Charlemagne, The Mark

Marquis de Faux would be marked for death, in his estate mansion in the Caribbean sea, he was hosting the event of the season, the wine tasting, and observing a honorable duel to the death. Scarlet Matador, the Spaniard pirate hunter, destroyer of the ebony fleet, was locking blades with Freo, the stoic Portugal sword master. 

Neither gave an inch, locked in blades, and murderous glares, they were fighting for the hand of a woman, a woman that was the Marquis’s niece, Violetta, a rare and beautiful, with the fair grace of a lady, but with the sultry bodily features of a Greek goddess. 

“Such a spectacular display.” remarked de Faux as he wiped the wine from his painted lips. 

“You truly host the most magnificent performances in all the sea.” cackled Lady Beushmëer, a second cousin of Germanic royalty. 

“You are by far the most spectacular host in all the Caribbean.” remarked the British commodore, Franklin Dosberry. “Make us wish what you do next to top this show.” The commodore had a little too much to drink, but the Marquis had too much grace to mention, the unsavory drunken state of a British commander (at least not till he would bring it up during negotiations with the British navy). 

“Don’t fret for what is to come, monsieur this clash is far from over, observe.” Freo and Matador were stuck in a meeting of blades. Freo was pressing forward, but Matador, a firmer and more physically fit man, wouldn't budge. 

This stalemate lasted a good half minute, till Freo with his buccaneer cunning, gave up some inches to reach at his belt with a free hand, and pull free a gold plated claw. Scrapping the metal of the claw at the hilt of Matador’s sword, and in a swiftness of a professional acrobat pulled free his own sword, as the Matador relied on brute strength, pushing ahead; doing so however trapped his sword in the clutch of the gleaming claw. 

Just as the Spaniard was realizing his error, the fatal mistake was already made, Freo pulled him close and slashed at his unguarded flank. Steel ribbed through his captain's coat, a rasping cutting sound filled the hall. Large windows let in pure daylight, as the party goers watched in awe, as the slash of a saber revealed the cunning Spaniards safety net. 

Chainmail, he wore a protective barrier under his clothes, the burly Spaniard was able to wear the mail comfortably enough not to lessen his fighting skills. Grimly Freo realized too late the error was his, he gave up too much ground, allowed the enemies sword to get too close to his head, flexing his superior strength, Matador brought his sharpened blade across his opponent’s face. 

Slashing deeply, and slicing it further into his neck, blood splattered outward, all over Matador, who was unbothered by the splash of crimson, sneered down at his opponent, as Freo clutched his neck, trying to think of a way to survive, to live. However before he could even realize he was doomed, Matador brought his saber down again, and again, hacking Freo to pieces, sending fingers, and shreds of flesh in all directions. 

“Enough, monsieur, enough! This is a duel, not a butcher’s shop.” the Marquis's guests gasped in disgust, some got sick, and the others turned away, few were used to such gore, it was barbaric. 

“Don’t test me!” threatened the hot blooded Spaniard, “I am the victor, and so to me goes your ward, the charming Violetta de Faux, along with the dowry that goes with her.” 

De Faux realized too late he had doomed his beloved niece to a loveless marriage, he saw in the corner of her eye, she was hiding frightened in the shadows down an adjacent hall, trying to keep out of sight. In her eyes he saw no love for her betrothed, he had to think of a way to spare her the suffering of living with a savage man such as this pirate hunter. 

“I cannot allow marriage.” Marquis started bravely (mostly because he had his guards at his side, holding pikes.) “You have shown none of the qualities worthy of my sweet Violetta, your swordplay is uncivil and as dishonorable as a rogue. You cheated, and murdered the courageous Freo as a result, I cannot allow my niece to marry such a dishonorable fiend.” 

The chamber was silent, the waves of the coast could be heard, and in the distance a bell rang. No one dared say anything, for fear Matador the hot blooded Spaniard would leap at the audience, with his blade slashing about like a frenzied whirling dervish. 

Afraid that he may rouse Matador to take a violent vengeance, the Marquis de Faux believe it best to offer a consolation prize. “I do intend, of course, to offer a considerable award, if only to keep you believing I have intentionally wasted your time and efforts.” 

Matador’s tight lips turned into a smiling scowl, as his face distorted into a heinous harlequin's grimace. “Cheat? You believe I dishonored myself? Matador the pirate hunter, who with one ship exterminated the ebony fleet, who slew the dread Reingar of the North, you dare, besmirch my honor with this French distortion of honor?” 

Scarlet Matador spit at the ground as close as he could manage to get to the feet of the Marquis, “I want the title promised. I have courted Violetta, given her gifts from my conquests in the new world, and this is how you dismiss my affection. Coward!” he sprang up and was immediately met with the two guards, whose pikes brushed aside by his sword strikes. 

One guard was slashed across the face with a razor sharp blade, and in the back swing decapitated the top half of the other guard’s head. Now the Marquis was alone, and his guests were starting to flee in terror. 

“I warn you, to do this will be to be an enemy of France.” The warning went unheeded. 

“Pick up a weapon, or die where you stand.” Scarlet Matador poised his blade, readying to push his saber into the Marquis's heart. 

Just then the light streaming into the hall from the glassless windows above were blotted out by an imposing silhouette. The hiding Violetta nearly jumped out of her hiding place, her brown eyes brightened, and she covered her mouth in both suppressed joyous surprise. “Charlemagne!” Her cry drew both the attention of her uncle and the Spaniard. 

“You puta!” cursed Matador, whose face turned bright red with embarrassment. “You have yet another suitor! Was I not enough!?” 

The Marquis wanted to speak his own disapproval; she forbade his niece from seeing anymore of Emerald Charlemagne; his cutthroat, buccaneer, profiteer escapades have made him a boarderline outlaw to the French Crown. What held his tongue was the saber held inches from his chest. 

“I never wanted to be with you, I only saw poor, dear Freo to make my uncle happy, Freo unlike you was a gentleman who didn’t duel you for my hand, but to save me from you, you, you, racaille!”

Matador turned his blade towards her, and intended to teach her some respect for her new husband (as he thought he would abduct her and marry her at sea), but the silhouette leapt from the window, and with the tumbling and somersaults of master acrobat intercepted the Spaniards blade, with his own rapier. 

“Tut tut, you brute, is that  a way to speak to a lady?” the Celtic accented privateer said, in a teasing tone. As he held Matador’s blade back with his own, his emerald eyes looked over at his lady love, and gave Violetta a playful wink. She blushed, and hid her face in embarrassment. “Now let's keep the lady out of this, it is me you want for sure.” 

“Aye, I want to spill your guts out, all over this floor!” roughly, Matador kicked Charlemagne, and engaged him in a swordfight. Swinging brutally powerful slashes, the Spaniard was both strong and sword, but his strikes were brushed aside with forceful, yet minimal counter blows. 

The rapier was a precise weapon, able to deflect his saber strikes with seeming ease, so he redoubled his efforts putting his full weight into each blow. After all he was a brawnier man, Charlemagne was slender, he might’ve been mistaken as a women, with his corded locks of crimson hair, if only his peach fuzz beard made him look anyway masculine, that and his eyes, his smoldering emerald eyes that match his captain’s garb, all different shades of green. 

After managing to locking swords he brought his face closed to the freckled mug of the Irishman and tried to bite off his nose, he snapped his teeth at him like a mad dog, but then Charlemagne pulled back, and spun around and in his spin, slashed at the back of Matador’s skull. 

Blood streamed from his scalp, as his long brunette locks fell to the floor. “You’ll pay for that, you chucho.” Cunningly, Scarlet Matador formulated a plan, he’ll trick his opponent by going after Violetta, he’ll throw a dagger at her, and he’ll try to intercept and then, he’ll gut him on the end of his blade. “You peasant thinks you are worthy of her affections, she is of nobility, and you…” he smirked, trying to belittle Charlemagne only had him smiling condescendingly at the Spaniard. 

“Words of the likes of you are like a gun without ammunition, good for bluffing, but not much good when the other fella has a loaded one.” They circled around one another, Matador trying to get the other to turn his back to Violetta who was now at her uncle’s side. “Tell me though boyo, what made you think you were worthy of her? I mean I get an upstart such as yourself who could use her money and title, but you must know you’d never be able to satisfy her.” 

He then waved his rapier towards Matador’s groin area. Infuriated, Matador did not tolerate, much like many prideful Spanish men, to have their manhood questioned in both the sense of spirit and body. Soon though, all he needed was a little more distance, and to get him in the right spot. 

“Well, if you want her so badly, I’ll make sure you both can be together, in the afterlife, morir!” pulling up a dagger, he prepared to fling it at Violetta, who wouldn’t have been able to dodge such a swiftly thrown projectile. 

Seeing the flex in the Spaniards muscles, told the experienced Charlemagne that he was preparing to throw something, and by his words knew he was preparing to do her harm, and expected him to leave himself open to deflect the attack. 

‘That coward.’ darkly he thought, a deep voice in his mind, shrouded in a murderous shroud, had him respond in kindly to the other’s dishonorable treachery. Charlemagne would’ve fought fairly, but he wasn’t going to give his enemies an edge by not fighting dirty, if they were going to go to such lows. 

Pulling out from his holster in his sleeve a small flintlock blunderbuss. As Matador pulled out the dagger and took aim, he saw the gleam of the brass, and in a moment recognized the unavoidable shot. 

“You—” Matador couldn’t finish his words as his nose was obliterated off his face into small chunks of flesh, blood poured from the empty cavity in the center of his face, as singed gunpowder burned at his wounds. Teeth, and bone dropped from his wound and mouth, and left eye rolled around in its socket as if loosened. 

A moment of pause, Matador didn’t move, he stood there, dumbstruck, but once he dropped his weapon he staggered back, choking on blood and teeth as he staggered down the stairwell. Charlemagne remained on guard, waiting for the sounds of the murderous pirate hunter to fade away in the distance. 

After the danger was gone, Violetta rushed to her lover’s side, who sheathed his rapier and took her in his arms. 

“Oh Acushla, you need to dig your claws into me, I’m here, I told you I would, didn't I?” 

Marquis de Faux wanted to fetch more guards to force Charlemagne out of his manor and unhand his niece, the ward he cared for as a daughter, but looking at them, he didn’t see such love in those brown eyes since his old flame married his brother. She held him as he caressed, it was something he didn’t have the heart to interfere with, even if the French aristocracy would never permit such a union of noble blood and a rapscallion, sea dog. 

“Violetta, come here s’il vous plaît.” hesitantly she left Charlemagne’s embrace and went to her uncle, with a bit of shame on her face. “You’ve been seeing him, haven’t you? Even as I pressingly forbade it.” 

“Yes.” she answered meekly, feeling like a little girl being scolded.

“But…you love him?” 

“Oh, yes I do, he is my amoureux.” never had she used that word to describe any of her suitors. 

“Sweet cherub, you know I’d deny you nothing, but I have denied you something, and I intend to make that right.” 

As the guests reassembled, and the shamed and wounded Scarlet Matador sailed away on his ship, the grand event of the season became the wedding of the season. 

On the back docks of the Marquis’s island, guests witnessed, as Charlemagne with his first mate, the gigantic Norwegian Nolaf, waited in their best dress for the bride to be led down the aisle by her uncle. The commodore, having sobered up some, officiated the ceremony, all waited with anxiety and anticipation for the blessed ceremony to commence. 

Soft, warm air blew on the island as dusk’s light turned to an orange and violet painted upon the skyline. Marquis de France waited outside his niece's dressing room, to lead her down the stairs to the dock. 

Once the door opened, he saw her wearing the prettiest of white gowns, reminiscent of her mother’s during her wedding day. Taking her hand, they walked together, down the stairs, as her attendants acted as bridesmaids and followed closely behind. 

“Un, deux, trois—”

“Uncle, what are you doing?” she asked, confused by his counting as they descended each step. 

“Don’t you remember cherub, the game we used to play, as we climbed the steps, we counted. “quatre, cinq, six—”

“Yes I remember, that is how you taught me to count, since the tutors had trouble teaching me.” 

“You had problems sitting still and learning.” her Uncle softly reminded her. 

Together they climbed down the stairs, counting each step all the way to the bottom.

“Trente-trois, trente-quatre—” then there were no more steps to count. Only that last walk to her groom, waiting for them, with a grand smile, and his eyes, seem to sparkle in the remaining daylight. 

Walking that last stretch, Marquis handed his ward over, and sat down and watched as she married her amoureux, the ceremony was nearly perfect, if only the commodore could remember all the words, thankfully Nolaf whispered the words in his ear. 

After the new bride and groom kissed, and were pronounced to the witnesses and God to be man and wife, they boarded Charlemagne’s ship, and Marquis after saying his final goodbyes and a gentle kiss on her cheek, waved to her goodbye, along with all the guests, as they sailed away to chase the setting sun over the horizon. 

***

Marquis de Faux remained on his island estate for ten years after his niece's wedding, each year holding an annual party, not as grand as they used to be, but his company and banter was enough to keep people returning each year. 

Not hearing a word from her in so long made him worry greatly, he sent ships out to search for her or her husband, but not a word has been heard of either. Charlemagne most likely took her to his secret island, a location only he and his first mate knew how to find.

Sullenly, Marquis de Faux would look at his niece's painting and wonder where his little cherub had gone, and if she was happy. In his turmoil he never allowed the guests to his island know of his pain, and his it behind frivolity and sharp wit, all the while unaware the mark of death, placed on his head ten years ago, was finally about to become a reality for the Marquis, who has been unaware the sword dangling over his head for a decade. 

On the night of the tenth anniversary of his niece's wedding, a ship with red sails, and flying black colors sailed towards the glowing lights of the island estate. Guards posted on the walls noticed the ships approach, and notified the night captain. 

“Sir, this ship comes in the moonlight, it is not on the Marquis's guest list.” The guard tried to signal the ship with a light but no signs were returned. 

The night captain was a suspicious man who fought bravely for the French navy against the British. “Get the cannons ready, and lock the gates, I don’t want—” just then he saw the ship turn its flank towards the island. “—Mon dieu! Take cover and raise the alarm!” cannons fired into the manor, destroying the magazine storehouse, which exploded in a fury of green flame, and blew open the gates. 

As the island defenders just managed to raise the alarm and rouse the barracks the attackers had launched longboats, filled with murderous pillagers, led by a stoic figure who commanded the raiding party. 

Moonlight through the clouds touched the leader of the raid, and it shimmered as if being reflected from silverware, and in the darkness came a flicker of a light yet to be illuminated. Reaching land, the murderous raiders rushed from the longboats brandishing cutlasses, axes, and blunderbusses. Charing up the spiraling ramp of the Marquis’s manor house, they ran through the smoldering ruins of all the barriers that the ship’s cannons obliterated. 

Through smoke and haze, the defenders of the manor saw negros, Spaniards, and arabs, all armed to the teeth, trying to ram through all defenses. However the Captain of the Guard was a keen strategic mind, he had barriers put up, made of debris made by the canons and spears positions towards the enemy. 

Loading up rifles and pistols, they waited till they could see the moonlight shine on their steel, and in volleys fired. Where some men loaded up the firearms, the second would fire, creating a nearly pause less rate of fire that decimated the enemy lines. Many who weren’t shot dead retreated with maiming wounds, those foolish enough to continue to charge were impaled on the barricade or stuck by a guard’s blade. 

Again and again waves of attacks were repelled, the ramp leading up to the manor was narrow, and fenced off by towering metal bars covered in sharp spikes; none of the attackers could scale it, and even fewer were brave enough to make another charge. All waited for their leader to come lumbering up the ramp, heavy steps beat on the cobblestone like a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. 

Speaking no words, he instead rasped a heavy wheeze, and creaked with every movement as if hundreds of tiny whips were being cracked inside his body. Rounding the bend, the leader stood alone at the end of the firing range, darkness shrouding his form. Stomping towards the barricade, the guard’s fired, one volley after another, but none seemed to detour the attacker, or halt his approach. 

“Come on men! He is only human, let loose Hell! Vive la France!” a haze of smoke and rapid thunderous explosion of blunderbuss fire did not even slow the lone figure, treading towards them at a steady stride. 

“There is a spark!” called out a guardsman, fearing he was lighting an explosive, or a firearm of some kind, but his warming was ignorant to the true danger. Not till moonlight streaked through parting clouds did they get a glimpse at the lone figure. Moonlight cast aside shadow, and standing there in a lone beam of moonlight, was a creature that stood like a man, yet was beyond what the guard’s could comprehend in the last moments of their existence. 

Bones, a skeleton that once belonged to a man, with heavy screws and bolts driven in to cover with gleaming metal, metal that isn’t damaged or even scuffed by the barrage of gunfire, its head of a great metallic cranium shaped as if it were a towering cone, and it had no eyes but one lens in the center of its forehead.

Sparks flickered inside the lens and before the moonlight vanished, a blinding pale white light shone from it, and cast a petrifying light on the guards. The beam of light hummed and after a few moments went out, and from where the light had shone, everything it touched turned to stone. 

The guards, their clothes, the weapons, even the cobblestone, became this solidified, lumpy mass of stone, that was the horrifying power of the Cyclops, who now lumbered towards the manor house. 

***

Marquis de Faux, seeing what happened to his men, from the veranda of his manor house turned to his guests and few remaining guards, and declared as calmly as he could manage. “We must leave this instance, to the back dock, and the boats.” Hurrying to the back stairs of the manor, the way leading to the back were barred and locked, just as the raiders resumed their charge towards the manor. 

One guard who was sealing the gate outside of the manor, leading to the back dock, was just finishing placing a padlock on the chains, and as he did so he saw something start to flash in the darkness, then he saw nothing more. 

Climbing onto their yachts and frigates, the guests were eager to leave, but as they unfurled their sails, the raider’s ship sailed around the island, and began to fire upon the ships still docked or moored off the island. 

Many became flaming wreckages before they even got to sea, the first one to set sail was the French galleon belonging to Marquis de Faux, who saved as many of his guests and staff as possible. Before having to set sail for the open water, the captain of the ship, Eli Mortièr, was less reticent than the Marquis in leaving dozens of lives behind, “My responsibility is to the ship and the lives aboard. Any those left behind need our prayers, not our intervention.” 

Sailing in open water, the French galleon, named La poule aux œufs d’or, The Golden Goose, which was one of the swiftest ships designed by French boatwrights. Speeding on the water like a skipping stone, it was carried by the winds of an approaching storm that sent them miles away, enough for the Marquis to see his former home reduced to ruin, by an escalating flame, and the bizarre demon that would be later known as the Cyclops. 

None of the other ships made it out of the docks, they were blasted by cannon fire and left to sink, where the crewmen were either petrified or brutally killed in the assault. 

“Que le ciel ait pitié.” the Marquis said a prayer, which the captain overheard. 

“Pray for us, Marquis, their worries a no longer, we still have to lose our pursuers.” and he was right, one the raiders boarded the ship with the black and crimson sails, it set out to follow the Marquis’s ship, which was spotted, as its light blue sails became illuminated in the moonlight. 

Distant thunder rumbled, and the clouds became swollen with the restrained rage of a brewing tempest, a deluge of rain was beginning to fall, creating a curtain of downpour that already enveloped the pursuing raider’s ship, and was gaining fast on The Golden Goose. 

Despite being carried by the winds, the turbulent waves of the sea made the voyage a rough experience, and soon both hunter and hunted were drenched in the violent storm. Rocking back and forth, sails shredding in the winds, and trying to keep the masts from fracturing in the wind, both ships were manned by experienced crewman, many were swept from the deck by the waves that swooped across the deck, carrying unprepared seamen to be drowned in the sea foamed frenzied waves. 

Water was so omnipresent it soaked every inch of the inside and outside of the ships, men had to drain the inflow of water with buckets to keep both vessels afloat. Trying to fire the cannons was impossible as the stockpile of gunpowder was soaked so entirely, it became entirely useless. 

Both captains of the ships struggled to keep their ships on course, one eager to continue to pursue, the other trying to escape, though neither had hope in prevailing against the storm. Poseidon's wrath was so great, that the Golden Goose couldn’t withstand the nautical curse and above the deafening thunder, everyone on the ship heard the hull crack! 

Trembling, splintering, the Golden Goose split in two, as both ends were then collided with the raider’s ship, whose dense bulwark plowed into the Marquis’s ship, smashing the French galleon into many pieces. Those aboard were swept away by the waves, clinging to capsized lifeboats or bits of timber, to either be swallowed by the sea or sent adrift in the storm. 

***

Fog hung over the sea in the gray twilight morning, the sea had calmed, and the water was about the Marquis was littered with debris from the Golden Goose, he was still clinging to a bit of wood, and was barely awake, still struggling to keep himself from being dragged into the obsidian depths. Not a sound could be heard, except for the waves, and something else, distant but coming closer, he was too rattled in the head to comprehend what he heard, but as he managed to force his eyes open he saw a black silhouette sail in from the fog. 

“I see someone here Captain!” cried a rough voice. Believing the raiders got up with him at last, he was considering drowning himself to spare himself from being petrified by the creature that assaulted his manor.  

“Bring some rope, he might save this one.” 

Misinterpreting the word ‘save’ Marquis in his delirium believed it meant, ‘save him for later.’ Fearful and catholic, he considered killing himself, allowing the water to claim his tired, heartbroken body, but the fear of eternal damnation kept his head above the water. 

Suddenly a gigantic hand, far larger than a lion’s paw reached for him, in one grasp was able to nearly encircle his upper torso, lifting him out of the cold water, and carrying him on board. Eyes blurry, and shaking terribly, he was shocked to feel a blanket draped across his shoulders, and looked up to gaze upon the ebony haired giant. 

Starring for a few moments his vision cleared and his memory became focused, and he exclaimed excitedly, “Nolaf!” He remembered he was Charlemagne’s first mate, and best man at the wedding. “Is this my in-law’s ship?” 

“It is for sure.” said the chipper tone of the scarlet haired captain, Charlemagne, dressed in green regalia as if he was an admiral of a fleet of leprechauns ships. “And it is a pleasure for sure to see you again uncle.” The cherry cheeked privateer had barely matured in his manner of etiquette, but he had grown to be a formidable looking man. “Begging your pardon uncle, I only just got a word this past fortnight that you had a bounty on your head, and I had come to collect it…your head, not the bounty that is, I mean I am here to save you.” 

The marquis understood his stumbling in law’s turn of phrase, and believed it was due to him most likely engaging in a fair amount of bounty hunting. 

“Yes, merci Charlemagne, I am glad to see you again, it has been some considerable time since I heard from Violetta.” a sullen expression melted Charlemagne’s face, as he gazed out longingly at the fog shrouded horizon. 

“There will be time to tell you of that later, first we must search for survivors, I already found some and put them in quarters below, we have been trailing you since the evening before, we saw how they left your home.” the Irish captain was harsh speaking, as if he was restraining a heavy grief in his throat. 

“I am glad there are survivors, but do you know what these bounty hunters have? Who would set such a monster upon me?” 

“Scarlet Matador.” Nolaf’s voice carried a grave tone as if he was speaking of the ghost of the long past. “He became a Lord in California, and has become ill in health for the last few years due to his injuries incurred ten years ago. In his vengeance he put gold into some rather sinister hands, hands that held the leash for the Cyclops.” 

Silently, the crew shuddered at hearing the name, and Charlemagne looked away from the sea, a look of ferocity in his green eyes. “It has stalked me for some years, and it is my fault…I didn’t stop it when I could.” 

“Captain, what could you have done?” Nolaf tried to dissuade his friend and leader from contemplating some dark thoughts. 

“I could’ve…” he couldn’t finish his words, he knew what he did, and the Marquis  de Faux was too afraid to pry. 

“Captain, there is something in the fog! Off the starboard side!” All eyes on deck looked out, and in the fog they saw a huge black thing, floating in the water, coming towards them, not by its own power, but by the coincidence of the waves. 

“It's a ship, Captain!” 

“There is only one ship it could be.” The Marquis knew his ship was utterly destroyed in the storm, and only one other ship was caught with them during the storm. 

Captain Charlemagne knew well that the Golden Goose sank during the storm, or rather was smashed apart by the wave and the raider’s shipping ramming it, but what he saw emerging from the fog made him both curious and made his blood run cold. 

The raider’s ship once its bow pierced through the fog, it could be seen clearly as it slowly drifted towards them that it had no mast or sails, the deck was bare except for debris, and not a living soul appeared to be on the vessel. 

Dead men slung over the sides, kept from falling over by ropes they tied to themselves to keep them from falling overboard. A deathly aura seemed to radiate from the ghostly vessel, as it jostled Charlemagne’s ship on impact. 

“We’re boarding it.” Charlemagne commanded his men, as he drew his cutlass and leapt the narrow gap between ships. Nolaf followed, along with ten of his hardest men, as they searched the desolated ship. On deck nothing moved, corpses were still and grayed from suffocating on salty brine of the sea, and a putrid smell hung in the air. 

Prying the dead they found nothing, the raiders seemed to have died in the storm, but they didn’t find any signs of the cyclops. The Marquis stayed on Charlemagne’s ship, and nervously started to feel his legs shake as he saw them vanish below deck of that haunted looking vessel. 

“I pray they find nothing of that creature.”

The cabin boy scoffed as he continued to swob the deck, “nah, not with Captain Charlemagne, he has tangled with many a’ villain, and not one has bested him ye—” the word froze in his mouth, as Marquis watched in wide eyed horror as the young man became bathed in a pale light. 

“La miséricorde du ciel!” the Marquis realized just how cunning the Cyclops was, just as the cabin boy met his eternal fate, as the even deck wood under his feet became solid stone, the French nobleman let out a blood curdling scream. The Cyclops was obsessed in the chase, the Marquis de Faux would be crushed by its incredible strength, or be turned to stone till the end of time. 

Climbing over the railings of Charlemagne’s ship, it was covered in seaweed, barnacles and drenched from being submerged. The Marquis imagined the Cyclops had clung to the hull of the raider’s ship in preparations of a sneak attack. Steadily it stalked towards the Marquis, its eye unlit, but sparks were flashing, at any moment it would complete the hunt, and exterminate its bounty. 

“Go to blazes you devil!” cried the ship cook, Grouch who slammed on its metallic skull with an iron cast cooking pot. “You will not take another soul!” The rage of losing the cabin boy was enough to give the Scotsman enough rage-fueled strength to stall the undead automaton. 

What momentary stalemate there was, became cast aside by a backhand strike that sent Grouch flying into a line of crewmen who watched too fearful to get between the Cyclops and its prey. 

Sparks flickered in its eye, and a banshee shriek came from its jaws as it screamed at its intended prey. 

“Have I not a single man with courage!” Charlemagne during this had heard the Marquis scream, and rushed over to render aid. “Come on lads, let’s give the devil his due!” Leaping and somersaulting into the fray, Charlemagne’s rapier stabbed at the Cyclops’s eye, though it didn’t shatter the glass, it scratched it but didn’t shatter the tough surface. 

Dancing around the swipes from the Cyclops, Charlemagne would thrust forward and shuffle out with his feet that seemed to continuously dance a fanciful jig. Left, right, forward, back; for a moment it seemed the Cyclops forgot about pursuing the Marquis, then flickering began in its lens, only more rapid, as audible clicks came from its eye. 

Turning its head as if it was an owl, it faced towards its back, glaring right at the Marquis, the flickering started, threatening to light up— SLAM! Nolaf carrying a piece of timber from the raider’s desolated ship whacked the Cyclops with enough force to send it flying into the sea. Several dozen feet away, it was a feat of strength that only the half giant from Norway could muster. 

Despite this the Cyclops wouldn’t stop, its immense weight didn’t sink it, swimming in the water, it swam towards Charlemagne’s ship. 

“Blast it, that eejit doesn’t know when to let it alone, well we ain’t giving the fox the rabbit without a chase.” Taking to the wheel, Charlemagne roughly spun it till the stern was to the Cyclops, and ordered the oars to be used for them to gain distance. “I want some distance between us and that metal demon.” Just as momentum was on their side, the Cyclops had closed in half-way, knowing that it would catch up to them, Charlemagne’s mind was buzzing with half-formed ideas. That was till he heard that beautiful, lonesome hum that gave him a brilliant idea, as he felt the water underneath them start to churn. 

“Grouch, throw the chum off the stern, and whatever bits of fish you have left!” 

“But what I’ll serve for lunch?”

“Just do it!” The command echoed in the air, forcing the chef to comply, who along with every free hand, began throwing bloodied fish guts, heads, and other bits into the sea water. 

Unbothered by it, the Cyclops continued to swim through the gore splattered water, that was till it stopped, as it felt some gigantic presence shift the water beneath it, as its eye flickered as if trying to petrify Charlemagne’s ship before the inevitable happened, it was too late, a whale of immense size with a open maw, swallowed the Cyclops and the offering of chum. 

Hungrily, the whale swallowed, unaware the Cyclops’s eye was turning on, its petrifying beam created a casket for itself, over a hundred tons of stone formed around it, as the whale from the inside out turned to stone. 

Unable to keep afloat the whale stiffened, and ceased movement, then in a gurgle of foam, it sank to the deepest part of that sea, taking with it the Cyclops. 

“Even Jonah would pity that creature.” Charlemagne quipped, then his crew broke out a cry of victory, which was only cooled by the sober realization they lost a member of their crew, the cabin boy, who was stuck on the deck, a perpetual stone statue. 

In that moment the Marquis de Faux in a moment of grim thought, went to the captain’s side, and asked his nephew in law, “where is Violetta?” 

***

On the Emerald Isle, a secluded island, hidden by smoke of an underwater volcano, Charlemagne kept his refuge for his men and their families. Perpetually hunted by many countries as a cutthroat buccaneer, he found that haven for himself and his men to live in relative peace. A narrow rock, covered in greenery they could grow their own food on the high plateau of the island, as well keep a garden where the dead were buried, which was littered with the statues of those lost to the Cyclops. 

The cabin boy was the newest addition, and standing serenely in a patch of flowers was the statue of Violetta. Marquis de Faux fell to his knees before her, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to even speak hatred, sorrow, or love, as all those emotions and more festered in his heart. 

Charlemagne, stood nearby shamefully, as he told his crew and even his trusted first mate to leave them alone. 

“I, I didn’t want to tell ya, not till I found a way to break the curse…she didn’t deserve this…” he couldn’t muster words of comfort, as he couldn’t even comfort himself after having lost his Acushla. “I shouldn't have stopped the Cyclops before…but I couldn’t…I…” 

The Marquis, filling with pent up rage, was about to denounce his in-law, state every bitter thought he buried for every year he didn’t hear from his beloved niece, the child he raised was cursed forever, and he would not allow him to excuse such a failure. Rising up, before he could even spit out a French curse he heard something, a familiar chirping voice, as if it were a baby bird waking up to a new day. 

“Un, deux, trois—” just then he saw stepping on the steps leading to the flower bed, a figment he dreamed about in those lonely days. A little Violetta hopped each step, only she had green eyes and ginger hair similar to her fathers. 

“Papa!” she squealed as she giggled running to Charlemagne hugging his legs. “Why didn’t you tell me you came back?” her eyebrows furrowed when she saw the redness in his eyes. “Papa, why are you crying?” 

“Just your da’ being silly, A chroí.”

“Well stop it.” she demanded, slapping his leg, “you promised you’d count the steps with me.” 

“I would, but you know your da’ ain’t no good at that sorta thing.” 

“But you promised.” she pouted. 

“I can teach you Mon coeur.” The Marquis volunteered, quickly recovering from his grief, wiping all signs of sadness from his eyes. 

“My mama should call me that.” she said with a smile. 

“Did she, well I used to call her that, while we counted the steps.”

Hearing that made her mouth agape and her eyes brighten with wonder. “Did you really?”

“Oui, and I’ll count with you, if you wish.” 

“w…w…Oui.” trying to mimic her great uncle. “How high can you count?” 

“As high as you want, Mon coeur.” and together they held hands, and counted the steps. 

“Un, deux, trois—” their voices becoming farther and farther away. 

Leaving Charlemagne alone with his wife, who he covered with his jacket, and embraced, believing he still felt a core of warmth in her stone cold form. “One day Acushla, we’ll count the steps together, you, me, and our Viona.” sitting at her feet, he imagined he could feel her arms around him, as he watched the sun peak through the smoke that clouded his refuge from the outside world. 

Hoping that the next voyage would see him return with a cure for petrification. A dream he believed was just one night's sleep away.