He gazed along the disputed deck, with its bloody scars of battle. Soon only the dead and the poor wretches who had fled below would remain.
He saw his own ship angled away from the bows, suddenly clear in the fresh sunlight, her wounds hidden by drifting smoke, and only then did he know what had held him here. He looked down into the dead face, frozen at the instant of impact. As he had sworn to do.
Perhaps he had expected elation, or a sense of revenge. There was nothing.
He heard voices calling out and knew they would come to find him, interrupting this moment which he could share with only one.
He let his sword arm fall to his side and turned once more to look at his ship, and smiled a little, as if he had heard someone speak.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
The Most Coveted Gift.