Frank Hannam Henderson sat on the ground, scratching his hair with a slow, deliberate motion. His fingers traced through the strands, feeling the dampness of sweat, the grit of salt, the weight of everything that had happened. He breathed a sigh of relief long, slow, satisfied.
"That felt so good." His voice was warm, almost content. "I've been looking for a way to get rid of that."
He stared at both of them at George Washington, the man marked with X on his face, and at Davina Jones, the daughter of Davy Jones. They lay on the ground before him, impaled by his golden blade, their bodies broken, their lives in his hands.
He stretched out his hand.
"Would you like to see some magic?"
He paused, a small smile playing on his lips.
"I don't like to normally pride myself with it, but I know magic." He tilted his head. "Though not enough to call myself a magician. I think I know enough to be really proud of myself."
As his hand was stretched, the gold blade that was stabbed into both George Washington and Davina Jones began to change.
It melted.
Not like metal under heat something else entirely. It became liquid, flowing, alive. It slipped into both of them, entering their bodies, merging with their flesh, becoming part of them.
Immediately, George Washington shouted.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
His voice tore from his throat raw, primal, agonized. Veins popped all around his chest, spreading across his entire body, encroaching upon his face. His skin bulged, his muscles convulsed, his eyes rolled back. He was in pain pure, absolute, unrelenting pain.
As for Davina Jones, the result was completely different.
She showed no reaction at all.
She looked at George Washington as she lay there on the ground, her eyes calm, her face still. Then she tried to move but could not even move an inch. Her body was frozen, locked in place, unresponsive.
She said to herself, her inner voice quiet, analytical.
That sword it must be artificial. Probably the same way that his cloak was. She paused. It's a good thing the cloak is gone, but now this blade...
She felt it inside her the presence of the gold, the weight of the magic, the wrongness of it.
It's in my body, but I can't even feel it. She tried to move again nothing. This feeling is so strange. It doesn't even feel like it weighs much. I feel like I'm the weight of a feather.
She was only able to move from side to side small, tiny movements that did nothing to free her.
Then she opened her mouth. And was able to move it.
Frank spoke, his voice calm, almost kind.
"You want to be able to move around?" He tilted his head. "I admit anyone would want to be able to move around in that position they are in."
He smiled.
"I'm not heartless." He waved his hand. "So move."
Then all of her body became free as free as a feather.
But her face was filled with shock as she got up. Because she was nowhere in any control of her own body. A puppet that is what she felt like. Her body moved, but not by her will. Her limbs obeyed, but not her commands. She stood, and then her body froze again.
Frank smiled.
"Now, isn't that a much better pose?"
She spat forward at him.
The saliva flew through the air a small, defiant act, a declaration of resistance. It landed on his cheek, dripping down his face, staining his skin.
"You crazy pervert bastard!" Her voice was raw, furious.
The look on his face changed from the smirk he wore.
His eyes hardened. His jaw tightened. His expression became something cold, something dark, something that had been hiding beneath the surface.
"You should hold your tongue properly." His voice was quiet, but it carried. "Your beauty disgusts me to the core."
He paused.
"Your kind also disgusts me." His eyes burned. "The two of you are only alive because I want to understand and want to know because I want to speak."
He leaned forward.
"So if you, for once, cause my irritation to flare up..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "...I don't give a fuck what my orders were."
He smiled a thin, cruel expression.
"I will kill you." He paused. "And I will enjoy doing it."
Then he eased up.
His expression softened, his body relaxed, his smile returned to something almost warm. He laughed a short, light sound.
"I can't really force you to laugh with me." He shook his head. "If not, that would be so hilarious."
in the space between the threat and the laughter, between the puppet and the puppeteer.
Davina Jones stood, frozen, her body no longer her own.
George Washington lay on the ground, pain still coursing through his veins.
Frank Hannam Henderson sat, smiling.
And the sea waited.