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The Shanty Codex I, by Saint Morgan LeFay.
“You’re up earlier than usual,” Leonie said as Francis came down the stairs.
Francis waking up way past dawn was an anomaly more than anything, but he couldn’t fault her, as he never spoke about his sleeping habits.
“You’ll never guess where I’m going,” Francis replied with a wistful smile.
“I’m all ears,” Leonie replied as she reclined on her chair.
The establishment was as empty as they came during that hour, but it was natural, as none would spend the early morning drinking, of all things.
“You’re supposed to guess,” Francis said as he facepalmed.
Leonie appeared to contemplate it for a while before admitting defeat.
“I guess you’ll never find out, then,” Francis said as he exited, her protests following him outside.
Going out at dawn’s break after a month of terrible sleep was refreshing in more ways than one. Still, it just didn’t feel… the same.
***
It did not take Blackbeard long to reach the waters of New York. How could it? When Queen Anne’s Revenge was his flagship.
“Thank you for the compliment, captain.”
The talking ship was something that confused many, but it was only natural, as it had its own will.
Or rather, she.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take the fraud’s forces a long time to arrive, either.
And this time, it wasn’t a mere fireworks show.
“Someone is furious,” Every said as the two Saints looked at the hundred-ship armada.
The two sailing together would’ve been unheard of not long ago, but times change, and so do balances of power.
Whatever petty feud he and Every had, it was nothing in comparison to the existential threat they faced.
Especially if it was the work of Rumpelstiltskin.
Still, the duo were far from na?ve, so they agreed to sail alone, that way neither side could overwhelm the other.
As the armada drew close enough, they began shooting hundreds of cannonballs. The show of force would’ve been a harrowing sight to most, but not Blackbeard.
“Air-borne?” Blackbeard asked Every, who simply nodded before activating Levitation.
The Pirate King then ascended into the air at exceptional speed, becoming but a speck in seconds.
Still on deck, Blackbeard swiftly turned his attention towards the volley, then unleashed Vibration. The shockwave stopped the cannonballs in their tracks, before they fell into the ocean waves.
Knowing what would happen if he attacked the ships themselves, he instead conserved his energy.
Every, however, appeared to have other plans.
The armada appeared to be preparing for a second volley, but all were stunned once Every reappeared. Except this time, he was a majestic dragon.
A dragon surpassing a dozen ships in size.
What followed the Pirate King’s appearance was a lightning storm carrying the full might of a Saint of Untether. And if Blackbeard’s lightning was a tremor, Every’s was an earthquake.
Those who didn’t get to scream were the lucky ones, while the ones who did were set ablaze. It was an unenviable position, one Blackbeard might’ve found himself in had it not been for decades of relentless momentum.
As the last of the screams of anguish subsided, Every landed on Blackbeard’s ship, thankfully six feet instead of six thousand.
“And here I thought you could maintain such a form indefinitely,” Blackbeard tested.
“Could and should are two different things,” Every shot back. “But you probably already know that.”
Just when Blackbeard thought the moment of triumph was going to linger, a strange mist engulfed the ruined armada.
For a while, much of the horizon was a blur.
The mist then quickly retreated, with an armada not unlike the first replacing it.
“What?” the two Saints said in unison.
***
Francis was nearly convinced he would burn to a crisp the moment he entered the local chapel, but thankfully, nothing of the sort happened.
Better yet, he felt… more relaxed. None of it matched the doctrine that the clergy in his hometown spread.
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Perhaps I wasn’t forsaken, after all.
Not all was on his side, however, as the moment he entered, the Rosary prayer was already over.
He expected a town the size of Orange Town to have a far larger attendance, but alas, half the people present were either nuns or people far older than him.
The unfamiliarity led him to take a seat in the back in an effort to avoid attention, as the last thing he needed was Mass getting disrupted by the presence of an upstart bounty hunter.
He heard the gospel, sang when needed, even dropped to his knees and clasped his hands when communion commenced.
Every motion was familiar, too familiar, like it was second nature.
And frankly, it was. The last month might have been a turbulent one, but that’s where he belonged; that’s what he did all his life. And it felt… liberating.
There were no alleged Saints to heed, no disguised Submerged to investigate.
No corrupt institutions to topple.
Just him, his Rosary, and something unfathomable.
Eventually, the priests began distributing the Eucharist. Francis nearly remained seated, but it didn’t feel right. And so, he walked.
Except this time, he refrained. He instead crossed his arms over his chest, prompting the priest to give him a simple blessing instead.
Not long after, the final hymn arrived, and Francis was left to his own devices once more.
At least until he was approached by the local priest. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Father,” Francis replied in earnest humility.
“Your first time here, I take it?” the middle-aged man asked in broken Spanish.
Must be English.
“I speak English as well,” Francis explained, drawing a sigh of relief from the priest.
“Good to know. I actually arrived here recently.”
“From where?” Francis asked, even if the answer was within expectations.
“Florida.”
Okay, that was unexpected.
“You mean to tell me,” Francis said, utterly perplexed, “some continental territories persist?”
His shock must’ve amused the priest, who smiled gently. “Indeed. But they barely count.”
That was more reasonable. A pocket of land or two didn’t change the bigger picture.
“What about you?” the priest asked. “You don’t strike me as a local.”
Francis wanted to mislead, even outright lie, but it felt… wrong.
“Saint Agnes Archipelago.”
The priest looked slightly embarrassed. “Forgive me, but I’ve never heard of it.”
Francis, in turn, reassured him with a few hand gestures. “It’s too remote to be included in a map anyway.”
“I’m John, by the way,” the priest said. “What can I call you?”
“Francis. Just Francis.”
“Francis. A cradle believer, I presume?”
“Indeed,” Francis confirmed. “My hometown never abandoned the faith, no matter what drunk sailors declared.”
That, in turn, made the priest laugh lightly. “Good to know. Still, is there a reason you didn’t come sooner?”
There it was. The elephant in the room. The thing that made Francis avoid even thinking about his faith.
Once again, he was overcome by the urge to lie, but that was exactly how he ended up stranded in Orange Town.
“I stopped attending Mass ever since I was… claimed by the sea,” Francis replied truthfully.
He expected the priest to panic, even cause a scene, and kick him out.
Instead, the man smiled gently. “It must have been rough, hasn’t it?”
For the first time in a while, Francis felt tears threatening to drop.
“It was, Father. It was.”
The priest’s understanding smile remained intact. “Did the townsfolk ostracize you?”
“Including my betrothed, yes.”
The priest remained silent for a moment before sighing faintly.
“The fear of the unknown is humanity’s oldest and most terrifying instinct,” he explained, face now solemn. “Kindly don’t fault them for being cautious, for they do not know what they are doing.”
Francis didn’t, not truly. But he still nodded in acknowledgment.
“As for your salvation,” the priest added, “you said it yourself, the sea claimed you. Or was it of your own doing?”
“No,” Francis replied. “I drowned while trying to go back home.”
The priest’s gentle smile returned. “Do you really think the Lord would abandon you for a sin you didn’t commit?”
Francis was on the verge of divulging his countless sins, but it didn’t seem appropriate, and so he let it rest.
“Make no mistake,” Father John added. “It would take much more to restore your bond with the Lord. But just know that it wasn’t severed permanently.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Francis said after a moment of contemplation.
The priest nodded, then bid him farewell and approached other believers.
Calling Francis conflicted was an understatement, as several thoughts and emotions whirled inside him. Relief, guilt, confusion, sadness. They suffocated him in a way even his Descension didn’t.
Thinking of the ritual reminded him of another one, the one Saint Agnes mentioned. He was supposed to drink a cup of seawater once a week. The coma rendered him unable to do that, yet he was still very much alive.
Something was wrong, and it required immediate attention.