Over time, it occurs to you that you might be the only person on this pirate crew that knows King’s true face.
It’s odd that with this knowledge that is clearly no less than sacred, you’re still alive, earning your keep as something between a servant, a captive and a nuisance on the ship by cleaning and cooking and running miscellaneous domestic errands and most importantly keeping your mouth shut, and odder still that King does not appear to resent you for knowing the truth. Unreadable under tight dark cloth that refuses to betray an inch of skin, you avert your eyes from his as you set down meals day after day. No one touches you while you’re on the ship - not even a single comment elicited by a bend at the hip or a stutter when startled by large, ravenous bodies that move past and around you as if you were forbidden rather than poisonous.
You’re not sure why King is protecting you.
If you escape, you’d have enough money to make you filthy rich for a lifetime, even if your village was burnt to the ground and you have no one left to share it with.
You’re startled at the door, quickly closing it behind you, then thinking twice to lock it, and then it occurs to you how audacious it is to lock yourself in a room with a man who took you captive, who could so easily overpower you, who could see it as a threat or defiance.
But he says nothing, allowing you to place a tray of food in front of him.
His red eyes appear more like yours - human not calamity - when you can see his smooth brown skin, and his high cheekbones and sharp jaw, not as harsh as the spikes of his usual mask. He watches you carefully - studiously, really.
“You know what I am, right?”
You keep your eyes lowered to the ground. You’re too close, close enough that he reaches a hand out to grip around your chin abruptly but oddly, not truly forcefully. The sudden jerk forces you to let out a small gasp of surprise; you almost stumble into the hard wood of the desk at which he sits.
He doesn’t smile but just watches you as your voice falters, searches for some betrayal of expression. Something but nothing, just that you’re afraid, and for obvious reasons.
He sighs and lets go but the heat of the tips of his fingers lingers on the surface of your skin.
And that night you dream of angels with black wings.
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