[maikafanawen]

Avershire saw that his numbers were falling all around him, and his feet sloshed in their lifeblood. His body worked with a practiced impulse that, even with its gaping holes where masterful skill had always been absent, kept him alive. The cutlass in his hand, bought as a last minute necessity before one of his old voyages, thrust and cut through flesh and organs, scraping bones and slicing veins. The screams and shouts of death were usually always very few from the veteran fighters so the decks of the two--soon to be three--warring ships were filled with sounds of yells of triumph and grunts of assertion more than pain and fear.

"Avershire!" Talon shouted from the port side of the Regal Dawn; he held a grapnel in his hand, prepared to swing it over to the last Gondorian aboard the sinking North Wind. Avershire struggled with his last opponent before knocking him long enough to sheath his cutlass and grab hold of the rope as it was swung across to him (because the two ships had begun to drift apart and there was so much wreckage with their two railings and the North Wind's collapsed mast, one could not step across it in a hurry). As he landed on the other side he had but a few seconds to assess their position on enemy turf. He estimated that his crew had them sufficiently outnumbered three to two and the corsairs were falling fast.

He recalled the build of the Regal Dawn and knew it to belong to a man named Troy Feray. Captain Feray was the last man Avershire wanted to meet in combat but now that obligation was laid before him; it was unavoidable.

"Where's Feray?" Avershire inquired of Talon. The third mate's complexion paled visibly as his eyes darted toward the elevated poop. The Gondorian captain followed his gaze to see the towering man, lean and dangerous fighting with a hero's strength and overtaking all of the opponents that met him. Avershire drew his cutlass, coupled it with a long dagger and made for the upper deck.

"Feray!" he challenged, but his voice held no contempt. The Umbarian saw him and his eyes lighted with a friendly recognition and for a moment he paused in his swordplay.

"Captain Avershire!" he greeted. The combat around them paused to watch the curious reunion of these two men. "It has been long my friend," Troy Feray said, withholding any physical means of greeting.

"Yes, very long." The Gondorian rolled up the sleeves of his jacket--an item of clothing he never discarded in a fight when others would. Feray raised an eyebrow and took a small step backwards into a stance, bringing the point of his sabre up, knee-level. "It's a shame that we should reunite under these circumstances," Avershire said, "but you've undoubtedly heard about my chivalry to Gondor and my success as a captain of their navy."

"Of which you are now ex-captain," Captain Feray said, "grounds for you to resent those traitorous people and join your own race: your father's race. We are, or at least were, nearly brothers, Kent."

Avershire nodded somberly and secured his belt around the waist of his coat to control the front so it would not inhibit his movement. "That is why," he said, eyeing the blade of his cutlass as he assumed his stance, "It's going to be awfully hard for me to kill you." He did not know if it was obvious, his poor attempt to appear strong before the men around him, but in his heart he knew that he would have given anything to avoid the next few minutes.

When the two men looked at each other neither one was hateful and both were reluctant. But they were subject to the rules of the sea. Feray was a good, honest man for a pirate, and Avershire would do him the honor of a righteous death if he could help it.

Begin.

To relate the actions of a duel such as this is unnecessary. If it were the power of good against the power of evil, the techniques would be slightly relevant for one could make obvious the honor of good and the treachery of evil. But the two men had grown up together as brothers and best friends. There was no hate in this duel, only a sense of loyalty to their nations, homes, and beliefs. Feray did see Avershire has a traitor to his people, but he could not see him as anything less than a brother. Even though one of them would die, the other would mourn the loss too great in his heart.

As they dueled, the fight had continued on the quarterdeck and forward on the spar deck and the forecastle. The Gondorians had begun to overtake the Umbarians. Meri saw that this was happening and she began to order men to take prisoners and secure them to quell the killing. She sent two hands down to check on Sedal and his progress. And then she mounted the quarterdeck and saw what was happening on the poop deck.

The sight caught her hard by the throat. Though she did not know Feray, the emotional pain in Avershire's eyes made it obvious that this was a man who he would have live. She climbed the stairs hesitantly and gripped the railing columns, keeping out of sight. The duel was matched evenly and the two men seemed to dance, each one almost able to guess the others very next move each time. Then Avershire did a thrust disengage (an unusual move for a cutlass) that caught the corsair in his left shoulder.

What happened next went in slow motion for Avershire. His opponent let his weapon fall to the deck as he slid to his knees. His eyes were shut tight and his teeth were clenched in pain. The Gondorian ignored his honorable impulses and dropped to the deck beside him, catching Feray in his arms.

"Sedal," he murmured, then more loudly to Meri who had come from behind the railing-- "Get Sedal!"

"No," Feray whispered--the most he could manage. He gathered the fabric of Avershire's coat in his fist, "Let it be." Tears swelled in Avershire's eyes and clouded his vision. The muscles in his face tensed and he fought the urge to weep and shout in deep despair and anger. "You fight … well," Feray said again, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth.

"You taught me--"

Feray smiled, nodding weakly. "I wasn't giving it my all I guess," his face softened, "I couldn't." Avershire brought their heads together and closed his eyes, choking back a sob. "Goodbye," Feray murmured, "my broth--."

Kent Avershire cradled the lifeless body of his friend for long minutes after he'd died: he cried into the blood-soaked coat and wringed the cuffs in his anguish. The feeling of a great loss settled into his soul to stay and finally he stood, telling one of Feray's hands to fetch him a hammock. It would be the only proper burial done to a pirate that afternoon, and done quickly.

Lots of pirate corpses were pushed overboard and dead Gondorians were dragged below for later burial. The Might of Realge was on their tail no matter how fast Avershire's crew worked to set the sails and steer her off, the pirate ship closed in. They would have to fight her today and everyone was sure of the bloody outcome that spelled their doom.