Captain Henry Somerset is a problem.
He’s a commoner, which in just about any fantasy story means he has some sort of a bone to pick and I won’t pretend to be above writing that trope.
What I am above is leaving it at that. His character arc explores what nobility means in a world that has not yet forgotten—as we have—how nobility is earned. No, he does not become a duke at the end of the story. He’s not even afforded a spare joy.
What he does is embody his world’s mythology.
A man who drives the boat out of an eldritch storm while the sea he really should not be listening to is trying to drive him mad is someone the Admiralty hates to legitimise but loathes to dismiss. They need officers like that.
Dossier: Captain Henry Somerset
Designation: Post-Captain, Arunean Navy; Commanding Officer, frigate Siren's Reply Known Alias: The Witch-Captain of the Reply
Appearance & Demeanour: Somerset is not particularly impressive in stature. He’s rather average. But he’s strong enough, elegant enough. Certainly predatory enough in a way that might belie a common birth. His features are “intelligent”, however, with thick brows and a salt-sprayed mane of copper hair. There are a few scars here and there, the most obvious on his forehead.
His most defining characteristic is the charm—and it’s almost certainly a lie. He’s quick to smile, easy to laugh and this is generally enough to inspire the minimum requisite loyalty to avoid despairing mutiny. The performance? Flawless until he’s alone or with you.
The fog was a living thing. It had a weight—resistance, even—with a damp chill that had nothing of the sun’s mercy in it. It tasted of salt and envy.
Somerset heard the voice again.
(…)
“Possessive this morning,” Somerset said, his voice bright as it carried over the quarterdeck.
(…)
“Oh, aye,” Saltire agreed, turning his big brows away toward the water again. After a pause, his assessment. “A grasping mood, Captain,” he rumbled. “The whispers, I suspect, will be finding purchase in these quiet hours.”
Somerset’s mouth tightened though just barely. Saltire saw it. Said, “The men are on edge,” as his head inclined slightly. He then took a sip of his tea with the hurry of a man who just made a decision needing acting upon.
“Mmh,” he grunted, wanting to speak before he could swallow. “Then we’ll give them something louder to hear.” He turned his back from the sea and fixed Saltire with a lopsided look. “Lieutenant Saltire. Beat to quarters, a live fire drill.”
So, Somerset’s "witchcraft" is not a gift.
He survives not by blocking out the song he’s not meant to hear, but by listening to it. It’s intuition, torment or possibly madness.
The very thing is what makes him a threat to the Admiralty’s status quo. It’s not (wholly) a matter of common birth but the results are a touch too good. And through methods too unorthodox, too heretical. And you mustn’t challenge the traditions that have kept this island nation afloat in defiance of a malicious ocean for generations. It works. Do not break this.
This is his central conflict. He is a man whose greatest “gift” is almost certainly a curse, whose successes make him a threat to the very system he serves, and whose charismatic performance is the only thing holding back a tide of grief that threatens to drown him and his entire crew.
Fair winds,
—D.S.
