A/N: This was born of a steady diet of Alestorm and Pirates of the Caribbean. Enjoy. If you recognize a character's name or appearance from anything every created by Charles Addams- surprise! I don't own them.

The lad was, Captain Blackwell reflected, quite pleasant. Cultured, well-mannered, witty, and modest. Likely to attract the ladies as well, with expressive brown eyes, full lips, and the pale, soft skin of someone who'd never known hard labor. Yes, overall a fine young man.

And going absolutely nowhere in life.

On their first circuit of the deck, his conversation had entirely concerned classical myths- Greek and Roman. Now, halfway through the second, all he could speak of was poetry. As a particularly passionate gesture revealed a paisley silk vest beneath his velvet frock coat, the older man wondered if perhaps those ladies he'd attract were not to his liking.

"I beg your pardon," he said, interrupting a discourse on Shakespearean sonnets, "but what brings you to the islands, Master …?" For he could imagine no-one less likely to make this voyage.

As if reading his mind, the boy smiled wryly. "Beineke. I did introduce myself, but you must not have heard it."

"Beineke?" Blackwell's brow furrowed. "Forgive me, but that does not sound like an English name."

"It isn't. My father is German," he replied. For a moment, his eyes seemed to darken. With strands of hair the wind had coaxed loose from their ribbon blowing across his forehead, Master Beineke looked more human than Captain Blackwell had seen him during the entire three-month voyage.

"I will join him in Barbados, to learn the finer points of the family trade. He is a merchant," the boy added in answer to the captain's unspoken question.

"Ah." Blackwell stared out over the sun-sparkling water. There seemed little else to say. "Well," he finally managed, "you seem a fine lad, if you don't mind my saying. I am sure you will meet with every success in life."

"Thank you," Master Beineke said.

And all was silent as they stood near the railing, watching the waves. Not the flattest calm the Mary Rose had ever seen, but tranquil enough. Certainly no-one on board would have cause to feel sick. The sailors on deck went about their business calmly and quietly; a few other passengers strolled as the two men were doing. In short, it was an entirely normal scene. Practically idyllic, in fact; begging to be painted and sold in a London gallery.

Until, that is, Lucas found himself knocked into from behind and nearly bowled over. Grabbing the railing unconsciously, he regained his footing and turned to get a look at his assailant. His eyes widened as he saw- a child. No older than ten, at that

Captain Blackwell looked sternly at the little girl. She was pretty, with a round face and brown curls that, because of her youth, were not yet restrained by pins. And a thoroughly unrepentant smile.

"See here," he began. But at that moment, a harried-looking maid caught up to the girl.

"Young mistress," she said, breathing hard, "I have had quite enough of this. You may not race about the ship like a street urchin! I do apologize, sir-" the last direct at the young man.

To the captain's surprise, he smiled indulgently. "Not to worry, madam. No harm done."

The maid heaved a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness. Miss Maria is…strong minded. More," she continued, with a stern glance at her charge, "than befits a lady."

"I shan't be a lady if we're set upon by pirates," the child exclaimed. Her hands twisted the blue cotton of her skirt in excitement.

"Heaven preserve us, child," her maid practically wailed, "don't say such things! Least of all before the good captain."

Blackwell just shook his head, placing a hand on Maria's shoulder. "Now, now, my girl. You needn't worry about pirates. Mary Rose is a sound and safe ship; they won't bother us."

Rather than the expected relief, however, the girl's face showed disappointment. Then, stubbornness. "How can you be certain?"

"Because," Blackwell replied, "God protects good folk like us on the sea." He gestured towards the skies with his silver-tipped cane. But Maria's expression didn't change.

"But I want pirates to come! Then I will run away with them, and be a pirate queen with my own ship when I'm grown," she said. Captain Blackwell looked confused; the maid, despite her exasperated groan, didn't. Master Beineke seemed merely intrigued. He knelt down to be closer to the child's level.

"Why do you want to be a pirate queen?" he asked.

For a moment, the wide brown eyes showed surprise. It was clear no-one had asked this question before. The little girl hesitated. "Because…because pirates have adventures. Their lives are daring and exciting and they don't have to sit primly in their houses all the time."

"But pirates are men. Have you ever heard of a female pirate?" He stared at her thoughtfully. "If I may say so, Miss Maria, it seems no fit life for a lady."

"Believe me," the maid interjected, "if any lady is equal to it, you're looking at her. She's willful enough, at least." With that, she took Maria's hand and began to lead her away. "Come along, Miss."

As the child reluctantly left, looking back over her shoulder at the young man, Captain Blackwell shook his head.

"Disgraceful. What are they filling children's heads with these days? For a girl to be thinking of pirates- I ask you, Master Beineke!"

But Master Beineke was no longer listening. Instead, his gaze was fixed on something in the distance, off the port side of the ship. Blackwell looked in the same direction and felt his heart almost stop.

It was a ship, much like his. But even at a distance, he could see the flag they ran. Black, with a white hourglass over crossed bones in the center. There could be no mistaking the ship nor its occupants- nor their intentions.

"Sweet Jesus preserve us," he whispered. Then, all business once more, "Get below, Master Beineke. The deck will very shortly become no place for a gentleman such as yourself."

As the young man nodded and took his leave, Blackwell noticed- as men occasionally do in such moments –small details of the scene around him. A knot in the woodwork of the railing, for instance, or the gold ring that glinted on the poet-lad's hand. Such a strange design, he thought briefly. It was shaped like a sort of serpent or dragon.

But such thoughts were driven from his mind as one by one, the passengers on deck began to notice the pirate ship. Screams rose, and loud prayers; he had to raise his voice to be heard over the din.

"Gentlemen! Ladies! I must ask you to keep calm. If you will go below so that we may do our duties, we stand a better chance of escape. I suggest you occupy yourselves in quiet prayer for our deliverance."

With that, the deck began to clear. As Maria passed, being hurried along by her maid, he heard her say, "Do you think they'll take prisoners?"

With a sailor's superstition, he wondered if the wretched girl had brought this down on them. But reason soon drove the suspicion from his mind. As he shouted orders and his crew rushed to obey, the ship drew nearer. She was a schooner, faster and more maneuverable than the Mary Rose. Despite the crew's efforts, she soon caught up.

A warning shot rang out across the narrowing space between the two vessels. They would be watching, he knew, for resistance. At the first sign of aggression, the black flag would be changed for red.

Red for no mercy. Red for blood. Captain Blackwell had been sailing long enough to know.

"Sir?" one of the men asked. "Do we fight?"

After a moment, he replied, "No. I'll not risk the souls aboard any more than need be. We surrender."

The order was given to strike the colors, a sight he turned away to avoid seeing. But the lowering of the ship's flag was a clearly visible signal to the pirates that they would not fight. The rest was left to the enemy's doubtful capacity for mercy.

A capacity he would soon learn, as grappling hooks began flying across the gap between the ships and were followed by their owners. Large men, the majority of them; old enough to have done this many times. Several sported tattoos, a few the expected gold teeth or missing legs. The frightening thing, to Blackwell, was and always had been how similar they looked to honest men he'd commanded. Pirates could at least have the decency to look like creatures out of nightmares- or even simply look different from the average sailor.

But one did look different, the last one to come aboard. A surprisingly young man, slender, dark of hair and eye but with unusually pale skin- a few shades darker than the sails above them. And despite wearing normal sailor's garb of trousers, a loose shirt, and a waistcoat, something about the way he carried himself struck Blackwell as odd.

That and the fact that the others fell back before him, parting like the Red Sea to allow him to reach the Mary Rose's captain. Blackwell eyed him warily as he approached.

The young man stopped before him. One pallid hand rested on a cutlass with a jeweled hilt, but he made no move to draw it. "This is my ship," he said, "the Diana. And these are my men."

"Please," Blackwell interjected, "I beg mercy for the innocent souls aboard. We have twenty passengers travelling to the islands; they have no part in this. If you must kill, take me in their stead."

"I have no interest in bloodshed. My sole aim- and that of my crew –is your cargo." Without taking his eyes off the much-relieved Blackwell, the young captain continued, "If you do not impede us, we will let you sail on unharmed."

The older man breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, sir."

This garnered a raised eyebrow. "Don't thank me for what I'd be a fool to take. Killing bystanders won't fill my hold." With that, he nodded to the men behind him, who immediately dispersed.

As the pirates tramped about belowdecks, bringing up armloads of silks and spices, the passengers watched with guarded interest. True to form, Miss Maria tried once or twice to push her way towards the thieves; true to form, the harried maid pulled her back. But the raid passed without incident- until, that is, one of the women fainted.

Completely without provocation, some flimsy English rose or another collapsed. Perhaps she finally remembered what was expected of her in this situation. Either way, the frail, corseted body fell, from the front of the group, straight into the unsuspecting arms of the Diana's captain.

Who stared at her, blinking in a shaft of sunlight that pierced the gloom. His expression was one of almost comical confusion.

Master Beineke quickly pushed his way towards the unconscious belle. "Here," he said, hoisting her awkwardly from the pirate's grip. "I'll take her."

"Much obliged," the young captain replied wryly. He seemed to have regained his composure; with what sounded like a small snort of derision, he started to turn back towards the stairs.

And stopped to stare intently at the would-be poet's hand. Specifically, at the small golden dragon around his finger. Beineke glanced at it, then back at the pirate.

"Sir…" he began warily, but the brigand cut him off.

"Give me your ring."

Without even pausing to think, he replied, "No."

"Yes." He found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.

"Indeed, no."

"Indeed," the young man grabbed his wrist and pulled him close enough that their noses were almost touching, "yes."

"Believe me when I say," Master Beineke said quietly, "that this ring is not leaving my possession."

They stood like that for a long few moments, during which the assembled company seemed to hold its breath. Finally, the pirate spoke.

"That can be arranged."

Suddenly, something about the cold-burning brown eyes sparked in the brain of the dragon ring's wearer. He glanced at the pirate; there was no specific evidence to support his wild fancy, but somehow he felt more certain in it by the moment.

"You're a-" he began, but the pistol's handle connected with his head before he could finish the sentence, and the world was swallowed by blackness.

A/N: Oh look, a cliffhanger that's not really a cliffhanger.