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I've lived a life that has made me... accustomed, I suppose you could say, to fear. There is always that moment of silence before the squall, that crystalline second where everything around you slows to a stop and the only thing you feel or hear is the throbbing of your own heart. There was a time I lived for that feeling, for that second of perfect terror, but it is a young man's thrill and I, I feel so much older now. Now, as I am permitted to enter the hall and speak with the King, the anxiety I feel thrumming an unpleasant chord within me makes me feel only... tired, world-weary. But I let none of this show as I stride through the open doors, still swaggering a bit as if I walk on the deck of a ship rather than solid ground. My scalp prickles a bit as all eyes turn towards me; it could be any number of things to draw their focus, my size and the obvious signs of my incarceration among them. Of course, if any were to look closely, the marks of piracy tattooed on the webbing between my thumb and forefinger stood out boldly against my dark skin. But I push these concerns aside, my amber eyes focused on the person I've come to meet. He dismisses the others as I offer him a bow, an unfamiliar movement I will never admit to practicing several times before this event. There is intelligence in this king's eyes, a shrewdness I had not expected but am, surprisingly, relieved to see. There are some who would tempt me to gloss over the darker aspects of my past, but not this man. This man, I think - I hope - will appreciate honesty. I stand at attention, my arms behind my back and my legs spread to a sturdy stance meant to help maintain balance on the shifting seas.
"No, Your Highness," I reply politely in response to his question of the wait. I would have gladly waited hours, days perhaps, for this meeting. Trouble peers anxiously out from behind my legs, his nimble fingers tangled into the fabric of my breeches. I try to ignore the sharp poke of his nails, clearing my throat in preparation. "Sire, I've come to ask..." I hesitate. The speech I worked so hard to form fails me, and when I continue, my words are simple but honest. "I've come to ask you for an opportunity. Before I came to Shaman, I was on the wrong path." - I lift my hands now, bringing not only the pale Xs on each hand but the thick scar tissue at my wrists to his attention. Their sister scars at my ankles, hidden by my breeches but there all the same, tingle. - "I do not expect your trust to be easily given, and I do not seek an easy pardon for the crimes I have committed. I seek work, honest work, to earn forgiveness. Your Highness, if you are willing to give me a chance, I will do everything in my power to ensure you do not regret it even a moment."
I fall silent again, resisting the urge to hold my breath as I await his response. This is the moment I have worked for, have waited for. I feel the spirits of my crew around me, waiting with heavy expectation. I know my stoic features and my own admittance of my crimes weigh heavily against me; there are some, many perhaps, who seek redemption as an easy out or, worse yet, seek it only as a means to pursue their own selfish intentions. But I hope this man will see the truth in me. |