//------------------------------// // As a Matter of Fact, She Did // Story: Washed Up // by ambion //------------------------------// Flotsam woke up. He’d been sleeping deeply – better than he’d expected or hoped to – but now he woke up, alert and ready. The blankets rustled softly. In the pre-dawn dark Nauticaa was heat and serpentine motion at his back. Hers was a soft touch as she uncoiled herself from him. The pockets of warmth where their bodies had touched evaporated, and though Flotsam studiously feigned sleep, there was something entierly heartbreaking about the sensation of her going. Flotsam lay, his body lax, his mind rigid, hunting for any tacit sign of affection from the Captain, perhaps a sigh, perhaps a slow sweep of her hoof along his side, perhaps more, but no, she’d taken him to bed easily, without preamble, slept and then taken herself from that bed just as easily. An invitation without welcome. He didn’t understand, but it was still sad in its way. Nauticaa had made the bed warm. A second body, folded with his, made it feel good and right. She smelled nice. Hints of sweat and salt, metal and wood, each component accented in its way an underlying, unwavering femininity. Flotsam wondered if he had experience with this sort of thing, then figured it didn’t matter, not really. Past life or no, he’d never been here in this place, in this bed, in these circumstances. Certainly not with her. Here was a mare who hovered somewhere in ambiguity between ‘Pirate’ and ‘not a pirate’, making a sliding scale of something that really wasn’t supposed to be one. Nauticaa was Captain. She’d certainly – Flotsam recalled somewhat flippantly – had him perform ridiculous, and worse, eavesdropper pleasingly noisy tasks, all for what seemed to be some sort of tacit suggestion that his booty – so to speak – was Nauticaa’s booty. Apparently that was a part and parcel of the language ambigu-pirates understood, because, as Flotsam was beginning to understand, the world Nauticaa inhabited almost but not quite the same one as that of her crew. To be fair, Flotsam’s bones had not actually been jumped, per se, in the time since such particular undertakings. Maybe a little upwards motion, here or there, a few chance jumpettes, and certainly a little bit of looking skywards, but all his bones remained jumpless. More or less. Unless he counted jumping overboard. But that was literal and so didn’t count, naturally. Flotsam rolled to his back and stared at the ceiling. He wondered if Nauticaa would say anything, he waited for her to, but she did not. Her hooves were soft taps across the floor – there was the sharp whisk of the bed curtain – then came a whispery sound Flotsam puzzled out as being a comb. She seemed a different pony out of bed. Aloof, more remote. Impassive, stoic. Of course, that was Nauticaa as he knew her to be. It wasn’t like she’d suddenly lightened up or anything last night. Had she smiled once? There hadn’t been much reason to, not much at all, but after, well, after all the stuff about him and his magical crazies, where had that left her? Unshakeably calm and reasonable, actually, thanks for asking. Maybe he’d just imagined something otherwise, when he’d been half-asleep, warm and held. Maybe he had confused being close with closeness. Maybe Nauticaa had a hot spot for insanity. Flotsam tried to imagine that, and was quite relieved when he just couldn’t see it. Also, he didn’t want to be insane, that might have made him biased on the matter, but even so, just, no. He liked the cuddles, at any rate. That’d been nice. He’d been asleep. It had been very late last night when that had happened; it was cracking dawn not quite yet now, but for all that it’d been nice while it lasted. There’d been no coyness, and that confused Flotsam. She’d shared her bed with him – not ignoring him – but giving Flotsam the clear impression that she was acting the exact same as she did every night. That there was nothing different for his benefit going on. For a few hours, spanning the darkest, quietest, loneliest portion of night, the second pony in her bed had simply been promoted to Captain’s Pillow. In fact, it made sense when Flotsam thought of it that way, at least a little bit. He’d been put in her bed without ceremony or fanfare, just like a pillow, been held and cuddled through the night – just like a pillow – and the strongest argument yet: he was soft, fluffy and cotton-bunny-white. All known qualities of the common pillow. Flotsam stared at the ceiling, gently ignoring the oddness that was the extra weight on his horn. He let his leg fall across the pillow under him and compared colours, for what it was worth in the almost-dark. He felt oddly pleased to be a shinier white than the competition, which, for its part, really could not care. Maybe Flotsam was insane. He was in a good mood, though. There was that to consider. He made a point of stretching and yawning. It was mostly real, and partly exaggerated to announce himself. “Good morning.” Nauticaa was at her desk. She worked the comb for a few more passes, then acknowledged him with a soft grunt. Wood slid open, then she paused and said, “Come over here.” In the time it took Flotsam to hesitate, she cocked an eye and said, “Well? Come over here.” Flotsam gave a single, deep nod. He rolled easily from the bed, fended off a small bout of shivers, and was acutely aware of his over-weighted, nullified horn. Not really knowing where else to go, he stood in front, like anyone would. He was a subordinate, after all, even if they had just gotten out of the same bed and the sun not yet up in the sky. It felt a little weird, because Flotsam had no idea if this meant he should be all the more reserved and formal with the Captain or just the opposite. Nauticaa’s ears flicked and she gave him a tested look. “Here,” she said, pointing to her side of the desk. How’d the old saying go: business in the front…? “Oh, right.” Nauticaa put her hoof to the back of his head and nudged it lower. She didn’t use force, but she didn’t need to. He capitulated, feeling benign bafflement. It wasn’t dissimilar to the manner in which a barber ushers a pony’s head about the place. Not unkind, just professional. All the same, they were very close again, and Flotsam felt it acutely. The Captain asked, “How is it?” “It’s…there,” he said, trying to start a real answer. He gingerly touched the oddly gritty material encasing his horn. Nullifier. Despite the texture, there never seemed to be any bit of grit that came away from it. The pillows would have been a mess, otherwise. That it had magical properties was obvious. What was disconcerting was not sharing in that fact. “I mean, I feel it. There’s no pain, or anything like that” he urged quickly. It wasn’t an easy experience to communicate. The name didn’t really encompass the sensation. It was a little bit like numbness, this unfamiliar, total and unrelenting absence of magic, but somehow too different from numbness as he knew it to really work as an explanation. “It’s like I’ve got one eye closed, all the time, and I can’t open it. Like it’s just not there." He thought of Hop Scotch and her eye patch, and the tall tale she told: of a missing eye and a hole all the way through to her brain, if only a stallion would lean close enough to peek. He frowned. It was too early in the day for maudlin thoughts. In fact, it was too early in the morning to say things like too early in the morning, because it was even earlier than that. Flotsam tried to dismiss it with a shrug. “I don’t have any urge to go in the water, so that’s a plus.” He said the last with a smile. An awkward smile. He knew it was awkward; he felt awkward, but it still helped, a little. Nauticaa took it all in and it was that same professional detachment. Observant, but not necessarily invested. Even if, strictly speaking, Nauticaa was invested, at least practically speaking, in the most fundamental of ways. It was her ship, after all. Her ship and her crew. Her floating Flotsam, drawn up from the water. To an extent, at any rate. After a time, she said, “You’re taking it well.” It might have been a compliment, and it might have been sympathy. With the Captain, it was hard to tell. Her manner hardly changed as she hoofed his torn ear. The light was poor, but with a white coat as crisp as Flotsam’s – confirmed whiter than pillows!* – it was workable. He’d forgotten about his ear, but to be aware of it now awakened the dull throb he’d had all along and pleasantly forgotten about. She turned his head and pushed him low enough to make Flotsam’s neck crick. In a minute it’d ache awfully, but he held the position. Like a barber again, Nauticaa simply nudged the motion through him and on that authority alone it was done. Flotsam couldn’t really see now, all things considered, but some impression of dismay on Nauticaa’s part lent itself to Flotsam’s mind. He would have expected the whole mess of magic and madness riding conical on his head to be the thing that scuffed Nauticaa’s stoic demeanour. But no, a little sliced open ear was what got her attention and put the thin line of her mouth to a distinct, if slight, frown. That was the measure of her personal investment: gentle and inexplicable disappointment. Nauticaa worked the two sides of the fold experimentally. Flotsam bore the sting, drawing only a short, sharp breath at the start. It was already getting outstripped as discomforts went by the strained angle she had him holding his head at. Her hooves left him for a moment, and there was a brief and gentle clatter of items where he couldn’t see. Flotsam’s eyes perked involuntarily as something wet and coarse ran over the two sides of the tear. The scab, which to this point had been surly but otherwise reserved to its own business, took affront and promptly itched very badly. It was all sorts of small twinges and stings – Flotsam listened to his own sharp-edged breaths and half-chuckles – but as Nauticaa softened and stripped the scab away Flotsam could only thank her, even though it hurt. A wheedling itch like this had to be scratched; no pony in a hundred had the bloody-minded resolve to endure it. Nauticaa let him go then, and Flotsam was very relieved to ease the tension in his neck with a stretch. “I’ll sew it,” she said. There hadn’t been many hurts after the battle with the griffons, thankfully, but there’d been a few. Crew mares had worked where they could, and for a brief time the galley had served. Windlass especially stood out in his memory. It wasn’t that the cut winding down her leg was distressingly bad, if the nonchalance and even congratulatory nature of her crewmates were something to go by, but a very definite something about a hooked needle and snaking black thread had made the giant pony keep very still and very tense, like she were actually a small filly putting on her brave big pony act. Scuttle and Hard Tack were something of an octet of old hooves for this sort of thing – the former especially – and had by turns supported and teased the stooped, unhappy giant through her ordeal. It wasn’t that it hurt too bad, he’d overheard Windlass say, it was the thread she didn’t like, and worse still the needle. He’d stayed for that, from the vague sense of community and support, but he hadn’t enjoyed the experience. Flotsam, sufficed to say, was not enthused of the idea here. He made to keep the cringe from his voice. “Does it need it?” Nauticaa glowered, not much, but even subtle expressions coming from her spoke relative volumes. “Strictly speaking, no. But it might not heal smooth and flush otherwise." There was a pause as she turned, struck a match in one sharp motion, filled the air with its hissing light than settled the flame on the stump of a candle. Its glow gave some light to the two ponies, this end of the desk and little else, though the shadows nesting throughout the room sat up, fluffed their feathers and took notice. “It’s the least I can do,” she said, and the way she said it left Flotsam wondering if he’d missed something. It sounded almost like an apology. Flotsam deflated at that, but not in a bad way. Not resignation. It was a breath released; a willing submission. He felt better for it. “Okay,” he said. Nauticaa was probably right, after all. There was no point having an ear like a scrappy old tom cat if it could be avoided. Nauticaa opened her desk again, a drawer slid out with an almost artisan smoothness and the little tiers of shelving lifted up on their springs. There was the click of something small being set down, and the whisk of pulled thread. “I expect we’ll make port tomorrow,” said the Captain, relaxed despite her clenched teeth. Flotsam didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. “But that wouldn’t mean much to you. Now keep still.” He felt the prod and waited for the puncture. It didn’t come. The sharp tip of the needle went away. “Hold still for a moment.” Nauticaa went delving through the compartmentalized drawers of her desk one more time. She seemed not to be looking. She was too neat and orderly a mare to need to look for things. Rather, she was choosing. Deciding. “Here. How do you feel about an earring?” “An earring?” Flotsam said, feeling a bit sidestepped. “Your cut. It’s in the right place for one. Look.” Nauticaa inched away from Flotsam’s head and he was able to see. He hoofed his ear and looked to what she held. The earring was just that – a ring – an unblemished golden band. The candle fell in love with it and a thin line of firelight danced along the golden curve. “Well, do you want it? I’d like to give it to you.” Flotsam nodded before he knew what to think, and surprised himself with that. Nauticaa smiled tightly. “Keep still then,” she said, and Flotsam was prompt to obey. He fixed his eyes forward. The Captain’s hooves were a stinging touch at his ear and her breath made his neck prickle with sensitivity where it spilled warm and moist against him. He’d had that all night long before, it was heart-achingly familiar somehow. Flotsam couldn’t bring himself to admit how much he enjoyed the sensation. How much he’d sunk into it, even longed for it, without realizing. “Don’t. Move,” warned Nauticaa, her voice skewed by the effort of grip. The sharp pinch came and Flotsam did his best not to flinch. Then another came and another; he stopped trying to count after the fourth – there sure seemed to be a lot more of these than one little slice warranted – and then, just like that, Nauticaa gently pushed him away. She propped up a little round mirror next to the candle and Flotsam got a look at himself. At first he turned only slightly askew, just to get a look at it. The shining line of light was still there, parading its way along the golden band. Not able to help himself, he gave his head an experimental flick. The ring bobbled and swung in place. His ear tingled, and still hurt a little, but at the same time it was reassuring; the stichting was neat and tight. It felt like he could wiggle it back and forth for an hour and, besides the obvious discomfort and even more obvious silliness, not have to worry about any actual harm to himself. “It’s…I like it,” he said. Flotsam smiled and turned, catching with the corner of his eye how the ring romanced the candle light. “Thank you.” He searched Nauticaa’s face for an answer. Like the charts pinned across the desk, details and features escaped any actual comprehension for him. Nauticaa returned his questioning stare and he knew deep inside that she gleaned much more of him than he would of her. He had to ask, all the same. “Why? If it’s all the same… I’d like to know.” Time passed. Surely she’d heard him…? The Captain was not a drinking mare, but if she were and had a glass to hoof, her gesture then would have been a world-weary sigh and sip. But she wasn’t, so she didn’t. But she would have done. If she were. “Flotsam,” she said at last. “Tell me your name.” His lips barely sculpted the first syllable when she waved dismissal. “Your real name. Not the one I gave you. Not the one I gave the half-drowned pony bobbing up from below and dropped on my deck. But you can’t say it. None of us can. None of us know.” The smile she gave him then was wry and crooked, and without a doubt the kindest he’d ever seen her show him. Patches had a smile like this. “There is nothing here that you own, Flotsam. Nothing belongs to you, not even your name. The one thing that's entirely yours, I take away." Her eyes flicked to his horn and his, in futitilty, tried to follow. Nauticaa frowned sharply. “I don’t like the idea of a pony owning nothing. Not on my ship. I’m not in the habit of keeping slaves.” Flotsam started off with passion, with words of conviction, like “that’s not true,” but after that promising start he faltered. What examples could he argue otherwise? He never felt a captive here – maybe a captive of ignorance – but never a slave. Not here. Mostly he felt confused, like his brain were a cheese of confusion – full of holes and shot through with unpleasant veins of ignorance and uselessness. His almost merry relations with the crew were one of the if not the highpoint to his world. He prayed they remained so inclined towards him, magical circumstances considering. What examples could he argue his feelings with? The things he possessed were not exactly tangible: the good will of a bright-eyed, too cunning-by-half filly, a newly budding and hopefully continued camaraderie with the crew. Certain lusty exchanges there upon… no, definitely no citing that one; absolutely scratch that one. And those were really more just experiences, anyhow. The eyesore Nullifier, pinned to his head, wasn’t his either. It was hers. He was starting to see Nauticaa’s point. Flotsam knew it wasn’t really what his point would have been, but he didn’t have any other and little say in the matter besides. It’d have to do. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it. Nauticaa started sorting the tools from her desk. This is a cue the world over that means: we will now return to professional, impersonal topics. The candle danced in the perturbed air. Maybe it was saying you’re welcome on her behalf. Flotsam caught himself yawning and fended it off. The Captain dropped a book onto the cleared space. It was big, a right proper skull thumping-size ledge of a tome, with thick coverings and countless notations earmarked throughout. It opened with dry crackles and its cover slapped the wooden surface on the back like a notorious old friend. “Civilization,” Nauticaa growled, biting down on a quill, “is paperwork. I hate paperwork.” Flotsam peeked at the tightly writ columns; it might as well have been ancient arcane secrets for all his understanding of it. He felt like a fifth wheel, which was even more useless than usual, this being a ship and all. Nauticaa saved him then from that embarrassment, though to her eyes it was probably about saving him from idleness. The quill waggled its tattered plume and scritch-scratched on the paper. She didn’t look up. “Get the coffee started. Send Charming Booty to me. Then mop the deck.” She worked her way down, nose wrinkled with displeasured concentration. She marked neat strike-through of entire lines. Even in – or perhaps, especially because of – his incomprehension, he found the motions and their implications unsettling. To a few she added amendments. It dawned on him: she'd said they'd be arriving soon. This time tommorow, he could even be on dry land. This was the inventory, or whatever the sailor-word equivalent was. Cannon balls and commercial goods probably didn’t mix too well. From that realization, it was easier to go further. A damaged ship, inescapable expenses there, alongside damaged and reduced total trade goods. All these insights lead to an equal sign, and it read like this: (all these things) = bigger expenses plus smaller returns. Flotsam could see why Nauticaa hated paperwork, especially when it only had nasty things to tell you. The Captain wrote a number, scowled, scratched it out and wrote another in the cramped space that remained. He knew when he couldn’t help. The big old book smelled strongly of big old book. It’s a very distinct smell. Flotsam found it very peculiar. It's not a bad smell, not at all. He whiffed it and decided not to hang around. He made for the door. He recited the tasks in his head, cementing them in place. Just because he was the pony who had forgotten, that didn’t mean he wanted to be considered the pony who was forgetful. He paused at the door. “Anything else?” “No, sugar." Flotsam cocked an eye, mixed feelings of bashfulness and curiosity nudging him. He almost opened his mouth, but saved himself from shoving a hoof in it. She’d been referring to her coffee. It hadn’t been no, sugar it had been no sugar. He’d only imagined the comma. The quiet still pulled at him. “I can do that,” he said, and affected a small bow of his head and took to the door, to humid morning air and the breeze blowing in from the sunrise. The golden band dangled against his ear, falling in love with the sunlight. He tapped it gently to make it jiggle. He was more of a honey anyway, Flotsam decided.