d known her, and he smiled for her where she couldn’t, bound by all the solemn ritual of the ceremony as she was. Although the light in her eyes did give her away as she began the slow procession down the corridor made by her subordinates.
She stopped once she reached the steps where Thranduil was waiting and bowed shallowly to him. Thranduil bowed back, showing equal deference, which wasn’t something he usually granted people unless propriety strictly demanded it. Then Thranduil turned and retrieved the sword he’d commissioned. Legolas had examined it in the carriage on the way to the fort, and though he knew little enough of metalwork, he’d spent enough time with Gimli that he knew a masterpiece when he saw one. But thoughts of Gimli woke a storm of emotion in Legolas that he didn’t have the time or inclination to try and untangle just then, so he pushed them aside to focus on his friend.
Thranduil presented the sword to Tauriel, and there were some words exchanged, bits and pieces of script so standard that Legolas didn’t bother to listen to them. Then, finally, everyone was allowed to break ranks and mingle as the ceremony ended and the celebration began. A string quartet set up off to the side, and Legolas immediately went to join his father and Tauriel, paying very careful attention to where he put his feet, especially on his way up the stairs, so that he didn’t trip over the hem of his stupid clothes.
“Congratulations, Tauriel,” he said upon reaching them.
Tauriel smiled brightly in response, but somehow, it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thank you. It’s a great honour.”
“One you’re well worthy of, I’m sure,” Legolas replied, to which Tauriel blushed and refused to meet his eyes, oddly enough. “Is everything alright, Tauriel?” he asked. “Only, you seem…”
“Excuse me,” Thranduil interjected, gracefully removing himself from the conversation and turning to leave. Before he did, however, he laid a hand on Tauriel’s shoulder, and murmured “do remember what we discussed,” so quietly Legolas suspected he wasn’t meant to hear. Then he was gone, and Legolas was left staring at Tauriel in confusion.
“Walk with me?” Tauriel requested stiffly, gesturing towards the battlements, and away from the crowds of people.
“If I must,” Legolas sighed. He was fairly sure his father would reappear just to scold him if he did anything as undignified as hiking his clothes up like a woman might lift her skirts, but it was the only way he could move around with any confidence. Still, he only stumbled a couple of times, and Tauriel didn’t seem to notice at all, lost in her own thoughts as she was. “What’s all this about, Tauriel?” Legolas pressed as he followed her up the steps that led right to the edge of the battlements.
Tauriel sighed heavily. “There’s no point in beating around the bush,” she declared, coming to a stop looking out over the impressive view of the bay. Legolas went to join her, minding his step carefully, so close to such a precipitous drop. “Your father has requested that I… that is-… Oh, fuck it. He’s told me in no uncertain terms that he will cease supporting my career if I don’t marry you by the end of the year.”
“He WHAT?!” Legolas yelped, head jerking up to stare at her in abject horror.
That, it turned out, was a mistake. With his attention on his friend and not on his feet, his toes caught once again in the hem of his robes, and this time, he had nothing to catch himself on. “Shit-!” he swore, heart in his throat, as he lost his balance and toppled forwards. Instead of stone rushing up to meet him, he found himself staring into open space and the bright sapphire blue of the ocean glittering in the sunlight far below him. He had a bare second or two in which to panic, the wind tearing away his breath as the water rushed up alarmingly quickly, until it swallowed up his vision completely. Then he hit the water, and everything went black.