Oliver froze for a moment. His mind swam with endless options and emptied of them simultaneously. The subtext behind the question was as clear as day. Captain Marino did not use Oliver’s birthname, despite knowing it. And then asked him what his was.

He stared at the group once more, eyes flicking between the curious faces. The woman with the knives had softened ever so slightly, the golden firelight illuminating the scars on her skin.

“I’m,” he began. “I-I… uhm… I like to go by- by Oliver…” It was the first time he’d ever said so out loud and the name tasted weird. It left a strange lingering feeling in his mouth, like discovering your favourite food for the first time and never forgetting the taste. Except Oliver knew that knowing the taste of it at all would be agony for a man who would never taste it again.

The Captain smiled. “Well, Oliver.” She leaned over and clapped a hand on the redheaded man’s shoulder, signalling something to him with simply a nod. “Unfortunately for you, you are a witness.”

The following confusion sunk into him as he was lifted to his feet by the man, as easy as lifting a doll and tied at the wrists and ankles. He did not try to resist, mainly because all his effort was spent trying to piece together how exactly he got into this position. The man aimed Oliver’s face at the Captain.

“So, for now, you will be coming with us. Or- at least, stay here with my buddy until we’re done.” She caught Oliver’s wide, stunned eyes with her own and shrugged. “Look, you might be nice, or pitiful, either works, but you also could rat us out to your parents, which would rat us out to the crown. Everybody knows about your father’s loyalty to the King.”

Before he could even think, he scoffed out a short, breathy chuckle. He looked away from the Captain, at some random point on the cliff face and his eyes grew sharp. Cold.

Captain Marino stared at him for a moment longer. Then, she whistled to the tall knife lady who wandered over, cloth sack in hand. Despite his disapproving pleas and frankly deplorable language for a noble, he found his vision darkened by the sack over his head.

The group walked for a while along a long damp, dark path through the caves. Oliver actually found it almost relaxing to be almost cradled by the strong ginger man, who was quite a cuddly pillow to lay on. If anything, he was more bored than he was scared.

He could tell the uncomfortable silence between the group was not the usual. The only present sound was the whistling breeze that howled through the cave, rustling the long tendrils of hair that hung down from Oliver’s head.

In the silence, his mind began to wander. In the silence and the darkness, he began to think.

Even when I am trapped, bound by rope, head stuffed in a sack, being held and manhandled by known murderers and thieves, why is it that I feel safer than I do at home?

His lip quivered and he clamped his eyes shut even though it gave him no less sight.

Why are these strangers I have never met the first ones to know me? Why can I trust them and not Vittorio with the concept of Oliver? Why are my kidnappers kinder than family? So quick to understand me based on a set of simple statements that I didn’t realise I had even said when I know the most I would ever get would be empty sweetened words of “acceptance” from a man bearing golden chains in the shape of a crown and a monocle.

He choked back a sob, swallowing it like a hard pill that caught in his throat.

Why is my mother so silent and traumatised that it feels like she has been watching my life from beyond a window, peering in but never truly being a part of my life? Why is it that I can’t - with any level of certainty - comprehend any reaction about Oliver from her at all?

His spiralling thoughts were abruptly interrupted when he was gently placed on the floor, the bag removed with a swish and a flash of blinding light. He blinked against the light, his vision returning to see the surrounding faces, littered with pitying gazes. He looked around, confused for a second, and found that he was in a giant underground cove, with a shipwreck overloading with gold and chests and ornate jewellery.

“What…?” He croaked, almost too quietly.

The Captain crouched by him. “...Oliver, you know you said all that out loud?” His eyes widened and he felt his cheeks growing hot in embarrassment.

“I-I… um- I-”

“You were kind of… in a state… you just kept spiralling.” Her eyes never left Oliver’s face, and she hesitantly placed a gentle, warm hand on his shoulder. “...Are you okay?”

Yes. No. I don’t know. No answer he could come up with sounded correct. None of it felt right. His eyes flicked over the rope around his ankles and hands and he found himself unable to speak at all. The Captain watched him momentarily, before looking between Laguna and the tall Knife Lady. She snapped her fingers at the Knife Lady, who nodded and approached Oliver, dagger drawn. Icy, cold fear struck his veins and he scuffled backwards, even if all that lay behind him was a wall.

The tall lady kneeled and began to slice through the ropes. Within a second, feeling returned to his limbs. He loosed a shaky breath that was halfway a “thank you”

Captain Marino whistled and gestured for her crew to leave. They approached the wrecked ship and boarded, murmuring amongst themselves. Pirra lowered herself to sit with him, arms cradling her knees.

“I’m assuming the life of a noblewoman is much more caged than I previously thought.” He found himself cuddling his arms, listening to her talk. “And I’m assuming it's much more stifling and painful for a closeted transgender man.”

Oliver raised his head with a start. “A what?”

They sat silently staring at each other for a moment. Then, Pirra seemed to have processed his confusion. “A trans man. You know, a man who happened to have been born in a woman’s body?”

Something warm grew in place of the cold void in the pit of his stomach and tears welled up in his eyes. “There’s a word for it…?”

It felt like the right time to smile, and he couldn’t stop his grin if he tried, but the Captain did not smile with him.

She looked to the ground, deep in thought. “Oliver.” She did not look up, but spoke to the ground. “You are a man, correct?”

He thought in silence. For a while, he thought there was no correct answer - or that any answer he came up with was wrong. In reality, he was ignoring the sweet word that sat on his tongue. After a while, he realised, there was no other answer but yes. And the moment he said so, admitted it out loud to this kind stranger it was like unlocking a shrinking cage around his heart.

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It scared him.

“... Oliver, can you go back to who you were?” The Caprain’s voice grew soft. “Can you… stop being yourself, now?”

He sighed, staring into his hands. “I don’t know. I have to. What else will I do? I can’t be free of my life in the court, it will follow me. And I have no authority of my own. All I can do is… freeze.”

The Captain rested a hand on one of his. “I’m… sorry if this sounds offensive. But you are probably more irrelevant to your family than you think.” Her eyes rested on the swirling markings between his brows. “You aren’t your father’s child. Everybody in the kingdom knows he is a sun-elf… You can do what you want, if you merely take the first step. Now, I’m not condoning throwing yourself into danger, or anything, I’m just saying. I think ‘Oliver’ deserves a spot in the limelight. And I think you have the power to be him. Worst case scenario - your father disowns you - which, in some ways would be a good thing. You could become your own person.”

Oliver listened, poker face firmly in place. He did not want the sparks of inspiration and desire to show on his face.

She continued. “Okay. How about this? I have - for some reason - taken a liking to you. Or I pity you. Maybe even a grey area between the two. Once I am done with this plan, in about six months, I will come back for you. I can steal you away from your family, take you in as part of my crew. Help you become Oliver, both physically and visually and mentally, whatever.”

“Physically…? How- what does- what does that mean?”

Pirra smiled, flicking her head to the ship. “The lady with all the knives? The silent one? Her name is Athena. She’s like you. She was born a male and left her life behind to be herself. I have many connections and I helped her find both medical and magical ways of changing. I could find that for you too.”

He almost said yes. But he didn’t.

“But.” Pirra continued. “I have one condition. If I am to come back for you. I need you to be yourself in my absence. Or to start being yourself, at the very least.” She met his eyes. “Can you do that for me?”

He paused. “Can’t I-” He bit his lip, thinking. “I know the way into my father’s vault. Can’t I help you steal his things?”

A flicker of greed flashed in Pirra’s eyes. “Hm. Tempting. We can talk more when I come back for you. But. Nope.” She stood with a grunt, arm outstretched for Oliver to take. He did. “My base request is that you let Oliver out of the cage in your heart.” She prodded his collarbone lightly.

He nodded with less hesitation than he thought he would, and the captain grinned.

“Attaboy.” She clapped him on the back and turned to join her crew in gathering their gold. He stood stunned for a moment, frozen on the rocky shore of a hidden cove.

It felt like he’d been let in on some incredible secret so casually and yet the infamous ocean bandit treated his tiny secret like he’d handed her his heart on a plate. Maybe she was being foolish, or maybe he was. Maybe they both were.

Nevertheless, it left him feeling warm, butterflies tingling in his stomach. It left him confused. It left him yearning for more.

After gathering whatever gold and weapons the crew needed for whatever job they were setting out to do, they returned to him. The red-headed man and Athena approached Oliver, ropes at the ready to tie him up again, and he found himself shuffling backwards.

Pirra whipped out a hand, making herself a barrier between Oliver and her crew. “It’s okay.” She spoke with an assuring confidence that even made Oliver feel like standing at attention and doing as he was told. “Oliver can walk with us.”

The group set off down the path. Laguna dragged their captain forward and began quietly discussing in hushed murmurs. Obviously, it was about him. This did, however, leave Oliver walking in front of the trio of silent, intimidating pirates that shook his soul.

The red-headed sister joined him at his side, and she smiled at him. With a nudge that was a little too aggressive than what Oliver was used to, she jabbed him in the side.

“Hey.” Her voice was gravelly and rough, but a nice sound nonetheless, with an accent he’d never heard before. He imagined she would tell good stories with that voice. “I’m Saoirse, that big lug back there is my brother Faolán. Give us nicknames, we don’t mind. I know you folks don’t hear many names like ours over here.” She caught Oliver’s concerned gaze, and the tremble in his hand. “Don’t worry about those two, they have resting bitch faces and don’t see the need to talk very much. They’ll warm up in time.” She paused for a moment, watching Oliver with a thoughtful gaze. “I’m assuming you’re coming with us, right? Pirra would have tied you up or killed you or planned to sell you or something if you were a regular incidental witness. The fact you are walking side by side with us is telling that she is considering you for the crew.”

He looked to the floor as he walked. “I don’t know. She said- Lady Marino said she was coming back in six months.”

Saoirse rested a hand on his shoulder. “... That’s what she did with a couple of the others. It’s a test to see if we truly want a life on the sea or a life as a fugitive. You can’t go back once you step onto that ship. You’ll be a wanted man. She wants to give you ample time to consider such a concept.”

Saoirse lifted her hand. “Give it ample thought. I was never a noble, but even then it was hard to be myself, and for Faolan to be himself. It must be harder as a noble, let alone the eldest of the Grand Duke. A-anyway, all I’m saying is no matter what you want to do, we can probably help you with it.”

Oliver nodded, he didn’t really know why.

They made it back out of the shore, the sudden moonlight blinded Oliver for a moment, but when his eyes adjusted the ship before him looked more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen before. The moonlight slipped off the purple sails and left light rays of silvery blue that fell between the masts. He was staring at its beauty for a while before the Captain clapped him on the back, causing him to jump with a squeal.

“You all good to get home, champ?” Oliver rubbed the spot on his back where he was hit, surprised at her strength. But he nodded. She eyed him. “I know I asked you to be yourself. Let Oliver stretch his legs, but keep yourself safe. You don’t need to change completely or do anything drastic. Hell, I’d take it well if you just told one person. Sometimes… people don’t take it well. They can be… violent or unpleasant. Don’t go putting yourself in unnecessary danger, okay?”

Oliver gave a slow nod, processing the information for a moment before she turned and began boarding the little row boat by the shore. The others hauled themselves in, returning their hoods to their heads.

Saoirse waved at him, a pitying look in her eyes as they left. He waved back, watching them board the ship.

He stared at the sand and the lightly foaming waves at his feet. He stared at his reflection and with a gentle touch, lightly caressed the markings on his cheeks. He didn’t even hear the sounds of the ship getting ready to go, the people talking in hushed tones or even when they began to sail off. Soon it was him alone on the shore once more.

Only then, when he was himself in the silence, no obligations, was when he turned and made his ascent back to his mansion.

The silence. It was different this time.

Where there was once no need to exist, no titles at all, now there was that empty pit fighting viciously with the lingering warmth that seemed to follow the ship out to sea, almost tugging him, pleading with him to follow it.

Would he be able to go back to normal? Would he be able to be Ophelia? Did she exist anymore? Did she ever exist? Has the comfortable - yet barren - silence, free of expectation of obligation been tainted by an… obligation to himself?

Oliver held a clutching hand to his tunic, desperately trying to ignore the pain of the binds on his chest.

Would he ever feel comfort again?

Oliver pondered the spiralling questions as he made his way back up the cliff, grabbing the bag with his clothes and jewels before ascending the balcony. He hid in the shadows, and watched the emptying ballroom, people filing out of it through the main entrance. He snuck in, amongst the crowd, and walked the halls back to his room.

He shut the door with a sigh, falling back onto the door with a hand to his aching chest. He let out a groan and hastily began removing his clothes, unbinding his chest to reveal the red markings and starting bruises around his ribs. He let out a sigh and removed his cap.

He cast a glance at his mirror, catching the sight for a moment. Before he could even think, the world outside him was gone, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. He could not breathe. He was in pain at the sight. In every sense of the word, he was in pain. Heavy sobs caught in his throat and he began to heave quietly. He pulled his hair around him, trying to hide the hideous foreign body from his eyes, only to become disgusted and annoyed at the knots and waves.

Through his tears and his huffs of breath, his vision focused on one thing that sat at his desk. A pair of scissors. He froze. Then he lunged for them.

With every desperate snip and slice of his long dark hair, he felt his breath return to him, bit by bit. He felt his vision return and his tears slow, until he was left staring at, for the first time, Oliver.