Solace Lancaster

Everyone has a death wish at some moment in their life.

There is always that one moment where you look back and think 'why the hell did I do that,' or 'what the hell am I doing?'

People are born with survival instincts. All creatures are, it's a given fact. However, those same survival instincts are what can get us into trouble. If you interpret them wrongly, or ignore them, or react to them in an unintended way, they can even get you killed.

Sometimes, only wits and luck can save you. Oh, and a tolerance for some really rough treatment. Life isn't kind to those that are lazy.

True story.

You're probably thinking, 'who the hell is this person, preaching random words at us as if they knew everything?'

Well, they're not random words. They're words to live by. At least, they have been for me. As for the first part, I can only tell you that I'm sixteen. I've never known my true last name, and I no longer go by my first.

You're probably confused, but it's a long story. As in a very long story.

But, because I know that you're still burning to know, I'll give you a brief summary. I'm sure that you'll find out the nitty-gritty details later.

I have not had the easiest life. Not only have I never known my name, I barely remember my mother. I get a flash of dark skin, a smile, a twinkle in the eyes. Other than that, I have no idea who she is. I haven't seen her since I was four.

I never knew my father at all.

My memories only really start on that dark, stormy, and cold night when I was four. At least, I think I was four. I stood on the doorstep of an inn, clutching a small wooden box in my hands. My mother stood beside me, a hand on my small shoulder. I guess it was supposed to be reassuring. I was too nervous to notice. I didn't know what was going on then- all my mother had said was that we were going to see a 'friend' that I was going to be staying with for a little while. Being a little kid, I bought that story.

The door creaked open and there, silhouetted in the warm light of the building, was the man that I would find myself staying with for the next few years . . . even if I didn't know it at the time.

"Is this her?" I heard him ask my mother in a cold tone.

"Yes," was her reply. She knelt down so that she was eye level with me. "Sweet, I don't want to have to do this to you, but current circumstances have called for it," she said remorsefully. Reaching back around her neck, she drew out the small rounded locket that she always wore. A moment later, I was engulfed in her arms as she reached around and redid the clasp so that it rested on my own neck. She tucked it into my shirt so that it was all but hidden.

"Sophia, darling. This necklace is extremely important. Never let it leave your person," she told me in a serious tone. Although I was only four, I could understand what she was trying to say. I nodded quickly, and she wrapped me into a hug.

"Be well, sweetie. I will come back for you just as soon as I can. Don't cry," she added as a couple tears began leaking from my eyes, mixing with the rainwater that continued to fall. Again, I nodded as she stood.

"That's a good girl. Be kind to Mr. Roberts. I'll be back before you know it," she said ruefully. Had I been older, I would have recognized the doubt in her voice. As it was, she was gone one minute later.

She never did come back.

Ten years passed while I waited for her return. Each day I would begin in high spirits, knowing that this would be the day she returned. By the time night fell, so did my hopes. I went to bed depressed, realizing that she wouldn't return that day either. Eventually, I fell into a monotonous lifestyle. I gave up all hope of her return, and instead tried to adapt to life in the Yellow Butterfly, New Haven's most popular inn and tavern.

Nigel Roberts was the property owner, and the one that had taken me in all those years ago. I cannot say that he was ever kind to me. He worked me from dawn to dusk, every day. I cleaned the rooms, and helped the mistress with the dishes in the night. When I was 'old enough'-during my thirteenth year- I began working as a part-time barmaid as well.

Still, I got room and board, and he allowed me to keep some of my own possessions. I didn't have much, as I didn't get paid, but I did have my mother's locket. I never took it off, just as she told me to so many years ago. When I held it, it gave me the courage that I needed to get through the day. It wasn't the most ideal situation, but it was the one I lived with. I still had more than some others did, and for that I was grateful.

It was also interesting to hear the gossip that jumped back and forth across the tables in the tavern. When I was younger, I wasn't allowed onto the floor after four or five pm, due to the various people that inhabited the building after that time. However, when I turned thirteen, I worked those floors. I discreetly listened into the men's conversations, and it was amazing what one could learn.

I never went to school, but Mistress Roberts taught me to read and write, and do basic maths. The rest of my knowledge I learned from life.

However, not everything can last. In my fourteenth year, things took a turn for the worse in the Yellow Butterfly. There was financial trouble- my landlord/taskmaster was involved with something. I never knew what, but he needed money badly. And when you have a strong, hardworking girl that you feel no attachment to in a world where slavery is legal . . .

You can guess what happened. The bastard sold me to get a bit of quick cash.

And so started the next chapter in my book of life.

-X-

Unlike when my mother passed me off to Nigel Roberts, this time I was aware of what was going on. Ten years older, ten years wiser. I heard the Missus and Mr. Roberts talking behind closed doors, and I clearly heard my name. Well, not my name, but rather 'the girl.' Still, I knew what they were talking about.

I saw it coming from a million miles away. I worked extremely hard in those months working up to the auction date, hoping to persuade them otherwise, to convince them that I was worth keeping around. Knowing it was a lost cause, I worked myself to the bone. There was never an idle moment during that time. There were always dishes to wash, rooms to clean, or customers to serve.

On the day of my forced departure, the Missus wept. Unlike her husband, she had actually liked me, and we had formed some sort of a bond over lessons, dishwashing, and bartending. She didn't come with us as her husband loaded me onto the cart and took the reins. The last I saw of her was as she stood on the front step of the Yellow Butterfly, waving her handkerchief in the air as we drove away.

The slave auction was horrid. Absolutely horrid. It seemed that there wasn't a kind soul in the area, and the amount of hopelessness that emanated from the slaves was crushing. I stood silently as Mr. Roberts registered me into the lineup, and didn't fight as the men running the auction led me to one of the holding pens. Just five minutes earlier I had seen an unfortunate soul attempt to do just that, and the results hadn't been pretty.

I wanted to protest as they took me aside and stripped me down, surveying my body to see just how fit I was. Apparently, I passed their tests, and they allowed me to redress in garments that they provided. The top and pants were both made out of rough material, which wasn't all that comfortable to have rubbing up against bare skin.

The rest of the auction passed quickly. I swallowed harshly as they brought me out before the bidders, praying that the man who bought me would be at least a halfway decent person. In my heart, I knew that it was a groundless wish, but it didn't stop me from hoping.

It hurt, to be treated like cattle. It was as if I wasn't even human as they extolled my good qualities to the crowds before us. Throughout, I managed to keep silent. My jaw was locked into place, and I carried as much dignity as I could in my posture. Some of the slaves before me had looked as if they had their souls sucked right out of them- their aura of helplessness had sickened me so. I silently vowed to myself that I would never end up that way, no matter what was thrown at me.

I sold for a high price compared to some of the other people that were bought that day. I was put into a different holding pen this time, along with the other slaves that the man had bought. It was crowded, and I was pressed in on all sides by men and women that had suffered the same poor fate as I. There was no conversation- only a heavy air that lay across the way. Despite this, I had a little bit of hope- the person who bought me had been an aging old man with a kind-looking face. Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

Hah.

The elderly gentleman whom was at the auction may have been a kind person, but his hired hand certainly wasn't. I worked in the fields on a large plantation, where the man was the overseer. He was quick to anger, and just as quick to use the whip. There was no warning, only the punishment. If a slave slowed down for even a second, the overseer was down on you in a flash. I often felt poorly for the other slaves whom had not already been accustomed to work such as I was. If I got the whip often, they got it twice as much, maybe even three times.

During the nighttime, the slaves were hustled into a squat building that was quite drafty. It was in this building that we came alive. After the overseer went inside the main house for the night, we would begin to talk. Those who knew how to read and write would do their best to teach the others, and we took turns telling stories.

I took on the role of a leader within this small community. Even though I was only fourteen at the time, I had been better educated and had a more privileged life than most of the other slaves. My personality allowed for me to be compassionate, and care about the others even more than I did myself. I would do my best to help the others with their troubles, and tried to make the situation at hand a little bit more bearable.

It was during this time period that I decided that I needed something new to go by. The girl 'Sophia' no longer existed, and therefore I would no longer use that as my name. My fellow slaves nicknamed me 'Solace' after I taught them what it meant, and that's what I quickly adopted as my new name. Solace: Comfort in sorrow, misfortune, or trouble.

As for my last name, one of my favorite characters in the stories told during those nights was Richard Lancaster, explorer extraordinaire. It was the idea of one of the younger guys, originally. He was named for the deceased husband of one of the women and a street name someone else had remembered. We would make up new stories about the man and the trouble that he would find himself in every night. Stories would range from his troubles on the high seas to his discoveries of jewels in the driest of deserts. He allowed us to dream in those dark and desolate nights, of what might have been if we weren't stuck there.

It was in this way that Solace Lancaster was born, and that is the name that I still use today.

I spent two years on that plantation, but then the man that owned the property died. He had no heirs, and no mistress. The staff was dismissed, sent to find work elsewhere. The slaves were all sent to auction.

That's how I ended up in Port Royal, lined up alongside a dock where various people interested in buying a slave could come and peruse the stock. It was not as big as the one two years ago, but we were still being sold like pieces of furniture.

Remember how I said that we all had a death wish at some point in our lives?

Welcome to the present.

I am Solace Lancaster, slave. And I must have a death wish.

I'm tired of being a slave. I've worked in servitude for my entire life, sans four years. As I stood there, tied up with the rest of my fellow slaves, a plan came to mind.

It was crazy, insane even, and I would most likely end up dead. That is, of course, why it's commonly referred to as a 'death wish.' Still, a life lived in slavery isn't all that much of a life at all, and even Heaven was starting to sound like a better place than where I was now.

During the cart ride over, I had slowly been rubbing the ropes that bound my wrists together on a protruding screw in the wood. I frayed them just enough so that I could pull them apart and snap the rope when the time came. I did the same with my ankles, on another screw that had made itself known in the bottom of the cart. The other slaves had watched me, knowing what my plan was. They had seen it enough times before. Some of them held encouraging looks in their eyes, while some of them looked remorseful, knowing that I would just get myself killed. I paid no attention to them- this was my life, and I wasn't going to deal with this anymore.

As we were all standing on the dock, I glanced around at my surroundings warily. Now was as good a time as any other, I told myself.

So I bolted.

The ropes snapped beautifully, and I hit the ground running. Behind me, I immediately heard voices sounding the alarm. How I could hear them over the blood pounding in my ears, I will never know. My senses were impervious to the outside world, as they were concentrated on only one thing- getting the hell out of there.

I dashed around corners and leaped over boxes and barrels, startling the merchants and people standing nearby. My heart was racing a mile a minute due to both adrenaline and exertion. I couldn't hear the men chasing me over the slap of my bare feet against the ground, but I knew they were there. I didn't dare look back. I was running so fast that even a slight misstep on the unevenly paved road would cause me to tumble, and therefore lose all hope of freedom. I knew I couldn't keep running forever. I needed somewhere to hide . . . and fast.

I scampered down back roads and alleys, trying my best to throw the men off. As I ran, I glanced around quickly for any place that might serve as a hiding spot. The only problem was that they were right behind me, and that they would see where I hid. The next corner I took, I looked frantically for a door. The best place to hide would be inside a building. Luckily, about ten paces to the right, there was a tavern. I smiled in relief, and my heart skipped a couple beats. I knew taverns. Anything could happen, and nobody would care. It was every man for himself, and unless you got in a fight (in which case people would look on eagerly and take bets on the outcome), nobody would notice anyone.

It made a perfect getaway.

I quickly ducked into the Royale Crowne and dived under an empty table in the back, making sure that I wasn't visible from the entrance. Breathing hard, it was here that I began picking at the ropes around my wrists and ankles, undoing the tell-tale bracelets.

My heart literally stopped when I heard the men that were chasing after me enter the tavern. They asked the barkeeper if they had seen a runaway slave girl, approximately sixteen years old, long-haired with dark caramel-colored skin. If it were possible, it stopped again when the barkeeper's eyes flicked over to where I was hiding. I felt myself go clammy with fear, and I took meticulous breaths, doing my best to prevent myself from hyperventilating. It wouldn't help if I were to pass out. My eyes widened in horror as I made a slashing motion over my throat.

No! I silently pleaded.

The bartender looked at me skeptically, but he told the men that he hadn't seen me. This set them to grumbling as they left the tavern. See? Nobody cares in a tavern, and a barkeeper will do their best to keep trouble from arising. Still, I felt my limbs turn to jelly as I relaxed, sinking back against the wall.

I couldn't believe that it had actually worked. I've heard the stories about what happens when an escaped slave is caught. That isn't to say that I won't get caught ever, but I will at least get to experience a bit of freedom before I die.

I was about to get up and leave when I was stopped by a group of at least a dozen rough and hardened men entered the Royale Crowne and dispersed among the crowds. This was all well and good, but five of them made straight for the very table I was hiding under!

I let out a barely audible 'eep!' and pressed myself further back into the wall that the table was pushed against. I wasn't very large, so perhaps if I scrunched up as small as possible, they wouldn't notice I was there. The table was pretty large, after all.

It also helped that I have a darker skin tone than most . . . perhaps that would allow me to blend in just a little bit better.

Still, I winced as the men sat down. I dodged legs, and took up the space that was left. There was barely enough room.

"So," came the gravelly tone of one of the men, "we're t' be goin' after t' lost treaaye o' Maria Lark this time?"

I heard an affirmative from one of the other men. I took short and shallow breaths, praying that they wouldn't notice me.

"Aye, that be the plan," came the deep grumble from another.

"What be in this treasah? Yah never told us, Cap'n!" one of the other men complained.

"That's because nobody knows," the captain said. The timbre voice that responded surprised me. I had expected to hear a nasty, harsh sound. I had successfully concluded that they were pirates- their conversation just now proved it.

"I know as much as t' next person, and that's this- Lark went t' Davy Jones' locker near nine years ago, but not before she reportedly hid t' entirety o' her loot on a remote island somewhere out in t' seas," the captain told his men. "But that don't tell us anythin'!" one of the other men exclaimed. The captain cut him off. "Before she died, she said that she had left a clue, pointin' exactly t' where t' treasure be hidden. Nobody knows where t' clue is, or what it is. Nine years o' searchin', and nobody has even come close t' findin' it." "So what makes yeh so certain that we'll find it?" "Nothin'," the captain said. I could practically hear the smirk on his face. "I'm just up for a bit o' a challenge. What do you lads say? Are y'all in?" From where I was hiding, I could hear a loud chorus of 'Aye's from the captain's men. I was hoping that they would then take their leave, but instead they ordered their drinks and set about conversing more about their plan in detail. I learned a great deal, sitting under that table. Maria Lark was an apparently an infamous pirate queen, one of the most feared women in the Caribbean and beyond. Her ship had been vast, her crew mighty. She had never come under threat of mutiny, nor had she ever been defeated. Her ship, The Queen Anastasia, was the one that other ships avoided when they saw her come over the horizon. Maria had felt no loyalty to fellow pirates, and was just as likely to attack them as she was to fire on naval ships and port towns. Even after she had been deceased for nine years, the name still instilled fear into the hearts of all pirates. At the same time that I was learning this, I was also worrying about my own predicament. I wasn't free, not by a long shot. If anyone were to ever figure out who I was, I would be sent right back into slavery just as soon as I could blink. I knew I had to get away from Port Royal, but it was difficult when I had no money. I couldn't buy a boat, I couldn't pay for anyone's silence. I knew next to nothing about how the world worked. Well, scratch that. I knew a great deal, but I had never put it into practice before. Who knew how well I would fair outside of somebody's command. A knock to my head brought me out of my thoughts. One of the men had crossed his legs. One of the men crossed his legs. A knock to my head. Oh, crap . . . I knew that I couldn't pass off as being a table leg, and I felt the man shift as he bent down to see what his foot had just kicked. "Cap'n! Thar be a lass under t' table!" he exclaimed in shock as soon as he caught sight of me. I was in for it now. Above me, I heard the captain growl. "If this be a trick, Jackson . . ." "I swear it ain't!" There was a pause. I can only imagine the suspicious glare that the captain gave his man. Jackson, he called him. At last, my heart clenched with the decisive command. "Show yourself, lass," the captain said, "and we won't have t' hurt you." Although some of the hardness had left his voice, it wasn't the most forgiving tone that I had ever heard. I screwed my eyes shut, taking a deep breath before slowly crawling my way out from underneath the wooden table. I left the ropes where they were- I didn't need them now. Once I was out I gradually stood up, turning to face the band of pirates whose conversation I had been listening in on for the last twenty minutes or so. I schooled my face so that it wouldn't betray my fear, possibly even showing a tad bit of defiance in my gaze. It was a skill that I had learned in years before- not showing your master how you felt, but at the same time showing that they hadn't broken you. I never thought that I would be using it in this way. With a critical eye, I looked them over. To my surprise, they weren't the grizzled old men that I had grown to expect that pirates were. The eldest of the group was maybe thirty-five or forty, with short-cropped black hair and a small beard. The others ranged from nineteen-ish to thirty, across a wide variation of colorings. One had a goofy grin on his face, another had a self-satisfied smirk. A couple were glaring menacingly at me with suspicious looks in their eyes. And then there was one man, early twenties at the most, whom was studying me curiously, a sense of scrutiny in his gaze. His chin-length blond hair looked like it had been raked back with fingers on more than one occasion in the past few minutes, and his hazel eyes carried mistrust within them. He leaned lazily against the back of his seat, exuding an aura of 'I am the boss and couldn't care less about what you think' from his lean, yet muscular form. "What be your name, lass?" the blond asked, and I realized with a start that this was the captain of the ship, whom I had been listening to. I swallowed, pushing back any fear that may have risen. It was a miracle that I managed to keep my voice even. "Solace Lancaster, sir," I told him. With my soft English accent that I've grown up with, it came out as 'Sohlace Lahncahster.' I believe my mother was English- it's the only explanation. "Solace Lancaster . . ." the man repeated, "how much did you hear of our plans just now?" "Everything . . . sir," I admitted reluctantly. I was more likely to survive telling the truth than I was telling lies, especially with this bunch. The man fell silent for a moment, and I took this time to examine him more carefully. Along the right side of his face ran a scar, from the temple to the jaw. It was most likely either a knife or sword scar that hadn't healed well enough that it didn't leave a mark. He had an earring in his left ear that reminded me of a wedding band with its simple gold design. As my gaze travelled down, I also saw that he kept his sword at his hip and a pistol in each boot. That must be uncomfortable, I thought. It was strange- I was utterly terrified of this man, but at the same time . . . The captain's gaze sharpened until there was no trace of kindness left in them. "Who do yeh work for?" For a moment, I was utterly confused. My eyes widened as I realized that he thought that I was working for someone else, sent to spy on them and figure out the plans. "N-nobody!" I protested, knowing just how weak that argument sounded, especially with the stutter. I bit my lip- I couldn't tell them that I was an escaped slave, either. Out of the frying pan and into the fire. "Tell me lass," he demanded, "and I may be inclined t' spare your life." "Seb, she be only a lass, no more than fourteen years at the most!" another man protested. My eyes darted over to him. He was the one with the grin. Red hair added to his general cheery look. I was grateful for his attempt, but I knew it wouldn't be much use. "I'm sixteen for your information," I snapped, knowing that my petite frame often caused people to think otherwise. "And I ain't workin' for nobody!" I cringed as I lapsed into the uneducated speech of the slaves and other servants that I had associated with for years. Sometimes, when I get worked up, it surfaces and shows itself. I try my best to keep it hidden, as people like a servant that seems more intelligent. It was one point that Mr. Roberts had been sure to drive into me. "Age don't matter, Gavin, or have yeh not learnt this by now? Now, lass. I will ask yeh but once more- who do yeh work for? Richard Blackheart? Lawrence Marks?" "I honestly have no idea who you're talking about! I was underneath that table because I . . ." I stopped myself just in time. Telling pirates that you're a slave: big no-no. "Because yeh were . . ." the captain- Seb?- prompted, hoping I would elaborate. I sighed, shaking my head. "Look. I can't prove anything to you," I admitted straight out. "Do as you wish. Kill me, whatever. My life is screwed over anyway." I never thought that I could be in more trouble than I had been in while I was enslaved, but I had been wrong. My life had just taken a sudden twist, and now I no longer knew where I was going. And worst of all, it was entirely my fault. There was no Mother or Nigel Roberts to blame . . . only Solace Lancaster. I had gotten myself into this mess, and there was no way out. All I could do was stand and wait for the verdict. -X- My really first original story- written before Nowhere Left to Run. I originally wrote this chapter in February. I still know where I was kinda going with it, but it may take a different turn since I've forgotten some names and characters and whatnot. Not that it will affect you in any big way . . . Who knows when I'll update next . . . hopefully soon but I have a lot on my plate. Anyhow. If you could just review and let me know if it's worth continuing with this . . . that would mean a lot to me :)