I married a man from Wyminster

Just south of Byhill

And ev'ry Sunday evening,

I'd watch him drink his fill

We went for a little gander

To a lonely and silent place

There I found a plank of wood

And smashed it 'cross his face

- a weaving song from the wives of Wymoor

It was midnight, and the bells of Port Regate were ringing, signalling an attack or mishap, when Alez decided he really wanted to take the poker lying by the fireplace and bash his husband over the head with it. He sat up from where he had been lying in bed, sleepless. If he had been the superstitious sort, he would have taken the bells as a signal that he was truly done with his marriage. But as it were he thought of them as helping him come to the conclusion that he'd been dwelling on ever since he had watched his notebook consumed by the flames.

He had surprised himself by how murderous it was. Alez prided himself on being prim and proper, a model for all the other spouses in Port Regate. As they all sat there drinking tea and fanning themselves he'd smiled and stared into the distance, a perfect marble statue. Every quarrel, jibe and insult thrown at him, he'd swallowed it down and shoveled it under layers of regret and misery for years now, years and years, until recently when it rose up. It had been brewing in his head for a while. Bubbling and simmering like the tea he'd begged and pleaded Belia to brew for him. 'The Wyne household was no place to raise a child, and Edmund Wyne didn't deserve one', he'd said in shaky whispers. 'You think that he'd have the patience for a crying babe?'

Belia had countered, as best as she could and in that patient voice that had many times reassured him that things would get better, 'You just wait for his new appointment, dearie and I'm sure something can happen in the weeks before. One never knows!' When he'd first met her she had less lines on her face but as the years went on every day he saw her it would seem like she mirrored his own urge to flee the manor. The cook, bless her, had tried to keep his spirits up, had given him many of her well-kept secret recipes to bring a smile on his face. But some days it did nothing for him.

Today had been one of those days, and he watched, as if a spectator from far away as her face had fallen. But he had told her the truth hadn't he, Edmund would simply accuse him of adultery. Well, Alez wasn't sure that would be the exact words Edmund would throw at him. Probably divorce papers first, more like, he knew Edmund had been eyeing the younger, giggling débutantes at the last ball they'd gone to. Alez had wanted to try, once, a long time ago, to be pretty and winsome and happy. Everyone had cooed over him once upon a time, and it felt like a dream that he used to be able to walk in and eyes would be drawn to him and him alone. Not that he actively sought the attention, just that it made his sister preen at how her efforts at polishing him had paid off. He was happy whenever she was happy, that was how the gears churned in his family. So he kept powders around his person, and made sure to know who was the important man in the room that he must pay attention to and how long a conversation you were supposed to have to catch someone's interest.

He had made up his mind, Alez decided, and threw the blankets off himself to make his way to where he knew Edmund sat passed out with the only companion his husband really appreciated these days, the bottle. It had been inevitable, Edmund loved gambling and there were only so many winning streaks that could make up for all the times his favored horses had lost. Before Alez had enjoyed going to the betting and gambling halls with Edmund, because a win for Edmund meant a night out and pride directed his way for days on end. But the first time he had lost, Alez was witness and recipient to one of the worst tempers he'd ever seen. Edmund had been raging and fuming like someone had unleashed a dormant volcano. From then on Alez had refused to go gambling with the man and Edmund took it both as a challenge to win as much as possible to show Alez how one goes about winning.

Edmund's idea of winning was almost like how Alez's own father climbed his way to the top of the list of merchants. There were many underhanded trickery, a lot of bribery and Alez had been happy to help his father do so because he had been a child and loved his father. Besides, it had helped their family gain the seat of power in Byhill, and stability for his siblings. Marget most of all, she had been the one that arranged his marriage between him and Edmund. She had been the one who encouraged him to say yes, because Edmund was such a good catch.

Alez took in a deep steadying breath as he tip-toed out of his room. If it was any earlier he would have run into one of the servants, and they would have been pressured to tell Edmund why Alez was creeping about the house. He waited, hearing his very loud breaths and the distant ringing of bells. When he was certain the house was quiet he made his way with the softest of footsteps towards Edmund's study at the end of the hall.

Edmund kept it decorated with his hunting trophies and several mirrors angled so he could look at anyone coming down the hallway from his desk. Though he was no doubt passed out somewhere in the study so Alez made no effort to hide from the mirrors. Sometimes he did not recognize the face that stared back at him. Maybe it was for the best, he would not subject any young man or woman to Edmund. When he'd been packing to leave, his sisters had cooed over how lovely he'd looked, with his red-rouged cheeks and long lashes, brushing and curling his dark-brown hair into perfection. They had all pretended that his washed out grey eyes were a lovely blue and had all taken a hand in packing up his things to his new household. Alez had been young then, and filled with dreams. Those dreams were now embers and ashes in the fireplace, his notebook burnt to a crisp in a fit of rage that happened all too often now. His face he could cover with powder or fans but this notebook. Edmund had known that he liked writing his 'little numbers and calculations in it'. Before when they had been courting, Edmund had seen him pour over his theories, had even talked some of them over with him. This interest must have been all for show, like the hunting trophies Edmund kept in his study.

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The many animal heads stared blankly at Alez as he crept into the room. In the fireplace laid the remains of his journal, and what had kept him sane all these years. On the chair sat Edmund, his dearest, just sleeping away as if he hadn't burned the final bridge between them both. There was only so many times you could take someone for a spin until they've had enough, and he'd had enough. It was a multiplier, a exponential list that kept on growing; one too many nights out, one too many drinks drunken, one too many excuses, one too many a bruise. Enough was enough.

It had been many years since he'd ever entertained the thought of violence. He kept it locked away, like the potential pathways he could have taken if not for familial insistence and his own naivete. Edmund had looked like a good match. His groom-to-be had looked splendid in his clean-pressed uniform, badges gleaming in the sun, sandy-haired brushed to perfection like the horse he rode in on. Alez had been swept away then and the painted facade, but the years had worn away at the mask Edmund wore.

He paused and took a steadying breath. Was he certain? Did he want to commit? He could always turn back, could always stowaway or board a ship back home. If he knew Edmund to be a forgiving man then maybe he should have crept away years ago. But no, Edmund was the type to give chase forever, even if he didn't appreciate or like your presence, the very fact that you denied him was enough. So this was it.

Alez took a deep, steadying breath. He had played cricket before. All one had to do was grip the bat, left hand on top of the handle, right hand under, look straight ahead and assume posture. The carpet was soft underneath his bare feet. Too soft, he'd never really dared stepped on Edmund's prized rug by the fireplace. He had kept to his own rooms, his proper place by Edmund's side, his head down and demure in the carriage and silenced the words that wanted to be said. He didn't even make a squeak or protest when the notebook was yanked out of his hands. Well. He didn't need words now. Alez took in a breath.

His husband was fast asleep, the wig discarded carelessly on the floor. Edmund's military jacket fitted him poorly these days, like Alez, Edmund was no longer the stalwart army man. He liked dancing, and partying, and gambling... and drinking. If Alez was no longer the man Edmund married then that was fair as both of them did not keep their end of the bargain. Gone were Edmund's dimpled smile and the strong arms that had lifted Alez into a dance that took his breath away. This Edmund had swollen hands and feet, and a pockmarked face that no doctor could cure. He had a face that reflected what was inside, which was what Alez should have seen all along if not for his naivete. There was a empty wine cup laying on its side on the table next to Edmund, and it was so quiet Alez could swear he heard the steady drip of the wine onto the wooden floor.

"Shift and move," he muttered, "shift and move."

Edmund's head was not as small as a cricket ball, and the horrific crack when the metal poker met its target made Alez let out a small, relieved, and simultaneously hysterical laugh. But he sobered quickly, wiping the poker and placing it back to its place. Now where was he supposed to go? Tomorrow Edmund had some sort of appointment and that meant that people would come calling and what was he supposed to say?

The bells rang again, and this time it felt like a salvation. He stared at the man that used to be Edmund, then rushed with a speed he had not felt in years to his room. A part of him had always wanted to fly, to run away, and he kept it at bay all these years. But he had not unpack the necessities. So he threw off his bloodstained clothes, folding them over one arm to be tossed into the sea, and put on his street clothes. Not that he had many, he was a decoration on Edmund's arm and he dressed as such. It left him with limited choices, but that would have to do.

He paused, and decided against taking any money or jewelry. The ring on his finger was probably worth enough for a passage considering how rich the Wyne family was when Edmund proposed. But he took it off anyway, and slipped it into his pack. Then he made his way to the kitchens for a final farewell with Belia.

From the look on her face, he knew she guessed what had happened upstairs. But she said nothing, taking his hand into hers and walking with him to the docks. They snuck passed the sailors and the chaos to duck behind several large crates. These were too polite for pirates, Alez thought, they were not looting. Maybe they had a vendetta against Port Regate's Governor. It could be anything, Berter was a gambler and this could be any number of men he'd angered come to take their dues by force. But the Governor's problem was not his. Alez stared from one ship to another and gave Belia a look.

"Which one should I board?"

"Maybe one that looks trustworthy," Belia suggested.

They both looked and came up with nothing. It was too dark to make out any faces, and even then, he knew nothing about ships.

"Maybe a name?" Belia said finally. "If it's not foreign, they'll be more likely to help you."

That they could try, so he bid her to wait with his things as he tip-toed between boxes. The occasional flashes of torchlight held by the sailors illuminated the flags and names of the ships. But not enough for him to make a decision until he caught a figurehead of one of them. Unlike the others that had bare-chested women or mystical animals, this one featured a compass with a seal curled around it. This must be a merchant ship, Alez thought, it was the sort of artistry a merchant would commission. Mind made, he went back to Belia.

"I'm boarding that one," he said softly.

She squinted, and mouthed the name of the ship's name. "The Luky?" Belia nodded, "Good luck then, Master—"

"Alez."

"I will miss you," said the older woman, and hugged him tightly before she passed him his things and squeezed his hands. "I am sorry I did not suggest this earlier.

"I would not have listened."

She was the closest thing to a mother figure he ever knew for the past years. "I'll come back. If... well, everything goes well. Or I'll send word. Good-bye Belia." He swallowed, and turned away before he lost the nerve.

He did not see guards or sailors when he approached the ship, which was odd. But he could not dawdle by the gangplank so he made his way quickly onboard and then to the Captain's cabin. The door was unlocked, so he crept inside, closed the door and waited. He closed his eyes and counted, first one minute, and then five. No one came, not even at the hour mark, not even when the cannon fires stopped. No captain materialized when the ship began to rock and he heard shouted orders that it was time to leave. But no matter, he was very good at waiting. So he first stood by the door, then moved to sit on the seat, and, seeing the notebooks stacked on the table, decided to take a closer look.

They occupied him very well enough, until the third day when still no one came into the cabin, it occurred to Alez as he sat there in a daze of thirst that he might have made a mistake in boarding a ship based on a figurehead.