Sea Reaper: The Legend of the Black-Eyed “Boy”

Crystal chandeliers glittered above, casting warm light upon the cherubic faces sculpted in the ceiling. Gentle music flowed through gilded mahogany doors into the fragrant gardens beyond the palace halls. Tonight, every lamp in the Château de Fontainebleau blazed with light. All of Paris's noble elite had gathered here, anxiously awaiting a most unusual guest.

The King's decision to invite this particular man remained controversial. A pirate of low birth, closely associated with the Moors—his presence in the royal court, this heathen outsider, was more than many blue-blooded nobles could tolerate.

But recent circumstances allowed little room for pride. With the opening of new sea routes, tiny nations like Portugal, England, and the Netherlands were amassing wealth beyond imagination. Spain's meteoric rise threatened France's position in Europe. An alliance, no matter how distasteful, had become necessary.

Nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed. Restlessness lingered in the perfumed air. The Duchess of Clément fanned her ample bosom with a gold-dusted fan, murmuring complaints under her breath.

"How insufferable! To be kept waiting by a mud-soaked pirate who somehow washed ashore and strutted into court. And to think, we're expected to dance with him? God forbid he touches my hand. Just imagining his brutish fingers near me—I might faint!"

"Ha, such fire in your voice," murmured her lifelong rival to a companion, loud enough for others to hear. "If she didn't want to dance, why dress like the Queen of the Nile? Look at her—every ancestral jewel dragged out from the vault!"

"Oh, Lady Monton, how composed you are," the Duchess retorted, hiding her smirk behind her fan. "I heard you had a scuffle with Miss Narsa at Féfé's boutique over a single ostrich feather. Surely that was just gossip?"

Lady Monton flushed, turning her nose in the air like a haughty pheasant, her towering plumes trembling with indignation.

While the men harbored grave political concerns, the women harbored... different ones. For all his heresy, the pirate was reputed to be gallant, strikingly handsome, and unfailingly courteous to women. Even in his raids, it was said, he forbade his men to harm a lady's honor.

Hope—however unspoken—sparkled like diamonds in the eyes of the ladies. They had adorned themselves with feverish care. Gone were the austere medieval fashions; the current style demanded extravagance. Powdered wigs piled high as hills, layers of pearls and garnets dazzled the eye, and perfumes of all varieties mingled in the late spring air. Some still clung to luxurious furs, despite the heat of May.

And then came the sound—distant hooves pounding against the palace road. Guards along the portico snapped to attention, their voices rising in succession. The crowd shifted as excitement surged.

Eight steeds galloped forth, hooves striking sparks. A grand carriage of black and gold burst from the dusk like thunder.

"The Dey of Algiers, Admiral of the Fleet—Barbarossa Hayreddin Pasha—arrives!"

The guest of the night had come at last.

A guard opened the carriage door. A silver-buckled boot struck the step, followed by a powerful thigh wrapped in tailored breeches. Down stepped a tall man with flaming red hair, towering half a head above the guard beside him. His coat of black velvet hugged his broad shoulders and tapered waist, cut to perfection. His every movement radiated strength and grace.

Rows of diamond-studded buttons, a massive ruby ring, and a bold gold earring of North African style adorned him—but none outshone his sheer presence. In an age obsessed with ornament, on him, every detail found its place, enhancing rather than overshadowing his wild, magnetic aura.

He was no ordinary man. Dressed like a prince, he moved like a predator cloaked in civility—one sensed claws beneath the silk.

"My God… that bronze skin, those white teeth. He looks like a savage."

"A savage, yes… but by Heaven, the most devastatingly handsome savage I've ever seen!"

"Is he circling to fetch his partner? My brother said no women disembarked with them."

"Silly! Moorish women aren't even allowed to be seen by men. Who knows what she'll look like?"

"I heard he has a whole harem in Algiers—hundreds of concubines! Will he bring the fairest of them all?"

Whispers swirled like silk fans. All eyes turned to the carriage.

The door opened again. A gloved, delicate hand extended into the red-haired man's palm.

And from the shadows emerged a girl—pale as moonlight.

She stepped lightly, so lightly her silk hem barely stirred, like a petal descending on the breeze.

Over her narrow shoulders lay a cloak of pearl-white velvet. Beneath it shimmered a dress of the same hue, modestly cut, adorned only by intricate silver embroidery in curling, vine-like patterns. No wigs, no garish jewels. Her natural curls, chestnut and rich, were pinned in Grecian braids. A single strand of tiny pearls wove through her hair, gleaming against porcelain skin.

She wore no décolletage, no sparkle—at first glance, she disappeared among the glittering women of court. But to the discerning eye, her understated elegance outshone them all.

Hand in hand, the admiral and the girl ascended the wide marble steps. King François I and Queen Claude approached to greet them, courtiers lining up behind according to strict rank.

"Welcome to Fontainebleau, Lord Hayreddin. May France prove a gracious host to you and your companion," the young King said with courtly warmth, eager to present the royal household as both refined and receptive.

Hayreddin bowed with a hand to his chest. His French was elegant, his voice low and assured. "Your Majesty, your hospitality honors us. This night will remain in our hearts forever." He turned to praise the Queen's beauty, his manner perfect, his words precise—shattering every brutish stereotype whispered about him.

The Queen, intrigued, smiled gently. "Such refinement surprises me. And this young lady is...?"

"She is called Nicole," Hayreddin replied calmly. "My companion for the evening."

The girl curtsied, and gasps rose in unison.

She was barely fourteen, a delicate slip of a girl. Lovely, yes—but not unforgettably so. Many noble ladies present could claim greater beauty. Why would a pirate known for his exotic harem choose such a fragile companion?

"She does not speak," Hayreddin explained quietly. "It would be unkind to force her."

It was improper to leave guests standing. The King invited them in. Music swelled, and the banquet commenced.

When Nicole removed her velvet cloak, handing it to a maid, light caught on a single ornament—an enormous diamond pendant nestled against black lace at her throat. The stark contrast drew every eye, turning the girl into the evening's silent center.

Where others wore excess, she wore clarity. The women seethed.

The banquet unfolded as a casual gathering—François unsure how versed his guest might be in courtly protocols. The Queen and favored duchesses engaged him in gentle conversation, which he met with wit, charm, and eloquence. His tales of distant shores and clever turns of phrase turned the ladies' curiosity into full-blown infatuation.

He was nothing like the powdered men of court. Where they were fragile and affected, he was vital and commanding—his gaze burning like fire from beneath a mask of civility.

Around him, hoop skirts formed a three-layer-deep barricade of silent admiration. The pirate's infamy had become... exotic allure.

"Your Excellency," Miss Sophia leaned forward with sparkling eyes, "is it true you once defeated five Spanish warships single-handedly?"

"Ah, mademoiselle, tales grow in the telling," Hayreddin replied with a smile. "There were only three... and one was half-retired."

Sighs of adoration erupted. Her suitor, Viscount Crohn, could bear no more.

"Surely," he called out, "with so many ladies in dancing shoes, we mustn't waste the moonlight!"

Palace dances were highly formalized, a measure of noble training. A misstep meant disgrace. The King glanced at Hayreddin.

"It would be our pleasure," the admiral replied with a nod. "Nicole has waited patiently."

Nicole sat quietly, hands folded, her dark eyes blank as still water.

The music began—formal line dances, rows of men and women moving in mirrored steps.

Hayreddin danced skillfully, elegant and surefooted. Even the stiff Duchess of Clément, when partnered with him, blushed like a schoolgirl.

But the attention soon shifted—to her.

Nicole.

A white specter, gliding across the floor like a spirit walking on water. Where others moved in practiced rhythm, she flowed with divine grace. The same steps, yet transformed—like she was dancing alone, beneath the stars.

Her slender arms, her pale skin veined with blue, her swan-like neck—she seemed both fragile and indomitable. A creature not quite of this world.

"Who is she?" people began to whisper.

As the dance ended, Hayreddin held her close beneath the chandeliers. The contrast struck like lightning.

A pirate king. A porcelain girl.

Someone finally asked—and he only smiled:

"She is my Amphitrite. My silent sea-nymph."

A romantic story, yes—that a mermaid, once stolen by Poseidon, would lose her voice upon reaching land, but gain the grace of dance. To the ladies, it was poetry. To the men, a veiled tale. Pirates were known to cut the throats of their captives to silence them permanently.

Her high collar, her obedient stillness... left much to the imagination.

The ball carried on, and tables groaned under exotic delights. Truffles, oysters, foie gras, even ice cream brought in from Italy. Ladies indulged, etiquette forgotten.

But Nicole merely sipped, then pushed her plate aside.

The restraint of a true aristocrat? Or... something else?

She sat with that same serene melancholy, eyes unfocused.

—

Two weeks earlier, in a carriage...

"Your voice is like a nightingale's. Your lips, like rose petals. You've enchanted my soul, you cruel little fae—what am I to do with you?" The ship's doctor gazed at the girl opposite, besotted.

Nick gawked. "Um… I… sorry, I think you've got the wrong person?"

"No."

"Should I ask the captain first?"

"No!"

"Uh... I need to pee. Can we talk after?"

Victor trembled in outrage. "Unbelievable! A month of training with a master like me—and this is what you say? Pee?!"

Hayreddin patted his back. "You did your best, Victor."

Nick muttered, "I tried, too."

Victor fumed. "A weed will never bloom into a rose! Even with fluent French, you'll never pass for nobility!"

"I never wanted to be a flower," Nick mumbled. "You said there'd be food at this dance. That's all I care about…"

"You dare—"

"That's enough," Hayreddin cut in. "If she can't play the role, she'll be a mute vase. I never expected a spy—just a pretty decoy."

"Pretty?! She eats like a hawk pouncing on a rabbit!"

"I'll teach her to eat like a finch," Hayreddin replied confidently.

Now, as Nick remembered that promise, she wanted to flip the table. The food was here. It was magnificent.

But she couldn't eat a single bite.

The corset crushed her ribs. She could barely breathe.

That "melancholy aura"? It was barely suppressed rage.

—

"Your eyes are like twin stars. All of Paris pales before your elegance."

"No, it's not elegance—it's solitude. You are a lonely lily upon Olympus, and this diamond is the dew upon your purity."

"Could any artist truly capture you? Giotto? Raphael? Titian? Leonardo? Ah, he'd find divine inspiration—his Mona Lisa hangs in this very gallery."

Nick said nothing. Playing mute was, as it turned out, excellent advice.

"Ah, speak of the devil—maestro, over here!"

Through the blur of fans and flattery, an old man with a magnificent beard approached and bowed deeply.

"May I, dear lady, offer you a glimpse of my humble work?"

Nick glanced through the crowd. Hayreddin, still surrounded by ladies, met her gaze. She tilted her head. He nodded.

And so she rose, placed her hand in the old man's, and left the ball behind.

Fontainebleau's Tiana Gallery glittered with priceless Renaissance art. Leonardo da Vinci's masterpiece hung at its heart.

"I never expected to see you again," he said.

"Nor I you. I thought you'd died of old age," she replied.

"Ah, so the mute speaks."

Together, they stood before the Mona Lisa.

"If anyone found out," Leonardo whispered, "that the royal guest of honor was once a Florentine child courtesan... what a scandal that would be."