Over

Henry stumbled to the port side of the ship, his legs weak, and dropped hard to sit on an upturned barrel. The wood squeaked under him but, surprisingly, held true, and he took a sigh of relief at the fact that he hadn't ended up with a few dozen splinters in his ass. Granted, after what hell he and his crew had just been through, that wouldn't have amounted to a whole lot, but it would have been that final kick in the rear end to push him over the deep end. As it was, he needed to take a deep breath and evaluate where he was and what he was going to do next.

The ship had been utterly ravaged in the battle. There were holes all over the place - in the floors, the railings, the masts - and many of the supplies had been washed overboard, burned, or otherwise rendered unusable. There was no doubt in his mind, even as his ship continued to float, that he had lost the battle. In the distance, he could still see their opponent fading into the horizon, knowing that in their hull safely sat the treasure that the had worked so hard to track down and uncover. Enough wealth to last his entire crew a lifetime, and still leave some savings for their family and children when the men passed away. But it was gone now, and there wasn't a chance in the world of him getting that back.

It would take weeks - if not months - to recover from the damage done to the ship. Maybe if half his crew hadn't been slaughtered in the onslaught he might have had hope of rebuilding, but their blood painted the deck and the sails. For the men who remained, at least half of them would have to be fishing damn near constantly if they wanted to have any food to survive long enough to fix the boat and get to a port. Even if by some miracle they pulled that off, they'd barely have any money to pay for any food or drink.

He had almost forgotten about the sword in his hands until his grip finally failed and it tumbled to the ground with what felt like an ear splitting tang. He looked down at it to see just heavily it ran with blood. The sight made him look at his arm, which lead to his chest, which lead to his legs. He was covered in dozens of razor thin cuts all over, each a close blow that he had barely survived, and each bleeding in varying degrees. He'd have to get wrapped up before nightfall if he didn't want to die from blood loss in his sleep. That was only a few hours away.

He rested his face in his hands. He had been so close to being done. So close to never having to set foot on a ship again. So close to the end of a lifetime of pirating.

But it just didn't want him to be over it yet.