A/N: Everyone loves a good Pengland fic, so I needed to write one of my own! This is more of an origin story for dear Arthur. The warning is for adult themes throughout and smut that will come about in later chapters. Quite a bit of research went into this to give it a more realistic feel, so forgive me if there are some historical inaccuracies. Feel free to let me know.

.

.

.

It is the wickedest city of the New World.

By day, the governor, a respectable Englishman, never ceased to express his infinite appreciation over the fact that his little section of Jamaica was one of the few ports that welcomed every practice (or non-practice) of Catholics, Anglicans, Quakers, Jews, and Atheists. Simply unheard of, even for the rapidly changing times. Or any other time prior for that matter. All were accepted in one tender, calculated embrace. Oh, how the buildings of the new religious establishments glittered under the sun.

By night, however; the town would cast her respectable shroud.

Shifting like a languid lover, eager to find the thrill of her next exploit. One in every four of her buildings were either a tavern, a brothel, or serviced as both. She was a haven for wrongdoers, for individuals looking to flaunt their plunder. Not one could resist her siren call. Every weak soul immersed themselves within the pleasure of sin at her come hither.

Most of all, however, the port was a sanctuary for them.

Pirates.

They were the loudest, the crassest, and the most demanding of all her patrons. The city more than protected their kind; it lavishly serviced to their every whim. But that is quite simply how it is. Whoever holds the wealth holds the highest privilege and seat of honor.

This particular building of the depraved port was one that provided a multitude of services as well as being located in the center of commerce. It offered lodgings, liquor, and the warmth of a whore: the Cross Keys Tavern and Inn. The port's prized possession.

And like every cherished structure that was a contribution to the port's economy, the establishment harbored its gems.

Mary Berkley, the legendary whore of Port Royal, was one of them.

With softly curled golden hair and delicate features displayed beneath alabaster skin, she was frequently sought after and had been on the receiving end of countless drunken and sober declarations of love. Of course, she still couldn't compare to the notorious Mary Carleton—the self-proclaimed "German Princess" of the West Indies. Amongst gems, she was the Cross Keys' opulent diamond.

Mary Berkley was still somewhat set apart from the others, however. Of all the prostitutes in Cross Keys, she was the only one that had known the displeasures of being heavily swollen with pregnancy and had passionately opted to keep the babe. A decision that raised many brows and scorching resentments.

Most were more than careful not to get impregnated in the first place with their silent blend of herbal contraceptives—a practice forbidden by the Church. And if nature's misfortune were to ever befall them—as it would indefinitely turn away probable patrons—they were quick to expunge the indiscretion as discreetly as they could… as was urged by Nan, one of the establishment's caretakers.

And so Mary Berkley's Arthur was brought into the world.

The entirety of his young childhood was spent in Cross Keys and the surrounding port. Despite the prostitutes' aversion for Mary's decision in keeping the child, their distaste eventually formed into something akin to affection. Having an adorable child about the premises had its good points and they couldn't help but to occasionally fawn over him. That is, if they weren't otherwise being pounded into their beds or losing sight of the world with their drinking clienteles.

There were nights that were often too bustling for anyone—even his own mother—to spare him a glance or to ruffle his pale head of hair as many often did. Even if, now at eleven, he was starting to get too old for such public affections.

Tonight was one of those nights. The harbor was positively congested as were the moonlit docks. Nan bustled around the parlor, receiving the boisterous guests as best as she could, while also keeping track of the rapid flow of luscious payments filtering in, especially where it concerned the whores. It was nights like these that they actually made a profit instead of breaking even.

The air permeated smoke, liquor, and the dank musk of unbathed flesh. Despite the warm glow of their fires, candles, and lanterns that aimed to lure the somnolent traveler, the rank stench alone smelled like wicked decadence.

It was nights like these that Arthur limited himself to the front alongside Nan, his eyes fixed upon his latest work, a half-finished embroidered hanky. The busy handiwork was his clever little diversion that smothered dank moods. He had started on it earlier that evening when the first signs of nightlife had stirred. Already, it was beginning to display the onset of an intricate border, deceiving the oblivious onlooker into believing that it was worth more than just a piece of permanently stained cloth.

Nan snorted upon eyeing the mundane hobby that had currently taken his fancy. "Eh," she snickered lightly. "Don't you get tired of doing women's work?"

Arthur's nose wrinkled in the slightest at her comment, but his fingers never strayed.

"It is an art form," He replied with a low mumble, never looking up as he toiled with a difficult corner of the fabric. Nan only sighed. Her indifference quickly changed into something severe as she continued to eye him.

"Have you finished your studies like I told you to?" Her hands rubbed up and down upon her freshly starched apron. Unlike his actual mother, Nan often brought it upon herself to see to it that he was properly educated. He was a boy, after all, she frequently said. He had the right to an education, such an imperative tool of the world. Nan quickly discovered that he was sharp with his letters and reading especially, though at times struggled with numbers when they became too convoluted.

Never mind what she was doing with such mental arsenal… When he once questioned about her unusually learned mind, her face broke in an enigmatic smile and stated that some things were simply meant to be taken to the grave. Arthur never probed about it again. It's not like he had anyone to tell, anyway, he would grumbled to himself.

"Yes… and some," he answered, still not looking up.

"Oh tush, lad… when have I ever taught you to be so ill-mannered," she scolded mildly, giving the top of his ear a light pull in displeasure.

Arthur lifted his face, a knowing smile threatening the corners of his stiff mouth. His green eyes shone with rare, mischievous light. "Oh, I have learned plenty from you, Nan. It's a wonder that I've managed to stop my ears to most of your filthy words."

Nan gawked at him. Perhaps she taught him vocabulary a bit too well… in addition to what she had just been accused of. Well learned, indeed. This time she thumped the back of his head hard, her irritated expression deepening.

"Now that's enough out of you! You'd best mind yourself else your mother will hear my report." Her vocal threat was ended with a harsh sigh, both of them knowing full well that it wasn't really a threat at all.

Arthur's hard gaze found hers once more as his fingers stilled. The needle jabbed into his finger when he attempted to viciously start once again. Muttering a soft curse, he slipped the damaged finger between his lips, sucking on the salty blood before any of it managed to stain his cloth.

"Like she'll actually care…" he said after a long pause.

Nan's eyes softened. She opened her mouth, about to say something no doubt, but seemed to think better of it before quickly shutting it. Her gaze grew vacant, staring off into the light of the tavern down the corridor.

"For having only eleven years under your belt, you certainly have a lot to say, young sir. You'd best tether your thoughts before someone else does it for you."

Feeling his childish mood darken, Arthur only returned to the work on his hanky, jaw now taut and hands more persistent than ever.

An ear-splitting shatter of glass resounded from the tavern followed by a chorus of bellows, curses, and ungodly oaths. Nan growled something under her breath about 'them bloody ingrates' before rushing out of the parlor. Unfazed, Arthur allowed himself to fall deeper into concentration, stifling unwanted thoughts and sentiments. His ears were used to much worse, as were any other that lived and worked in this section of the port's trough.

Pale movement entered his peripheral line of sight, but he didn't bother to look up. Whoever it was, they would soon pass and ignore him as always—the mindless blond child at the front of the whorehouse. The figure stood still for a moment and it began to advance towards him. Continuing to feign ignorance of the presence, Arthur pursued only his thought-numbing work. It was when he heard the faded rustle of the person's skirts did his ears perk in faint interest. He glanced up; expecting the face of his mother, but was instantly disappointed.

Instead of golden, her hair was brown. He vaguely remembered her face, so childlike and pallid that it nearly turned his stomach when he remembered who she was—the newest addition. And she looked like she could barely pass for much older than him. The edge of her bodice was torn and fresh bruises stained the pale skin of her throat. Her swollen lips thinned as neutral eyes connected with his.

"Is there something that I can help you with?" Arthur asked, probably a bit too harshly. Nan's words were still brewing in his thoughts.

The girl was still, her hands clasped together, toying with the tarnished thread of her clothing. He waited, struggling to reign in his impatience, hating that he sounded like a nagging adult, chiding and correcting the new labors of Cross Keys.

"…I suggest you get back to whatever it is you're doing before Nan returns. I imagine that she'll be less than thrilled if she finds you here of all places." He finished, eyes promptly returning to his work.

He'd seen many girls like her throughout the years. New and unpracticed. Still learning the ropes of the trade.

She bit her lip before finally speaking, a slight tremble within her voice instantly caused remorse for his curt behavior. "I haven't got anyone now. I-I was just wondering if you were waiting for someone?"

Arthur leaned forward, trying to hide the warmth that now spilled into his cheeks at her implication. She must not have known that he lived there… Well that, or she simply didn't recognize him. It took a moment of collecting himself before straightening up and clearing his throat. "Uh—no. I was most certainly not waiting."

"Oh," she raised her brow slightly. "Well, could you pay if you had wanted to?"

His face heated again, though this time more in agitation than embarrassment. "No. I do not have anything on me. A-and even if I did, I thought that I had made myself perfectly clear. Besides—I'm only eleven."

She shrugged. "I'm thirteen."

Arthur faced the window as his knuckles whitened, mumbling. "Well, that doesn't mean anything now, does it? And it's still not right."

High points of color reflected on her cheeks. Her eyes glossed over. "It's not a matter of if it's right or not. You have no right to mock me."

He breath came a bit slower, feeling a slim flicker of nausea. "I am not mocking you. I just meant to… decline. That's all."

The girl seemed to think for a bit before answering. Her fingers no longer shook as her sweaty palms flattened against the folds of her dress. "Sorry. I don't mean to push. I just tire of filthy old men."

"Well, that's just something you are just going to have to get used to." He tried to sound more sympathetic than he felt, but honestly—just what sort of patrons was this girl expecting in a place like Cross Keys?

Before either could say another word, the door creaked open, revealing a beast of a man. His ornate overcoat was the hue of fresh blood lined with threads of gold. His height was of nearly unnatural proportions as were the dense limbs attached to it, bringing to mind the biblical story of Goliath to Arthur's limited literature knowledge.

The blood drained a bit from his cheeks upon seeing the man's highly recognizable wild mane of weather-tainted copper beard, covering nearly half of his sun-leathered face. A horde of roguish-looking men bearing all sorts of weaponry and barely concealed trinkets followed soon after, loudly bragging of their latest exploits. The garish jingling of their pockets sung the loudest, most heavenly tune to the employees of Cross Keys. Tonight they were going to be well paid.

The chestnut-haired prostitute was instantly horded by a group of the men, a target for their bawdy comments and late-night suggestions. Arthur quickly tucked away his cloth deep into his trousers' pocket before even daring to look towards the intimidating giant of a man. Without even trying, their identical emerald gazes connected, locked in a heady wordless exchange.

Arthur felt the weight of shame for the immediate fear poisoning his nerves. His heart pounded heavily as the man's dense scrutiny continued. Those eyes seemed more like acid now as they meticulously measured and eyed every scrap of the boy's flesh, judging worth. Like so many before him. And there never was a time that Arthur ever felt more humiliated or filthy than he did under this man's close inspection.

Every single time.

The visual link broke and the roaring volume of the tavern's clamors once more entered their world. The man look a long, devoted drink from his bottle, clutched tightly. His voice rang out, his eyes now wickedly amused as they danced towards the brothel end of the establishment. "Fetch me your mother, boy."

Without a sound, Arthur slipped across the room and down the poorly lit corridor, lined with closed doors. The air immediately thickened with the muffled chorus of gasps, grunts, and rhythmic thumps entwined with the musk of sex.

Turning to one of the larger rooms offered, he was greeted with a halfway opened door. The bed was empty. Immediate gratitude flooded through him for not having just accidentally walked in on his mother pleasing a client. It had happened once before and it was a horrid thing to have witnessed. Stepping into the room, allowing the creak of the door to announce his presence, he saw a pale woman sitting at her homemade vanity, delicately brushing through long, golden hair, facing a mirror with a crack charting its side.

"Mum?"

She didn't slow in her task, though her hazel eyes focused on Arthur's reflection alongside the crack of her mirror with a pretty turn of her lips. "Yes, darling?"

"You have a visitor," he muttered, his eyes not meeting hers.

She sighed, her fingers now running gently through her limp tresses. Arthur could faintly smell rose water, the movement of her hair releasing her signature scent.

"Is it someone important? I am sure to be otherwise engaged this evening."

God, he hated that tone, but held back unnecessary words, instead choosing to actually follow through on the stupid order.

"It's Captain Kirkland…" The silent refusal to call him anything else hung in the air. She froze, but even after he lifted his face to peer at her, it was easy to detect the uncommon rush of affection filling her eyes at the mere mention of his name.

"James is here?" She beamed, the earnest energy glowing from her form truly made her radiant, like the soft luminescence of a pearl being brought to light for the first time.

Now fumbling with one of her tiny brass keys at the drawer of her vanity, she pulled out a tiny, amber flask. A bottle worth an amount that Arthur didn't want to think of. It was a little trinket that she only used for valuable customers… or special lovers. She dabbed a few touches of the golden liquid onto the insides of her wrist as well as along the crook of her neck. Exotic, imported scents of jasmine, lavender, and vanilla surrounded her.

No longer acknowledging anything else, she continued to smile her silly smile as the weight of melancholy melted away from her delicate frame. After straightening and airing out her skirts, she rushed out the door, nearly stumbling into Arthur in the process.

.

.

.

The days dragged on as the never-ending flow of alcohol, sex, and extravagant spending continued. It always went on until the men were penniless. That was when they would gather up their drunken selves and go on more raids.

Arthur was currently curled up on his side upon the thinly upholstered sofa of Nan's private quarters, his mind in a hazy drift between sleeping and waking. His current dream consisted of the honeyed smells of baked goods that he frequently admired a couple of shops down the street whenever he was sent on errands, but rarely got to have. The subconscious half of his mind was more aware of the strong waft of Nan's morning tea—almost medicinal in the distinct way that she always brewed it. Arthur groaned, frantically turning to his other side to avoid smelling it further, facing the door.

Voices.

Loud voices on the other side of the wooden barrier pulled his mind through the sludge of sleep. Wiping his blurry eyes, Arthur slowly stood.

He heard Nan shriek while another woman, who sounded like his mother, sobbed, though the words were impossible to follow amidst the muffled sounds of what sounded like a scuffle from the corridor. The door shuddered violently as if something heavy were thrown against it. The boy winced, now fully awake and apprehensively staring at that pathetic piece of wood barring him from whatever was going on. The handle shook before the door was thrown open.

"WHERE IS HE?"

That deep voice boomed, rattling the pulses of everyone nearby. Nan was behind him on the floor, gathering herself up with as much infuriated dignity as she could. Her hot glare was on Captain Kirkland standing in the doorframe, red-faced and tall, his expression twisted fiercely. His eyes landed on Arthur before he smiled—a wide, glistening smile that trapped breath in Arthur's throat.

"James, please!" his mother burst into the room, her torn bodice disheveled, her eyes red and her cheeks splotchy and wet. Her fingers clawed into the side of his tense arm. The man's fists clenched. Arthur tried not to notice the purple bruises lining his mother's collarbone and a particularly nasty looking bite mark on the side of her throat, but the sight of them burn in the back of his mind.

"Please don't take him. You can't—he's the only thing I have left of you," she whimpered.

"All the more reason, Miss Berkley," the man snarled her proper title.

She blinked as more tears streak down her now ashen skin. Kirkland took her quivering chin tightly between his fingers, forcing her to gasp as she released his arm. His fingernails dug into her skin as he pulled her chin up towards his face—chillingly calm and composed.

Nan took a step towards them, but froze when James drew his pistol in her direction with his free hand. They stared at each other for a second longer—one with loathing, the other with lazy disinterest. He lowered the weapon, though it remained in his loose grasp as he turned his attention back to his lover. Like Nan, Arthur's legs felt weighted to the floor as the scene unfolds.

"You've had him for eleven long years, Mary," he crooned in mock affection. He was hovering so close to her, his copper beard touched her tear-glistened cheek.

"Eleven years. It's only natural that I eventually take back what's mine." He releases her jaw with a rough tug.

Despite the final word, her glazed eyes look up into his piercing, green stare.

"But he's still so young," she pleaded softly, her voice shaking. "Mayhap in another year or two?"

He strikes her hard across the face. Sharp rings from his fingers dug into her cheek. She cried out, stumbling back, her hand pressed immediately against her cheek and coming away with red. Two robust men entered the room, as if on cue by the languid wave of their captain's hand.

The sound of his mother's pain is what broke the fearful immobility over Arthur. Hot blood swelled through his veins as he grabbed the nearest thing, which happened to be Nan's favorite ceramic vase and lunged forward, about to swing it into the giant of a man, uncaring of the slim chance of actually harming him. The two other men seized the child before he got close. The ware slid from his sweaty palms. He vaguely heard it shatter, its pieces scattered across the floor.

Like an animal clawing its way from beneath the sick façade of Captain Kirkland's lazy arrogance, Arthur fought, tearing at the arms of the men that attempted to handle him. They moved down the corridor, slamming against walls, running into various pieces of furniture, most of which he tried to use as leverage. All in wasted energy.

The deep throated laughter of copper bearded Kirkland followed, observing the boy quite closely, as a predator observing skittering prey.

.

.

.