Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pain radiated from his temple into his jaw, and the metallic taste of blood continued to invade his mouth, despite his repeated swallowing.

In recent months, Will had come to know pain.

After his mother's death, the bruises on his neck had taken several days to fade; eating, drinking and talking had been painful exercises. The wound on his hand had been hard to heal because of the constant demands of dock work. But it was nothing compared to the pain that weighed on his heart, for the day his mother had died had also been the day she'd tried to kill him. Will closed his eyes, willing his thoughts away from the raw betrayal and incomprehension the memory of her act generated in him.

His hands were chained to the sturdy wooden crossbeams, the chains too short for him to feel his face and assess the damage caused by the most severe beating he'd yet had to endure. He had been caught, despite his efforts. He should have stayed out of Simon Creen’s business, and away from London. Up to now, he'd always managed to keep a low profile, and to slip away when necessary when a docker a little too tipsy felt like taking it out on a younger man, using his knack for knowing what to say and do to stay in the good graces of those around him.

But today, that hadn't helped him. He'd been sought out, and these men had found him, beaten him senseless, and locked him down here. But why? He had asked the men who had assaulted him, but they had stayed silent, efficient like he was another job to fill. Those who could have answered him were dead: his mother, Matthew. The old servant had given him the medallion, and encouraged him to find the Stewards, whoever they were. Maybe they'd have some answers. If he could get out of here alive. 

A sudden and violent jolt made him lose his balance. Eerie creaks ran through the hold, as if the ship had been seized by a giant shudder. The ship was moored to the dock, and the slow, lazy flow of the Thames wasn't particularly buoyant. Something else had caused the movement. Soon, he saw water seeping into the hold, alarmingly fast.

“Oh. Please let this be a nightmare!” Will arched his back to pull on his chains as hard as he could, but this only accentuated his pain, without doing anything to break the heavy fastener that held him prisoner. Will took he deep breath and closed his eyes, fighting nausea. It accompanied the terrible migraine that had been afflicting him ever since he'd been locked up in this hold.

The headache dominated all other pains, and prevented him from thinking. Will feared that the blows he'd been given had fractured something. In the darkness of the hold, barely held at bay by the meagre glow of a lantern, Will felt as if he could hear whispers that almost sounded like words, the incessant pounding in his skull preventing him from concentrating.

The more the minutes passed, the more the water rose, and the more he felt that something was there with him. Dark and old. 

Familiar in a way he couldn't explain.

Perhaps he was delirious, and his head was playing tricks on him. The migraine was getting more intense.

It's time, it's time, it's time . The words were hammered out along with the pulsing pain. Will could make them out perfectly now. But time for what? The light from the lantern grew dimmer and dimmer, as if the shadows were thickening and spreading like mist. They were gaining ground, like the inexorably rising water, which now reached his knees.

Will wasn't usually afraid of the dark, but he felt spied upon, observed. The darkness seemed to rejoice, and of course this made no sense, but a part of him seemed to respond to this attention.

Will shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, but this did nothing to help his migraine. He took a deep breath to try and stave off the nausea, but the atmosphere in the hold was saturated with the dank smell of the river. The water level had risen to the top of his thighs. 

The boat was sinking, and he was chained in its hold.

Despair overcame him. Run , his mother had whispered to him just before she died. His run had stopped, and he'd failed to make Crenshaw and his clique pay. 

Death would soon pluck him too, and it would be empty of meaning, empty of answers.

What's death, to one who can return?

The whispers grew louder, more urgent. He felt them graze him, and a violent shudder assailed him. A groan escaped him; his movement had upset one of his broken ribs and awakened a violent pain. This cleared his head, and he heard the unmistakable noises of fighting upstairs. 

There was fighting on deck. Will could now clearly hear shouts, and soon the sound of clashing blades. Lord Crenshaw's ship was under attack. Perhaps it had something to do with him? He felt hope returning, urgency replacing his resignation. Will took a deep breath despite the pain, and shouted, "Hey! Over here! Please, help me!" 

He pulled again on his chains, but they were still firmly attached to the heavy beam behind him. The water was still rising. The sound of swords was joined by shouts and frequent gunshots. The tumult was getting closer, but the fighting remained outside the hold.

The water rose, and with it, despair.

Will knew he was going to die soon. He closed his eyes and let a sob out. The murky, foul-smelling water was almost up to his chin, and would soon reach his mouth and nose. And, strangely enough, the whispers grew louder and louder, closer and closer, as if madness were invading his mind like water would soon invade his lungs.

You have power. Wield it.

The last lantern went out at once, doused by the water, plunging Will completely into darkness. He could no longer make out the ever-diminishing space that would allow him to breathe for a few more seconds. "Help me! please! I'm down here!" he shouted, in desperation, with the last remaining breaths of air. He was clinging to his chains to keep himself precariously afloat, his head stretched out horizontally.

It wouldn’t last long: his ears were already submerged, muffling any sound that might reach him.

Deep, absolute darkness would be his tomb. In those last moments, he felt despair ebbing away, replaced by a strange acceptance: he had nothing left to do but wait, nothing to fear, and nothing to live for anymore. The water finally reached his nose; he took a last, final breath before silence engulfed him.

And something odd happened.

-

As he stood, the quality of the darkness had changed. It was no longer the oppressive, damp darkness of the ship’s hold. A sense of vastness surrounded him, as if he were standing in a wide expanse in the blackest of nights, with neither moon nor stars to light wherever he might be.

And he breathed freely, as if everything else had been a dream, as if he'd never really been in danger.

Will turned to assess his surroundings, and could only note that wherever he looked, only darkness surrounded him. He had no fear of what might lurk in the shadows; he felt oddly refreshed among them, the pain that had been his companion for the last few hours almost completely muted.

He tried to take a step, which ended in a strange feeling of displacement, as if he hadn't moved at all.

At first, he had perceived only silence, but now he could make out the same whispers that had accompanied him in the hold. Along them, he perceived presences, like glimmers in the night, even if no light pierced the darkness. 

Now that he knew where to look, the presences seemed to be everywhere, and he could almost pick them out by reaching out. They didn't seem to be aware of his presence, whereas Will was certain he had power over them. He felt it in his bones, in his soul; they were all his.

They would serve him.

Absolute control , the thought dawned, eliciting in him a mix of fear and exhilaration; he could exercise his will here, and would never need to hide who he really was in this place.

Near him, shadows coalesced, outlining the shape of a sword. He reached out, willing, and felt the cold, hard touch of the scabbard. Still no light in this strange space, but Will didn't need it to perceive its essence, to perceive all that it was. The sword was there, in his hands, radiating power, waiting only for a nudge from him to unleash the dark fire it contained. 

It wanted to be released. With wonder, Will ran a light finger over the intricate hilt before gripping it firmly. He hesitated for a second, then released the blade with a decisive gesture.

The shadows shrieked, angry and overwhelming. Will gasped. He felt the power rising like the tide, like the waters that had almost drowned him, seeking to engulf him. But something in the deepest part of his soul was telling him that he was safe, because all this immensity of power was coming from him.

It couldn't enter him to drown him; it was simply looking for a way out .

Burning, Will screamed. The naked shadow blade channeled the onslaught into an arc of concentrated darkness. Will felt something give way. Reality shifted, and he was suddenly back in the ship's hold.

Or into whatever he managed to make out in the chaos. The ship seemed to have been ripped open, its hull shattered as if it had smashed against a reef, causing the stern to sink more rapidly than the rest. It exposed Will's part of the hold to the air for precious seconds. He had to get out of there before the ship sank completely. Somehow, he was no longer chained, but still held the strange sword in his left hand. It was engulfed in dark flames licking everything in his immediate vicinity. Will took a few precious seconds to sheath the blade, the water rushing to him again. Holding his breath, he struggled to swim away from the wreckage.

The weapon was hindering him, but he would not let it go. 

Pieces of hull, barrels, and crates of merchandise cluttered the churning water. Will was exhausted despite adrenaline still fueling him and keeping the cold at bay. Shivering and dizzy, his efforts to free himself from the wreckage were insufficient, his limbs lacking the vigor they should have. One of the whirlpools caused by the sinking ship dragged him under, the foul water closing on him again.

Desperate and disoriented, he pushed with his feet against a big chunk of debris with all his might, but his head smashed violently against something. He gasped, breathed a full mouth of water, and lost consciousness. 

-

Will regained consciousness with a start, which gave rise to a violent cough that he struggled to calm. Gradually, his breathing calmed, though it remained labored and wheezy.  It was now night. He was lying down in a dry part of the riverbank, his legs still fully immersed in water. A bridge was blocking his field of vision, and hid him from view. His head was killing him. Groaning, he sat up, bringing his hand to his forehead. His fingers came back sticky with blood.

Well, at least I'm alive. He only hoped he hadn't escaped drowning only to die of an infection in a few days.

Will was aware of how close he'd come to disaster, and his thoughts naturally turned to what had happened. He could hardly believe it had been real, but his left hand was still firmly wrapped around the sword he'd found in that strange kingdom of darkness. It radiated power, ancient, malevolent, but familiar. Will didn't know what had caused the ship to sink, but he had a feeling that the power of the sword was no stranger to the devastation that had broken it in two.

This sword could not be drawn without consequences.

Good. He needed a weapon to take revenge on his mother's murderers, and fate had just provided him with something to fight with.

Will needed answers, and he'd make sure he got them, whatever it would take.

Chapter Text

It had been a short night.

Despite the pain of his wounds—which had thankfully subsided somewhat—, Will had managed to sneak into the building that housed his sleeping quarters. He had waited for his room-mates to go out for their day's work, before discreetly climbing onto the eaves, which overhung into the adjacent alleyway. He'd been lucky that no one had noticed—or so he hoped—and had been able to sneak into the room through the small window.

It was very modestly sized, with barely enough space to accommodate three straw mattresses and three trunks to hold personal effects. In his trunk, not much: a spare shirt, a cap, a knit for cool mornings, and a second pair of worn boots that didn't quite fit. Nothing was of sufficient quality to arouse the lust of others. At the bottom of the right boot, Will had stuck a few coins in case of an emergency. Good thing, then, because Creen's men had left him with nothing, and the situation fitted his definition of emergency.

Will contemplated the extent of his fortune, and sighed. He wouldn't get far with it. 

And he'd just lost his job. 

Masquerading as a simple dockworker hadn't been enough to keep him out of sight, and Will had learned his lesson. He had no intention of leaving either, and something inside him forbade him to run, to fold . These men had hurt him for a reason that still eluded him. 

The day his mother died, he'd realized that running and hiding had only delayed the inevitable. His mother had hidden essential things from him, and now it was up to him to find out why . Why those men were after him? Who were the Stewards Matthew had told him about? 

Will was missing critical context. If he wanted to defend himself, he had to do so on equal terms, and that meant doing some research. In the trunk was also a small notebook in which he kept certain information—mostly coded: names, places, hypotheses. Will had a certain knack for gathering intel. But this was no time to remain static—staying on the move had become vital.

Will had to become proactive, and not merely wait to be flushed out again. The next time he faced his enemies, it would be on his terms. 

He changed his shirt: the one he was wearing was bloody and torn, and would inevitably invite questions. His still damp, blue jacket was torn as well, but not too bloody, so he kept it on, and slipped his notebook into the inside pocket with his last few coins. His movements had awakened some of the pain. Combined with fatigue and hunger—he hadn't eaten anything since the day before—Will felt suddenly dizzy.

He sat for a few minutes on his straw mattress to let the vertigo pass, his head in his hands, the sword resting across his thighs.

With careful, deep breaths, his mind finally cleared after a few seconds. His gaze fell on the sword, which he hadn't taken the time to examine properly until now. It was almost unremarkable, apart from the fact that it was entirely black from the hilt to the carved sheath. Will knew, though he wasn't quite sure how, that the blade was black too, but he didn't want to check. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, like a buzz too low for his ears to hear, but he could still perceive it. 

The sword wanted to be drawn, to let its power speak, as if it were inhabited—possessed—, and he could sense the nudge trying to overrun his will. But he'd seen what damage it could do: Simon's ship had been ripped apart with a single stroke of this blade, and he had no doubt he was the one who’d done the deed. In that dark realm, where he had felt the power that could overrun the world.

Obviously, the reality hid mysteries, old and dangerous. The existence of this sword was proof. The lady in the mirror—event he'd blamed on a play of light and temporary fatigue—was another. 

The medallion he wore around his neck, which had belonged to his mother. I cannot return when I am called to fight. So I will have a child .

Will felt a violent shiver run through him, and somehow, he doubted it was simply because he was exhausted.

Maybe everything was connected, and maybe he had a role to play in all of this. But he wouldn't wait like the lamb at the slaughter. He had to act, he had to plan, and he already had a weapon he could use as a last resort.

Using the blanket from his straw mattress, he carefully wrapped the sword and secured the rough cloth with a leather tie. Rising gingerly, he took one last look at his room, which had been his home all these months. 

Will would have to find somewhere else to sleep soon, but he knew he wouldn't feel truly safe for a long time.

-

At first, Will hadn't dared return to the scene of the wreck, but he needed information-he needed to understand. 

His curiosity drove him to the docks, and what he saw there worried him greatly.

On the docks, there was a hustle and bustle, a fever at odds with the early morning. The sun remained invisible behind a thick veil of mist, bathing the city in a pallid glow still insufficient to disperse the deep shadows that clung to the night. Will remained in their reassuring cover, watching from a distance. 

It looked like a war scene, as if there had been an explosion, followed by a great fire. The dockers' faces were closed. They were standing by the custom house and hadn't gone to work, even though the day was already well advanced. Will could feel the tension in their shoulders, the desire to flee. They stood at a distance, whispering to each other and eyeing warily a group of grim-faced men guarding the destroyed pier. 

They weren't regular dockers. They worked for Simon. 

Carts were regularly loaded with large, heavy burlap sacks. Other men undertook the task of retrieving crates of goods still floating here and there, secured by ropes so as not to float away with the current. Nothing remained of the boat itself, and barges were dredging the river bed. 

These men were looking for something, and Will believed he knew what it was. He clutched the sword tightly, hoping that the blanket around it would suffice for the moment; he'd soon have to find another way of concealing it from prying eyes. Maybe a long cloak, if he could get his hands on one. 

These people must have had contact with other mysterious artifacts, and they probably knew what to look for. Perhaps the sword was just one small piece in a much larger collection, and that other artifacts were waiting at the bottom of the river. Will balled his fists, feeling the scar in his hand tense uncomfortably. Creen must have had other weapons like the sword at his disposal. Just as terrible, just as devastating. 

If Creen's trading empire was so powerful and successful, it was perhaps thanks to its thriving archaeology division. 

Perhaps the dockworkers who didn't work for Simon knew something. Their hostility and fear were palpable, which might make them quick to talk. Or keep quiet, but Will wouldn't know if he didn't take the chance.

Will planted his cap firmly on his skull, slouched to alter his silhouette and walked along the side of the large building that housed customs. He moved from shadow to shadow, finally approaching the small group of dockworkers who were glowering at Creen's men filtering access to the dock. 

With his hands in his pockets, he lingered slightly out of sight for a few minutes, pretending he'd been there for a long time, while keeping at hearing distance.

"This whole thing, it's not normal, I'm telling you," grouched one of the dockers, a regular Will knew by sight.

"The foreman told us not to ask any questions," said another, who was drawing on his pipe frantically. "You'd better listen to him, if you don't want to end up in one of these bags, too."

"Wait a minute, we don't know what's in those damn bags."

"Yes, we do. I've seen it. Some stiffs, rotten, like they'd had the plague. Tell them, Murphy, you were there with me."

The Irishman opened his mouth to answer, just as he spotted Will. A fleeting smile lit up his face for a second, before being replaced by a concerned expression. “One minute,” he said, before extracting himself from the group. "Lad! I'm glad to see you! I thought you'd been had, too." Glancing around, Murphy took Will by the arm to step aside. "But you'd better not come back here again. Those men are looking for you. Asked about you yesterday."

Will pretended to look surprised. "What? But why? I've got nothing to do with them!"

Murphy shook his head. "You don't want to know. I don’t want to know. Don't stay here, it's better for you. These men are powerful, and whoever they're working for even more so."

"You think I should be afraid of them?"

"Hell, if you're not scared, you're stupid and deserve to get caught, boy. Be especially wary of those with the mark."

"The mark?" Will knew, confusedly, what Murphy was talking about. He'd seen it, on the inside of the wrists of the men who'd assaulted him. And of those who'd killed his mother.

"Simon's brand. An S , burned here." Murphy rubbed his skin where the brand resided in those who wore it. "Aren't the same once they're branded. Changed. Sure, they've got better jobs and make a good living, but they're into some pretty shady stuff. Look, they're loading bodies into these carts."

"How is that possible? Don't the authorities say anything?"

Murphy spat on the ground in contempt. "They're all sellouts. But you've heard enough. Go away. Leave London. Stay alive." He patted Will's shoulder in encouragement before turning to leave.

"Wait! If those men are after me, they might find me no matter what I do! I've got to know more, if I'm to have any chance."

"I've told you everything I know. Best decision is to stay out of sight. Might as well leave the country. You could become a moss, it might suit you. But don't stick around. Now scram."

Something in Will wanted to show his teeth; he schooled his expression, letting nothing show. 

But anger burned inside him, deep, powerful, tasting of darkness.

Old. 

The more Will knew, the more convinced he became that Simon was evil, and that someone—something—had to stop him. It wasn't just about him, or about what had happened to his mother. Other people were in danger. All he had to do was look at the state the docks were in this morning. At these piles of corpses. And no one good burnt their name onto their men. But Murphy didn't need to know about the resolution Will felt solidifying in his mind.

"Thank you, really, for being on my side. I won't forget it," Will said, sincerely. Murphy had chosen to warn him, even though he was under no obligation to do so. Will just hoped he wouldn't pay for it with his life, as all the others had before him.

-

Will had hidden away in a recess, under a bridge, on the edge of town. Before him lay the countryside to the east of London, far from the hustle and bustle of the city. The sun must have been higher at this hour, but that wasn't enough to counter the gloom of the surrounding mist.

With the coins he'd managed to save, he'd bought some meat buns at a small market, still warm, which the baker had wrapped in large cabbage leaves when she saw he had no basket to carry them in. She had patted his cheek before giving him an extra bun, pity in her eyes. 

Will thanked her with a smile and left.

He'd always been easy to talk to. The isolation in which his mother had kept them had always bothered him, without him ever daring to express it, because he had understood from a very young age that keeping others at a distance had been a matter of survival for his mother.

In the end, it hadn't saved her.

Will opened his notebook, in which he had put a list of names:

Simon Creen

Horst Maxwell - captain of the sealgair

Katherine Kent - fiancee

Charles Kettering - historian

Robert Drake - ivory merchant

Prescott - first name? Sollicitor

Kettering caught his eye. Historian. He worked for Simon, so he must know a lot about artifacts. 

Will would start there. All he had to do was wait for the bruises on his face to heal a little, and find a suitable outfit.

The time had come to take a few risks.