Author's Note: I'm a bit nervous about this story—It was strange to write from the POV of a man, but I tried. This story is almost completely finished, so you don't have to worry about it go on super-long hiatus; I will try to update weekly (the chapter still need plenty of revision), but every so often life gets in the way. Please, please, please review! They're especially helpful at the beginning of a story.

Summary: Christopher, a sailor by trade, fears for his life when he is captured by a pirate ship. He is surprised when the dreaded pirate Captain turns out to be a woman, but even more surprised when she lets him live for one more day. How will he turn that day into another as he starts to fall for the Captain herself?

Rating: PG-13

I am a Pirate

The Beginning

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I am a pirate. I will say it now, before you start to think this is a story of my goodness withstanding evil. No, I am a pirate: all I ask is that you do not judge me yet. I plead that before you call me one name or another, you read the account before you. I will try to make this legible and appropriate—to spare all of the details and some of the cruder manners of speech so that anyone, man or woman, young or old, shall not be prevented from reading this. When, dear reader, you have read my account from start to finish, you may sit back in your chair and think on my tale. Then, and only then, you may judge me.

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How does one start a story such as this? A story about one's own life—or at least, the most memorable portion of it. I suppose I should start with the basics.

My name is Christopher Ellwood, though I respond just as readily to Chris. Then again, I'll answer to everything from 'you beautiful, sexy man' to 'shut your mouth, you cocky bastard.'

They're all accurate names: twenty-four years ago, my mother christened me Christopher, and over those twenty-four years I have grown to be quite attractive. After a statement such as that, I cannot deny that I am cocky—but I will assure you that I think of it as more of a kind of self-confidence.

Let me describe myself first, so you have a clear view of me. I'm tall, but not incredibly so, being just over six feet. I have dark blue eyes, and my hair is a light brown, bleached almost blond by the constant glare of the sun—the same sun that gives my skin a continual brown tan. Like any sailor, I'm well muscled; it's hard to spend all your days climbing up and down rigging and not find muscle in every and any part of your body.

So you see, I have reason for my vanity, and the women . . . let's just say they do nothing to shatter it. Ah, women—the Almighty's greatest creation, besides myself of course. (That's a joke, by the way. Feel free to laugh—or at least chuckle.) It was women I was thinking about when this all started.

We were a week or so from the shores of England and I was high up in the crow's nest, keeping watch. The horizon had been empty for hours, and so I had occupied myself dreaming of what I would do once we finally docked in port.

There is nothing I miss more while at sea then women, followed closely by fresh fruit. It's strange, I know, but up in the lookout I was dreaming of finding a pretty, willing woman and making love to her in a pile of ripe, succulent plums.

Sadly, that never did happen, for I spotted a ship upon the horizon.

"Ship west!" I called down, and a few men gazed idly out to sea.

"What nation does she hail from?" Someone called up to me.

This foreign ship was quickly approaching us, so I could see with my naked eye that her flags were not the black sails of pirates. (On a merchant ship such as this one, one always has to be careful for such a ship is a prime victim for pirates. In fact, pirates had attacked us only a few weeks previous, but we had managed to beat them off with our cannons.)

I put my telescope to my eye to view her flags more closely, and saw that each flag was blood red, with the simple outline of wave stitched in white in the middle.

I nearly dropped the telescope.

I pushed it back against my eye, praying I had seen wrong.

The sailor who had called up to me was getting impatient. "What colors are her flags?" He called up.

"Red with a white wave." I called back, wishing the words had never left my mouth.

There was silence on deck below me.

"Captain Shane." Came the man's voice. Even from this high up I could hear those two dreaded words.

Captain Shane.

The most feared pirate in all the seas—they say he kills without mercy, kills every man on every ship he raids. They say his crew is the most violent and vicious, all of them twice murderers before they ever set sail.

They say that he can kill a man with naught but a glare.

"Move!" The captain hollered as soon as the words had sunk in. "Someone load the cannons!" Sailors are known for quick reacting, but in all my years at sea, I have never seen anyone move so rapidly.

"We've got no more ammunition!" I think all our hearts stopped at that.

"That's impossible!" The captain roared.

"We used it all fighting the pirates weeks ago!"

"The wind is good, we can out-sail them." The captain hollered. Running on pure fear, the other sailors scrambled to increase our pace while I kept watch from above, my eye glued to the end of the telescope.

Although the men worked efficiently and the wind stayed strong, it was no use; Captain Shane sailed steadily closer and closer. His ship was smaller than ours and lighter, with empty holds while ours was laden down with goods from India—everything from spices to silks to bronze statues.

I was sweating fear as his ship pulled up alongside ours. It happened so slowly, so painfully, yet nothing we did could stop their steady approach. The pirates threw ropes and boards across to our ship, and though we slashed their lines and pushed their boards they made their way over, swift and persistent as the plague.

They crossed, swinging, climbing, crawling—and the massacre began.

I watched from high above, unable to move, to climb down the rigging, to do anything but stare in muted horror. I had not known these men well—I was new to the crew and had not planned to stay with this ship and red-faced captain long, but still, they were my fellow sailors. We had sailed together, and now we would die together.

Poetic, isn't it?

A man was thrown against the mast atop which my haven was perched, and the blow that killed him sent tremors through the wood that rattled all the way up the mast and through my bones.

That man had died and I had felt it—I could no longer watch from afar. I let the telescope slide out of my grasp as I raced down the rigging.

It was not until I was only a few feet from the deck that I realized I had no form of weapon. Yet still, I could not stay safe as my crewmen died below me, and so I jumped off the rigging, launching myself at the pirate nearest to me with a war cry.

I landed on the man's back, and although I may not have given him any lasting injuries, I at least caused him shock and some minor pain. Yet this man was tough and solidly built, and with no weapon there was not much I could do to hinder him.

He threw me from his back with a roar and I was sent tumbling across he ship, where my head crashed against the mast and I had one glimpse of blue sky before the world faded.