Thomas opened his eyes to a gleaming Caribbean sun, an azure sky, and the calm rush of waves pressing against the shore. He felt himself lying upon a beach, the warm grains of wet sand molding to his back and scratching at his hair. With his matchless copper eyes, he looked about, utterly confused. 

His mind was clouded, and he could not recall how he had come to be here upon the beach. A feeling lingered, a dull ache in his stomach and shoulders, as well as a distinct sense of grief. None of these sensations made sense to Thomas however, and he had not the slightest inkling as to why he felt as he did.

Sitting up, Thomas propped his torso off the sand with his arms outstretched like buttresses behind him. Looking down, he noticed he was dressed in a brilliantly white linen shirt, and a pair of comfortable and simple cotton pants. His feet were bare, and he wriggled his toes at himself as he set about contemplating how he had come to be in this place. 

“Well, by the eyes of Judas himself, look what the tide washed up.”

Thomas started at the sound of the gruff voice that came from behind him. Instantly he sprang to his feet, and spun about. His arms rose in a stance of defense, and he set his feet wide apart in preparation for an attack. Just as quickly as he had readied himself however, when Thomas’ eyes fell upon the source of the voice, his face immediately slackened with surprise, and his arms dropped to his sides. 

“Blast your eyes,” Thomas muttered in shock. “How in the all the hells are you here?”

The infamous pirate known only as Lightfoot laughed heartily. “How am I here? Ha! I should be asking [i]you[/i] that you inglorious whelp. You appear on my island and spit out musings about how I’m here? I tell you, nothing ever changes. Always ‘me, me, me’ with the youth today.”

Dumbfounded, Thomas could only continue to stare slack-jawed at his long deceased mentor and adopted father. The man appeared as Thomas had known him in his prime, with an aged, but regal face trimmed in a full blond beard that was just beginning to turn a light gray. The deep-set, calculating eyes were also there, seemingly evaluating every part of Thomas as he stared. Lightfoot was dressed in his usual blue coat, a brown buttoned shirt open to below his chest, dark breeches, and a pair of tall naval boots. Slung over the man’s shoulder was a brace of pistols, just as Thomas wore them, and a scabbard with a large cutlass hanging at his left hip. 

Lightfoot took Thomas’ moment of stunned silence to step forward and envelope him a bear hug that took the wind from his lungs. 

“I’m only teasing you, Thomas. By all the rum in Tortuga, it does my heart well to see you.” 

Thomas could only stand limp in the man’s strong embrace, before at last he was able to regain enough composure to reach up and pat Lightfoot’s back. At that, Lightfoot relinquished his grip and stepped back a pace before slapping Thomas firmly upon both shoulders.

“Tell me, my boy, how have you been eh? It’s been years. I’ll get us some kill-devil, and you can twist my ear with every last detail.”

Lightfoot withdrew a large masonry jug from out of nowhere, and set quickly down upon the sand beside where Thomas stood. Looking up, Lightfoot patted the sand, indicating Thomas should take a seat.

“Am I dead? Is this heaven?” Thomas said, still standing.

“Heaven, he says!” Lightfoot set into another guffaw of laughter, rocking back and forth upon his buttocks as his barrel chest heaved with the action. Taking the cork from the bottle, Lightfoot ceased his mirth long enough to take a healthy pull from the liquid inside. Reaching up with his free hand, Lightfoot clasped Thomas by the wrist, and pulled him roughly to the ground next to him.

Caught off guard, Thomas landed with a ‘whumpf.’ Pulling himself upward from the ground, and swatting sand from his whiskers, Thomas made an effort to begin railing against the older man, but Lightfoot stopped him.

“You’re not dead, and this certainly isn’t heaven.” Lightfoot said. “Though I am flattered that you’d think either of us would be capable of making it past the pearly gates. Especially me.” The stately pirate shrugged, his deep brown eyes searching for an appropriate answer for Thomas. As the man shrugged, Thomas caught a glimpse of tattooed flesh beneath the folds of Lightfoot’s shirts. The sight prompted a quick smile as the familiar aspect brought forth fond memories of the elder pirate. 

“I suppose this is perdition,” Lightfoot said, not noticing Thomas’ smile, “or perhaps just someplace for God to keep me until he truly decides where I should spend eternity.” Lightfoot’s eyes looked sideways to Thomas. “You’re just here visiting, of that much I am sure. You don’t have that cloak of death wrapped about you.”

Lightfoot swung the jug of kill-devil to Thomas, and bade him to drink. “Take a swig of that and get to talking, my boy. Who knows how long we have here, and I want to hear it all.” The man looked to Thomas with a smile that hid the bottoms of his eyes behind tan, rounded cheeks, and folds of crow’s feet. 

For a moment, Thomas merely looked to the man who had raised him. Being here with the man seemed so natural and effortless, that despite his initial shock, Thomas felt as if he had merely left the man drinking at the Black Boar just the other night, instead of watching him die on some far-flung island. It was a strange yet comforting familiarity, and though Thomas felt he should be more perturbed at his circumstances, he could not bring himself to do so.

Instead, Thomas took the offered liquor, and drank deeply. Coughing slightly at the strength, Thomas returned the jug to Lightfoot, and immediately set into telling the man of everything that had transpired since he had passed. 

For the next several hours the two men spoke, laughed, and drank. Thomas regaled Lightfoot with his adventures, of his loves, of his crew, and of the [i]Dusk Skate[/i]. Mostly Lightfoot merely listened, occasionally asking for more detail, or simply laughing with his young friend. By the time the sun above had settled towards the horizon, and the jug of kill-devil was all but empty, Thomas at last found himself at the happenings of the [i]Crimson Feather[/i], and the Siren attack.

Realization came to Thomas like a shot to the chest, and he looked to Lightfoot in awe. “That’s how I came to be here, the Siren attack. I was injured, and the last thing I remember was slitting one of the foul beast’s throat. By God’s bones…” Thomas looked down to his bare feet, his mind reeling.

Lightfoot looked to Thomas with a knowing expression. “Well, my boy, with that it looks like our time here is at an end. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to have seen you. You have truly become the man I knew you would be. I’m proud of you, Thomas.”

Thomas gave Lightfoot a quizzical stare. “What do you mean my time here is at an end? How am I to…”

Without warning, Lightfoot lunged forward and shoved Thomas hard in the chest.

“What in the hell…” Thomas said, falling backward onto the sand. He had no time to continue his question, as Lightfoot was instantly upon him. The man shoved him over and over, driving Thomas’ chest downward, and pressing his back into the sand.

Helpless, Thomas watched as Lightfoot raised a hand high over his head, and affixed him with a friendly, almost sad gaze. “Goodbye, my boy. Until we meet again.”

With that, Lightfoot brought his balled fist down hard once more onto Thomas’ chest. The island immediately vanished in a starburst of white light. 

Thomas’ eyes shot open, the copper rimmed irises focusing quickly upon the beautiful features of Nicolette as she pressed her lips to his, and filled his lungs with her breath. With his eyes still wide with surprise, Thomas brought his hands up to clutch the sides of the First Mate’s head. In one swift motion, Thomas pushed Nicolette away from his mouth, and set himself up.

Gasping, he let go of Nicolette’s face, and used his hands instead to help keep him setting upright. For several long moments he looked at Nicolette, unsure of what exactly had transpired. He noticed that she was straddling him, and that she was soaked to the bone. He also became keenly aware that his chest hurt like hell, and that Antonia knelt just beside him.

Still in a state of shock, Thomas looked down to his stomach through his tattered shirt. The flesh there was red and swollen where the Siren’s teeth had slashed his skin, but miraculously the cuts had healed completely. 

Glancing between the angelic faces of both Antonia and Nicolette, the joy and wonder of being alive flooded into him, and in that instant he couldn’t hold his tongue.

“I’m not sure what all happened,” Thomas said with a sideways grin, his chest still heaving with deep breaths. “But this is quite possibly the most erotic moment that I have ever had the pleasure to find myself in.”