They cheered. Even with death so fresh in the air that the only prominent scent was the sweetly sour stench of stale sweat and spilt blood, the men that apparently took his side in this squabble cheered. Letho couldn’t really blame them. They seemed like the bunch that seldom found themselves in life-or-death situations, a handful of unfortunate men that fell into the good graces of the all too familiar bitch called fate. Some of them probably took their first life on this night. It would strike them afterwards, the recognition of what their deed really meant, and though the necessity of the death they sow would outweigh the guilt, they would feel that cold sting in their insides all the same. It would make their guts churn and twist once they realize they just took everything their foes had and everything that they could ever have. And they would know that their victory had a terrible price.

Letho knew all of this. Even at the relatively young age of twenty-five, the swordsman was in so many kill or be killed situations that the twisted faces of foes that he robbed of their lives started to fade away like an ancient scroll left in the sun. He knew what it meant to extinguish the very existence of somebody who had a childhood just like him, who had memories and thoughts and dreams and desires, who lived in every sense of the word. The self-defense didn’t justify it. That was why the butchery at his feet didn’t seem like a victory to him. That was why he didn’t cheer.

When the leader of the renegade braves approached Letho didn’t recoil. As unlikely as it seemed, he knew that the man meant him no harm and that the sailors he led were on his side. Instead his grasp around the leather hilt of the blade loosened, his eyes closing gently as the muscles throughout his entire body rippled with relaxation. The glistening white aura that cast a theatre of shadows all around the main deck fluttered gently twice before fading out and the massive oversized muscles of the warrior melted down to their usual bulky size. Once again he retained the look of the tired wanderer whose feet walked too many miles and whose eyes saw far too many wonders. His weary brown eyes looked back at the man that bore a rather uncanny name; Storm.

“I don’t need blind trust to know that you and your men shared the same cause with me in this quarrel, Storm Veritas. I’ve seen you fight with courage against these scum and you have my gratitude.” Letho replied to the introduction of the panting man, his voice rather indifferent and colorless save for the brush of royal strictness, the trademark tone of all of Letho’s introductions. His hand discarded the curved cutlass nonchalantly, the blood drenched blade clattering in the silence of the aftermath as his mind urged him to hurry down below. He didn’t know where did this Storm (if that was indeed his real name) character come from. Perhaps he one of the mutineers that had a change of heart or just a lucky sod that managed to escape the mass. But at this moment he frankly didn’t give a damn. The fact that he wasn’t going at Letho’s throat more then sufficed for now.

That, however, changed the second time Storm spoke, because at that moment he earned something that only a handful of people managed to acquire; Letho’s respect. And the formal aforementioned gratitude shifted to a heartily one just as Letho’s face cracked a bit from the usual stone chiseled visage of a battle-hardy grumpy man. His hand brushed off the droplets of sweat and blood that accumulated on his brow as he let out an audible sigh. “Talk about too close for comfort...” Once he lifted his head back up, there was not a single trace of the uptight royal conserved expression on his face, the visage that Myrhia hated with vehemence replaced by one of sheer relief. The meaty hand grasped Storm’s shoulder tightly, resolutely.

“You’re a good man, Storm. I owe you...” and even as he said that, he turned his face towards the rest of the men and raised his voice. “I owe all of you! You have shown more courage then a legion of knights today. But now is not a time to cheer. We need to gather the wounded and treat their wounds. We’ll make an infirmary down in the sleeping quarters. Bring all that you can find there and I will treat their wounds.” he spoke as he released Storm and walked amidst the men that finally seemed to lose the mask of fear that covered their faces ever since they saw him in his bestial form. His voice was different now, somehow warmer and more mundane, the respect within it adding a completely different hue to it.

And it was that familiar warmth that invited Myrhia to leave her hiding place below the staircase and behind a batch of mops that reeked of stale water and unwashed feet. Her bare feet tapped weakly and reluctantly on the wooden stairs, her torn nightgown making her figure resemble that of a ghost as she popped up on the main deck. Her slender hand held the dagger in a desperate fearful clutch as her eyes tried to track down Letho on the field of massacre that, if it weren’t for the profound shock that still held her in a somewhat of a daze, would surely made her vomit. “Letho?” she spoke in little over a whisper, her faint broken voice searching the darkness just as vehemently as her emerald eyes filled with tears. They both tracked him down unmistakably and once she could see his large figure turning her way, she was ready to scream.

“Letho!” she yelled, her pale smooth feet now frantically tapping on the blood-stained floor boards, slipping and sliding, her shaky steps evading the corpses and severed limbs as she ran towards him. And nothing else mattered to her at that moment. Not the rum-infested reek of the warm breath of a man that tried to rape her, not his aching cold grasp that pushed her into the mattress, not even her unlikely savior that carried her out of the whole mess. Right now she just wanted to feel safe again, feel his hands embracing her just like that first time back in Scara Brae. The fearful, innocent embrace, gentle nearly to a fault and taking her to their own little sanctuary where the world was just an illusion and time stretched to the point it ceased to exist.

But instead of a tender embrace of her lover, a cold hairy hand grabbed her from behind, yanking her by her hair and pressing a cold blade against her smooth exposed neck. Everything on the main deck, including Letho who was by now halfway to the red haired girl, stopped instantaneously and instead of the divinity of her own little heaven, Myrhia felt as if she sunk straight to the pits of hell once again. The breath on the back of her neck stank of tobacco and rotten eggs as the dagger slowly dipped into her neck, producing a minute trickle of blood and a helpless whimper from the girl.

“Ah, I’ve got your pretty now, Letho. Watchoo gonna do, huh tough guy?” the raspy ancient sounding voice spoke with a bitterness of a psychotic murderer that lost all connection with reality about a lifetime ago. It was a hissing voice of a snake that swiveled and rattled in the dirt just before it was about to strike. Letho recognized the voice, so did the surviving sailors and just like the swordsman they were out of options.

“Bastard! Let her go.” Letho growled, taking a single step forward. But even as he did so Aslan tugged on the mahogany hair even tighter, his blade just reaching the flesh beneath the skin of the redhead, making her throat muscles tense and wish to exhale a scream.

“Uh-uh, I wouldn’t do that if I was you. Not if you...” but the next thing that exited the foul toothless mouth of the captain was a terrifying shriek as he stumbled backwards with a dagger in his stomach. Unfortunately Myrhia, who managed to impale the man with the dagger that Storm gave her, was caught by the captain’s dagger, the blade mercilessly slashing through the side of her neck and making her scream before she collapsed on the deck.

“YOU LITTLE BITCH!!!” the captain screamed, making a groggy move towards the girl that held for her neck with a frightened look on her face as blood washed her tiny hands. He moved almost in slow motion, like a punched out prizefighter that searched for the ropes with hope that they would lead him to the sound of the bell. An arrow from the shadows made that round stretch throughout eternity. The projectile impaled itself the man straight through his forehead, making the ghastly figure of the captain fall with a deathly cringe with an unhealthily arch of his spine. This time Letho’s eyes didn’t even search for his hidden ally, the bulky man darting forwards even before the body of the captain connected with the hard wooden boards. In a flash he was looming over the frail beauty with a grievous frown furrowing his brow.

“Did... Did I get him, Letho?” Myrhia asked, struggling for both voice and breath as she tried to force a smile on her scarred face. Letho prayed to all the gods and demons his lore recognized that her smile wouldn’t be a bloody one. And the gods answered. The cut was only a fraction of an inch short of ripping her throat wide open, and though she was loosing a lot of blood, her wound was not mortal. He managed a smile that failed to be reassuring as he removed her hands hastily before tying down the wound with a piece of his shirt.

“You did, Myri. But don’t speak now. You’re going to be alright.” he spoke as the remaining sailors gathered around the scene, some of them in no better condition then the dying teenager. He picked her up in his arms, her tiny crumpled body barely larger then that of a child, and headed down below. “Gather the wounded and bring them to me.” he said to Storm sharply, the briskness of his voice coming as a courtesy of the clock that slowly counted down for the girl in his arms. He fired one last look towards the shadow on the opposite side of the ship, his eyes trying to lift the shroud of blackness in order to see at least a shape of his benefactor. But again there was nothing but pitch-black solidity of the moonlight shadow cast by the sails that fluttered above their heads.