Work Text:
Chapter 1
Mary, or Mark as their mother called them, stood at the end of the dock, looking out on the vast expanse of water. The steel-blue seemed to go on forever. Mark was fourteen now, just beginning to notice that their name carried different meanings depending on who they were with. When it was just family and they were in trouble, it was Mary. Most other times, it was Mark. Most of the time, when Mark went by that name, people also called them him. They would rather be called them, but what did it matter what they thought. In some people’s eyes, him was what made sense.
As they stared, a dark shape began to appear at the edge of the water. After squinting for a good long minute trying to make out what it was, they could just barely distinguish one ship, then two, then four, then too many to count, spread like birds fly, one at the front, the rest forming a v. M had always been fascinated by the sea and longed to see the world. There was one problem though, they had been born a girl. And although their mom gave them only boy’s clothes, that didn't fit either. They had begun to dress as the occasion needed. When they wanted someone to take pity on them, dresses and stays. When they wanted to be taken seriously, breeches and vests would help with that. They wished they could mix the two categories more, but their mother would despise that.
It was beginning to grow dark, and the fire-orange skies blended with the boats, which M now realized were fighting. The only time M had seen this shade of orange was back when they were allowed in the kitchen, cooking with their mother. They remembered the flames beneath the black pot warming the food. Their mouth watered, even thinking about the porridge. They hadn't eaten in a very long time, and had come out to the dock to forget this. A hungry stomach doesn't lie though.
As the ships slowly came into port, into M’s tiny town, a small crowd began to gather. The smell of smoke and gunpowder hugged them like a blanket and mixed with the mist of the coming night. When the ships finally reached shore, it was dark, but for some lanterns brought by the crowd. A single survivor. Taken by pirates. Tortured and killed. Whispers began to swirl around the crowd like dust on the wind. M had never heard that word before. Pirates. They began to despise the word.
The crowd pulled a body up from the rubble. Barely alive, bloody and gasping for breath. More gasps floated around the crowd. M felt distant and detached. This was a dream, a nightmare!
They thought back to a different dream they’d had recently. Drowning in a different prison. One of petals and pollen and delirium. Pollen ensnaring itself in their lungs, dizzying them and turning their mind in circles. They felt the dock sway, but knew it was just their mind. The dock was firmly attached with wooden poles that fell deep into the ground. Wet wood could sway though, like the flower stems of their dream. Imaginary wind, bringing the sweet scent of a flower garden. A townsperson from the same place as them. The towns around here were small, and as the population grew, they mixed and mingled and the lines dividing them grew fainter and more blurry. There were other lines dividing the people M knew, lines like gender, class, and one they dared not say, for the words did not yet exist.
Flora, the flower shop owner, who always smelled of the sweet perfume, brought by her pollen-filled profession, seemed mad, desperate, unaware of her existence. Desperately holding roses to the nose of the incapacitated sailor, nearly tipping into the depths of darkness with her ferocity. This sailor would live. The pirates would not succeed. More and more whispers tickled the crowd, swirling like bits of dust. As the darkness grew, the townspeople fought it off with meager lanterns.
Like the sailor lost to the pirate. M didn't want this thought to occupy their brain, but what could be done? M supposed that they could take the sailor’s place, and fight the Pirate till victory, but what would that do? And would they even be let onto a ship? With this body becoming more like their mother’s than the other sailors? The captains would know, would burn them at the stake. Or hang them. Perhaps they'd seen too much blood for one their age. Too many dead people. Perhaps they only knew death. Perhaps they lacked a childhood filled with love. So lovely, yet so rare.
M stayed there until the sailor died. It wasn't long, it wasn't painful, but he just slipped away. A single tear slipped down M’s cheek as they walked home. They dreamt too much. So much that it encroached on reality. A week ago, they had dreamt of that same blood staining the dock. Perhaps their dreams were becoming reality. In that case, M hoped they never met the dagger handed, red headed pirate who stole their heart. Or, maybe they did, if only for the adventure. They felt a strange tug in their heart.
Perhaps this was what some of the townspeople were burned for.
Lost in their thoughts, and clumsy at the worry in their heart, they stumbled into a solid form. At first, they were unsure if it was a tree or a fencepost, or a man. Then, it moved. Well, he moved.
“Young man. You have got to be more careful!” his voice bellowed out into the night, matching what his profession probably was. Only metal smiths got that strong and solid.
“Sir, I am so sorry. It's just dark is all. And something happened at the docks.” M’s voice came out all wobbly and too high pitched. They did try to match the assumptions people made about them, raise their voice when wearing dresses, lower it in breeches; but a boy their age was expected to have a voice at least an octave lower.
The man pinched his eyebrows, or so M thought, it was hard to tell in the dark, but that was their assumption.
“Well, get on home then, young man. The night isn't safe for someone like you.” M knew what the man was implying. Someone as old as them in breeches wasn't meant to have this high of a voice. It wasn't even that high, just if they were a boy, their voice would certainly be much lower.
M nodded and walked on. Their house was not too far from here, perhaps another hundred strides. They thought again about their dreams. The redhead, the dead man on the docks, the dizzying flora of the dream world. As their brain worked more, longing for a rest, they decided to sleep as soon as their head hit the pillow. And so they did.
Waking up after a death is never a fun occurrence. M knew this as soon as their eyes were peeled open by their mother. She held her fingers on their eyelids and pursed her lips and eyebrows. “Mark. you must wake. They're looking for sailors to replace the ones killed by pirates. People are beginning to suspect you weren't born a boy. You must go.”