SCENE 1: HYPOCRISY
The captain’s quarters on the Resolute were dimly lit, the lantern swaying gently with the ship’s rhythm. Shadows danced along the lacquered wood, but the room itself was a stark contrast to the chaos outside–a space of false calm amid the storm of Robert Timberlake’s mind.
Robert leaned back in his chair, his cravat loosened and his jacket draped carelessly over a nearby table. The dim lantern light threw flickering shadows across the room, accentuating the stark lines of his face. His aquamarine eyes, faintly glowing with dormant energy, stared out the circular window, catching and refracting the moonlight like ripples on the ocean’s surface. His expression was tight, conflicted, as though he was trying to find answers in the rolling waves that stretched infinitely beyond the glass.
The atmosphere in the cabin was thick, charged with an unspoken tension that neither the crash of distant waves nor the creak of the ship could fully drown out. Before him, the midshipman, Willoughby, knelt, his dark hair falling over his eyes like a curtain as he leaned forward with deliberate care. The soft scrape of his boots against the polished floor punctuated the rhythmic movements of his head, a cadence that seemed almost reverent.
Willoughby’s hands rested lightly on Robert’s thighs, the fine wool of the uniform coarse beneath his fingertips. His touch was practiced, precise, yet his presence exuded a certain unease, as though this act–this unacknowledged ritual–carried with it an implicit weight neither dared to speak aloud. Robert’s shallow breaths filled the space between them, breaking the silence with a rhythm that quickened, sharpened, as the midshipman continued.
Robert exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into Willoughby’s hair with a force that was not quite gentle. His head tilted back against the high-backed chair, the tautness in his jaw betraying a momentary loss of control. For the briefest second, the glowing hue of his aquamarine eyes dimmed, his focus wavering as a low, involuntary groan slipped past his lips. It was a sound of release, of momentary surrender, yet it carried an undertone of frustration, as though the act itself could not fully sate whatever storm churned within him.
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The room remained heavy, intimate yet distant, the intimacy of the moment starkly at odds with the coldness that so often defined Robert's demeanour. The lantern swayed gently overhead, its light casting shadows that seemed to ripple across his face like water.
Finally, with a sharp intake of breath, Robert’s body tensed. His grip in Willoughby’s hair tightened, his knuckles paling under the strain, before his hand fell away abruptly, as though repelled by its own act. His chest heaved once, then again, before his posture slackened, and his head lolled to the side. He looked outward, past the midshipman, his expression unreadable–a strange mixture of exhaustion, relief, and something deeper, harder to name.
“Enough,” he murmured, his voice rough, tinged with finality yet devoid of satisfaction. It was less a dismissal than a command to himself, an effort to regain control of a moment that had slipped from his grasp.
Willoughby sat back on his heels, his hands falling to his sides as he wiped his lips discreetly with the back of his hand. The midshipman’s gaze flickered upward, lingering on Robert’s profile. For a moment, something like understanding passed between them–a shared acknowledgment of the silence that bound them together. Then, as quickly as it came, it was gone, and Willoughby lowered his gaze once more.
“As you wish, sir,” he said quietly, his voice steady as he adjusted his uniform and rose to his feet. His movements were brisk but unhurried, carefully calculated to mask any sign of discomfort.
For a long moment, Robert said nothing, his gaze fixed on the window. The tension in his body slowly dissipated, though his mind remained turbulent. “You ever think about what it means to keep your secrets, Willoughby?” he asked finally, his voice distant.
Willoughby paused but did not look directly at him. “Every day, sir,” he replied softly.
Robert let out a bitter smirk, his hand running through his dishevelled hair. “Of course you do. We all do, don’t we? Secrets are the currency of survival. Mine… yours… even Sabrina’s.” His tone grew sharper as he said her name, like it left a sour taste in his mouth.
Willoughby glanced back, his gaze flickering with curiosity, but he didn’t speak.
Robert leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Do you know what I’m risking every time we do this? Every time I allow myself… this?” He gestured vaguely, his voice filled with scorn, though it wasn’t clear if it was directed at Willoughby or himself. “The Crown would string me up for this alone.”