Eventually the voice and sounds that have become second nature in the year he's been aboard Justinian fade, as do the ones he's grown accustomed to. They're still in the distance, called out with promises of satisfaction and release and oblivion dressed up in nicer words. Simpson whispered them in Archie's ear in the dark of the night, telling him what they meant, what they offered and reminding Archie he'd never need any of that.

Not from anyone who wasn't Jack himself.

He moves on past houses and schools, churches and proper buildings that house the types of people Archie used to know before he opted to follow the sea, surrender to the pull of the waves in his blood. They all look at him differently now, like something beneath their notice in his uniform, already too small, too tight in the short time he's owned it. He keeps going, trudging the hard packed dirt road toward the edge of town where there are darker buildings, where travelers not wanting to find their way into town stay, too dark and too dangerous by the edge of the sea.

He feels safe here, safer, though he doubts he'll ever feel safe again. There are aches in his body, in his bones now, cuts that will never quite heal in his hands, and other places he can't see, between his legs, places he's not sure exist, like his soul.

Here, he can't hear the water, can't hear the ebb and flow of the tide, can't sense the rise and fall of the waves. He can't hear the creak of wood that could be footsteps or shifting supplies, could signal death or release. He used to think they were two different things, but he's not sure any more, and he wonders, if he feels this way at fourteen, what sort of life stretches out before him.

There is a camp not far from the edge of town and Archie approaches it with caution. Fires burn in the distance, but they're muted by the trees and the faint hint of singing drifts toward him only when the breeze blows just right. He approaches slowly, carefully, knowing there are eyes on him, knowing that he's being watched, evaluated, judged. It's surprisingly easy now, to feel the touch of a gaze, so much easier than the step that follows, the hard grasp of hands, the demands of more.

A small girl steps out in front of him, dressed in rags that seem to sparkle like starlight in the strange fog that decorates the base of the trees. She takes his hand from his pocket, curling hers around his, easily slipping the coins free from his grasp and leads her to the cart and the gathered mass of gypsies, the fires smelling like wood smoke and something more, burning at him from the inside of his lungs.

An old man steps from the shadows and looks Archie over, new eyes that burn black. Archie doesn't move under the scrutiny, almost smiles. This is nothing at all like the raw touch of Jack's eyes, the flaying of flesh at every graze of his touch.

"Fortune."

Disappointment floods over him at the word and Archie shakes his head once in response. The gypsy laughs, gaping holes in his mouth where teeth are missing, amusement bright in his eyes. Archie feels the flare of anger, but tamps it down. Nothing boils up to the surface. Nothing.

Never again.

"Ah." The gypsy nods, and Archie can feel the others move closer, feel himself being surrounded. "Vengeance."

"I…" The words are everything Archie doesn't believe in, didn't believe in before he found out that men are cruel, that small men make themselves large on the backs of others. He believes now. He hasn't been given a choice. "I want a man dead."

"Vengeance costs more than two coins, boy." His voice is thickly accented, hard on Archie's ears, even though there's no other sound, even the woods gone quiet around them.

"I can get more money. I will get you more money." He clears his throat, unwilling to let the need come through in his voice. "I need a man dead."

The gypsy names a price and Archie clenches his teeth, jaw rigid. He nods once, tersely, unable to manage more. The gypsy laughs and sound seems to rush back to the world around him, fire and laughter and music flooding Archie's ears. The gypsy looks at the coins the girl had given him and then at Archie.

"More than money."

The noise doesn't stop this time and Archie swallows and inhales, nearly choking on the smell of blood and something else he doesn't identify underlying the fire.

"Vengeance is equal. He dies. You die. You sacrifice him. You will be sacrificed. Balance. The way of things." He tilts his head and reaches out, his dark hand catching Archie's chin. He jerks away from the touch, hears Simpson's voice - No one but me, boy. You're Jack's boy now - but the man grabs him again, and Archie can smell the grease and blood and dirt in the cracks of his nails, the creases of his fingers. "He dies. You will die."

"I'll die anyway."

The gypsy nods and releases him, and Archie swallows reflexively, bile sharp at the back of his throat. "The question is always how. But it will be done," the gypsy promises him, turning his back on Archie before moving back to the group, dismissing Archie from whatever comes next. Archie turns and heads back toward town, drinking in the air until fog and smoke leave his lungs and all he can smell is the sea.