Carlton Rage

The Chronicler was meant to be a merchant vessel when I first started as her captain. My father passed her down to me with the belief that I would keep things the way they were; prosperous and bountiful. But on e doesn't become reputed across the Seven Seas as a legendary captain by trading goods from port to port, not that fame was ever amongst my intentions. I had never intended to be the one to rescue another merchant vessel from a band of pirates, but my crew was prepared and theirs was not. I never intended to be nominated as the guardian of the surrounding isles, but when there is no one else for the job it is exceedingly difficult to say no. I began to deal with local pirate attacks shortly after Willow was born. Adelaide did not approve, and I knew it and understood why, but she also understood the need. I told her to focus on Willow and eventually she came to tolerate my position.
Tolerate, but never approve.
The first real encounter I ever had with fame-inducing-danger was with a pirate of considerable reputation; Carlton Rage.
We met in open waters and the stakes were all too clear; I was just returning home from an exhausting journey to Highland, nearing the end of supplies and strength. Rage had just come from a port, rested and fully ready for all forms of savagery and desolation available to him. They swung in from starboard side and descended upon my crew amidst blasts of canons and horrid screams, all except for Rage. He stayed behind, sheltered and menacing in appearance only until I decided that there couldn't be all that much to him. He was a coward and I couldn't bear to see him live to take down another ship in apalling triumph. I hollered my challenge into the salty sea air, daring him to hear it and respond.
He did.
Some of the activity on both decks slowed and pushed to the sides to make room for their respective captains. Carlton Rage left his men watching in mingled fear and apprehension.  My men kept distractions at bay, concerned but trusting in me to live up to their expectations, and my opponent trespassed onto my ship and faced me with a rapier drawn in his right hand.
"A little young to be throwing your life away..." he growled at me. He had obviously never considered the option of him being the one to fall, and not me.
The duel that ensued could very well have turned out either way. It was only after I suffered a ghastly wound to my abdomen that fate, skill, or whatever force of nature possibly cared, provided me with a life-saving chance; an chink in the armour; an opening in my enemy's defences. I struck it without even the slightest amount of hesitation: I drove my sword angled upwards through Carlton Rage's midriff and felled him with the lowest amount of regret I had ever employed in the act of ending a life.
It was only shortly after that that the crew of Carlton Rage surrendered, whether due to terror over the absence of their captain or relief I do not know. We took them as prisoners in our brig, looted their ship, and left the battle scene behind for more fulfilling prospects, which happened to include a sizeable reward as a result of Rage's death.
I suppose that, in that regard, I doomed myself to the life of a mercenary hero early on. To say that it was not something I wanted would taste a lie, but I only admit that with utmost regret.

The Child

I remember the day I stumbled across him so vividly that I sometimes forget that it did not happen just yesterday. He was so much quieter back then...not to mention smaller. He couldn't have been more than four years old.
I had set out on The Chronicler with my crew only a little while after my daughter's birth, on a trip to Rhen as a favour to a merchant friend of mine for some selling and buying purposes. He had some particularly good business with the desert people at that time of year and he trusted me to deliver and exchange goods in his place.
I never did meet his client.
We made berth at port during what should have been one of the busiest times of the year, only to find the docks deserted and the city billowing with smoke and ravaged by flames. We disembarked, my crew and I, armed and quite prepared with every intention of facing danger head on, should we encounter it. But the only living thing to meet us at the end of the dock was a small boy draped in filthy rags. He was smeared from head to toe in soot and dirt and grime and his small left fist clutched a distressed scrap of parchment, which he seemed very reluctant to release into my care. I managed to retrieve it from him after inviting him onto The Chronicler and then I escorted him down to see our physician, Red, who cleaned the boy up and assured me that he was in fine health. We gave him some food and I stayed with him below deck for a while, in an effort to lessen his apprehension towards me. When he finally deemed me trustworthy enough, he passed the note in his hand to me, in answer to my question of "who are you?".

This is a request in troubled times, and to whoever may read this, I can only pray that it falls into worthy hands. From the deserts of Rhen, this boy has travelled, escaping the horrors of his homeland. To send him back from where he came would be murder. His tribe has been ravaged by the bandits and thieves of the sands, his home destroyed, his family lost. Should you find pity on this boy enough to take him in, he will not disappoint you. Treat him as your own son and he will grow well and strong, he will learn quickly and cherish your kindness. This letter bears his father’s seal, the Master of the Desert City Rhen, Chief Titus. This is his youngest son, Alek Titus. Stranger, I am in your debt.

Herondale Ser-

I had not even the slightest inclination of who Herondale Ser- might be, and until then I had never heard of anyone by the name of Titus. I regarded this Alek Titus before me with a new kind of respect for how calm he was in light of his situation, and at such a young age. It made me wonder who his father was, that he should have such strength in his bloodline. I am proud to say that, when my crewmen returned from the city and confirmed my suspicions about a desert raid, we departed the port of Rhen with the boy still aboard The Chronicler.
I may not have acquired any riches in silver or gold, but on that day, I gained myself a son.

The Father

The mirror was cracked. It hung just inside the bedroom of our home with a crack in it that, when I stood in just the right place, was positioned over my eye and the right side of my weathered face to look like a scar that I might have obtained in raging battle. But I had been more careful than that since setting out to sea. Adelaide would never forgive me if anything happened to me; she made me promise to come back home without ever being any different than when I set out. However, I could only make that promise in way of my physical health. I know that my seafaring ways had altered my character beyond what it ever was before.
Of course, she never had to make the same promise to me, but when I returned home to find her pregnant with our first child I couldn't help but be aghast. Shocked. And then delighted.
We might have a son whom I could take with me to sea and teach the ways of my world. He could inherit my ship, and my crew if they would have him. He could take on the legacy of Captain Swan.
But then, Adelaide had other hopes in mind. Where I wanted a son, she wanted a daughter for the exact opposite reasons. If we had a son she knew there would be a day when I would take him out to sea with me, and she would be left behind for weeks at a time. She did not believe that would happen if we were to have a daughter. It wasn't that she resented my hopes or was displeased with me for always heading out but she had hopes of her own and one of us would end up disappointed, at least for a time.
From that point onward, nothing happened as I, or anyone else for that matter, could have expected. And it wasn't simply because Adelaide gave birth to a daughter; that wasn't the reason at all. My spirits may have been dampened, but not crushed, and I was only disappointed at first, before I realized the resemblances between my wife and our daughter. They shared the same eyes, the same hair. Adelaide was certain that she already demonstrated my stubbornness and tenacity but I saw her as a smaller, more innocent version of my wife and I knew that I could love her just as fully. I now could look forward not only to my wife, but the prospect of fatherhood as well, when I returned home from my journeys. I suppose it was because it happened so soon after the birth of our daughter, of Willow Adelaide Swan, that I remember it so well: the day that I met Alek Titus.
That was the day that any expectations I might have held for the future were dashed into the salty sea air, gone from my grasp forever. Everything changed.