Finale: Ramsey Robichaux v. Terra Montague

He'd finished in time to catch his breath, at the very least. He'd walked halfway across the gangway plank and taken a seat, his feet dangling over the side as he pulled his shirt off and- using his teeth, tied it around his arm, covered the gaping area where his hand should have been. He slid off his belt and wrapped it around him to keep it locked in place. He watched the water as it sloshed, let himself enjoy the rocking sensation of being on the plank that bridged the gap. Both of these ships were his own now. Both of them conquered, both of them full of pieces of people who had not yet realized they were no match for him. No match for Ramsey Robichaux.

He wondered who would be the next to learn the lesson. He could see the idea of them more than the reality. A blonde and a brunette- part of him wished he could see them better. Fuck. Maybe he needed glasses. Fuck that shit- he wasn't a nerd. Even still he could see easily enough that the blonde was winning. He saw a piece of something come off the brunette and from there it hadn't taken much longer for the cannon to sound. He cracked his neck.

Show time.

The ship began to move immediately- he was still balancing his way across when it began to surge forward and it was all he could do not to fall the fuck overboard. He leapt, caught himself on the railing, kicked himself over and landed squarely on his back. One more, one more, one more.

They grew closer, the last of the ships for him to take, the last of the souls for him to set free, the last of the heads for him to pop like a fucking zit. His breathing was so heavy, so labored, so shallow, that he began making involuntary sounds like a caged lion losing its patience for the slice of meat it knew would be dropped into its cage. The ships grew closer still. He rocked himself in place, squeezed his axe so hard his fingers hurt and released, squeezed and released. He hopped up and down. The ships grew even closer.

They were getting too close, pointed right at one another full steam ahead. His reaction was to his the deck, to hold on to something, to run in the opposite direction in hopes of minimizing the damage, but fuck that. He was Ramsey Robichaux. He feared nothing.

He climbed to the very front of the ship, stood on its pointed nose. In his head he began to count himself down, hand shaking, heart racing. He watched as the gap grew smaller, and smaller. He took a few steps back. Not yet. Not yet. Not yet.

Now.

He rocketed forward, a missile sizzling through the air with the added momentum of the ships crashing into each other with thunderous applause. Through a fog of splinters and sea spray, Ramsey emerged midair, axe raised above his head as he used the momentum to crash it down on her.

Except she wasn't there.

Fuck.

He crashed into the deck of the other ship, barrel-rolling head over heels and only coming to a stop once he collapsed into something- a mast, maybe. He grunted an exasperated sigh, fought to catch his breath as he climbed back to his feet.

The smoke was sulfurous and thick, tinted yellow as it bled through the cracked wooden floorboards. Ramsey wondered if it was gunpowder he smelled. And then he worried it was gun powder he smelled, because as fun as explosions were, he happened to be one of the only idiots aboard this sinking vessel. He wasn't exactly smart, okay, he didn't know math and he didn't spell all too well, but if Ramsey knew anything, it was weapons. It was chaos. It was war. And this was war, so he knew this.

He knew that when she lunged at him, it was because she had to. It wasn't because she enjoyed it: as brave as she looked, that fear in her eyes wasn't ever going to be camouflaged enough for him not to notice it. Bloodhound, a world slowed for a beat and an eternity. The wind-whipped sails seemed to billow at an impossibly slow rate, the smoke broiled in more predictable pulses. Her sword was a flash, cutting through the time and wanting nothing more than to cut through him as well. Split second decision, the type of thing that has to be instinctual. Was she going to kill him? Would he ever, ever let her get away with that?

He caught her blade with his own, his face right there next to hers.

"No," he said, quite plainly.

For the first time, he wondered what folks back home were thinking: if Hazel and Hecate Fray were spitting nails because everything they had ever said about him in their ugly ass pastel pink parkas and whatever the fuck had been a lie. He wasn't worthless. He was fucking priceless. He was a god. He was the god. Of war, or death, or maybe even dying. But a god nonetheless.

And the customary thing to do was bow.

He pushed off from her and dove back in an instant later, a huff of exhaustion slurring the edges of his vision. Focus.

Blackness.

Focus.

Blurriness.

Fucking. Focus.

With a war cry, he swung.