A Journal Page Found Fluttering Through the Wind
One has not lived, has not breathed, until they have truly smelt the sea. The salty air wafting through the nostrils, the taste of fish inside one's mouth, and the gentle rocking of the sea, as soft as a woman's caresses. The blue stretches on forever and then some, holding the promise of adventure and the unknown.
I have smelt the sea, and that is my joy. I have lived, and now I will die. I hold a quill in one hand and a knife in the other, to make records so that another may know of the events of this day. When the pirates come bursting into my room, they will find me dead with a slit throat. The captain, although men so despicable can hardly be called something that even relates to Barbarossa, will call to his men and ask each of them, "Did you kill this boy?" They will all say no, in turn, for fear of incurring their captain's wrath. He will kill his own, have no doubts. That is the nature of pirates, I fear. But I will be dead, and their captain will have nothing.
It would do to record events in an account of history, and so I shall, even as the song of metal on metal is invading my ears from the decks above.
He caught us in the channel. Our captain, Barbarossa, was dead, and the men had none to lead them. We were drifting, for we did not know where to go next. Our captain had completed the journey of his life, and had been buried at sea exactly four days before. Then the black sails came in. We attempted to turn, but in a surprising show of surpassing cleverness, the...thing... had thought to send his second sloop in behind us with their crudely fashioned oars powering the boat. I told the men what I thought and they did not disagree. Bone-deep loyalty for old Barbarossa enforced it. None of the demon's crew can read or write, so be it known:
Barbarossa the Great perished on the Date of August the Third, in the Year of 1695, as was his reward for completing his journey. Have no fear, for I, the unnamed, have taken up his task and will hold to it. The demon lord of the fears no longer must needs be feared, for he shall be mine and I shall be his. By the Knife of Ichthinu, I swear and will die. Let this be known.
Tell my mother's bones that I loved her, my sister's that I died bravely, and tell my father's stone that I am his son of House Jacington.
A/N: Yes, I know that I reused names from my other stories. Oh, and writers are like plants: the more you talk to them the better they'll grow up to be (that means reviews, please).