Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The day that Edward becomes a pirate dawns still and hot. The sun has changed from a smug orange ball balancing on the horizon to an angry white fist, sending light dancing across the sea and stinging his eyes. Behind him and to his left, the thumb of land that is the only home he’s ever known slips slowly away as the toothless man called Ox pulls at the oars of the dinghy.

They are heading toward the spit, a scrub of pebbly beach outside the bay and the breakers, only appearing at low tide and at even a high tide can splinter the hulls of unwary ships. It is a place for smugglers and thieves and gamblers and pirates. He’s been taken by his …the dead man out here more than once. The first time to be a man, if a man meant that he sat nearby and watched the bastard drink and laugh and spend precious money. He had told Mother about it once and she had said nothing, but her lips had thinned. The next day with a slight limp and a bruised cheek she had said that it was between his father and god.

Like god gave a shit about anyone. Like Father gave a shit about anyone. Edward digs his fingers against the legs of his breeches, scoring the skin underneath, feeling the crease of his palms ache. The pain helps him focus. The pain keeps the blackness from welling up in his throat and overcoming him.

He shifts his cramped legs, stuffed as he is in the stern of the dinghy, crowded in by rope and supplies and lets his head fall back to stare at the deep blue sky. Of the men that are taking him, he only knows Ox— but they don’t really matter. They are not pirates themselves, but brokers, movers of people, they say and Edward will mean a cut for them. A small cut but enough to keep living on for a few days.

It means he’s next to nothing.

Worthless.

A part of him still wants to say fuck it. To jump in the cold briny water and swim back home— and apologize to Mother. That part of him wants to pretend to be the good boy again. The one that carries shit buckets for the wealthy people — who knows his place and is content in it. But the scars of the rope still cut across his palms and the bloated corpse picked over by crabs and fish will be buried today before it starts to stink. He can’t go back, he thinks looking at his bruised knuckles.

If he goes back, Mother will know. If not now, soon. Even if she never finds out, the rumors which have already spread will keep spreading, darkening the corners of the town — and when it reached the ears of the landed, of the Carmondy estate, Mother would be let go. She’d have nothing left. Not even a reputation. All because of him.

Better to think he’d run away to sea or maybe even died.

So he can’t go back.

There is no back.

There is only forward.

Only ahead.

He has to prove himself somehow.

“Lad, look,” says the swarthy man in friendly tones. Edward looks around the bulk of the Ox to the direction swarthy man is pointing. There just beyond the spit is a ship. It seems both huge and small sitting there in the azure water, sails pulled up against the yardarms. There is no flag flying yet, but he knows it will be black.

“The Ranger. We’ve crewed... how many people for her?”

“Two,” says the Ox. “One of them got stabbed through the eye with a fork before they even left port.”

“Well that wasn’t our fault was it. And if you’re lucky and not a complete shit for brains, you might get a chance at joining up.”

“Aye, but don’t expect to live long even if you leave port in one piece,” says the third man. “Cappin’ Hornigold goes through men like paper. Boys don’t stand a chance.”

“But it’s the first mate you have to look after. I’d give my right eye not to have to deal with the rabbit,” says the Ox, shuddering. “Here, you take over now.” He tells the swarthy man.

“Oh come on, we’re almost there.”

“I don’t care if we’re almost there, I’m sick of rowin’ this sack of nothin’ and my balls hurt.”

Edward snickers and then yelps as the man smacks him upside the head hard enough to make his ears ring. He will stab him in the balls if they meet again after this, he decides. He will peel them like rotten plums. He rubs the side of his head and watches as the swarthy man sighs and prepares to move. The steady pull of the boat is stopped as they rearrange themselves.

It gives Edward an unexpected stab of envy, though he can’t think of why.

“What’s wrong with the rabbit?” says Edward as the rowing begins again.

“The rabbit is--” says the third man but Ox nudges him in the side and the third man abruptly smiles showing yellow teeth. “As wonderful a man as you’ll ever see. You should ask him about his nose.”

“After you’re on the open sea,” says the swarthy man.

Edward rolls his eyes and tips his head to watch the spit grow nearer and nearer. There are so many people on it in the daylight. Casks are being loaded into longboats to be taken to the ship or being rolled out. Seagulls wheel, screaming into the warming air. Something in Edward’s gut clenches. He wants it to be excitement but it isn’t.

By the time they get to the pebbly beach, his guts are twisting in on themselves like snakes. Everyone is so much taller, looming. Here they are playing cards, there, toiling under the sun stripped to the waist. Further on there is a fight and Edward watches the flash of fists and knives with sick interest. He thinks he sees his Father in the crowd and his heart nearly starts out of his ribs, but it’s not him.

It won’t be him. It can’t be him. He is putrefying in the ground by now. A hand on his shoulder makes him start and he grips the knife at his waist, but is is just the swarthy man who doesn’t seem to notice.

“Now then, laddie buck,” says the swarthy man. "Let's be off." The man begins steering him forward. The pebbles crunch under his thin shoes and he grips his rucksack with a damp palm. “We’re lucky that Hornigold is looking for men today. The life is hard and the work is shit but you get your share of grog and eventually a share of loot, if you don’t die that is.”

There is a short bedraggled line of men standing just outside a patched tent pavilion. In the shade, a man has a large ledger open on a rickety table. All the men are head and shoulders taller than him and the one just in front is seething with muscle and tattoos. There are anchors and waves and a star and a topless mermaid lovingly detailed. Edward stares at the puckered nipples, wondering what Mother would think of that.

It was probably between him and god, Edward thinks sourly, looking past the men to the shadow of the pavilion. The man sitting at the table is slender in a doughy way and every time he moves, something glints on his face. Beyond him, further in the shadows, is another man, hard to see from where he is blinded a little by the sun. A curl of smoke drifts through the air which is cool but also feels dangerous, like stepping into the lair of a dragon.

One by one the men in front of him leave with either straight shoulders or slumped. It is almost Edward’s turn and he wants to run. The fight is starting to come closer now, and he watches the flash of the knife and the stripe of blood that slicks the top of a man’s ear right off. The man howls and the blood flashes like rubies in the sunlight.

“Big arms,” says the ledger man. “We’ll need you for the cannons. Mark here.” The muscle bound man does. “Good. Take the next skiff, we sail with the tide. Next.”

Edward swallows and the swarthy man practically hauls him forward. The ledger man looks up. This guy is the rabbit man maybe. He has a thin face like a rabbit and a sharp jaw, his skin pale and his eyes red and bloodshot. His nose is metal and strapped to his face. It looks like gold and Edward feels an odd compulsion to touch it.

But the man just beyond him is more interesting still, now that Edward can see him. He’s heavy set, roped with muscle and scarred like any dock worker, but he’s dressed like a rich man. Rings flash on his fingers as they hold the bowl of an ivory pipe. There is nothing at all soft about him and his eyes are like stones. That is a man, Edward thinks, feeling an odd thrill go up his spine. That is someone to be.

“Not surprised you bring me shit,” says the rabbit man and Edward blinks, looking back at him. “What do you call this?”

“I know he is small,” says the swarthy man. “But full of muscle. And he’ll grow up even stronger and as loyal as a tit on a cow. Isn’t that right, lad?”

“Loyalty.” The rabbit snorts. “He’ll be loyal or he’ll be cleaning barnacles with his back. Anyway, we’ve already got a boy.”

“Yes, but this is a special boy. Tell him what you can do.” The swarthy man nudges him. Edward opens his mouth and shuts it again. He has no idea what to say, or even what to lie about. He knows the streets of the town he grew up in, he can carry buckets of shit and piss from the wealthy houses to the tanner yard, he knows the shoals of the little bay outside of their home.

“God almighty,” the rabbit groans. “Can you sail?”

“I can row.”

“So can anyone with a pair of arms. Can you cook? Mend? Set a bone? Chart the stars?”

He’s not sure whether to lie about that or not. But he has to say something. Already the quiet man is looking away, hissing out smoke through his teeth. The swarthy man’s grip on his shoulder is painful and he’s sure at any moment the man will whip him around and slap him like a child. Worse, if he doesn’t get this, he’ll have nowhere go except to go back and he can’t do that.

“Tell me why, then, I should put you aboard.”

Edward, desperate, says the first thing that comes to mind.

“I can fight!”

“Can you kill?”

Edward remembers the buck of the ropes in his hands, hears the gurgling, feels the resistance of flesh, watches him twisting back and forth, fighting to live— and then slumping forward impossibly heavy and sodden with rain. He was gone as simple as that and Edward felt nothing but a horrible scraping inside his belly.

“Listen, you little shit, stop wasting my time,” the rabbit man snaps, slapping his palm on the ledger. “Unless you can prove you have the balls to do something worth a damn, then go home to your stupid. mewling. mother.”

Edward stabs him through the hand. He doesn’t even realize fully he’s doing it until it’s done. The knife sinks through flesh and muscle and between ridges of bone to the pages beneath.

“Is this good enough?” Edward finds himself snarling and when the rabbit man tries to grab at him again, twists the knife so that the man cries out, sharp and harsh. The man snarls at him, eyes glittering with rage. This is power too, Edward thinks, dark and thrilling. “Or should I take your stupid nose too.”

He leans forward like he's going to snatch the nose right off the man's face. The man’s other hand comes up fast as lightning. Edward has no time to move and black shoots across his vision as his head hits the table, the edge of it slamming into is stomach so hard his breath leaves in a great rush. He struggles, blind and starved for air, heart pounding, knowing if he doesn’t move he’s fucked. He’s absolutely fucked.

A hand grips his hair, nearly pulling it out by the roots and he feels a blood slicked blade against his throat. He stops struggling and swallows hard. Oh fuck. Oh fuck he doesn’t want to die. Maybe he can apologize. Maybe he can--

“You think you’re good? You think you’ve got all the answers? You’re nothing, you hear me?  Nothing but a grimy little stain on your mother’s dress,” says the rabbit.

“Fuck you! Fuck you! I’ll kill you, you shit faced bastard!” Edward pushes off the ground, driving the table back right into the rabbit. The man grunts but doesn’t release him and the knife digs deeper.

“Say your prayers.”

“Die!” Edward screams. The knife pricks under his skin.

“Enough.” The voice is cool and cold.

“Enough?” snaps the rabbit. “Captain--”

“Was I not clear?” the voice hasn’t changed at all, but Edward can feel the threat of it over his skin. Rabbit lets him go and he scrambles upward, thinking to lunge for the knife and bury it in the man’s throat, but he finds a pistol pointed at his head from the man in the shadows who hasn’t done anything more than raise his arm.

Edward raises his hands to show he won’t attack.

Not right now anyway. Not right yet.

“You wish to join my crew?” says the captain and Edward nods.

“Yes, sir.”

“Harvey here won’t go easy on you. He might even kill you.”

“Not if I kill him first, sir.”

“You stupid little bastard,” the rabbit snarls.

“What’s your name, boy?” says the captain.

“Edward Teach.”

“Well then, Edward Teach…” The captain rises and, with a simple wave of his hand, the rabbit steps away from the ledger, scowling and dark. Captain Hornigold turns the ledger around with a single hand and holds the quill to Edward.

“Make your mark.” The page is soaked with blood. Edward dips the quill tip in it and makes a careful X at the bottom of the page.

“To the skiff then,” says the captain, and closes the ledger. “We sail with the tide… And Edward,” the captain says just as he turns. “If you cause problems on my ship, I will feed you to the rabbit myself; piece by piece.”

“I understand, sir,” he says to the captain.  Then he turns away and heads back out into the billowing sunshine.

The rabbit will get what’s coming to him. Edward will make sure of that. His throat itches with a trail of cooling blood and he has some blood coming down his forehead too where it must have gotten cut on something. It doesn’t matter. For right now… Edward stares at the shadow of the ship…

He’d be a fool to turn back, he tells himself, after he’s come this far. So he takes a deep breath of salt air and makes his way to the sea.

xxxxx

In a short time, he is once more stuffed in the bottom of a boat between casks and lengths of rope. His head aches and the sun is hot and high, but the breeze over the water curls over the side of the skiff and ruffles his hair. The skiff is a large one, large enough so two men have to row it. The one at the prow is a thin redheaded man with sun burnt skin and black teeth who keeps chewing and spitting something over the side. The muscle bound tattooed man is in the middle, so close Edward could touch him with his foot if there weren’t bundles in the way.

For all his muscle, the skin of his face is sucked close to the bone and Edward can see the line of veins on his temple. He has a knot of thick brown hair at the top of his head and a thick brown mustache that looks like a caterpillar. Most interesting though are the tattoos that shadow his skin. Aside from the mermaid there are so many more in the front. There are rocks and birds and a light house, bleeding hearts and something that looks like a storm cloud with a face. There are curls like sea foam and a large bottle with a delicate seashell inside and a crab on the back of one hand. The most impressive of all is the woman tattooed on his nearly bare chest. It’s like Virgin Mary. Her robes are blue and there is a rose and gold halo around her head and her expression is solemn. But she is dark skinned and her eyes are black and two thick braids run down her shoulders. Her hand is also outward instead of pressing against her chest, and in the bowl of it is a tiny bird. The best part is the glowing heart in the center of her chest, red like the scrap of silk he keeps close to his own.

“W-w-what are you st-staring at?” the tattooed man growls. His large hands can’t leave the oars so Edward doesn’t flinch.

“I like your tattoos.”

The man’s scowl morphs into a slow smile.

“Th-thanks, m-mate. It’s th-the sea b-beast right? She’s n-new.”

“Sea beast?”

“Aye.” He rolls his shoulder and Edward spots it near the lighthouse. It’s a fish from a nightmare, all large head and staring eyes and huge splintered fangs with a strange light coming out of its head. The colors are brighter here than elsewhere and Edward wants to prod it.

“What is it?”

“D-dunno. P-pulled it up near P-port au P-prince.”

“Less talk, more row,” says the black toothed man behind with a high thin vinegar voice.

“What about her?” Edward presses a hand to his chest.

"W-well..."

“I said shut up!” says the vinegar man. “Jaysus, it hurts just to listen to ya."

The tattooed man flushes which is stranger to see than mermaid tits or sea monsters. He could strangle vinegar with his bare hands, but instead he ducks his head and looks away. Edward wishes the man were braver, because he has so many more more questions. But the man isn't and keeps his head down the entire way.

They are drawing nearer the ship now, the great shadow of it casting over the water, its wood crusted with barnacles. Edward’s never been on a ship this size though it’s smaller than ones that have docked in the harbor. He’s watched them drift on the line of the horizon with sails like clouds and has daydreamed so many times about hopping on one drifting away with it. Sometimes in those daydreams he is a boy, sometimes he’s a man and sometimes, when he let his fancies fly, Mother is with him, skirts tugged by sea breezes, Father left far behind. He’d told her this once and she’d shaken her head and said: we were not born for the sea.

And maybe she’s right because when they pull up beside the great vessel, Edward feels nothing but nerves. There is a ladder hanging over the side of wood and rope and he is nearest it. For the moment, all he can do is stare.

“Get up there, ya useless sack o’ piss,” says the vinegar man. “Or we’ll lea’ ya for the fishes.”

Edward stands on the skiff and gropes for the ladder, stumbling and nearly falling at an unexpected swell.

“Jaysus jumpin' Christ,” says the vinegar man and Edward’s face runs hot. He takes a second try for the ladder, gets a splintery wooden rung, then, holding his breath, begins to climb. It takes all his effort to keep going as the ladder isn’t stable either. It shifts with the rocking of the boat and Edward clings to it as best he can. On one rung his foot slips on something damp but he saves himself in time, even if he bangs his knee on the solid hull.

Ignoring the pain, he pushes and climbs until suddenly— he is in a different world.

The deck is wide and the masts are strong but scarred here and there. The grate has been pulled away from the hold and men are moving goods toward it so that it can be lowered below decks. There are other men too in the rigging and on the yardarms, preparing to sail and a solitary figure on the quarter-deck, peering through a copper spy glass. There’s a creaking sound right over his head and he twists his neck to peer upward.

A boy is staring at him through the rigging. The sight of him sends a weird shock down Edward’s spine. They are not the same age, the rigging boy being a little older but not old enough to have any fuzz on his lip or chin. His face looks old though and his eyes as he stares at Edward through a fall of sandy brown hair look hard and curious.

“Up here, dog!” someone snaps, and the boy looks up, and after one backward glance, scurries up the rigging like a spider. Edward grips the nearest rope, thinking to lean back and watch, only to have another shock go through him when the rough fibers rub against his palm. He can taste the storm, feel the rain, hear the creaking gurgle of death.

Edward snatches his hand away and buries both in his pockets, tries to chase away the memories.

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. He can’t sail or cook or mend or do anything useful. He can’t even hold onto a fucking rigging. He should leave now before they decide to kill him.

And then what?

And then where?

The ship suddenly feels like a cage. Like a cocoon. Hard and stifling all at once. He has to do it. That’s all. Until he finds something better or dies like the miserable shit he is, as Father would say, had said, would never say again.

There is a heavy grunt beside him as the tattooed man heaves himself on deck and huffs.

“Di-dios, hate the c-climb.”

“Though I told ya not ta talk, ya walkin’ boil.” The vinegar man says, and smacks the tattooed man hard upside the ear. The sound is loud and carrying and Edward jolts.

The vinegar man glowers at him and snaps out his hand. Edward grabs for his knife but realizes it isn’t there too late and back of the man’s hand smashes into his jaw, sending him falling on a pile of sacks almost full to bursting with grain. Before he can even blink the spots from his eyes, the vinegar man has tugged him to his feet, fingers knotted at his throat, choking the air from him.

“And ya can keep the daggers in your eyes from me, piss bucket,” the vinegar man spits. “I won’t be so easy ta stab.”

He’s thrown back hard, catching himself on his elbow which flushes a tingles all the way down his arm. The tattooed man looks on impassively as he struggles back to his feet, sullen and aching.

“Now then, cunts,” says the vinegar man. “Move this shite to the hold and be quick about it! Tide comes and it’s not done I’ll tie yer ass ta yer armpits and drop ya over the side!” With that he stalks away, swaggers away. Edward hopes he trips and breaks all his stupid teeth.

“S-shouldn’t have d-done that, p-primo,” says the tattooed man. 

“Edward,” Edward croaks, trying to shake some life back into his hand.

“Edw… w…w…w…”

Edward feels a sudden kinship with the vinegar man and hates it. His ears blister in embarrassment as the man tries to force the sound out and if anyone hears it they might hit him again to shut him up. Might do worse to them both and Edward hates himself for being afraid of that finds himself saying:

“You can call me Ed.”

“Fuck you. Ed-w- w-ward!” The man lets out a heavy pleased breath through his nose. “Paulo.” Then he turns back to the grain sacks.
“Le-let’s do wh-what that c-cabron wants.  Sl-slide and st-stoop but li-li-lift with your knees n-not your b-back.”

Edward is caught between wanting to do the work and wanting to dump the grain sacks over the side to spite the bastard. He’ll definitely be killed if he does that though and instead stands back and watches Paulo pull two full grain sacks and fling them over his shoulder. Edward grabs one by the ends and is surprised how heavy it is. He struggles to get it onto his shoulder and nearly tips over. Paulo watches him with mild curiosity and Edward is glad he doesn’t help. Even so he can feel the weight of it in his knees.

“Why do you let him do that to you” Edward asks as they make their way toward the hold.

Paulo snickers.

“S-should I have s-stabbed him in the h-hand?”

“I would have stabbed him in the ear,” Edward mutters, but he is both surprised and pleased people know about this already.

“Only i-diots think of v-v-v-violence the fi-first thing and i-idiots are the f-first to d-die. M-me? I’m a bi-big f-fucker. If I go ca-cajones to the w-wall f-first th-thing, the c-captain will s-see me as a th-threat and I’ll g-go in the d-drink. O-or I get st-stabbed in the d-dark.”

He shakes his head and drops his heavy bags near the yawning black edge of the hold. There is another few rope ladders here, leading down to  the dark, and shuffling noises and shifting shadows.

Edward looks away and follows Paulo back portside.

“So you’re just going to do bend over and let them do whatever they want?” The thought makes his guts squirm.

“F-for n-now. B-but if I p-play it s-smart,” he taps the side of his nose. “B-bide my t-time. G-gain t-trust…” He grins hard and feral. “Gi-ginger piss w-will get w-what’s c-coming to him.”

“I’d pay to see that.” Already he can hear the vinegar man berating someone on the other side of the ship, his voice carrying with the stirring breeze. He doesn’t know if Paulo will or if he’s just bullshitting him. But a part of him wants to see those big meaty hands wrap around the vinegar man’s thin throat and squeeze until his eyes bug out.

He banishes the thought by grabbing another bag of heavy grain and hauling it onto his shoulder.

“Y-you’ll get it f-for f-free,” says Paulo with a chuckle.  “N-now y-you? Y-you ha-have to ei-either live to li-ve lo-long e-enough to be-become a b-big f-fucker or m-make fr-friends. Yo-you’ve a-a-already p-pissed off the r-rabbit.”

“Yeah… That was great…” He can’t help but grin. It had felt great and he’d do it again if he had to without a problem. Paulo smacks him so hard across the back of the head it makes his ears ring and he nearly falls. It takes a moment of struggle just to not drop his load.

“Ow! Shit!” Only the heavy bag stops him from doing something stupid in return.

“S-stupid, f-fucker,” says Paulo without heat.  “Y-you’ll regret it. R-rabbit w-will make y-your life h-hell.” The meaty hand clamps on Edward’s free shoulder and squeezes hard. Ed grits his teeth and tries not to wince.

“Y-you’re a t-tiny f-fucker. So k-keep your he-head down. L-listen to orders, and t-take it li-like the l-last whore in P-Port R-Royal or you’ll be d-dead in a w-w-week.”

Paulo lets him go so that he stumbles. Edward shakes his head and stops himself from spitting on the man’s feet, not wanting to end up broken at the bottom of the hold. Mother would say things like that too. 'Don’t provoke him, Ed’ she would say. ‘I know it’s hard, but be still, be silent, it will all be over soon.’

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t, he never knew when it would or wouldn’t and it didn’t matter in the end. The storm would come whether Edward was good or not, whether they had good food or not, whether Father had apologized the day before or would sob on the day after— sometimes with his hands around her throat.

Still, a part of Edward knows that Paulo is right. He remembers the struggle. The fight. His arms had been sore after hauling those ropes back. That was one man. Not a whole ship. And these men had hard eyes that had seen death and blood. Knives and pistols flashed at their sides. He wouldn’t stand a chance.

So that means he’ll just take it all then? That it will be just like home? Or worse? He comes to the hold stares into the dark. At the writhing shadows. It’s because he hasn’t slept that they seem to bend and twist and grope for the light. Ghosts aren’t real, he tells himself. Father is a fucking corpse.

But that’s not going to matter here…

Except…it will matter for Mother… won’t it? She won’t have to deal with this. Edward can swallow a little darkness if it means she’s happy. He just has to think—

“Aw, shit! You’re gonna die!”

Edward jumps at the sudden voice and flails back just as hands shove him forward. He falls forward, dropping the bag into the abyss where it hits the floor hard and bursts open. Only sheer luck keeps him from going into the abyss himself and he ends up with knees and elbows badly bruised on the deck, his heart in his throat.

“What the fuck?” a man snarls from below and laughter erupts behind him, one of the voices wild and shrill. Edward pushes himself to his feet and turns, glowering. The other boy is there, dirty bare feet on the deck. He’s taller than Edward thought and his hands are big and sharp knuckled.

The boy holds them up defensively, a leer still scrawled on his face.

“Hey, don’t be mad at me, Princess. It was just a joke. And you didn’t die, did you?” The boy’s expression hardens. “I’d turn those murder eyes away if I were you.”

Paulo nods at him from over the boy’s shoulder, taps the side of his nose. Because there are other men too, Edward notices, hanging from the rigging like birds or leaning against the mast, watching with expectant grins for what’s going to happen next.

He wants to punch the boy in the face. His hands are trembling in fists at his sides and he looks down at the deck to that he won’t. Shame helps a little. It softens the black thing. Turns it inward. He can’t be stupid about this.

“That’s it, Princess,” the boy coos. “It’s good you know where you belong.” He pats Edward’s bruised cheek hard. “Now why don’t you tell daddy how sorry you are for bein’ a dick.”

Edward nearly punches him in the throat. He wants to stab him in the throat. To peel his skin away from his face like he’s a fucking grape. Even just to punch him will be enough but if Edward starts he knows he won’t stop until the boy’s skull cracks and his brains spill over the deck.

“Alright you sons of bitches!” a sharp bellow coming out of the hold startles the anger out him and he pivots to face the hold just as a rangy man with a missing eye and teeth filed to sharp points hauls himself half out of it.

“Hey, Saladin,” says the boy and Edward notices how he slides back and men on the rigging and at the mast find something better to do.

“Which of you sniveling fuckers broke open a whole bag of buckwheat in my nice clean hold?!” 

And suddenly the clouds cleared in his mind and he can see the sun on the wide open sea.

“That one,” Edward says, jerking his thumb at the boy.

“What?” the boy’s voice cracks in a shriek which is the most beautiful sound Edward has ever heard. “You shit!” The boy’s face goes white than red than white again. “I swear, Sal, I didn’t--”

“JACK!”

Edward steps out of the way, watching the boy called Jack bolt toward the rigging as Saladin whips after him fast as an eel. Jack makes a flying leap but Saladin grabs him by the ankle and yanks him back so that he slams hard into the deck, hitting the railing on the way down.

“I am so sick of your shit!” Saladin says, dragging the stupid bastard back to the hold. “Well you’re going to pay for it this time. You’re going to pick up every fucking grain with your teeth!”

“I didn’t do it!” Jack screams, clawing at the deck. His face is a mess of blood from his nose and split lip. “I didn’t do it. Christ! I swear!” He catches sight of Edward and his lips pull back from his teeth. “I’ll kill you! You hear me? I’ll kill you, motherfucker—“ the last ends in a shriek as he’s all but pitched into the hold.

Edward is tempted to spit after him but doesn’t want to tempt fate and turns back portside, feeling refreshed. Paulo shakes his head, looking glum.

“D-don’t say I d-didn’t warn y-you.”  And then his face breaks into a grin. “Th-that was f-funny as shit, th-though.”

Edward laughs, maybe it’s a bit too wild and strained and cracked around the edges but it feels good. It feels so fucking good. And then he nearly bites his tongue as the vinegar man charges up and slaps him on the ear.

“Stop laughing and get back ta work! Did ya think I was kiddin’? Move!”

“Yes, sir,” Edward murmurs, finding it surprisingly easy to say. Paulo winks at him and Edward grins. He can do this.

xxxxx

He can do it, but it won’t be easy, Edward thinks.

It is only midday and he has seen enough ships and heard enough stories to know that they will be working until the sun is on the horizon and this time of year that’s going to take forever.

Every part of him aches. His back hurts and his arms. It had gotten so hot working that he’d stripped to the waist and the rough heavy sacking had burned along his shoulders while the sun had burned everything else. His head aches and his legs feel like water  and his throat is raw and eyes burn from the long time awake and the hard work. He longs to climb into one of the covered skiffs that have been hauled up on deck and secured and nap. But he can’t because the tide is turning.

Edward tries not to think about that as he sits, back braced against the wall of the ship as he nibbles on soft bread and sips warm rum which gives his head a pleasant fuzz and makes the hurts hurt less. That he’d better enjoy, Paulo had told him. Because soon it would be hard tack and grog and dried fish. At least until they reach another port in a week’s time or find something interesting along the way.

A week seems like a dream. It feels like he’ll fall asleep and wake up in his own bed. He gulps down rum to chase the gray away and make the warmth come back.

“Ch-chin up, pr-primo,” says Paulo, patting his head and Edward only winces a little at the movement of his hand. It’s an odd feeling, to sit so close to someone not his mother and not be afraid. Edward can lean against him easily and maybe even fall asleep.

But he doesn’t want to sleep out in the open because Paulo won’t stop anyone from fucking with him either, he has a feeling. And there are plenty of people who want to. He can see Jack on the other side of the ship, scowling at him eyes blackened as he sharpens something with his knife. It’s a threat and Edward wishes he had his own knife back.

There’s vinegar piss man too who is called Mad Eddie, which makes him an even worse bastard in Edward’s eyes.  Also called the Bastard Boatswain, he makes everyone he can thrash do what he wants or get thrashed in turn.  But at least he doesn’t want to kill Edward yet.

A low shrill whistle sounds close by the ship. The men on deck get to their feet, others climb down from the rigging and even Saladin pulls himself from the hold to stand in front of it like bracing for battle.

“Be-better get up, t-too,” Paulo says.

“Why?”

The big man shrugs and Edward stuffs the rest of the bread into his mouth before slowly getting to his feet, his head spinning. One of the men unrolls the ladder and a moment later, Captain Hornigold climbs on deck. As soon as his boots touch the boards a wind picks up brisk from the west, curling around his coat tails and stirring his rough blond hair.

The men say nothing as he slowly makes his way to the quarterdeck. There’s a grunt and a curse from the side of the ship and soon the rabbit appears too, looking florid and angry. It doesn’t take long to find out why he’s called the rabbit. One of his legs is shriveled and bent below the knee, foot pointing in the complete opposite direction almost. He uses a single crutch to walk and every step involves a little hop.

Edward notices it’s the bandaged hand that grips the crutch and feels a little bad about it. Except then he notices his knife at the man’s belt and doesn’t feel that bad at all. That’s his knife, damnit! He needs it.

Captain Hornigold seems to notice his glare and slows to a stop, seeming to give Edward an appraising eye. Edward appraises him back and can’t help but be impressed. He looks just like any other man but there’s something about him that speaks of strong currents and hidden depths.

“Well, Teach,” he says in his calm deep voice. “How do you find your crew?”

Beside him, Paulo stiffens. Edward tries to think of a good answer and then shrugs and replies:

“They’re alright.”

Behind him, the rabbit snarls something unintelligible. The captain snorts a laugh though and continues on his way.

“Oh, y-you’re f-fucked,” says Paulo and Edward notices he’s edging away. Edward wonders why until he sees he’s the center of attention. Nearly every eye is on him and none of them are happy.

If he bows his head they will tear him apart like dogs, so he raises his chin instead. They look like they want to try it now, but the low whistle fills the air once more and their attention turns.

“Men.” Captain Hornigold sets his hands on the railing. “We sail.”

All at once the ship bursts to life. Edward steps out of the way as men leap onto the rigging, nimble and light as if they can fly and Mad Eddie starts screaming at stupid bastards to weigh anchor. Edward steps out of the way, nervous anticipation building in his stomach.

This is it. Sink or swim. He can go back. He should go back. Everyone wants to kill him and he is better trying his luck a beggar on some strange street…

And then the sails are loosed and billow bright and white against the blue sky, soon round and pregnant with wind and the ship moves, slow but picking up speed. Edward runs to the prow hopping up on the narrow spindle to see, watching the hull slide through the water, frothing up a little white in the bay— but soon, the sea- beyond that, straight ahead, the horizon—all sea and cloud and sky.

Edward can see nothing else.

Chapter Text

Edward wakes from a deep sleep with a start, breathing hard, drenched with sweat, his heart thudding against his ribs. It’s black in the small store room and smelling sharply of onions. Around him the ship creaks as she bobs on the waves and there is the skittering of a mouse or rat moving somewhere in the dark, and Cook’s lumbering snores reverberate from his hammock somewhere in the galley.

He opens his eyes wide, keeping watch for any movement, holds his breath to hear even the faintest sounds. There are no footsteps, no shadows under the door, no hissing breath of a laugh.

All seems quiet and peaceful.

 So far, he tells himself, pinching the insides of his wrists and prodding the giant purpling bruise on his arm to stay awake. He wants to sleep, his eyes sting with the need of it and anger slides sharp under his skin. He hasn’t slept in what feels like months, though they haven’t even reached their first port yet, so it can’t have been that long. It’s hard to tell how long it’s been. Days and nights have slid into one another. If he’s not scrubbing something or learning how to mend or moving heavy equipment, he’s peeling or stirring in the boiling hot galley, avoiding the fists and the glares of Cook. If he’s not working he’s sneaking food to fill in the corners from his small rations or keeping an eye out for likely bolt holes. He can’t take his eyes off the men who may do something and Jack who will do something if he’s not careful.

Now his eyes are grit and his mind is running around like a rat caught in a fire and all he wants to do is to drift off into darkness.

But he knows it's dangerous to let his guard down for even a moment.

That first night, hungry and tired and bruised from a long day- he had drifted off against the side of the ship next to Paulo’s warm bulk.

 He had awoken when a boot heel smashed into his hand, half pinning him to the deck, a hand pulling at the roots of his hair and Jack’s knife under his chin, pricking a bead of blood to slide down his throat.

‘You set Saladin on me again and you’re dead, motherfucker,’ Jack had said. And then grinned, breath on Edward’s face. ‘Also, the rabbit sends his regards.’

Edward had kicked him in the balls.

It had been gratifying to watch Jack crumple to the deck, yelping and cursing like a kicked dog, but softly as if he hadn’t wanted to wake anyone else. But Edward hadn’t been able to enjoy it long. He had spent the rest of that night hiding under one of the overturned dinghies that had been lashed to the side of the ship, jerking awake at every noise.

Edward leans back against the rough hewn shelves, wincing a little as his head thumps against something hard, and sneaks his fingers into the folds of his shirt. He has to rub his fingers a bit to feel the silk move against his skin, and tries to take comfort from the softness of it.

He should have stolen the fucker’s knife.

He misses his own. It had been small and unimportant. The worst knife he could find in their kitchen with a loose handle. He hadn’t thought much of it except that he’d felt he’d needed to have it. You could do a lot with a knife. You could eat with it and peel things and wriggle it into thin spaces to pry open things— and you could stab someone with it.  No one messes with you in your sleep if they think you’re going to shove a fucking knife in their throat.

‘A real man uses his fists,’ Father says, the memory whispering in his mind but seeming to murmur out of the solid darkness behind him. He can almost hear the drip of water and feel rough hands gripping around his throat, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, smelling of the bay at low tide.

 ‘Only a woman uses a knife,’ the voice snarls.

She wouldn’t use a knife because this was her place. Because she loved him. Because he usually only struck her where the shadows wouldn’t show. But Father didn’t care. He didn’t care if she bruised or cried or spat out a back tooth in a bowl where it clattered against the wood. He didn’t care if she made his food and made his bed and mended his clothes and held him at night. He didn’t care. He wouldn’t care. He would just go on and on and on until everything shattered and the darkness rose and the sweet cut of rope creased across his neck.

Edward punches the wall hard, and again, a third time splits the skin of his knuckles and knocks something small and clattering from the shelves. He is on the floor in a pantry smelling of onions on a pitching ship and far from home and the dead.  From the thin strip under the door where he can now see a dim gray sliver of moonlight, comes a started shuffle and a soft curse.

He grits his teeth.  Someone is there.

That bastard has found his hiding place. Damnit. Damnit. There are no weapons in here, though. No knives. Nothing to use even in a pinch that won’t spill all over the deck which’ll make Cook shove him headfirst into the stewpot. 

But he can’t sit here like a cornered rat either.

He toes off his shoes so he won’t make a sound and slowly gets up, padding to the door. He can hear the rat bastard shuffling on the other side of it, uncertain. The knob turns creaking softly. Edward throws his good shoulder against the door. There is a satisfying thunk as it hits the bastard on the other side. There is another harder thud as he hits the floor and Edward viciously kicks the bony ankle he saw protruding into the moonlight, wishing he had thick boots on to really make it hurt. He is satisfied anyway by a thin line of blood that he can only just see.

“Shit!” Jack hisses and Edward looks around the door to see him clap a hand over his mouth, casting a wild look into the gloom where the hammock is strung, before glaring back at him. “Are you out of your mind, jackass?”

Which is a question Edward has never considered before. Is he? He feels so right now. He feels wild and dangerous. A gleam of metal like a tooth catches his eye and he spots Jack’s knife spun away on the floor, just out of the boy’s long armed reach. Edward dives for it.

“Oh no you don’t!” He feels Jack’s grip around his legs just in time to brace himself so he lands on hands and knees instead of his face, the movement jars his shoulder so hard sparks snap behind his eyes.

“Fuck!” he snaps. Then freezes. That is definitely too loud. The snoring stops. Jack sucks in a breath as the hammock creaks and Edward can feel his heart beating in his throat. Then lets out a soft breath as the snoring starts up again, loud and insistent. In a flash Jack shoves him over onto his shoulder, sending another coil of pain wrenching through his arm. Edward bites his tongue to keep from yelping, scrambling as fast as his stiff body allows to tackle Jack in turn, making the knife skitter under the table.

Edward launches himself after it, feeling Jack surge to do the same, scrambling to get under the bench – A crack rings through his skull as it collides with Jack’s sending a brief snap of black over his vision and he clutches it.

“Shit!”

“Fuck!” Jack says. “You’ve got a hardass head!”

The knife is here, he can just see the shadow of it under the table, but something prevents him from taking it; a feeling, a creeping sensation. He strains his ears for any noise, wincing as he hears Jack retrieve the knife, blade scraping against wood.

“Now,” Jack says, sounding menacing. Edward holds up a hand and he stills too. There’s not a sight. Not a sound. It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Cook has stopped snoring.

“Aw, shit,” Jack whispers.

The hammock creaks. There is the thump/tap of a foot and a wooden peg against the floorboards.

“Qui es dans ma chambre?” Cook’s voice growls out of the darkness. Jack slowly rises, pulling Edward in front of him and Edward elbows him hard but doesn’t move back. There’s a straight path to the door here, the steps leading up, the moon light shining in the open hatchway.

“Go back to sleep,” Jack says in a low sing song. “Nothin’ to see here.”

“Qui es dans ma chambre?!”  Cook insists, the thump tap coming closer and the shadows slip away from him and glint on the cleaver in his hand.

“Ed did it!” Jack says and too late Edward feels the hands on his shoulders shoving him forward.

“Hey!” He stumbles right into Cook’s path.

“Tu es dans ma chambre!” Cook roars. Edward throws himself out of the way just as the meat cleaver whistles down, slamming into the table instead where it sinks deep. Edward bolts for the door.

 Cook is fast and Edward can hear the thump tap behind him. He can throw himself back, knock Cook down the stairs and break the old man’s neck. Instead he ducks, covering his head as the meat cleaver thwacks into the door frame and tumbles out onto the moonwashed deck full of sleeping crew. Now free and clear Edward puts on a full head of speed, looking up at the rigging and cursing, whishing he could scramble up. His only option is to dive behind the main mast as Cook staggers into the light, swaying back and forth, cleaver clenched in one hand, pistol in the other, single eye open.

“Holy shit!” Jack yelps. Then bellows. “Red Eye’s awake! Red Eye’s awake!”

There is a general confused murmur, someone falls off their hammock.

“Je te tuerai! Je vais t'étriper comme un chien! Je mangerai ton cœur chaud sur la place du marché!” Cook screams, charging toward the slowly stirring men, meat cleaver waving. The men yelp and cry and scatter like gulls.

“Fucking Red Eye!” snarls Aconi the gunner from the rigging and swings down from the rope landing with a thud on the deck, braids flying. “Come on!”

Saladin joins him on deck, cutlass drawn but from the rigging, Scrawny Greg says.

“Fuck that!”

“Jaysus! Who woke the fecker - shit!” Mad Eddie shrieks and falls over a barrel saving him from being gutted like a fish. Edward tries not to laugh. It’s hilarious, watching the men struggle and flail, reaching for weapons and afraid to set Cook shooting. Saladin and Aconi can barely get through the madhouse. Aconi manages to knock the cleaver away but has to be yanked to the side as Cook’s pistol swings and lowers– right to where Paulo is still half crouched, struggling to stand.

Shit. No! Cook pulls the hammer back and Paulo freezes. The whole crew does. Edward’s breath is frosty in his chest. He can see Aconi and Saladin maneuvering to tackle Red Eye once the bullet had found its mark. Shouting to draw Cook’s attention would just send the bullet in Edward’s head instead so he looks around for something to throw and his eyes snag on a coil of rope lying tucked against the stairwell. It’s close enough that he can take it and slip up behind Cook like a mouse, slip it over his head, pull it around his neck and tighten, tighten, tighten until all he can do is thrash and the sweet black thrill of it.

Edward digs his fingers against the mast, feeling a splinter bury against the pad and sink deep. He can’t. Fuck. He can’t. But if he doesn’t–

A shot barks in the still night and Edward squeezes his eyes tight, feeling the rancid breath of alcohol and rotting fish skittering across his face.

“Jean-Luc.” Captain Hornigold’s voice is chilly and startles Edward into opening his eyes. The captain stands just outside of his cabin, slowly lowering his smoking pistol. Paulo is still alive, unmoving, as the Cook seems to stare at Hornigold, still swaying in place.

“Jean-Luc,” Hornigold says again, surprisingly softer. “Retourne te coucher, mon fils. Les monstres sont partis.”

Cook shivers and his hand falls. He turns and makes his way back to the galley, the deck quiet except for the rhythmic thump tap. The galley door closes and the sound becomes muffled but it’s only when Hornigold says:

“Well then.”

That the crew relaxes. Hornigold hands the pistol to the rabbit, then grips the railing, looking over them all.

“Who is responsible for this?” he asks.

“Ed did it,” says Jack, who has come to stand beside the rabbit as if showing where his loyalties are. “I told him not to, but the jackass just doesn’t listen.”

The crew’s eyes sweep toward him and Edward steps into the light so they can see him better. They’re not happy and Edward can hear them muttering. Mad Eddie wipes blood from his cheek. Edward looks from them to Hornigold who is looking back impassively. He is not a big man, not compared to some on the crew, and he’s not roped with muscle or bristling with weapons. He is still in his nightshirt which ruffles around his ankles in the warm wind, but no one speaks. The only abrupt movement is Saladin sheathing his cutlass.

“It feels like dinnertime,” says the rabbit, his voice thin over the silence. “Should I start with your fingers first, boy? Or maybe your little--” Hornigold holds up a hand and rabbit stops.

“Well, Edward Teach,” says Hornigold, hand coming once more to rest on the railing. “Who should be punished?”

Edward notices Jack flinch out of the corner of his eye. He watches the older boy duck back further into the shadow of the rabbit who is scowling, bearing his teeth, not happy with this but not fighting it either. It would be easy to throw Jack to Mad Eddie. It would even be smart to throw Jack to Mad Eddie. Edward would be able to sleep for at least a night while Jack recovered from it. Maybe two… and Jack would always remember what the captain let Edward do. Edward spots the shadowy bruises of thin fingers on Jack’s arm and looks away.

He could take the beating himself. Mad Eddie is already cracking his knuckles, a hard grin splitting his face. It won’t be such a bad one if Edward knows it’s coming. Paulo would tell him to do that, he thinks, glancing to where the man is getting slowly to his feet, expression impassive as always. He would learn his place then, Edward thinks bitterly. Or everyone would think so, which is the same thing.

“He’s a waste of breath,” says the rabbit. “He wets himself at the sight of the rigging. I think–”

“Quiet,” says Hornigold, voice sharp. And then: “Well, boy?”

The rabbit, he wants to say, shame suddenly boiling in his face at the bastard’s lie and turning his blood hot. Even if it doesn’t work– Even if he gets the shit kicked out of him for it– Just to see the fear in that bastard’s face. He almost says it. Almost lets it out. He clenches his hands into fists so his nails cut the heel of his hands and slowly lets it go. The rabbit will take it out on everyone. The rabbit will make them hate him more. It will definitely make Mad Eddie despise him if the man is forced to–

Oh…  

He wonders…

“Mad Eddie,” he says.

Silence falls. The crew stare at him and he stares back, an odd edged feeling in his gut that’s both excited and braced for a strike.

“Are ya out of yer tiny fecking mind?!” Mad Eddie blurts. “Why me? I’m gonna–”

The captain laughs like a breaking wave. Edward has never heard him laugh before and maybe neither has the crew, because they stare at him as if they’ve never seen him. The captain shakes his head and turns to disappear back into his cabin, shutting the door behind him and leaving bemused silence in his wake.

“Ahm… so…” says Mad Eddie. “What now, Mr. Harvey? Should I…?” He mimes hitting himself in the jaw, clicking his tongue to get the effect.

“Of course not, you fool,” the rabbit snaps. “Punish the boy!” And when Mad Eddie hesitates, growls: “That boy! The little pisser.”

Edward knows it’s in reference to the damned rigging, even if he hasn’t pissed himself once, but somehow it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t even matter when the rabbit says: “Extra duties for a week. That will teach you to step out of line.”

He might hate him later, but right now he feels oddly lighthearted. That is until Mad Eddie approaches, wrapping studded leather around his angular fists. Edward sighs, watching the rabbit disappear into his own cabin, shutting the door in Jack’s face.

“What a twat.”

Mad Eddie stops short and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Aye, he is that. Men like that hafta be. Now let’s get this over with, hey?”

“Yeah…” He lets out a breath so the first punch to his gut doesn’t knock him winded, and uses that to bend, keeping his shoulders and back open for blows while protecting his front. Even with the studded leather, Mad Eddie can’t hit as hard as he’s used to, and the man isn’t even really trying. It gives Edward time to think.

Captain Hornigold has power, he knows that. Power enough to give it to others. But it’s not good enough for Edward to do anything with. It’s still Hornigold’s power and can take it away as easily as give it. If he can just get some power of his own he wouldn’t have to hide somewhere to sleep.

“None of that,” says Mad Eddie, almost kindly. “Up you get.”  Mad Eddie grabs his collar and forces him upright before giving him an open handed slap against his unbruised cheek. It’s loud but hurts less than a fist would and he’s grateful.

“What does that mean? What the captain said to Cook?”

“I’ve no bloomin’ idea.” Mad Eddie sighs, exasperated. “Can ya focus a wee bit? If the rabbit doesn’t hear ya squeal like a ruttin’ pig, we’re both gonna be in the shite.”

As if to help him along, the next hits are harder and sharp knuckled, and Edward finds himself yelping — hot shame flooding through him each time. It seems like it’s an eternity before it’s over and Mad Eddie drags him up by the collar again. Edward can hardly stand and can hardly breathe, but there are no teeth loose and he can only taste a small trickle of blood from where he bit his lip.  Mad Eddie pulls him closer, breath rancid through blackened teeth.

“Listen well, ya’ve got the captain’s favor and ya may well keep it. Lord knows it’s the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh goin’ on two year. But.” He taps a finger aside Edward’s nose. “Even a strong wind and a good current won’t keep yer keel from the shoals if ya don’t know where you’re goin’. Eyes open, head up, and ya might just live to be a man.”

Then Mad Eddie pats his cheek and half carries, half drags him to a knot of sleeping men and thrown in the middle, right beside Paulo.

“Now sleep, ya wee bastard,” says Mad Eddie without much force. He covers a yawn. “And if there’s any knives in the night, they’re going to be plugged up someone’s arse.” This maybe to Jack who is sitting just outside the knot of men, jaw working. This is not over.

For now though…this night is his. Edward sighs, shifting to rest his head on Paulo’s shoulder– then stares at the star washed sky, thinking until sleep pulls him down into sweet darkness.

xxxxx

The next morning is a painful one. Edward is stiff and sore and bruised to his bones, it feels like and the rabbit works him hard. He scrubs the decks on his hands and knees until his fingers are raw, carries out the filth and waste to drop over the side, helps to shift the cargo and ballast under Saladin’s watchful eye.

Except things have changed. Where before Edward would bend his head to the work, only alert to any movement of someone approaching; now he feels awake. Alive. As he works he watches how the men interact with each other. How they throw their weight around or don’t. How they fight or cower, or avoid blows or invite them.

 It’s frustrating. Not the work or the blows or the sneers of the men who call him pisser. That is every day. That is weak. It rolls off his skin like briny water no matter how much strikes against his bruises make him flinch. It’s the fact that he doesn’t understand. It feels like it should be simple. The more you can hurt someone, the more control you have. It was like that with Father. It’s like that with the rest of the crew. If you have hard fists or a sharp knife or a pistol, you can make people do what you want.

Except that doesn’t feel right. Except there is something missing.

But what?

He doesn’t have much time to think about it until the sun is high overhead and he’s sitting on deck lee of the wind, filleting and deboning the fresh fish that Paulo hands him. Most of the rest of the crew are taking a break on the windward side, probably to escape from the smell of fish and are watching Scrawny Greg nip cards from Jack’s hands and mouth with throwing knives. The frustration only grows as he watches, a hard knot forming in his throat that he tries to swallow down.

Mad Eddie is sitting on a barrel a little above everyone, drinking and smirking around his white clay pipe. He has seen men scramble out of Mad Eddie’s way, and make rude gestures at his back. He has a knife but no pistol and his studded leather for his fist, and once a day someone feels the lash of it as if he has to remind them who is in charge. Even now he kicks TimBee for seemingly no reason, making the thin man scowl but make no move to hit him back. And he is bigger than Mad Eddie and could easily take him. But doesn’t.

A little further down, Saladin and Aconi the gunner lean against the railing, and talk. They have their own strength, though Edward doesn’t know what to make of it yet. Both are strong men, Saladin tall and dark and lithe, Aconi solid, darker with a face like an incoming storm and a thousand braids held back by a checkered cloth. Saladin has his cutlass and Aconi his pistol. Men run from an angry Saladin but Aconi the gunner seems to never break expression, but the crew respect him.

Are they all just tendrils of the captain’s power? Edward glances to where the captain is sitting on the quarterdeck with the rabbit at a table that’s been set up. Hornigold has one pistol and that’s it. He’s never actually shot anyone that Edward’s seen. He just…talks to people and they listen. They obey. Is it because he controls Cook?

What were the words he had said last night? Edward thinks as he accepts gutted de-scaled fish from Paulo and focuses as he cuts away its pectoral fins. It had been something like…

“…Lay monstre son party…”

Pain explodes in the back of his skull as Paulo hits him so hard his teeth click together. There is a sharp fresh jolt of pain across the web of his thumb.

“Ow!” His voice is like a gull and draws the eyes of the crew. Edward grits his teeth and seethes. He can’t stab Paulo. He won't stab Paulo. He stabs the deck instead, hard enough for the knife point to drive into the wood.

“P-p-pisser, you nearly g-got me k-k-killed last night,” snaps Paulo. It stings. Edward wants to say he never pissed. Never once. And that fucker had better not say it again. But it sounds too stupid, too desperate.

Edward forces himself to remember the muzzle of the pistol against Paulo’s head and recalls what nearly happened. After a moment he’s able to uncurl his fingers from the hilt of the knife and breathe in the scent of fish guts. Then he turns his head to spit a gobbet of blood from where he’s bitten his tongue into the bucket with the fish heads. It splatters on a single filmy yellow-gold eye and Edward feels a curl of sick.

He turns his eyes to the deck so it will go away and pinches the web of his thumb in the hem of his shirt so it’ll stop bleeding. On the other side of the ship, Jack is holding a card very close to his face for Scrawny Greg to hit. He’s standing casually, as if this doesn’t bother him, but Edward notices his fingers are paling against the back of the card.

“Christ! It’s Mr. Harvey!” Scrawny Greg says. Jack flinches and turns just as the knife flies, striking right below Jack’s shoulder blade.

“Shit!” Jack yelps, turning and turning to try and reach for it. The men erupt into a wave of laughter. Scrawny Greg holds Jack’s shoulder and pulls the knife out and now Jack is laughing too, voice sharp and brittle.

“Y-You s-should be m-m-more li-like him, p-primo,” says Paulo. “Kn-know y-y-your p-place and it wi-will h-hurt le-less.” He ruffles Edward’s hair which is almost more annoying than being hit upside the head. Edward spits again into the bucket and wrenches the knife from the deck. Paulo is stupid. Know his place. Know where he belongs. Know what he deserves and what he doesn’t. 

Jack doesn’t know his place either, he’s just trapped in it. If he knew his place he would accept it and his fists wouldn’t be bloodless at his sides like he wants to wrap them around Scrawny Greg’s neck. Jack is going to kill the man one day, Edward knows. Or try.

He turns the fish he’s working on on its back, its ribs opening like a clam shell revealing pink insides and the ridge of spine, the ribs themselves like the bones of wings. He carefully severs the spine at the neck just under the curve of the gill and makes his way down, feeling the flesh give way.

“Knowing your place gets you shit on,” Edward says, thinking about this and deciding it’s true. “I bet the captain didn’t know his place.”  No one’s place could really be a pirate captain. Or a pirate. Paulo snorts.

“B-but he’s the ca-captain.”

“So?” Edward drops the spine into the bucket along with the back of the tail and begins to carefully skim the ribs away. “What does he have that I don’t?”

Paulo laughs and flicks his ear. Edward scowls at the sting, leaning away from him.

“L-learning. R-Respect. He c-can g-get up the ri-ri-ri-ri- F-fuck.” Paulo sucks air between his teeth. “Ri-ri-ri…. Up th-there.” He jabs a finger skyward. Edward glares at it. Stupid fucking rigging. Paulo’s right though. Hornigold is smart and the men respect him. Edward isn’t sure he can be as smart as the captain, at least not yet, but respect seems do-able. Or would if not for the damned rigging. The rabbit can’t climb the rigging but then no one respects the rabbit either. Not really.

“I’ll get up those fucking ropes,” Edward mutters, dropping the first set of ribs into the bucket. “And I’ll learn everything he knows.” He drops the second wing of ribs in. “Then maybe I’ll be the captain.”

Paulo laughs.

“Y-You? P-primo, you’re n-n-not the s-same c-caliber of m-m-man as the c-captain. N-no matter h-how s-smart you th-think y-you are. Y-you wi-will l-live and d-die the s-same place y-you were w-when the wh-whore shit you o-out.”

“Shut up!” He slams the knife into the deck, narrowly missing Paulo’s thigh. He wants to yank it out again from the splintering wood and stab it through the meat of the man’s leg. If he starts he won’t stop. The hot sick thrill will wash through him and even now it’s beating at his throat, wrapping tendrils around him, wanting him to strike strike strike in the white hot heat.

Edward uncurls his fingers from the handle of the blade so he won’t. Telling himself Paulo is— is someone — Someone important. Someone who would —

He grabs the bucket of prepared fish, seeing everyone’s eyes on him. They are wondering, judging, it will be harder now, they will push him, want to tease him open. The wood of the bucket curls under his fingernails.

“If you say that again I will fucking kill you,” he says loud enough for them to hear. And that makes him sick too, because he wants to, because the thought of it feels good— and the thought of it makes him want to retch. Paulo watches him, face impassive as always in a way that makes Edward want to punch him, to splinter his nose or gouge out his eyes.

But the dark eyes of the saint on the man’s chest pull him short. They are solemn and seem full of disappointment.

Who are you, Edward? they say in a familiar voice. Where is my God-fearing boy?

Dead, he thinks. At the bottom of the fucking bay and rotting. And he can’t apologize and can’t quench the fire that stings through every nerve. So he turns away and heads toward the galley, blood singing in his ears.

xxxxx

Even in the stifling galley, hair pulled back and sweat dripping down his face, it takes a while for the knot to loosen in his gut. He is slowly cutting carrots for the captain’s table.  They are still mostly fresh, and probably pulled from the gardens of his island. The thought makes bitterness sting behind his eyes but he holds onto it so the stinging heat will fade away.

That was stupid. It was really stupid. Paulo isn’t a friend- Edward doesn’t believe in those and is not sure he’s ever really had one- and it’s better to not trust anyone– but he doesn’t need an enemy either.  Still, Paulo should have kept his fucking mouth shut and not dragged Mother into this. She didn’t have anything to do with it.

A sharp flat whistle draws his attention and he nearly puts a knife through his finger looking up.

Cook is glowering at him from where he’s delicately stirring something in the stewpot.

“If you continue to mutilate those carrots, I will mutilate you,” he growls in his heavily accented English. “Comprenez vous?”

Edward looks down at the carrots. Some of the cuts are jagged, the spacing uneven. The captain’s table needs to look pristine, that he knows. As if Hornigold is some some rich landowner himself… While Edward is stuck cutting his fucking vegetables.

Edward takes a deep breath and lets it out before he stabs them through just for spite, and begins to slowly trim them down to look nice. To distract himself, he glances at the Cook now and again.

He looks just like an ordinary guy in the daytime. Cook is a short man shorter than most of the crew and stocky with a big gut. He has no hair except for a long blond mustache that has tiny black bows tied on the end.

The only really strange things about him are his wooden leg that ends in some sort of clawed foot and his left eye, the one that never closes, red veined and glaring. Some of the men said that he had made a pact with the devil to enchant his eye so he could see through walls. Others said that he plucked the eyes from victims and wore them until they rotted out.

Cook rolls his head and glares at him through the steam of the stewpot. Edward stares back, wondering if he remembers rising from the darkness with the cleaver in his hand. Of the men running in a panic. Of  pressing the muzzle of a pistol against Paulo’s head.

“Do you want something, pisser?” he says, accented voice deep like rolling thunder. That’s the best part of his look, Edward thinks.  He can’t wait to have a voice like that. Something deep and gritty.

He should duck his head and shrug. That’s what Paulo would suggest, but fuck him.

 He doesn’t know the way of wind or currents or shoals and he can’t find out by keeping his head down.

So he asks:

“Did you sell your eye to the devil?”

Cook blinks his one good eye and then chuckles.

“Is that what they are saying?” He leans back against the counter, thick fingers laced over his gut and glances at Edward as if judging him. “Oui or non, what do you think.”

Edward has heard enough to know that oui is yes and non is no and he considers the question as he cuts, more carefully this time. He doesn’t know if he believes in the devil. In his head, Mother frowns at that. Of course the devil exists, she had told him before. Because God exists and you can’t have one without the other. What is light without the darkness?

Better, he thinks rebelliously. Better that the darkness die. The thought makes a cold feeling settle in his gut like a slug and he absently rubs his stomach under the table, pressing his shirt in so he can feel the brush of skin warmed silk.

“Well?” says Cook and Edward remembers the question.

“I think if the devil exists,” he says and in his mind, Mother closes her eyes. “That he wouldn’t want something from a pirate.”

“Porquoi.” The Cook’s eyebrows raise. Edward screws up his nose, trying to get the feel of that word around his tongue before carefully parroting it back.

“Pour…qua?”

“Why.”

“Because we’re pirates. What would the devil want with us? Maybe he’d want something from rich folk but--”

“Oh, you misunderstand the devil.” Cook grins, teeth showing almost as yellow as his mustache. “We are his hands and arms, the flesh on his back and the words on his tongue. He accepts all, small or great into his loving embrace. ” Cook sweeps his arms wide and says in a dark tone like the hiss of a blade:

“Nous sommes les monstres du diable.”

 Edward feels something prickle along his skin. Something cold and harsh and great, like the memory of some strange sweet taste, that he can almost bring to mind.

What is it? He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth briefly, then realizes that there is something else there. A word he’s heard before.

“Lay… les monstre son party…” he murmurs.

Cook looks surprised at first and Edward’s stomach coils, but there is no anger in the man’s face, no strange blankness either nor single staring eye. Instead he smirks, shaking his head.

“Non, mon fils. Les monstres sont là.”

There was that word again. Feece. What had it been? What Hornigold had said last night? Retorune tay coo shay. Return? Was Monstre….?

“Monsters…?”

“Are here, oui.”

“Lay monstres sun la.”

“I should kill you for befouling that beautiful language.” Cook snickers. “Who do you think you are, chien?”

Edward turns his gaze back to the vegetables. Why did everyone keep saying that? He was Edward fucking Teach. And if he could use the devil’s hands and skin and teeth he could use a fucking language couldn’t he?

“I think I can be who I want,” he says, carefully putting the cut vegetables on a wooden plate. “Anything I want. I can be a captain one day. Hornigold isn’t better than me.” He can’t be. Rich people weren’t pirates. Why would they be? They were rich! Hornigold was just a man and Edward was going to be a man so he bet he could be just as great as him one day.

“Come here, chien,” says Cook in a soft silk voice like the slide of light off a blade. “Come help prepare the plates.”

It’s a trap. He knows it. But he gets up anyway and takes the vegetables with him, not before popping some of the raggedy ones in his mouth just to show off. They are sweet and still a little fresh and good. Cook chuckles in a low voice and though Edward can’t help but tense when he comes to the man’s side, Cook doesn’t make a move toward him. His fist doesn’t fly. He doesn’t take the clever from his belt. Instead he taps the counter with his fingertips.

“Regardez,” he says. “What do you see?”

“A fancy dinner,” says Edward. There is the captain’s tray set with white plates painted with flowers and silver forks and knives and silver goblets that he’s buffed himself with the stinking polish that clung to his fingers.

“A little more carefully, s'il vous plaît.”

Edward leans in to look. Cook grabs his jaw, pressing his cheeks together hard and Edward hisses, trying to jerk away. Edward can see his own reflection in the goblet and his stomach turns with heat. He can smell the sea again, the deep briny scent of the bay and the needling of the rain.

Cook’s blunt finger pressing hot against his cheek pulls him back just a little.

“How can you be a captain when you are so filthy…”

“So? I can scrub off.” It’s not difficult. Anyway the only reason the captain is cleaner than them at the end of the day is because he doesn’t work as hard and has people to haul up buckets of water when he wants a wash.

Cook snickers and Edward wants to make him regret it. A nasty coil grows through him and he realizes just what Cook means even before he says:

“You could scrub off to the bone, chien, and it wouldn’t be enough.”

A kind of hatred grows inside his gut then, pressing the underside of his skin like the ragged ends of splintered bones. He wants to bite Cook but he can’t. Or to bend his fingers back or spit in his face or in the fancy food. He wants to throw it to the floor and step all over it.

But Cook has power too. He controls every one that comes in or out of the galley and if Edward pisses him off, it’ll be that much harder to sleep. Fuck.

Fuck!

He kicks the counter hard, hissing as his toe turns against the wood, sending shooting pain through it.

“Ah. It is good to know your place,” says Cook, close enough now so that Edward can feel the man’s breath on the back of his ear. “Your body understands, now your mind must follow.  Say it so I may hear.”

“Fuck you.” His voice comes out as distorted and stupid as Cook is still pressing his cheeks together. He wants to stab the man through the hand, to cut his throat with his own fucking cleaver.

“Those who do not understand,” says the Cook in a near whisper. “Do not get to eat.”

He is trapped like a fucking rat. The back of his eyes prickle and his face burns. He doesn’t want to say it. If he says it, it will come true. If he says it, he will be nothing. He feels small suddenly, and young, as if he was listening to Father’s voice rattling the windowpanes, hearing the thud of his fists as Mother stands in front of him sobbing: ‘he’s only a boy. Only a boy.’

“It…it is good to know your place,” forces through a choked throat.

“Louder, s'il vous plaît.”

“It is good to know your place,” Edward grounds through his teeth and then screams as searing heat burns the inside of his arm. He wrenches back, nearly knocking over the plates. Cook is smiling with yellowed teeth, holding the tip of a poker glowing cherry red from the fire.

“You bastard!” his own voice is high and sharp as a child’s, but Cook only laughs.

“Now your body will not forget.”

Edward wants to kill him so desperately it hurts. If he could and dump his body over the side he would- but he can only stand there and feel the hot wet streak down his face like he’s some stupid kid.

“Now fetch Jack, mm?” says the Cook, putting the poker in a bucket of water, the hiss of steam making Edward flinch. “And I will call your return when it is time to put your back to work.”

And Edward has no choice but to turn and head up to the deck, scrubbing his eyes with his sleeve. Anger seethes under his skin and his arm throbs with the searing burn that seems to stretch to the heel of his hand.

He winces as the sunlight hits his face, but it’s enough to wick the tears away so that his eyes are burning. Jack is starboard, scowling up at Scrawny Greg who is looming over him, holding Jack’s knife in the air, laughing like a seagull.

“Give it back!” Jack was saying, face red, bruises like shadows on his face.

“Get it, shrimp turd,” says Scrawny Greg. “Unless you’re chicken.”  Edward grabs the back of Greg’s shirt at the neck and then snaps a knee into his lower spine. The man makes a funny sort of gagging sound and falls to his knees, knife skittering over the deck. He gives Edward a look of bewilderment before Edward sinks a fist against his jaw, feeling the grit of flash of stubble against his knuckles before the man goes skidding.

He flexes his fingers. Jack is staring at him like an idiot.

“Cook wants you,” Edward says, not meeting his eyes.

“What the hell?” Scrawny Greg whimpers, clutching his back. “What the hell, what the hell.”

“Pisser! Ya stupid fecker!” snarls Mad Eddie from near the capstan. “Don’t take down a rigging monkey when ya can’t even get up there! Come here!”

Edward obeys. Mad Eddie is probably going to kick the shit out of him again but that’s fine. He feels better in a sick twisted way as if something is settled, or released.

xxxxx

But maybe Mother is right.

Edward sits in the shadows, exhausted, too tired to do anything but hurt.

The sun is bloody smear just over portside and the ship is running smoothly and slowly over the waves. Wherever they are going, it’s not in a hurry. He stares up at the freckling stars, finding the North star, hanging bright as a jewel in the sky, brighter than any other.

He remembers being young and sitting in her lap, fitting her hands, which had been bigger then, around his waist and snuggling back. It was easier back then. Father was still a sailor and when he was away they could miss him and when he returned they were always happy to see him, for a little while. Every night if the sky was clear they would go out and watch the stars until he fell asleep.

‘Do you see that one, Ed?’ she would say. ‘That is the North Star, the star over the stable where the Christ was born. Do you remember that story?’

And of course he had, but he’d never much interested in that story. He would say some scrap of it to show that he knew. The angels singing or the three wise men and when she was satisfied, she would nod.

‘That is also Ana-nia, one of the pillars of the world.’ She would hug him close then, rocking him gently. ‘Our ancestors would watch that star as they explored the waves and seas, riding with the dolphins, dancing in the sun, playing silly games…’ She would usually tickle him then until he squealed and pretended like he wanted to get away. When had settled she would say: ‘But wherever they went, however far they roamed, they knew that bright star would always lead them home.’

And he would promise her that when he was a sailor like Papa, he’d come home to her that way too. And she would say:

‘There’s my good boy.’ And hug him close to say in his ear. ‘And I will wait until you do.’

Well, he isn’t her good boy any more, he thinks, letting his fingers drift over the silk laid out on his lap. He hasn’t really been her good boy in a long time. Can’t even keep his promise of following the star to home. She probably won’t even want to see him now. He wonders if she’s lonely there in that house all by herself? Maybe not. She has the ladies she spends time with at church and now that the bastard’s dead, there’s nothing holding her back from doing whatever she wants.

He could, in her honor, know his place. Maybe it’ll be easier. If he keeps his head down he won’t be beaten so much. He glances to where Aconi and Saladin are talking, heads close together, a little apart as always. They are the only two that are like him even a little. Maybe he just has to learn a skill and be great at it.

But, why? Why does God get to decide that?

 He closes his eyes as a wind sweeps up from the sea and tangles in his hair, cooling the sweat of the day. There’s something great about the smell of the sea when they are in the middle of it. There is no refuse or fish guts or bloated corpses. Just clean wild water. It’s not… filthy… He rubs a hand over his harm, brushing the burn on purpose. He touches the silk to it and the burn is keener, but feels holy.

Soon he will have to go down to the galley to clean after dinner, scrub until his knuckles are raw once again. It is his place, he thinks, closing his eyes tightly, pressing the silk against the burn until it feels raw.

It is his place.

“F-fucking w-w-warned you.”

Edward startles at Paulo’s voice so close and hurriedly stuffs the silk under his shirt. The man’s face is in shadow so it’s impossible to tell if he saw. Edward starts to shift to his feet until he sees the two bowls in the man’s hands, steaming lightly in the air.

“W-will you sh-shank me if I s-s-sit?”

“No…” Edward says, shifting to give the man room, but also so that he has a clear path to duck if he has to. Paulo thrusts the bowl at him and Edward takes it cautiously, squinting at it in the fading light. It looks okay. It smells delicious. His stomach curls with the want of it and he can feel the spit build in his mouth. Still he sticks in a cautious finger and licks the stew off– It’s good. Nothing tastes strange that shouldn’t be there.

“M-my m-m-mother was the wh-whore,” says Paulo, almost gently, and Edward flushes a little, shame and embarrassment squirming in his gut.

“Sorry,” he mutters and Paulo shakes his head.

“Everyone kn-knew it wh-wh-wherever I we-went.  I used to f-f-fight b-boys on my s-street.”

He had too, when they made fun of him or talked about Father. They had been bigger, but soft and stupid.

“U-until I g-got s-s-smart and l-learned be-better ways.  Pr-primo, e-everyone is g-going to s-see ju-just wh-who you a-are. Y-you ca-can’t h-hide that. L-look.”

He points across the way to where Saladin and Aconi have risen to talk to the captain. Saladin towers over Hornigold and Aconi could easily break him in half, but here even Saladin stoops deferentially. Why? What does he have? It can’t just be because he’s pale.

“Th-they know th-their p-place, b-b-but are s-still s-strong mem-members of the c-crew. N-no one f-fucks with th-them. Y-you d-don’t have to be c-captain to g-get there. Y-you j-just have t-to f-f-find s-somebody to s-s-erve.” And then, softly, as if to remind himself. “O-obedience is s-strength.”

“Obedience is strength.” Edward tries the words in his mouth. He can almost feel Mother’s presence as he says it and her approval. He could be her God-fearing boy, even as a pirate, couldn’t he? He watches across the deck as Jack approaches Hornigold and the rabbit, holding the silver goblets on a tray. He looks different when he does this. His back is straight and a bandanna is knotted around his neck.

It reminds him of when Mother would go to work, her apron white, her cap pristine. And when she would come home in the evening, exhausted and gray, she would hang these up with pride- then turn her hands to another meal to be obedient to her husband. And every Sunday, the only day she had to herself, she would take herself out of bed before the sun had risen to put on her only good dress that had been ruined long ago by Father’s stupid hand, and went to church, obedience to God.

And he had been obedient too, he thinks as he watches Hornigold and the rabbit move across the deck so the captain can talk to the crew. He had done what he was told. He had made himself smaller, made himself silent, tried to be good, lied about the bruises, lied about the pain and it hadn’t mattered in the end.

It didn’t fucking matter now either, did it? He’d done everything everyone fucking asked. He’d bent his head and worked and tried but he still couldn’t sleep on deck without worrying about getting fucking stabbed and no one would care. Paulo would just stare down with his stupid fucking face as Edward bled onto the deck.

He can feel his teeth grind as he watches Cook emerge from the galley and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder in a friendly way. The captain says something and they all laugh, Jack the loudest, and the lantern light shines gold on their faces- and the happy little group is coming over to them. Edward’s blood is full of thorns as it rushes through his veins and he’s glad he doesn’t have a knife or he would use it and he would die but it would feel so good to scream.

Paulo hisses and seems to shrink back into himself as they are cast in the circle of the lantern and Edward stares up at them, imagining their throats slit. Jack and the rabbit lean back but Hornigold’s eyes barely flicker.

“And who do you want to kill today, Mr. Teach.”

“Dunno. Maybe you.”

Cook moves and Edward twists to catch that wooden leg in the shoulder rather than the ribs, but still skidding a bit against the deck, nearly busting his head open on the keel of the dinghy that had been lashed there.

“You had better take care, Pisser,” says Hornigold. “The ground here is thinner than you realize.”

So what? Let it give way! If he fell it was because he wanted to! He had come from nothing and would go to nothing but would tear a path to hell along the way.

Though right now it’s even a struggle to sit up as the four of them continue on their way, Jack throwing glances back over his shoulder. Edward spits after them but it’s useless.

“Jack did a good job with the meal today, no?” says Cook as if nothing had happened. “Not even a little bone in those fish.”

“Y-you are so f-f-fucking s-stupid,” Paulo hisses and moves like he’s going to hit him. Edward snarls at him, ready to bite his fucking fist off and the man stops. His eyes seem wet in the light. Then he curses and throws his bowl at Edward’s head. Edward ducks but can’t completely avoid the warm stew that splashes against him, face burning. He wants to shove the bowl down Paulo’s throat but the man is already up and moving away… as if…he’s afraid.

Of Edward.

Of what Edward might do.

Further along the deck there is a yelp and he watches Scrawny Greg leap from the path of the four to scramble up the rigging, like a bird taking flight. He is afraid of Cook. Paulo too. Jack flinches every time the rabbit comes near and when Saladin had screamed at him. Mad Eddie in a rage makes the men cower. Some of the men.

And even those fucking fishbones… He looks down at his hand, flexing his fingers. Father hated them and would use even the smallest bone as an excuse. Sometimes he and Mother would spend hours picking them out of the soft pink flesh.

Fear is power. He clenches his hand into a fist. That’s what Hornigold has, more than anything else. Though Edward doesn’t know how yet. He’ll find out. He will find out and they will all fucking regret it…

But…gently… He tells this to himself. Because Paulo is right. He is stupid. He’s bruised to shit because he’s stupid. He keeps tasting blood because he’s stupid. He’s fighting against the current and drowning himself in the sea. He has to be smarter. He has to know the current. To swim through the current. To learn how to avoid the shoals. To drive other people onto the shoals and watch how they flounder so he can do it again.

He can tear his life apart in anger, but any idiot can do that. No. He’s going to blow all these assholes out of the water. He will be the greatest fucking pirate the sea has ever known…

But first… 

Edward stares up at the rigging. It is near full dark now and the moon makes it look ghostly.  He stands slowly and wraps his hand around the thick rope. The moment he feels it rough against his palm, memories flood back, sharp and brutal, lashing his mind with the smell of rain and the sound of choked screams.

“Shit!” Edward hisses and jerks his hand back. His heart is hammering in his chest and he feels sick. Why can’t he climb without seeing it? It’s just stupid rope! He’s hauled buckets before slick with sea water— but they were thinner… and the rigging feels like a living thing. It’s like Father’s vengeance. Father’s ghost. Keeping him down. Keeping him in his place.

Fuck that!

Only one of them ended up on their knees.

Edward hauls himself up onto the side of the ship, feeling the pitch and yaw of the waves- and grips the rope. Memories again. Sharp and insistent. Pain and fear and anger. Rage. He holds onto that as tight as he can as he forces himself to climb. He can almost taste the rain in his mouth at each rung, can feel the struggle, can hear the choking, the struggle, the way the eyes bulge and the weight of a body. And then he remembers the why. The hits. The slaps. The words. Money gone. Food gone. The screams and insults.

Gradually he can see what he’s doing. Gradually he lets the rain strike in his mind while he hauls himself upward, his shoulders in agony, his arm flashing pain whenever the rough rope touches the burn. He lets the pain go through him but won’t let it stop him.

Soon he steps onto the yardarm.

The wood feels warm under the thin soles of his feet and he holds the rope to keep his balance as he stares out over the sea that is so much bigger from up here, and flickering with moonlight while up above the stars blaze over head. The North star— Ana-nia, shining more brightly than all of them.

Edward wants to laugh, but doesn’t. He wants to call to Scrawny Greg who he can see on the foremast or scare the shit out of whoever is in the crow’s nest. But not yet… not right now. It will be his secret until the captain forgets what happened here tonight. Edward may not be a big man like Paulo, but if Hornigold is giving him a warning, it means he touched something, right?

And then as he spots the group chatting by the bow, caught in their little circle of light, he realizes he knows another secret. One that he can try to use but gently, gently so gently that no one will know until it’s too late. He looks at Cook and grins hard.

“Les monstres sont là,” he murmurs to himself.

The monsters are here.

Chapter Text

The morning is coming, but it is not here yet. The moon still sits on the horizon, casting weary silver-white freckles on the plane of the sea and the stars seem tired in the yawning blue. Even Ana-nia looks spent in her eternal place. Edward tips his head to her, as he emerges from the stuffy heat of the galley, hoping for her luck.  A fresh breeze stirs down from the topsails, lifting his hair, and the deck is cool under his bare feet as he makes his way, sly and silent as a cat.

The men are strewn over the deck, sweating and stinking in their sleep. Everything is stinking. The days have been hot lately, and heavy like trying to breathe through a blanket. The water around them is floating with swill from two days at anchor.  What they’re watching for, Edward doesn’t know. No one seems to know…

He stops as Monto rolls over in his sleep, nearly on Edward’s foot. He’s a tall man and a light sleeper and Edward holds his breath as he steps over him, holding the tankard high. He’d nearly woken Scrawny Greg last night when some drops of rum had fallen on his cheek and almost kicked the man back to sleep. Monto is bigger and would be harder to kick. But in a second Edward's safely on the other side of him, and once more on his path to the forecastle.

For three nights now, Edward has been bringing grog to first watch, tosser’s watch, as Larks has called it. It’s not easy as he has to wake himself up and shake the lead from his bones from long days cleaning or scraping or moving things in the hold or stuck in the galley, ground down to the bones by Cook, who has called him so many things since that night on deck. Every insult seems to get worse and Edward feels like his blood is going to boil out of his ears.

But Edward has said nothing, done nothing, has kept his head down and his murder eyes pinned to the deck– he was starting to learn to swim, after all;  to navigate the waters and avoid the shoals, to learn his way without bleeding for it. So he’d waited until Cook was asleep to have his revenge. It had been nice. It had felt good. And he was able to get that revenge because he had known Cook’s secret, because he had had that secret of his own- and secrets meant power…. 

And that’s why it’s worth coming out here at the ass end of the morning with stolen grog for whoever is on duty. Tosser’s watch is the worst one and the men assigned to it were usually the only ones awake; and are too lonely and bored and sober to refuse an offer of grog that’s more rum than water.  Even if they’re not supposed to have it. Maybe because they’re not supposed to have it.

 That first night it had been Timbee, who had taught him how to make all sorts of different knots from a spare bit of rope, and little laced mermaid nets with twine. As they’d worked, and  Timbee got drunker, he had talked about his sweethearts in every port. How he’d started out robbing fishing boats just outside of Santo Domingo until forcibly recruited by Hornigold who had had Mad Eddie beat him raw and take out five teeth until he’d agreed to join.

The next night he’d seen Larks, who had been happy to see him and had even taken the tankard as if he knew it was for him. Edward had heard about Larks’ time in prison for murder and buggery, how he’d escaped and joined up a few smalltime pirates before discovering Hornigold. From him Edward had learned seventeen different ways to gouge a man’s eye out with a spoon, how to shoot snot from his nose, and how Mad Eddie had killed his own lover in a fury, but for the love of God don’t tell anyone.

Old Hugo had only been half awake,  but had let Edward take a pull from his pipe and had laughed when Edward nearly died on it. Then right after had jumped and looked over his shoulder to mid-deck where everyone was sleeping in the muggy night, his pale skin going milk sour. ‘We’re good mates, thee and me,’ Hugo had said in a low voice. ‘Les keep it our little secret.’

Secrets are piling up in Edward’s palms like copper coins.  He had never had secrets like these before. Usually his secrets were bent and rusted, meant to keep hidden or kicked under the dirt for shame. These are bright and new and he isn’t sure what to do with them yet. And most of these secrets had something to do with Mad Eddie. Mad Eddie who is on tosser’s watch tonight and no one knows why. Mad Eddie who everyone is afraid of. Who is wiry and thinner than a lot of the men, but they still startle out of his way when he storms across the deck.

So tonight, Edward’s bringing a tankard that is full of mostly rum, pulled from Cook’s special stock- the ones that he likes to hide secret in the bottom of the pantry. Just ahead, a few dozen footsteps away, Mad Eddie stands on the forecastle, fingers laced against the rigging as he stares out over the ocean.  He is shirtless despite the faint chill and Edward can see the mass of scars on his back.

Edward tries to scrape some kind of fear out of his gut as he watches the man. He can remember the taste of fear, the sour stink of it, the way his heart leapt hard in his throat and wet stung his eyes. How he’d wanted to hide and make himself small in some closed dark space.

But Mad Eddie is just a man. A man with a scarred back and sharp knuckles and a lilting accent that’s more pretty than harsh. What about him is scary? What about him makes the men flinch and start and not want to be caught? Is it because of the punishments? It has to be, because why else would they let him? 

Edward is not sure he’ll find out this way. He’s not sure if he’ll find anything out this way. Bringing rum, even the best rum, when he’s not supposed to bring anything at all is going to get him punished –if he’s not clever about it. But Edward’s been thinking about this since that night on the deck. He needs to know Mad Eddie. He needs to understand him and how he does what he does and why he does what he does, and why he’s out here on tosser’s watch.

It’s a shit shift. Edward has sat it before. You watch the stars fade and the morning come and then when it comes you might get a nap before you’re put to work with sand in your eyes and barely banked fire in your blood.

So why is Mad Eddie out here? Why tonight? Is he looking for something? Waiting for something? Is he just bored?

Edward takes a hesitant step forward and stills as Mad Eddie suddenly glances up, attention caught by  a movement in the rigging. Edward looks too and curses under his breath as he sees Aconi the Gunner making his way down in slow, careful, movements– before jumping the final few feet, landing with a thump on the deck before rising; a solid figure in a white shirt and bone beads in his swinging black braids. It’s really cool but also tweaks his blood a bit that Aconi is interrupting his plans.

“I was wonderin’ when ya were comin’ down,” says Mad Eddie, as if he’d been expecting him. As if Aconi isn’t leaving any time soon.

Edward scowls. He hadn’t counted on both of them. He doesn’t know anything about Aconi. No one says much about him and he’s always with Saladin or sometimes standing with Hornigold and the rabbit. They haven’t fired the cannons once, so Edward’s never seen him in action to know how his face changes or anger takes him.

Should he forget it tonight? Edward grips the handle of the tankard. If he’s caught, he’s fucked. Mad Eddie might have to beat him in front of Aconi to make himself look good and Edward will spend the rest of the day limping around the ship.

On the other hand, if he leaves right now, he’ll never know what they’re talking about and why they’ve met on tosser’s watch. If it’s good it’ll be another coin to add to his pile. Edward  holds his breath as he slips closer. A dinghy under repairs has been lashed to the deck here, with a ragged white canvas over it to keep it from getting further damaged. Edward presses one shoulder against the side, coming out of its thin shadow as much as he dares, straining to hear.

“Nah, nothin’ tonight,” Mad Eddie says, and rolls his neck. Edward is close enough to hear the faint crunch of shifting bone. “Not even a pig in shit. Anythin’ on your end?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Thank Christ. Here.” Mad Eddie passes over a brown bottle that glints a little in the moonlight and Aconi drinks deep. Edward realizes he should have brought a bottle instead of risking a fucking tankard.

 “I’m tellin’ ya, we don’t move on her soon, we’re fecked,” Mad Eddie is saying. “The men won’t hold out. Too many will start spoilin’ for a fight. I say we should just go in and take the chance.”

“Then we’d really be ‘fecked’,” replies Aconi in his deep bass. “We go in those seas and the shoals will grind our hull to bones, even if we catch that current. And if we’re spotted…” The words linger like a chill in the air.

Mad Eddie spits over the side as if to ward off bad luck.

“I’ll swim out meself afore I face the Leviathan again.”

Aconi puts a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, dark against Mad Eddie’s white scars, and something stirs in Edward that he doesn’t have a name for.  It’s a feeling both old and new all at once, like the hunger for a rope across his palms, but different. He lets out a slow careful breath and tries to ignore it.

“It won’t come to that,” says Aconi.

“It had better not,” Mad Eddie says. “Ben needs to stop chasing dreams and clouds of fart, afore we all drown in blood.”

Ben… They must be talking about Hornigold… This is a secret bigger than anything he’s had so far beside his own. What can he do with it? What can he use it for?

 “I have a better idea than this shite,” Mad Eddie says, dropping his voice. “Listen…”

 Aconi leans in. Edward holds his breath and leans forward. The sudden scuff of a foot against the deck makes him start and turn. The movement sends a small wave of rum pattering to the boards that seem too loud in the still night. But no one calls out. No one grabs him.

In fact, aside from Mad Eddie and Aconi, there is no one close on deck or in the rigging…  but he had heard it— It had been too loud to be a rat, maybe it had been the lap of some strange wave?

But then it seems that something moves under the frayed canvas. Or someone. Should he pull back and see? Should he risk being seen? He tries to crane his head to peer into the darkness. The canvas has tented a little here between the dinghy and the deck, and there is a little gap that maybe can tell him a thing or two.

“No,” Aconi says, suddenly sharp and Edward realizes he’s missed his chance to hear. Damn. On top of that, now someone knows he’s spying.

The realization makes a sharp thrill go through him and his heart tick up, beat into his throat. He wants to bolt- or kick whatever bastard is hiding under the canvas until they realize what a fucking bad idea this was.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. That was what young, stupid, Edward would do. He’s smarter now. Cleverer. He takes a moment to think it through. The only way to stop someone from knowing his secret– is to not have a secret to begin with.

So, fuck it.

Edward squares his shoulders and heads for the forecastle. He’s a little wary about confronting Mad Eddie and Aconi with only one tankard, but this will either work or it will kind of work or it won’t work and he’ll get the shit beat out of him- it might even kill him, but if he’s dead, it doesn’t matter.

“Yer a feckin’ coward,” Mad Eddie is saying to Aconi. The bigger man doesn’t punch him or drag out a knife or even clench his hands into fists. Instead he just shakes his head, the bone beads clacking faintly and says:

“And you are an idiot.”

“Ta death and hell, then,” says Mad Eddie with a resigned sigh, lifting the bottle to the moonlight. “May we visit her on every other fecker and never get a taste of her ourselves.”

“To death and hell,” Aconi echoes, taking the bottle and doing the same.

“To death and hell,” says Edward stepping to and a little behind Aconi, sipping from his tankard. He remembers that it’s rum not grog as the full tilt of it hits the back of his throat and he inhales it accidentally. The coughing fit keeps him from laughing as Mad Eddie shrieks:

“Jaysus God!”

And then he spills most of it, sloshing it down his front to avoid Aconi’s fist. Edward staggers a little way onto the deck in front of them, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and trying not to laugh as the coughs die away. It’s hard. Their eyes look like they’re about to fall out of their head and Mad Eddie is white as a ghost-

Then red as his hair, lips curling back from his black teeth.

 “Teach! What the feck are ya doin’ out here?” he snarls. Even in the dim light, Edward can see a vein at his temple throbbing.

 “Drinking,” Edward says and takes another little sip, the rum slipping warm fire through his veins. Aconi’s teeth flash white in the moonlight and then he quickly passes a hand over his mouth and when it’s gone he looks stern again.

“Aye, I heard ye’ve been doin’ this shite. Givin’ rum ta the feckers on watch. Why?”

A hot snarl of anger rises in Edward, cresting in his throat. Some fucker had told. Who? Hugh? Larks? Timbee? He’s going to– 

No, no it doesn’t matter, he tells himself taking a full breath to push that sharp feeling away. He’ll find out whoever told later and then worry about it. He can’t fuck this up now. Not when he’s so close.

“Well? !” Mad Eddie snarls. Edward huffs, shrugs a shoulder. He can’t remember what he’d been going to say, but maybe it doesn’t matter. The truth is all he has left.

“Just wanted them to talk to me.”

It’s strange… how that gives Mad Eddie pause. Edward doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how he had sounded, doesn’t like how he feels, doesn’t like being young and stupid and sounding lonely - it’s not who he is. It’s not who he fucking wants to be.

But all the red leaves Mad Eddie’s face and he straightens. Then sighs:

“Lad, there are better ways to do that. And grog is a cheap gift.”

“But an effective one,” Aconi says with a hint of a grin. Mad Eddie glares at him.

“Don’t encourage him, ye’ll get him killed.”

Aconi chuckles in a way that makes Edward’s stomach flip a little strangely and the anger fades away.

“I am going back,” Aconi says. He grips Mad Eddie’s shoulder with a broad hand. “Remember what I told you.”

“I’ll remember. I’ll remember.”

“And…relax. Saladin says that Zorah will bring her shroud tomorrow, so we should be safe for a little while at least.”

What does that mean? Who is Zorah? What shroud?

Mad Eddie snorts and lightly shoves Aconi’s hand off his shoulder. Then Edward finds himself under the gunner’s gaze and straightens, not wanting to be seen as small and dripping with rum.  He tips his head to Aconi as Mad Eddie had done.

Aconi moves toward him, a board creaking under his weight, and Edward tenses, but refuses to lower his head, instead looking up at him at his dark eyes and his short rough beard. He smells of tobacco and gunpowder and whiskey and Edward’s heart lurches somewhere in the region of his throat. He wants to be like Aconi when he comes into himself, large and solid and unmovable like a boulder.

 “And you, Young Teach.” Aconi’s big hand rests on his shoulder, swallows his shoulder, it’s a hand that feels like it can crunch his bones to powder, but it doesn’t. “Keep your head up and your eyes open, and you’ll outlive us all.”

“For god’s sake,” Mad Eddie mutters.

“Yes, sir,” Edward says before he thinks about it, feeling breathless, feeling charged. He’s going to be even more alert now. Even more ready. Aconi breathes something like a laugh and turns away, steps like low thunder.

For a moment Edward wants to say fuck Mad Eddie and to follow Aconi wherever he goes- but that is easy and not brave or bold. So Edward remains instead to face Mad Eddie who is shaking his head, arms folded. It’s just light enough to see his freckles now and x tattoos that run down his inner arm.

“He just wants ya for a powder monkey.” The man scoffs. “I should let him shoot yer ass out of the cannon. I should beat yer ass to dirt. Yer lucky that I don’t.” Mad Eddie waves a finger. 

“Why don’t you?” Edward says. It’s stupid to ask, but he wants to know. It would make more sense for Edward to get beaten at least a little. In fact no one has been beaten at all… Not Larks or Timbee or Hugh. Does Mad Eddie not know about them really? Has he not been told everything? Or is there something else?

“Because I’m a fecking saint, that’s why,” Mad Eddie says. “And yer a feckin’ flint in a powder keg. Gimme that.” He snatches for the tankard and Edward lets him have it. A flint in a powder keg… He keeps that phrase, turning it over and over in his head, trying to piece out what he means. Mad Eddie takes a sip out of the tankard and then rears back, eyes wide like a startled horse.

“Holy Christ is this what ye’ve been givin’ them? No wonder everyone likes ya these days.” Mad Eddie peers into the tankard as if thinking, swirling it around. “Ya know yer done for once Cook tacks into it,” he says and tips his head back to drain the rest of it.

Cook won’t. Or he probably won’t. And even if he does, so what? Edward can figure a way out of it. He wonders if Cook finds him a flint in a powder keg too. He wonders if other people do. He wonders what he can do with it.

He goes to the railing to peer out over the sea. There is nothing but water and the thin rind of sky, paler in the way that means that false-dawn is coming soon. He has a sudden memory of staring at the pale blue eggshell of a sky, stiff with old bruises, and Father brushing a callused hand against his forehead, pushing his hair back gently before staggering out for another month long voyage. Thank fuck , Edward had thought then. Thank fuck. Never come back. And he had hoped the dark waves would drown him.

But the dark waves never had gotten a chance.

Edward can feel himself smile as he grips the railing. The boards creak as Mad Eddie comes up beside him. He is also barefoot, Edward sees, and the realization pleases him somehow.

“What do ye see out there?” he asks. Edward looks, leaning forward to scan the horizon and the waters before it.

“Nothing,” he says finally. “Sea and sky.” And then noticing a faint bluish smudge. “An island?”

“Same old shite,” Mad Eddie mutters, pouring the remains of the rum from the bottle into the tankard and tipping his head back. What are they meant to be looking for? Edward wonders. The need to know is like a hunger, gnawing at his belly. But Mad Eddie might not tell him if he asks right out, especially if no one is supposed to know.

So instead Edward asks:

“Who is Zorah? What’s the shroud?”

Mad Eddie snorts. “Zorah is pagan nonsense. Sal means th’ mornin’ star. What some feckers call Venus.”

He doesn’t like that Mad Eddie calls Saladin ‘Sal’ like it’s a dirty word. There’s nothing he can do about it though so he holds his tongue and focuses on what the man just told him.

“Venus…” He knows about her kind of. She’s a very pretty woman and also a fairytale. “So… in the morning…” He considers. What could a shroud mean? “There’ll be fog? Rain?

“Fog, aye. “ He takes another long swallow and then says: “Away with ye,” and hurls the tankard. Edward watches it arch high in the air before landing with a ‘splotch’ in the water. “Shit…” Mad Eddie says. “I wanted ta throw the bottle.”

Edward laughs and Mad Eddie smacks him in the back of the head, but not hard, and then his hand lingers there for a moment against his hair before dropping to lightly grip the back of his neck. It’s…good. He feels anchored. A little like he’s Aconi already, tall and strong with someone at his side.

“Pagan or no, if he’s right, and he usually is, the filthy bugger; we’ll be safe for a little while.” Mad Eddie’s hand tightens against the nape of his neck, but it feels more like something instinctive. The man is staring out over the sea, pale eyes narrowed, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. He is afraid of something.

“Safe… from the Leviathan?” Edward says.

He realizes immediately he’s said too much as Mad Eddie’s grip tightens, his lips pulling back from his black teeth. Edward braces for a hit, But Mad Eddie only snorts a fetid breath and spits over the side.

“Ye’ve got big ears, ya little shite.” Another slap upside his head, this one a little harder; hard enough to make his head jerk. “One day they’ll get so big yer brains will fall out.”

No shit , Edward thinks, heart picking up a bit in his throat. That had been stupid. Now Mad Eddie knew that he knew. But maybe Mad Eddie didn’t know how much he knew? Either way it is a secret bent and if Edward wants to use the ones that he has, he’ll have to be more careful.

“What is Leviathan though? Is she a ship?”

“Aye, a big ol’ piece a shit galleon that patrols these waters. Son of a bitch nearly scuppered us last time, near on six months ago. We lost ten good men before we could run and the rest turned tail as soon as we made port. The only idiots that stayed behind were me, the ball and cannon-” Aconi? He means? And who else? Saladin? “and Timbee, but he ain’t nothin’ to no one. That’s how I got this.”

 He pulls down the waist of his trousers  a little to show a deep scar that runs right across his lower belly.  “I ain’t lookin’ ta face her again, not with this sorry lot- but cap’n won’t stop chasin’ the damn dream.”

“What dream? What are we looking for? Why are we here?” It’s easier to ask the questions since Mad Eddie brought it up. What could be out there that’s so valuable? So worth dying for?

“Hornigold’s ambition,” Mad Eddie says. “Fecker can’t be a simple pirate like the rest of us, nah. Can’t take a ship at a time. Can’t pick off fat bellied merchants or raid coasts like anyone fecking sensible. He wants to be a king.”

A…king? 

“And you don’t agree with it,” Edward says, looking up at him. “Are you going to do something about it?” 

 Mad Eddie’s face changes to sudden rage, red flashing up his cheeks- and Edward has only just enough time to brace himself before Mad Eddie’s fingers knot in his hair, yanking his head sharply back, and he can feel the notched blade of a knife against his throat and the tickle of blood.

Damnit. Damnit, what had he said ?

“Alright, ya little bastard, who sent ya?”

“No one,” Edward growls, then sucks in a breath as his arm is wrenched behind him. His shoulder is screaming but he knows better than to pull away, even as arm is pulled, dragging a noise through his clenched teeth.

“Like I believe yer shit lies. Like I don’t know what goes on in this ship. What little games  that stupid little man is playin’,” Mad Eddie snarls. “Well ya listen ta me, ya shite, and listen well. The rabbit hates ya, Cook doesn’t give a shit about anything but himself, and the only other dick bigger on the ship than mine is the captain’s, and he don’t give a shite about ya either. He won’t talk to ya, he won’t listen to ya, he won’t believe ya,” The knife digs and Edward’s pulse races in his ears.  “ I’m yer only friend.”

He won’t fight back. If he fights back he dies.

“If anyone gets word of what happened tonight, I will make ya regret it.” He is leaning close now, breath reeking across Edward’s face. “Don’t even tell yer little friend Larks or I will skin ya both. Aye?”

“Aye,” Edward croaks just to get away. Mad Eddie shoves him away and Edward trips and falls hard on the deck on hands and knees, blood dripping onto his shirt and onto the deck. He’s so fucking tired of bleeding. He drags the collar of his shirt to his throat, to stem the flow and to let the sting override the bristling anger.

Larks. Larks had fucking told. He was going to kill him. He was going to wrap his fingers around the fucker’s throat and squeeze until his eyes were bulging and his tongue spooled out of his mouth like a slug.

“And, Pisser…,” Mad Eddie says. Fuck , is he still talking? Why is he still talking? Edward doesn’t want listen to his stupid fucking voice anymore. But that knife is still out, red with blood. If he fights back he’ll die. Sail the waters, navigate, mind the shoals and the reefs- Mad Eddie grips his hair once more, wiping the knife against Edward’s cheek and he grits his teeth, fists bloodless at his sides. 

“Tomorrow I’m gonna werk yer little balls off,” Mad Eddie continues, sounding bored. “And I don’t wanna hear a single feckin’ complaint. Aye?”

“Aye,” Edward says again, gasps it so he won’t say it through his teeth and earn a kick to the ribs.

“Good. Now get lost.”  The bottle thumps hard against his back and bounces onto the deck, where it cracks and rolls. Edward manages to stagger upright and move away from the forecastle rather than toward Mad Eddie, blood running hot under his skin and also wetting his shirt. Still he breathes in and out, trying to make the heat leave as he pads across the deck.

xxxx

By the time he gets down to the dim galley, he is still seething. All kinds of revenge had slipped through his mind, but he knows he can’t do any of it. He feels young and stupid, grasping at nothing but air. He casts a glare at Cook, snoring in his hammock, looking more like an old man than a threat. Edward fights the impulse to kick him awake.  Instead, he yanks the empty rum bottle out from under the man’s arm, hard enough to jar him.

Cook snorts, jerks, his good eye flicking under the pale lid, his open, red eye gleaming in the light.

“Qui es dans ma chambre?” he growls soft.

‘Me,’ Edward wants to say. ‘And I’m not afraid of you.’

And he isn’t. And he isn’t afraid of Mad Eddie or Scrawny Greg or the rabbit or even Hornigold. He isn’t fucking afraid of anyone .

Cook snarls louder: “Qui es dans ma chambre?”

And begins to stir, his lip curling, the fingers of his large hand twitching, clutching his blanket. For a moment Edward considers letting him get up, letting him start for the deck. For a moment Edward wants to hear the screams of frightened men. To watch them run, and scream and cower. But it wouldn’t just be Larks and Mad Eddie up there- but Paulo and Jack and Aconi too… 

Most importantly, Hornigold would be angry and though Edward isn’t afraid of him, he doesn’t want to get shot either.

 With a huff he uses his own secret, the brightest coin in his hoard that none else knows about. He leans in, murmuring near Cook’s ear:

“Les monstres sont partis.”

Cook tenses, lip twitching, then drops back into the hammock and Edward watches as he begins to snore again. It feels good. It’s like the good rum which sends flecks of fire through his blood, but the kind that warms and makes him want to stand up straighter. It feels good. It feels so good that Edward does it a few more times before the anger boils away to a spent exhaustion creeping behind his eyes. He sighs, tucking the empty rum bottle back under Cook’s arm watching him snore.

This he had learned from Hornigold. This Hornigold knew how to do. Had stood by the railing with gentle confidence and told Cook to go back to bed and like a little boy, Cook had obeyed. Hornigold who had sat in the tent with shadowed eyes, who commanded this restless crew who were not brave enough to do something about it.

That is what Edward wants to be. More than anything. To be the one standing up there by the railing looking down on everyone and knowing they will do whatever he says. He needs to talk to Hornigold. He needs to see him. To learn from him. Only how can he even get near him?

A hollow frustration fills him as he makes his way back to his little nest in the pantry, made of pilfered blankets and rags. Edward takes a moment to get settled, to drink a handful of precious water he had stored here in a flask, to tuck the blankets around him, lie his head on a near depleted sack of rice– the last step is, as always, to pull out the red silk.

Here in the pre-dawn he can almost see its full color, the deep vivid red, so far free of blood. He runs his fingers over it as he holds it up above his head and watches the frayed edges move; breathing deeply in and out. He remembers how Mother had shown it to him, this soft scrap of something almost like magic. He remembers the warmth of her hands and how she had held him. How she had looked on dully and bruised as Father sent him crashing against the wall. The way her eyes had grown wide in fear when she’d realized what Edward had done, though he hadn’t said- and hadn’t needed to.

 He turns on his side, holding the silk to his cheek, taking in deep breaths of the dusty dark until the stinging warning subsided from the back of his closed eyes and left him more spent than he was before.  Hornigold, he thinks. Hornigold . He has to find some way to get up there and talk to him. Only he doesn’t really have a secret strong enough. Aside from Cook’s, the biggest one he knows is  Mad Eddie’s and even then he doesn’t know what Mad Eddie said to Aconi- and anyway a secret that two people know isn’t much of a…much of a secret…

 Edward opens his eyes and stares at the thinning larder. No… not two. Three people. Him and Aconi and whoever had been hiding beside the dinghy. 

Jack is short enough to fit under a bit of sail without being spotted right away… and he is working for the rabbit. Anything said against Hornigold would go right in the first mate’s ears. And if was Jack, then Edward has a shot. It may only be one shot, but if he’s careful, that’s all he’ll need.

xxxx

That afternoon is hot, the sky a hazy blue dome above them, cloudless and hard, wet heat pressing down like a fist. Edward sits on his haunches, dropping the dirty rag into the dirtier water and wipes the sweat from his face with his sleeve, wincing at the smell of soured rum still on his shirt. He wants to scrape back the sweat damp strands of hair back under the rag he’s using to keep it contained, but one look at the dirty water by his knee and he changes his mind.

Not that it matters. Everything reeks. The men are sweating through their clothes, the sea around them now smells of three days at anchor, plus the water from the bilge that they had emptied searching for a leak that was never found. Edward had spent a long hot mid-morning with passing full buckets and accepting empty ones from Paulo who had also stood shin deep in fouled water—full of piss and shit and the floating bloated corpses of rats.

Paulo had ignored him completely. Hadn’t even looked at him. And Edward would have been more tempted to dump a bucket over his head if Jack hadn’t hung on the ladder as part of the bucket chain. Every time Edward had been tempted to do something stupid, he’d stared at Jack until the moment passed. Their eyes had met more than once in the dimness and each time Jack had scowled at him and looked away again. Edward knew his secret, and Jack knew he knew-and every time Edward thought of it he felt a small sunburst in the center of his chest.              

 That thought had carried him through the stinking work of the bilge and had kept him from breaking Hugh’s nose with his face when the old man had laughed and said that the turds had walked out on their own. The price of grog is cheap, as Mad Eddie had said and Edward had been tempted to spill the old man’s secret out in the open, watch it clatter and spin on deck, watch the blood drain from Old Hugh's face as Mad Eddie ascended on him.

 He hadn't though. Had kept his tongue between his teeth and the precious secret to himself, standing as still and silent as Paulo as the men had taken turns splashing freezing filthy sea water on them to wash off the stink of the bilge. They had laughed and shouted insults at them so barbed it had made Edward's blood sing in his ears and even Paulo's fists had curled. The big man hadn't moved, had stood silent under it all as fucking usual.

 Edward had been two steps from sinking his fist into Larks’ stomach when Jack had saved him again, passing by the knot of men on the way to the aft cabins, holding drinks on a tray- to Hornigold.

The man, their captain, had stood just outside of his cabin, hands braced on the railing, watching with cool gray eyes. A stray breeze pecked at the hem of his short coat that he always wore whatever the weather, and teased the hair across his broad forehead. He seemed suddenly like the most important man Edward had ever known, that Edward had ever met.  Edward had watched as he’d accepted a drink from Jack and realized with a jolt that was where he needed to be; at Hornigold’s side, watching the dregs of the ship with him.

And it has to be soon— Because Mad Eddie is right… The men aren’t going to hold out.  A storm is brewing. Edward can feel it prickling along the back of his neck; and not one of wind or rain or mist, but a tide of men that will roll over the deck, drowning everything in its path. The men are restless, they’re hot, rations are thinning and so is the grog. All it will take is another hot day like this, or another day at anchor in the stinking water and they will snap.

Hornigold knows it. He knows Hornigold knows it. He knows it’s all part of Hornigold’s plan. The captain wants to be a king, he must have predicted this- Must be waiting for a reason. And once that plan is finished and Mad Eddie is able to sleep again,  once he’s not breaking up fights— once everyone is full of food and good grog, Edward will lose his chance.

It’s not like Jack is just going to let him go see Hornigold, Edward thinks, glaring at where the older boy is kneeling with his own bucket and rag, further down the deck, still puffy and bruised from Scrawny Greg’s morning beating. Edward wouldn’t if he were him. He would have laughed in Jack’s face- or punched him- or asked him why he wanted it and then found a way to use it against him. 

And, yes, Edward knows  Jack’s secret and could tell Mad Eddie- who would beat the shit out of Jack, leaving Hornigold without a cabin boy, but Mad Eddie would just make Scrawny Greg serve Hornigold and make sure to fuck he was loyal first.

So, what can he do?

 Edward stares down at his hands, browner than usual and filthy. Everything about him feels filthy from his frayed sleeves to his ragged breeches. He looks like one of the beggars that used to sit in the gutters, hands raised, eyes tired and desperate. Mother had given them coins sometimes until Father found out and then she’d walked ahead, chin up, eyes hollow as if she hadn’t seen them. Edward is not a beggar. He clutches his hands in his breeches. He won’t be that. He won’t end up like that.

He needs a plan. 

Can he spend one of his secrets, maybe? Press it into Jack’s palm?  But which? Mad Eddie Jack already knows. He wouldn’t care about Timbee, Hugh or Larks— The only thing Edward really has is the secret about the Cook. He considers it hard, worrying the inside of his lower lip with his teeth. It’s a huge risk. Jack might keep it, or he might tell the rabbit, and if he tells the rabbit the rabbit will tell Hornigold and then Edward will be really fucked.

Edward hears the creak of rope and the tap of feet hitting the deck behind him and has just enough time to brace himself before someone smacks the back of his head hard enough so his teeth crash together.

“Back to work, Pisser,” says Scrawny Greg idly as he moves past. “Or I’ll put you up the rigging.” 

“Fuck off,  you don’t tell me what to do,” Edward snarls. He’s trying to fucking think!  Scrawny Greg turns slowly and smirks at him.  Then his hand moves snake fast and grips Edward’s cheeks between his bony fingers, pressing hard, striping more bruises against his skin.  Edward clenches his fists, nails cutting into his palms. He wants to punch him, to bite his thumb, to break his stupid fucking nose.  Greg is nothing but a fucking dreg himself and not that much older than they are!

“Don’t be so sure, brat,” says Scrawny Greg, looming in, his breath smelling of onions- onions not hardtack like everyone else got. Edward had used the last onion this morning in the salted beef broth that had been split between the ones in charge, the captain, the rabbit, Cook, Aconi and Saladin, and the leftovers for Mad Eddie. How did Scrawny Greg get some?

“Things might be changing around here,” Scrawny Greg continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I can’t be brought with a little grog. I’m not Larks.”

It had been Scrawny Greg then, not Larks who told Mad Eddie. Instead of heat and anger, though, Edward feels a flash of something else. Something interesting– That leaves a sweet taste on his tongue.   He can… do something with that. But what? The fragments of an idea are there and if this dumbass would just go away, Edward could pull them together and it would be— fucking amazing.

“And you don’t want to end up like your little friend, do you?” Scrawny Greg says. “Hm?”

Just like that, it all slots into place, the perfect idea. He won’t give Jack his secret, but he can give him something even better.  Something he will love. Something that will fuck over Scrawny Greg and Mad Eddie— and Larks a little too, but Edward will make it up to him somehow. 

“What the hell are you grinning for?” Scrawny Greg snarls, and Edward realizes he is. Realizes he’s fucking happy. Almost ecstatic. He’s almost there. He’s so close he can taste it.

“You’re fucked,” Edward says, feeling his grin grow. Scrawny Greg snarls and shoves him back on his ass. Edward tries not to laugh, but can’t stop the grin—  At least until Scrawny Greg picks up the bucket like he’s going to throw it over Edward’s head.  Maybe it would be wiser to take it, but Edward has had enough filthy water today.

“I won’t spill the rum next time,”  Edward says in a low voice. “Nothing’s going to wake you up.”   Scrawny Greg pales to his pimples and scowls to throw the bucket over the side, rag and all.

“I’m not scared of you, Pisser ,” he snaps; then storms down the deck, kicking Jack in the ribs on the way. Jack protests in a yelp and Scrawny Greg drags him up by the hair and punches him full in the face.  Edward’s good mood fades a little as he watches Jack hunch, holding his nose, blood dripping to the deck. But it’s fine. If this plan works— if Jack is smart enough to agree to it, they will both get what they want.

First though he has to make a distraction before Scrawny Greg gets up Mad Eddie’s ass about it. Fortunately he knows just what to do, and he has to practice anyway. He glances around, spotting Monto restlessly pacing the deck and decides that’s good enough. Edward gets to his feet and crosses  to where Timbee and Gilead Thorpe are playing at  dice by the main mast.

“Hey, Ed,” says Timbee. “Want a toss?”

Gilead Thorpe giggles but Edward ignores him.

“Nah.” Edward crouches in front of them. “Greg just told me Monto said you couldn’t take him in a fight. Is that true?”

Timbee’s smile fades and his thin brows draw to knot the scar on his forehead.

“The fuck it is.”  

xxxx

It turns out Monto and Timbee really hate one another. Edward watches idly as Monto launches himself at Timbee again, the deck vibrating as other man’s back hits the wood hard. Monto is punching him hard, fists flying, and only stops when Timbee grabs his face and headbutts him with a resounding crack.

All the dregs are watching, hooting and shouting encouragement and taking bets. No one seems to be willing to help  Mad Eddie who is in the thick of it, trying to break them up without being elbowed in the face or punched in the gut.

It’s beautiful, really, and had been so fucking easy. He takes a moment to appreciate Timbee’s right hook that catches the meat of Monto’s face and sends a yellowed tooth skipping a bloodied path along the deck before sitting himself beside Jack, who has knelt to watch, still clutching his nose though it’s no longer bleeding.

“Who do you think is going to win?” Edward asks. 

“Your mother,” Jack says, sitting back and wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve. Edward punches Jack before thinking about it, glad afterwards that Jack had shifted just enough so Edward had gotten him in the shoulder rather than the face. It’s… kind of a compliment after all.

“Fucker,” Jack says and punches him back so hard that tingles race down Edward’s arm. He scowls and flexes his fingers. “Anyway, I’m thinkin’ Monto. He’s skinny but he doesn’t go down easy.”

“Yeah? Maybe.” Edward flexes his arm, absently. “Or maybe Sepp.”  Because the larger man has joined the fray, maybe trying to help Mad Eddie, but a gut punch by Timbee has got him going, windmilling his large arms while Old Hugh grabs the back of Monto’s legs only to get kicked in the face and sink his teeth into the man’s calf.

And then because he wonders if it will work:

“Wanna make a bet?”

Jack snorts. “With what money? You ain’t got nothin’ else I want.”

That’s true. At least nothing he can bet with. And he might lose anyway. He considers, watching for a moment.

“I bet you wish Greg was in there too. Bet he’d get his ass kicked.”

“Yeah, bet he would,” Jack snickers. “That’ll teach him. Walkin’ around like he’s got bigger balls than anyone. He ain’t no better than me. He just sucks everyone’s rocks and I don’t. That’s the difference. ” 

 Edward supposes he means sucking up as he’s not sure what rocks have to do with anything.

 “Anyway, we all know who the better man is.  Greg signed up. I got recruited.” Jack jerks his thumb at himself.

“Yeah?” Edward absently rests his cheek on his raised knee, curious in spite of everything else he has to do to make this plan work. “How did that happen?”  

“I nearly shot some jackass’s head off with his own pistols.” Jack grins, holding up his fingers  like guns. “Stole them right from his holsters and went ‘bang bang’, right at the fucker’s head.”

Edward snickers. “Yeah, right.” If that were true, Jack would have a pistol right? Or he’d be set up with Aconi instead of in the rigging.

“Fuck you, it happened.” Jack punches his shoulder again though it barely hurts. “I mean, I missed, but the captain was so impressed he asked me to come along.”

Edward still doesn’t know if it’s true or not. Maybe Hornigold had.

“I don’t know how the fuck you’re here,” Jack says. Then: “Holy shit, Sepp.” Across the ship, Sepp has Timbee in a headlock while Monto is kicking Old Hugh in the head.

“Dunno either.” Would Edward recruit someone who had stabbed his first mate in the hand? Maybe, he thinks, if it was funny. Maybe that’s why Hornigold had brought on Jack.

“Well, it ain’t gonna last,” Jack says, leaning back against the railing. “Maybe he thought you were interestin’ once, but you fucked up big time that night.” He shakes his head. “You’re nothin’ but a piece of shit floatin’ by now and once we get what the captain’s after, the rabbit’s gonna kick your ass and no one is going to stop him. And I ain’t gonna stop him either,” Jack says with a glare.

“Mr. Harvey’s got my back. Always has,” he continues as he shifts to sit cross legged on the deck and scrubs his nose with his shirt. “So you can stop suckin’ up to me and actin’ all friendly. We ain’t mates. I don’t even like you and you stink like a shit pit.” He spits on the deck between them, then curses and slaps the dirty rag onto the wood to clean it off.

“I’m not sucking up,” Edward says. “And so do you.”

Jack scowls and throws throws the rag at him. It hits his leg with a disgusting wet slap. Edward peels it off and flings it back, frowning as it misses.

“Like hell you ain’t suckin’ up. Sittin’ here chattin’ like a washerwoman- Not puttin’ the blame on me that one time when Cook lost it, punching Greg in the back— ” he hesitates, like he’s going to bring up being caught hiding under the canvas, but instead says: “--which was pretty fucking cool--”

“Thanks,” Edward grins. “He kinda deserved it.”

“Yeah, he did, fucker.” Jack spits again, then groans. “Goddamnit.”

“Use the bucket, moron.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack says again, but doesn’t bother to clean the spit this time. “But I ain’t playin’ your stupid game. You think I wanna end up like that Spanish jackass over there? Cowerin’ from everyone’s shadow? No way. Nuh uh. Not me. I’m goin’ places.”

Does he mean Paulo?

“What’s that got to do with me?” Paulo’s fucking business is his own.

“Cuz you were mates, shithead, and Mads knows you care so of course they’re gonna go after him and give him the shit jobs. That’s why he was in the bilge. That’s why he’s gonna stay in the bilge so long as you keep pissin’ people off. Everyone you touch is gonna get sucked under the wake cuz you pissed off the rabbit and he’s the power here. If I were him I wouldn’t let you do it. If I were him I’d find a way to take you down.”

A thin prickling thread goes through his chest at the thought. It’s something like fear and he holds onto it, trying to figure it out. He doesn’t want Paulo to get hurt because of him- to get shit jobs because of him- and maybe worse.

Edward tries to imagine it again, being like that, bowing his head, stepping out of the way, knuckling under.

“Obedience is strength,” he mutters under his breath.

“Damn right it is,” says Jack.

But Paulo is not being very obedient, hiding in the shadows like that, keeping out of the way, not helping, though Mad Eddie is losing the battle, snarling for the man to get his ‘shit ass over here’. Then again, it’s almost over. Edward can see the men are tiring.

In a moment, he’s proved right as Monto punches at Sepp and hits Timbee instead, knocking him back into Mad Eddie and they both go down. Edward winces a little, knowing whatever happens next is going to be bad news for Monto. And Monto realizes it too because he scrambles to his feet and tries to bolt.

Except Aconi has come down from the rigging and in two swift strides, has grabbed the man, large arms coming up under Monto’s and curling over his shoulders, holding him up, pinning him in place. Gilead Thorpe cheers from the rigging and on the sidelines he can see Scrawny Greg and Larks with their heads together like they’re discussing bets.

“Obedience doesn’t stop Greg from kicking your ass every day.” Edward says, glancing over at Jack. “The rabbit doesn’t stop it either.”  And the rabbit could stop Scrawny Greg if he wanted. Mad Eddie couldn’t do anything about that. 

The fight is starting to break up now as  Timbee and Sebb scramble to move away from Mad Eddie’s wrath, Timbee nearly knocking Gilead Thorpe off the rigging in his desperation to flee. Mad Eddie rolls to his feet and spits out a  blackened tooth before cracking his long angled knuckles.

“Yeah, well one day the rabbit will,” Jack is saying and Edward has to think a moment to remember he was talking about the rabbit stopping Jack’s beatings. “One day, that’ll be me. I’ll be just like Mads.” Mad Eddie is sending punch after punch into Monto’s flesh, stomach, ribs, face, the fleshy bulb of his nose. It doesn’t feel like punishment anymore so much as revenge.

“Mads isn’t really anything though, is he?” Edward says, trying the nickname and deciding he likes it. “You’ll still be stuck under someone. And he’s only Mads because he doesn’t get his ass kicked.” That is also important, Edward thinks. Mad Eddie’s strength is that he can fight and he can hit hard and fast. “Also people are scared of him. Whose gonna be scared of you? You can’t even grow a mustache.” He taps his own upper lip while looking at the three pathetic hairs on Jack’s.

“Fuck you.”

“And he’s got Aconi. Who have you got, Jack? You told the rabbit about what you heard, didn’t you?” It’s just a guess, but given how Jack scowls, Edward guesses he’s right. “What’s he done for you?”

“It’s comin’.” But he doesn’t look like he believes it. Then his expression hardens. “And I ain’t bein’ mates with the likes of you.”

Bastard. Edward is tempted to take  Jack’s knife from his hip and press it under his chin, like Mad Eddie had done to him last night. To hold the older boy’s life in his hands. To be the one to make that decision. But he can only hold the knife so long on Jack’s throat and Jack is stronger than him right now. And even if he wasn’t, that would make Edward just like Mad Eddie who is tiring now, but is straightening himself up as if he isn’t- because he can’t look tired. He can’t stop prowling. He can’t let up even for a moment.

Strength isn’t strength either.

Edward considers the best way to bring up his idea. It’s a big one, a huge risk, even with his promise to Jack, there’s no saying Jack will go along.  He wishes they were mates like Aconi and Mad Eddie, standing side by side, not jostling or snarling one another, but speaking quiet plans and secrets like men. Maybe one day when Jack isn’t scared of the rabbit. Maybe when they’re older.

“Okay, it’s over,” Jack says as the men start to stir, Scrawny Greg and Larks rising. “Now get back to work, Pisser, before you make shit for us both.”

“I’m not looking for mates,” Edward says. “I’m looking to make a deal.” Jack scoffs and Edward tries not to let the annoyance show in his voice as he continues: “I can get Greg’s ass kicked.”

Jack pauses from grabbing the moldy rag that’s lying on a heap on the deck and gives Edward a narrow eyed look.

“How the fuck are you gonna do that?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Edward says, moves a little closer. “The point is I can do it. And it’ll hurt. And maybe Mads won’t feel so good about the rock sucking.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about,” says Jack giving him a dry look. “Wait til yours drop before you talk about shit like that.”

What the hell does that even mean? It doesn’t matter, he tells himself, because now Jack is looking thoughtful, fingering one of the sparse hairs on his chin.

“And what the hell do you want then?” Jack asks. “If I say yes, what’s in it for you?”

Edward tries not to grin. He hasn’t won yet, but he will. He can feel it.

“Let me take dinner to the captain tonight.”

Jack blinks. Stares at him. “Are you crazy? Why the hell do you wanna do something like that? He hates you now. They both do. You’ll be gutted like a fish.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He wouldn’t tell Jack even if he did have a solid plan.

“Cook ain’t gonna allow it.”

“Let me worry about Cook.” It wouldn’t be so difficult. He’d just tell Cook he was taking the meal out to Jack to deliver, like a good little serving boy. Cook would probably be too irritable and distracted to care. He hadn’t been sleeping well after all.

Edward smirks at the thought and Jack leans away from him.

“They’ll knock the piss out of me,” Jack says uncertainly.

“I’ll carry it out to you and just keep on going,” Edward replies. “No one will know it was your idea.” If all went well anyway. 

“Fine,” Jack says slowly, then scowls and jabs Edward’s shoulder with a finger. “But only if you get Greg’s ass kicked first.”

“No.” He doesn’t trust Jack that far. Even if he means it now anything can change. Jack’s jaw sets and his expression goes hard. Edward thinks quickly, planning out the steps in his head like a puppet play or a story. Jack’s gaze cants to the side and Edward realizes they’ve caught Mad Eddie’s attention and the man is rousing as if he’s about to come after them.

“Listen,” Edward says. “Bring Larks to the stern at dinner time.”

“Larks? Why the fuck— They are mates. You ain’t gonna be able to convince Larks to do anythin’.” 

“Just shut up and do it.” It’s possible he won’t be able to, but even if he can’t convince Larks, he’ll be close enough to the cabin to slip in.  “Greg suffers, you don’t get shit for it. Deal?” Edward considers shaking hands, then decides to spit in the bucket instead as a form of agreement so no one will know what they’re up to.

“What do ya feckers think yer doin’?” Mad Eddie’s voice rumbles over them like an approaching storm.

“Well?” Edward says. “Come on. I’ve only got one shot.”

“Ah. Fine. Fuck it. Deal,” Jack says and spits as well. Then his face creases. “You fucker. I’m gonna have to put my hand in that.”

Edward laughs. It’s bright and stupid, though it feels so good- even if it brings out Mad Eddie’s black toothed scowl.

“Get ta work!” Mad Eddie snaps, punching Edward in the shoulder and kicking Jack in the ribs. But the man is tired and it barely even hurts. Even Jack just winces and grumbles. “Or I’ll lock ya in the bilge til ya rot.”

Edward ducks his head and grins as he goes to fetch another bucket. He has plans to make.

xxxx

By the time evening sets in, Edward is fidgety, and annoyed. The captain’s dinner was only a few moments away and he has nothing, less than nothing, no plans and arms like lead and an aching face and a split lip. Mad Eddie has been on his ass the whole day. He and Jack have scrubbed the deck from stem to stern, until Jack was allowed to escape into the rigging to take a watch. And then it was just Edward and Mad Eddie had loomed over him, ready with fists or feet or encouraging others to give him what for.

And they had, the fuckers, because the price of grog is cheap.

 Currently, he is standing over the last of the salted beef, simmering in the cook pot that he’ll have to clean later, the steam making him sweat. The delicious wafting smell of it makes the hollow ache in his gut that much greater. There are vegetables in it, what’s left of them. Beets with the rot cut out, wilted carrots, chunks of a potato that peer up now and then- and meat, real meat, shining brown in the liquid before disappearing like a ghost.

Cook is sitting at the table, a ledger open on it, nodding his head over lines and numbers- counting what is left, how long they have. Edward wants to steal a ladleful or two of the broth- but even if Cook is starting to nod off right now, he’s not asleep yet. Anyway, Edward is not about to risk it. If he gets caught he’s fucked and he’s come so close. Instead he licks his dry lips and tries to think about what he can do or say when he gets to the captain’s cabin. Jack is right, Hornigold isn’t impressed with him at all. He’s even tempted to wrap the red silk around his neck and look presentable, but then Hornigold might ask about it and Edward isn’t sure he wants to answer.

From the table, Cook snorts and jerks his head up like a startled horse. He rubs his bristled chin and scrubs at his real eye with the heel of his hand. The other must be glass, Edward thinks. Or wood.

“Merde,” Cook mutters, looking back down at the ledger. “You are getting old Jean-Luc.”

Edward almost feels bad for him, but then remembers the glossy scar forming on his inner arm and decides he doesn’t feel bad at all. The man shakes his head and picks up the quill, scratching away at the paper in whorls of words and tally marks.

“Too much longer at anchor and maybe we’ll have to eat you, chien .” He smirks through the steam. “What do you think? Should we fatten you up?”

There doesn’t seem a good answer to that so Edward ignores the question.

“What do you think we’re out here for anyway?” he asks. Cook shrugs and rises from the table, massaging the small of his back before tap -thumping over to him.

“Une chance pour la grandeur. Here, let us plate this up.”

“A chance…at being grand…” Edward says and Cook smiles, shakes his head, puts a rough hand in Edward’s hair and Edward tenses, gritting his teeth as he’s shoved forward, nearly against the cook pot which would burn like a motherfucker.

“Just so,” Cook says, laying out the tray and the fine bowls the captain and mate use.

“Mad Eddie says he wants to be a king.” Edward says carefully. Cook hands him the captain’s bowl and Edward holds it between his hands while Cook fishes through the broth for the best bits, the tenderest meat, the fullest carrots, all the chunks of potato, it seems.

“Oui . He is a man of great ambition. So much so that he can barely see over his own nose, eh? If I didn’t owe him my life, I would put to port. Perhaps the next one. Or Benjamin's kingdom should he succeed.” He pronounces it Ban ji man, the words flowing together like water, and Edward mouths it experimentally, then presses his lips together when Cook gives him a steely glare.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“And see that you don’t.”

“What kingdom?” Edward asks, wincing as the heat of the bowl starts to burn his palms and fingers. Cook doesn’t answer and after a moment he allows Edward to put the bowl on the tray.

He shakes out his hands and Cook jabs the iron butt of the ladle into his ribs, hard enough to leave a bruise. Edward sucks in a breath and grabs the other bowl, gritting his teeth as Cook starts to fill the bowl with the bubbling stuff.

“I wonder, chien,” says Cook in a low voice like the rumble of thunder. “If you know what has been happening to my good rum.” His knobbly fingers fit too warm around Edward’s throat, brushing the scabbed cut that Mad Eddie had made on tosser’s watch. It’s so boring. Edward can kick his wooden leg out from under him and send him crashing into the cook pot, let the boiling water pour over him for once.

But he had learned things by being still and quiet when he’d wanted to smash someone’s face in- and anyway, Cook didn’t scare him. This close he looked even tireder, his skin pale and grimy like an onion, dark shadows under his eyes. Edward has a fragment of his life in his hands and Cook doesn’t even know.

“The bottle’s under your arm in the morning,” Edward says. “I’ve seen it.” And he had. And he had seen Cook’s face when he stares at it, without knowing how it got there. Cook’s throat moves as he swallows and Edward frowns like he cares.

“Tant pis,” Cook says, letting him go. Then scowling at the door says: “Where is that little vagrant?”

“I don’t know.” Edward puts the bowl on the tray and grabs some of the tarnished spoons to put on the tray as well, the spoons clattering a bit in his slightly shaking hands. “I could bring it out to him.” 

Even as he says it it feels like a trick, something thin and sneaky that Cook will pick up on right away. The man says nothing and when Edward looks up at him, he sees Cook’s eye is closed and he’s weaving slightly back and forth with the roll of the ship.

Edward licks his lips. He can send him to sleep now, maybe, send him crashing to the floor. The thought almost makes him laugh and he has to bite his inner lip to stop himself before saying:

“Cook?”

“Mmh?” Cook opens his eye. Then grunts and flaps his hand: “ Aller, aller . And don’t spill anything or your eyeball will flavor the next.”

“I won’t.” Edward says. He picks up the tray in both hands and, heart in his throat, heads up to the deck.

It’s cool out now, the sky starting to burn with sunset. Nothing smells great but a downpour not too long ago made it smell better and brought with it a fresh breeze. In a way it’s worse. The dregs are restless now, wanting to be sailing toward something. They are clumped in twos and threes on the deck except for Monto who is still recovering on the hammock, sallow, breath rattling in his lungs. Mad Eddie stands by the capstan, arms folded, muscles still knotted with tension. 

Edward avoids his gaze and moves aft. Jack is standing by the stairs with Larks, his own arms folded. Even though he’s taller than Edward, he looks small and shriveled, his shoulders caged, eyes darting back and forth before landing on him. Jack pulls himself up with a scowl but that doesn’t mean he looks any less afraid. Edward clutches the tray, glaring at him. Even if Jack was pissing himself in terror it wouldn’t stop Edward from getting in that fucking cabin.

“Hey there,” Larks says, pushing himself away from the wall. There is an uncertain look on his face and he tucks the knife he was whittling with in his belt. “Jack-o says you’ve something to tell me?”

“Yeah,” Edward says, keeping his eyes locked on Jack. “Greg heard everything the other night. He says he’s going to tell Mads. All of it.”

“That little bastard !” Larks is charging past him. Edward watches him go and practically tear Scrawny Greg from the rigging where the other man had been starting to frantically climb. Greg lets out a gull harsh cry and catches Larks’ blade in his arm rather than his heart. Mad Eddie snarls in wordless frustration and charges after them.

“Holy fuckin’ shit , ” Jack breathes. “What the hell did he overhear?” Immediately the other boy shakes his head. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know.”

“Good, I wasn’t going to tell you.” Edward moves to go up the steps but suddenly Jack is in his way, holding up his hands.

“No, man, shit. I can’t do this. They’re gonna kill me if you go in. Thanks for - whatever, but I’ll make it up to you.”

Larks’ high pitched yell is the only thing that saves Jack from a face full of salted beef broth. Edward can feel hard edges of the wooden tray pressing against the web of his thumbs and even though Jack is gripping the railing like he wants to bolt, the fear of the rabbit, or maybe Hornigold himself, keeps him in place. But that’s fine, that’s fucking fine. There’s more than one fear and more than one secret.

“If I tell Mads what you saw, they’re not going to have a chance to get to you, are they?” he says through clenched teeth. For a second it looks like Jack is going to kill him and Edward almost welcomes it. He wouldn’t mind fighting with him, to punch something that punched back. If it wasn’t for that fucking knife it would be a fair fight.

But Jack only curses and spits and curses again.

“Fine. Shit. I’ll say you snuck by me. You better fuckin’ stick to that story or I swear I’ll cut you guts out. Now go on, get, before anyone sees us.”

He moves and Edward feels something in his gut unknot only to knot again at his chest as he moves up the stairs. The goal is in sight. A dim light spills from the deck facing window, like a beacon, like a welcome, like coming home- almost, but he has to keep on his guard because neither of them will be happy he’s there.

 Edward stops by the door, closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. He has to sail this course well. He has to keep his eyes sharp and his mind sharper and not get angry and not be stupid. If he can do this- if he can grab hold of Hornigold’s interest then maybe- maybe there will be something greater opened up for him.

He jostles the tray to one hand, jumping a bit and spilling salted beef broth at Jack’s sharp:

“Hey!”

And nearly slams in the door to claim his prize.

But he doesn’t. He turns the knob instead and slips in quietly…

…into a different world.

The first thing that strikes him is the scent. It smells of wood and cinnamon from a precious rolled up stick in a brass plate. A table takes up most of the center with elegant legs and two chairs with blue and gold swirled cushions. There is a bed against a wall, under a bank of windows, enough to fit two men if they laid on their sides, with a soft pillow and a thin blanket. A dark sea chest is at its foot, deep brown with a brass lock, the key still in it. The room isn’t large, only about half the size of his old house, maybe even less, but it feels full and rich and magical. 

Hornigold and the rabbit are standing by one of the windows just opposite the bed, backs to the door, the sunlight slipping an orange-red square over the captain’s sleeve. His short coat was set to the side and he was just in his waistcoat and shirt now, his hands behind him, a single silver ring shining on his index finger. In that moment he is more a man than Father ever was.

“You need to give this up, Captain,” says the rabbit in his strangely sonorous voice, buzzing lightly in the golden nose. “The men are slipping. We need to be pirates. Actual pirates. We can’t wait for the Leviathan to strip us bare again.”

“Last I heard she was just leaving drydock in Bristol,” says Hornigold. “It will take her a month or more to reach these waters.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the rabbit replies. “You know it doesn’t. You are chasing a dream. I don’t understand what it is you’re hoping for”

Edward knows he should speak, at least to clear his throat to let them know he’s there- but first he’ll lay the meal out so they’ll see what he’s there to do, that he’s not just spying. With care he approaches the table and notices there’s a map laid across it. He carefully sets a bowl on either side of it, well away from the precious vellum, and the spoons beside the bowls before leaning in to take a look.

It’s a beautiful map, with thin black lines that carve out islands and the big chunk of land he had learned is called a continent. There are all sorts of words- clear ones with letters like bricks of a house. Some of it was spidery, written at the sides in darker sharper ink. There are a couple ivory pieces there too, one placed just a little away from the islands, the other in a protective bay of an island, and around that island were small jagged lines in the same sharp black.

Reefs, maybe? Shoals? But nowhere else… Maybe these are just the ones Hornigold knows of.

“I don’t expect you to understand it,” says Hornigold. “I need you with me. The Rosa is out there. She’ll make for the open sea soon, she’ll have to, and we’ll have to get her before the English do- Once we have her, once we have her secrets….”

The word touches Edward like a spark in a fuse, he can almost hear it hissing away inside, his heart picking up the temp. Secrets. Like him. The captain is collecting treasures in his palms, or wants to. He wants to know what they are too. He wants to hold them in his hands to watch them shine.

 Edward raises his eyes to watch as Hornigold braces a hand against the window frame, the hand at his back clenched in a loose fist.

“Pirates live and die by the wind and tides,” the man murmurs. “But we can be more than that, Harve. We can be more. All we need is our foot in the door.”

Edward wants to say he’ll help, to shout it out, to be pulled along by Hornigold’s wake because even though they are man and boy, they are the same . The need to speak presses against his lips, but somehow he keeps silent even as his heart is jerking about like a fish on a line.

He can’t just say he can help. He has to prove it somehow.

“And how the hell do you propose to get it?” the rabbit hisses. “There’s only a chance she’ll come out of the northwest! If she’s smart she’ll go south. If we sneak up on her like a wolf in the night, she will go south. Once she catches the current she’s gone and the men will have lost their patience.” And then, more gently than Edward had heard the rabbit speak to anyone. “The men have no use for secrets, Ben.”

Edward glances at the map, twisting his head to get a better look at it. He looks for the crook on the compass rose that tells him North. The island the one ivory piece is as at has jagged lines around most of it except for the wide open patch to the North West, and a smaller thinner break between the lines at the South.

He doesn’t know much about reefs and shoals, except that these must not easily be seen- or seen at all– and maybe that’s what the map is for. Maybe that’s why they can’t sneak in at night because it won’t matter if the Rosa can see or not. 

A thought glimmers in Edward’s mind and he closes his eyes to look at them. Sneaking up at night, they’ll be spotted. There will be a mist tomorrow morning, as Saladin says and Edward wants to blurt that out, but it won’t be enough if the Rosa really wants to leave, because she’ll know the way out. But what if she doesn’t want to leave? What if they can draw her toward them?

But how? Edward thinks. Drawing people toward you. Father did when he wasn’t in his cups, but he was friendly and laughed a lot. Mother did, but in a quiet way, because she was kind even if she didn’t speak much and she had fewer friends and soon none at all. He thought again of her giving coins, when she had, to the beggars, the needy, the diseased, reaching out with bone thin hands.

“We can lure her in,” Edward says. The rabbit startles and even Hornigold’s shoulders jump. As one they both turn toward him like the opening of double doors, letting light slant in through the window. Edward can’t see their expressions but it doesn’t matter.

“Zorah will bring the veil tomorrow, that’s what Saladin says,” he continues. “It’s a mist, a fog, or something like that. If we get close enough and pretend we need help, maybe she’ll come to us- and we can pull her away from her passage. And maybe if she gets scared she’ll scupper herself if she tries to run.”

It’s good. He knows it’s good. Even as his fingers dig into the wood of the tray and he feels his breath catch in his throat. He feels a charge in the air, exhilarating and terrifying and it’s all he can do to keep himself still.

It’s the rabbit who speaks first, voice low barbed menace.

“Motherless whoreson, I knew it was only a matter of time.” He hops closer on his crutch, lank hair swinging, groping for something near his belt. He is backlit and Edward can’t really make it out. It could be a knife or a pistol but Edward isn’t afraid.

“I’m bringing food,” he says, keeping his gaze on the captain. 

“Taste it,” the rabbit snaps. Edward blinks.

“What?”

“You heard me. Both bowls.”

Shrugging, Edward does as he’s told. First he takes a sip of the captain’s broth, hot and delicious, though it only carves his stomach open for more and his teeth long for something to sink into. From the rabbit’s he takes the one and only chunk of potato, letting it hang on his tongue for a moment before biting into it. It’s soft but there’s just enough give to make it feel good and the full flavor of it mushes into his mouth and slides warm down his throat.

“Bringing food and advice it seems,” says Hornigold. Edward hears his tread on the floor and opens his eyes to watch him shift out of the sunlight and into the dimmer room. His face is impassive, gray eyes flat. “Who told you to say that?”

“No one.”

“Liar,” the rabbit says, lifting his hand and Edward sees it is a pistol, the light slipping against the gold of the muzzle. “Who was it? Aconi? Toussaint? Darby?”

Toussaint sounds like it belongs to Cook, Darby is probably Mad Eddie unless there is someone else the rabbit distrusts.

“They would have told you themselves, right?” Edward says.

Hornigold raises his eyebrows as if he had made a good point and Edward grins.

“I still call you a liar, boy,” says the rabbit, pulling back the hammer and the first flash of true anger goes across Hornigold’s face.

“Put that way, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps. “If it goes off in here, you’ll start a war.”

The rabbit curses under his breath and gingerly sets the pistol on the table, though keeps a hand on it as if realizing how close it is to Edward’s grasp. Edward keeps the tray in his hands and Hornigold sighs gustily, shaking his head. There are lines around his eyes that Edward doesn’t remember seeing and a wrinkle between his sandy eyebrows.

Even he seems worried about the tide of men crashing over them and the fuse in Edward’s chest grows brighter for some reason. Even Hornigold doesn’t own all the power. The men give it to him just as he gives it to them. That means that Edward has some to give on his own, something more than the coins of secrets; he just has to find out what it is.

“So why are you here, Mr. Teach,” says Hornigold, sitting in front of his bowl and his map. “Fetch the bourbon, Harvey.”

“Me? Captain…”

“The rat doesn’t know where it is and I’m not having him poking around.” Hornigold jabs his spoon in Edward’s direction before flicking it at the rabbit. “Get it and get yourself some. Leave the pistol.”

With a curse the rabbit turns away and Edward glances after the man, watching him hop to the sea chest with the brass key.

“Well?” Hornigold says, drawing his attention back.

“I wanted to see you,” Edward says. “I want to learn to be like you.” A ghost of a smile flits across Hornigold’s face before it fades. The rabbit huffs.

“Impertinent toe rag.”

“And Jack?” says Hornigold, blowing on the broth. “What did you do to him?”

Edward shrugs again.

“He’s more scared of Mad Eddie than he is of the ra— Mr. Harvey,” he corrects at Hornigold’s look. “If you don’t want to make it so easy you need to protect him better.”

“And you’re not afraid of Mad Eddie?” There’s something about the way Hornigold says it, almost mocking, though Edward can’t tell who he is making fun of.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” he says. Hornigold stares at him, as if trying to see the truth behind his eyes. Edward meets his gray eyed gaze, trying to make his own expression just a stony, just as still as a cloudless day. What would it be like to be able to look like that one day? All emotions hidden away.

Almost all emotions, Edward thinks, remembering the flash of anger from before. He glances at the pistol and Hornigold does too. In the background the rabbit curses and clatters with pretty glassware, and Edward wants to look at it but is distracted as Hornigold’s short fingered hand slides over the pistol’s smooth wood grip. In a moment, Edward finds himself staring down the barrel of it, gold at the rim where the light hits but deepening into shadow- with death at the end.

“And now?” says Hornigold. He waves the pistol in a short, graceful arc as if making a point. “You will die. I have no use for you. You cause trouble on my ship. You start fights. There hasn’t been a moment’s peaceful voyage since you came. I should make an example of you.”

Hornigold rises enough to press the muzzle of the pistol to Edward’s forehead. The metal is oddly warm, like a living thing.

“Have you found your fear?” Hornigold asks.

Edward looks for it, tries to scrounge it up. His heart beats steady, his breath comes even, his palms are dry. Not even his neck prickles with warning. He doesn’t doubt Hornigold will kill him either and wonders what that would be like. It’ll hurt maybe but then is it darkness like sleep? Or is there something else that happens?

“Well?” says Hornigold.

“No.” Which is annoying. What kind of person isn’t afraid? From behind them the rabbit curses and there’s the sound of breaking glass. Hornigold starts and his finger taps against the trigger. Edward sucks in a breath, sharp anticipation hammering in his heart. Is it excitement? It feels like excitement. It shouldn’t be that should it?

Whatever it is he likes it.

Hornigold’s eyes narrow and his expression goes still and flat.

“Give me a reason not to kill you, boy.”

The ‘boy’ sends a sharp hot twist through him but the way it was said made it too interesting to hook any anger. Hornigold had said it like an order. Like he wants to be convinced. They are the same. They want the same thing.

“Because I know what you want.”

“And what’s that?” says Hornigold, a flicker of surprise in his cold gray eyes like he was hungry too. Edward might not understand the details, but he knows. What else could a king want?

“A kingdom.” He meets Hornigold’s flat gray eyes, holds them, feels himself grin- expects any moment for the pistol to go off and to see black and red and nothing. “And I can help you get it.

How, he doesn’t know. But he can do it. He can do anything. He feels like he could take apart the ship board by board and put it back together again with his own hands. Hornigold smirks, tracing the flintlock from Edward’s forehead to his cheek and tapping it lightly with the side of it, making his skin prickle at the feel of warm metal and smooth wood.

“You’re a menace,” Hornigold says with a grin pulling the corner of his thin mouth. All at once Edward feels seen, feels understood, even if he doesn’t understand himself. The rabbit snorts from the back, the cut glass of the bourbon bottle sending freckles of light around the room.

“Don’t listen to him, captain, the boy can’t even climb the rigging.”

“I can now,” Edward says. Hornigold breathes out through his nose and rises, placing the flintlock on the table between them.

“And so you will,” he says. “You will know every scrap of this ship from stem to stern. You will work your fingers to the bone for me and thank me for the privilege. You will learn how to serve–”

“Captain-” the rabbit starts. Hornigold holds up a hand. Edward grins.

“-and you will learn how to behave. Yes?”

“Yes.” It doesn’t matter what he has to do. What he has to be. Being in here is his first step toward something. Toward being something more than just a dreg, a scrub. No one can look down on him now.

“Remember that,” says Hornigold, coming around the table. “Remember what I’ve told you.”

“Yes, sir,” Edward says. How can he forget? Hornigold looks down at him, a strange pull at the side of his mouth like a smile but not- until that too fades into his sand-glass face.

“Come, Mr. Harvey, forget that for now. We have work to do on deck.”

The rabbit mutters something under his breath and Hornigold waits, patient, as the man puts the bottles away and swings up to them on his crutch. There is something about that. Something big that Edward doesn’t understand but it pushes a feeling low in his chest.  That feeling turns high and sharp as Hornigold rests a hand on the back of Edward’s neck, sturdy and callused and dry, and leads them to the door.

Everyone is going to see this. Them. Everyone is going to know. Going to understand. No one is going to call him Pisser any more because he is with the captain now.

They step out under a vivid sky, throbbing orange and red and blue. The crew are scattered around the deck and rigging and almost as one turn toward them, as if pulled by Hornigold’s very presence. Even Cook comes from the galley, rubbing his thick hands on his apron.

Edward rolls back his shoulders back and lifts his head, a sweet brush of wind coming from the stern and scooping down sends fingers through his hair and flits the edge of Hornigold’s short coat against his back.

“Mr. Darby,” says Hornigold, barely raises his voice, but it rolls across the deck anyway like thunder. Mad Eddie steps forward, bloodless, sharp knuckled fists caged at his side.

“Aye?”

“I found this in my quarters.”  Hornigold gives him a little push forward and Edward stumbles a little, turning to look at him on instinct. Hornigold’s hand is raised, the last of the sunlight glints deep red in the stone of Hornigold’s ring.

There is flash of black and red and a lancing bolt of pain in the back of his head that makes sparks dance behind his eyes. When he opens them again, the world seems fuzzed around the edges, his jaw aches, his head feels hollow, he’s on the deck, half braced against the wall.

 Hornigold is speaking, his words falling sharp like broken shells.

“-uninvited. If you can’t keep control of your men maybe you should spend less time chattering at tosser’s watch.” He shakes his head and grips the railing. “Look at all of you. I’ve never seen a worse pack of mongrels in my life. Half of you aren’t fit to spit let alone fight. But you’ll have to. Tomorrow morning, thanks to Mr. Harvey’s genius, we will bring the storm.”

There is  a silence then like the roll of a wave, waiting for it to break.

“What’s the target, Captain?” says Aconi, deep voice full of fierce pride.

“The Rosa. A sow full of fat merchants and thick lined with plunder. Something for everyone. Rum. Meat. Sugar. Gold. 

At each flat word ragged cheers rise from the deck. Gold sends their feet stamping on the boards.

“And more than that,” Hornigold says above the noise. “The Rosa holds the key to the straits. To plunder, riches, beyond your wildest dreams. To fat bellied ships like pigeons ready for the catching.”

Another roar, this louder than the last time, the air seems to be shivering with noise. 

“To blood and fortune, mates!” The rabbit cries, his voice high and thin, blade sharp.

“Blood and fortune!” the men echo.

“And who do we owe our thanks, curs?” the rabbit calls.

“Hornigold!” the crew echoes. “Hornigold! Hornigold! ” The captain’s name comes like a chant, rising and rising until Hornigold says:

“Rum for all!”

The cheer seems to rattle the deck. Hornigold moves down the stairs to join them and they gather around him like pleased dogs, happy to see their master. Edward’s heart beats slow and sluggish in his chest and he comes back to himself, the captain’s absence seeming like the air’s been sucked out.

The rabbit hops over to him, the full weight of his crutch coming down on Edward’s hand, pinning him hard to the deck. Edward yelps and then bites the back of his knuckles so he won’t scream, the pain is searing and even more when the man leans his full weight on it and Edward is sure he can hear his bones shift and start to break.

“Get to work, Pisser,” the rabbit grins hard and harsh, the light spilling off his gold nose. “The men need their rum.”

xxxx

Edward sits at the galley table, feeling the pitch of the ship as she rides the waves which have become a little choppy as the day has smoothed away to night. He hardly notices it anymore, but right now it’s as if he can feel everything- the ache on his hand, the bruise on his cheek and the cut there that he hadn’t noticed before from Hornigold’s ring. His clothes are rough and frayed against his skin and his fingers are scraped and swollen from scrubbing, the center of his left palm a blue/purplish bruise like a black spot. A mark of death. He stares at it, his mind fuzz, empty of everything but existing, his breath warm in his lungs.

At the head of the table, Cook is snoring, passed out on his ledger, the candle by his hand burning low. The light shines and slips against the glass of his watchful eye-which is nothing- which is meaningless. He’s just a man.

Everyone is just a man, but he feels less than, like a shadow, a spirit in a graveyard ready to slip from one place to the next, or maybe disappear altogether. Sometimes he feels like he should have. Should have died in his cot, as Father had bellowed once, taking up all the money -always needing new clothes, new shoes and what has he done for the family? Nothing. He’s just a child, Mother would say and Father would raise his hand…

The creak of the steps makes him start and nearly fall off the bench. His hands try to clench and he winces at the bruise, heart thudding in his ears. It will be Mad Eddie. Mad Eddie will kill him. Will cut his throat and feed him to the sharks.

But the bulky shadow that comes into the warm faint circle of light isn’t Mad Eddie, but Paulo. Edward stares at him. Somehow the man seems more real than anything else in the room, as if it’s made of smoke. He smells like the sea and rum  and sweat and in the candle light, the eyes of the saint seem to watch him, mute with sympathy. Edward swallows hard and wishes he could stand and lay his head against her, wishes her arms would come up and wrap around him say: it will be alright, you’ll see. Tomorrow will be better, hey? Now dry your eyes. There’s my good boy.

He isn’t a good boy though. He doesn’t deserve a saint. He deserves what he got and more. Perhaps Paulo will be the one to do it, with a gun or a knife or a bit of rough rope. The man doesn’t seem like he’s coming to kill though. His mouth is flat and eyes as somber as the saint. He casts a wary glance at Cook and makes a gesture to follow.

Edward shrugs and rises, the faint scrape of the bench rousing Cook who mutters a slurred: “Qui es dans ma chambre ?” As if he’s mostly asleep still.

“Les monstres sont partis, ” Edward says, his own voice sounding dull and flat to his ears. Cook relaxes back into sleep but it seems uneasy. Edward looks up to find Paulo staring at him. Edward stares back. Let him know that secret. Let him tell the captain. It doesn’t matter. Finally Paulo mutters something under his breath, shaking his head. He motions Edward to follow again and starts up the stairs.

Edward almost wants to stay behind in the dim galley, or to go to his closet in the pantry- but instead leaves the table to follow him on deck. Though the ship hasn't moved, the air feels fresh out here, the sky is full of stars but scudded with clouds. Paulo sits by a pile of thick rope and Edward sits beside him, curling his knees to his chest.

“I t-told you. A-a-actions have co-consequences, p-primo .”

Edward shrugs, picking at a splinter in the deck with a fingernail.

“You c-can’t j-just w-w-walk into the ca-captains room and e-e-expect to b-be wel-welcomed.”

Hornigold had said things to him though. Good things. They don’t feel good now. They feel empty. Gutless. He rubs his bruised swollen cheek against his shoulder just to feel it hurt. Paulo sighs in a great gusty breath and puts a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. Dangerous wet stings the back of Edward’s eyes and he closes them so they won’t spill over, resting his forehead against his knees, teeth grit against it. He won’t. He won’t .

“E-está bi-bien ,” Paulo says. “M-Mads may h-h-hate you n-now, b-but the r-r-r… c-conejo is s-satisfied.”

Satisfied? Edward scrubs his eyes with the back of his good hand and blinks at the palm of the other, the mark even blacker now in the darkness. Why? Because he’d left a bruise on him?

“Th-that m-means y-you ha-have a ch-chance of s-s-surviving the mo-moth. Th-that is if you s-s-survive the r-r-raid.”

Paulo grips the back of his neck, hand large and cool and hard as iron. Edward’s breath comes narrow in his throat. His cheek throbs and he sucks in a shaky breath, gripping his leg with his good hand.  Paulo leans in, his breath hot and smelling faintly of rum and thin peppery gruel.

“M-Mads is a p-perro that wi-will b-b-bite wh-when s-s-scared,” Paulo murmurs, close to his ear. “He wi-wi-will t-try and k-kill you wh-where n-n-no one c-can s-see.”

It isn’t that different from before,  is it? Just more and more people rising up like shadows, reaching tendrils wanting him dead.

“S-s-so wh-when we b-board, s–s-stay cl-close to m-m-me…”

Edward looks up at him, sharp warmth filling his chest like relief. His eyes are burning again and he blinks hard so nothing will fall. It doesn’t make sense. Won’t he get hurt or punished? That’s what happened before, didn’t it? 

“Why?” Edward asks, hating how his voice wavers high and uncertain. He’s not a man yet but he almost is and that was a child’s voice. Paulo seems to smile and ruffles Edward’s hair.

“W-we’re m-m-mates, s-sí ?

“Mates…” Edward echoes. Is that right? Is it true? He wants it to be true.  He wants to be able to come up on deck whenever and sit beside Paulo, work side by side with him- and not get angry at him no matter what he says. He’ll be better this time. They can fight and work together. It’ll be amazing and Edward knows he’ll learn so much. Maybe even more than he’d learn from Hornigold.

“Sí ,” Edward says and Paulo pats his head once briefly before pulling his hand away.

“B-bien . Now g-go g-get s-some r-r-rest, p-primo,”  Paulo’s face becomes serious. “A-and k-keep the d-d-door sh-sh-shut.” 

xxxx

Zorah’s shroud hangs thick in the air, rolling across the deck in curling thin tendrils. Edward grips the line as he stands crouched on the railing, heart thudding so loud in his throat he’s sure everyone can hear it. He is wide awake, too awake, hot thick coffee seeming to coat the inside of his guts.

“Ajude-me!” Edward calls again, his voice going a little raw and seeming swallowed by the fog. The words are echoed and carried down the line of men standing by the railing. The Rosa is Portuguese, the captain had said, and would respond better to tongues of their own land- but for the love of God make sure you can pronounce it.

So Edward and those who could speak it had been calling into the fog for what seemed like hours, the others standing by weapons at the ready, knotted with tension. The air smells like smoke and charred wood from the fires that they’d lit in the two heavy cookpots and hung from the rigging, the black smoke churns through the thick fog and makes it seem thicker somehow, and more like a shroud every passing moment.

Edward eyes the rabbit who is standing further away from them down the deck, nearly lost in mist, head tilted toward some sound. The man had woken all hands in the early hours, Edward doesn’t know when. It was early enough that Zorah was already starting to work her magic, the fog thick and heavy in the air as they dropped sail and headed closer.

After they’d anchored, as close as they had dared to get,  they had all gathered around Hornigold who had stood on the deck with them, the rabbit holding the lantern which flickered orange-gold light across his face and in his eyes.

‘Kill everyone,’ he had said. ‘Not a soul leaves alive. Take everything, destroy nothing. Man with the greatest treasure earns a reward.’

‘Kill’ had stuck with Edward, fluttering in his head like a feather, catching in his throat.

“Ajude-me!” he calls.

The thought shouldn’t be so strange. He has killed already. He’s seen death up close. Pushed it into the water, chest heaving and knotted….

 Except he doesn’t have a thing to kill with. So maybe he won’t this time. He’d tried to get a weapon. Gilead Thorpe had handed them out just a short while ago; pistols, shot, oiled cutlasses. When Edward had come up, Gilead’s gaze had slid off him like water.  Even Jack has a weapon. He is standing a little ways down the deck, looking gawky and stupid with a too big cutlass at his hip and two pistols jammed into his thin belt.

 Edward wishes he’d gotten a knife at least from the kitchens but Cook is  awake as well— maybe he doesn’t need it though.

Paulo stands beside him, hand on Bertha, a slim muzzled cannon, bronzed and stuffed with grapeshot, which, as Edward has learned, has nothing to do with grapes. He has a cutlass too, and two pistols and a knife at his side. Edward had thought Paulo might give him something- might slide it into his hand while Hornigold was speaking or weapons were gathered- and he hadn’t– But he had stood by Edward the whole time even with all the evil looks Mad Eddie had sent their way.

Maybe Paulo will pass him something on the ship— like the knife, or maybe even the pistol, and they’ll fight back to back, cutting down any fool that gets in their path. The thought makes him grin and his stomach churn. He swallows and takes a breath to call for help again. 

Then he hears it. An echo of waves against a wooden hull. 

Voices come thin through the fog.

“Quem está aí?”

“Você está bem?”

Edward hesitates. Rabbit has his hand raised. Edward’s heart drums in his throat.

“Pelo amor de Deus, ajude-nos!” Hornigold’s voice comes somewhere in the fog, half hidden on the aft deck, rough and desperate.

“Estava aqui. Aguentar! ” comes the voice in return. Edward can see the ship now, looming suddenly out of the mist like a dream. She is beautiful, a long dark sloop with trim sails— He can see the others too, men in orange and dark green or maybe blue tunics. His throat knots.

Out of the corner of his eye, the rabbit drops his hand.

Paulo sets the fuse. Edward has only a moment to stare at it before the world explodes in with a shaking roar that knocks him off the railing backwards onto the deck. He might have screamed, he can hear something like a scream echoing in his ears. Or maybe it’s the men who are screaming. Mad Eddie’s  mouth is wide open, black teeth gleaming, veins on his neck extending as he draws his shining cutlass. The others are screaming too.

“Piratas! Piratas!” the voices seem  to echo and Edward smacks his ear to fix it. A hand grabs him rough on the back of his shirt and he flails, nearly getting Paulo in the ribs.

“V-vamos!” the man snaps hauling  him up, shoving a rope in his hands. Edward sees the others are taking ropes too, swinging over onto the deck which is already full of gleaming swords, flashing in the lamplight. Edward grips the rope, feeling it rough in his palms and steps up on the railing. Across the way Scrawny Greg splits a man open and he goes down in a spray of blood.

Edward forgets how to move, forgets how to breathe, his knees shaking. Paulo moves violently behind him and that giant hand slaps into his back sending him swinging over the sea and the splintered railing. Edward can hear himself screaming now. The rope starts to swing back and Edward lets go before he changes his mind. For a second he’s weightless, flying- then hits the deck hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

The deck trembles around him. There are roars and pops all around him from pistol fire and he covers his head as splinters from something rain down around him. The cannon goes off in another roar and Edward watches iron shards tear red across a  man’s skin before he turns his head and chokes up bile.

“Morra, seu merdinha!” a voice snarls behind him and Edward twists, the shape looming over him dark and ominous; like it was framed in the doorway, stinking of rum, mother clutching at him and telling him to go for a walk, it’s night now but he’ll be fine it will be fine. 

The shape hoists a gleaming sword. A darker thicker shape lands behind the blackness and suddenly it’s not a shape of a monster full of anger and hard fists, but a thin man with a cutlass through his chest.  Paulo drags it out, blood slick, leaving the man gagging and punches him over the side down into the deep. 

“I-idiota! Va-vamos!” Paulo snarls. Then charges across the deck, slashing men out of his way. Edward scrambles to his feet and follows, ducking out of the way of men and showering splinters. He can’t just follow like a fucking duck. He needs something! Anything.

A man screams and too late Edward sees the body falling toward him. He falls under the weight and shoves him off— staring for a moment into Timbee’s vacant stare, his throat a mass of blood. The one who had struck Timbee glares and bears down. Edward pries Timbee’s flintlock from his curled hand and fires. The kick knocks him onto his back, his ears ringing again. The swordsman falls to one leg, the other gouting blood.

Edward staggers to his feet before the swordsman can get up again.

“Paulo!” he cries. “Paulo!”  He can’t see him through the dark and the fog and now the roiling smoke from where a part of the ship has caught on fire. He wants to scream. He wants to look for Paulo frantically, pulling up bodies.

 He can’t fight. He has no shot, no gunpowder, nothing to make the pistol useful again! Fuck!

Another man catches sight of him and Edward bolts, charging across the deck. A flicker of light shines over the window of the aft cabin like the swinging arc of a light house. Edward charges up the steps, a man at the top swinging at him with a thick club - -

Edward ducks out of the way just in time and punches the man in the balls as hard as he can. The man screams and topples forward- Edward dances out from under him and kicks him down the stairs before pivoting and slamming into the room, breathing hard- chest heaving.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight. He needs to do more than just scream and puke and run. He needs to fight like the rest of them. Otherwise he’s going to die here. Worse they’re going to know he is nothing. Nothing but a boy. Nothing but a pisser.

There is a soft curse and Edward jerks the flintlock up. There is a man in the shadows, standing behind a heavy oak desk. He is slender and grave, dressed all in black, hair askew as if he’d just woken. The captain, maybe? Edward thinks, chest heaving. The mate?  The man slowly raises his hands.

“Paz. Abaixe a arma. Eu não vou te machucar. Eu sou um médico.”

Should he kill him? Hornigold said no one left alive. But with what? He licks the blood and bile from his lip. The man slowly comes toward him and Edward raises the pistol higher, pulling back the hammer. The dark haired man steps back.

“Paz, Paz, ” the man says calmly. “Médico. …Médico? Voce entende?”

Edward stares at him, trying to figure out what he’s saying. Me…jico? Like one of the three magi? That doesn’t make much sense.

“Ah,” the man says in a familiar tone. “¿Hablas español? Comprenez-vous le français ?” The man makes a face. “Do you speak English?” 

“You’re English…” Edward says. What is an English man doing on a Portuguese ship? He looks pretty fancy too, but in a dusty rumpled way.

“Guilty as charged,” says the man with a faint smile. “My name is John Harrow. Doctor John Harrow.”

“Méjico… ” No… that wasn’t right. “Médjico. ”

“Yes,” the man says, then cautiously. “And you are?”

Edward hesitates. “A pirate,” he says, because he’s not giving some weird English guy his name.

“I see that,” says the man wryly. A cannon booms again and men scream. Edward winces “Do you plan to shoot me?” says the man.  “Only you don’t look like you like this very much.”

“I might,” Edward says. Then straightening. “I love this. This is amazing.” His voice is too thick in his throat but that’s what he should say. He’s a pirate after all. If he’s going to be great he should be right there in the thick of it.

“Forgive me if I’m skeptical,” says the man and Edward glares. He doesn’t know the word, but it doesn’t sound like a nice one.  He jerks the pistol, finger light on the trigger and the man flinches now. “Alright, alright, you’ve made your point. Listen, lad, I assume that you lot are taking a no prisoners approach to this.”

“No soul left alive.” Edward echoes. It’s interesting, he can’t really shoot the doctor, not like this. Not with nothing left to shoot him with.  But the doctor doesn’t know it. He’s just afraid of it. Cautious maybe. There’s something to that– 

Not that it matters, because the doctor will die. Someone else is bound to come in here and kill him. Someone will definitely kill the doctor if he leaves, without caring who are what he is. There is nothing but death waiting for this man. Edward swallows hard, seeing the man’s blank eyes, blood and spit trailing from the corners of his mouth.

“Perhaps you ought to tell your captain I’m here then,” the man says. “And what I am. As a doctor I could only be of use to you. And you could be rewarded for it.” And then almost kindly: “Escape your hurts for a while.”

Edward grins, feeling his face sting. Escape from hurts? There is no escape from getting hurt. Not anywhere. Not until he is a man and is too big to hurt. And there is no escape for the doctor either. Unless… Edward thinks as an idea picks at the back of his mind. This is the captain’s quarters, no doubt about that. The captain’s sea chest is open and there is a full satchel of something at the doctor’s side. Hornigold was worried about the English getting this treasure.

The maps. The logs. Maybe the doctor has sailed this sea before and knows everything Hornigold would want to ask him. But Edward can’t bring him alone out into that. The doctor might get murdered just because he is with him. But maybe— Paulo can help.

“Stay here,” Edward says. “I’ll go get someone to help.”

From outside there is the thin call of: “Incêndio!”

The doctor licks his narrow lips.

“I don’t think I should wait. I’d rather go with you.”

“Then you’ll definitely die. Stay here .” Edward repeats sternly.  “I’ll be back.” He glares at the man until he’s sure he understands, then, taking a breath, ducks back out into the chaos. There’s less of it now. Only a few fighting men.

 He can see Scrawny Greg helping Larks across the deck, hand covering a bleeding wound. He can see Paulo not far from him, cutting at three men who are trying to get at him- he is good, but seeming to stagger. Edward grabs a knife from someone who is sprawled bleeding nearby, and trots down the stairs 

A man comes at him and he flings the knife on instinct, it sinks up to the hilt in the man’s gut and he staggers back against the mast, dropping, clutching at it with bloodied fingers. Shit. He doesn’t have time to get another knife. Edward comes up to the man and avoids his face as he pulls it out, feeling the resistance, hearing the man gag as he wrenches forward.

Jack is there too, against the other side of the mast. At first Edward thinks he’s dead, then sees that he’s curled up into a ball, hands over his ears, shaking like a kicked dog.

“Don’t die, stupid,” Edward says. “Either fight and survive or go home.”

Jack looks up at him, blood and wet and dirt tracking down his face. Edward turns away and hurries toward Paulo. One man is coming at Paulo from behind and Edward slams the knife into his back. It’s like when he stabbed the rabbit’s hand, the flesh gives, the knife sinks, there is a juddering scrape. Edward’s stomach lurches, he ignores it. The man yelps and staggers back, grabbing at it, but not able to get it. Paulo cuts them both down in one stroke and a spray of blood.

Edward startles out of the way as Paulo turns toward him sharply, cutlass raised– then after a moment, slowly lowered, his big face somber.

“Bien! That was awesome!” Edward says and Paulo gives a half smile. There is a sound like rushing air and Edward sees the fire at the fore catch onto the sails, sending them bright as a torch. They are running out of time. “There’s a man,” he says quickly. “An English doctor, back in the cabin…”

“I-Inglés?” Paulo’s thick eyebrows crease.

“Sí,” Edward nods. “I think we should get him to Hornigold.”

Paulo gives a shaky sigh and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“Ay, primo,” his voice is thick as he sheaths his cutlass and seems to reach for  one of the flintlocks. There is the bark of a pistol and a spray of blood from Paulo’s arm. He curses and grabs at it, red thick blood seeping through his fingers. Edward jumps and yelps. 

What happened? What– Why is he bleeding? Who the fuck-

“Ya think I don’t know what yer up ta?” Mad Eddie snarls, the fog curling away as he approaches him, as if it’s afraid to touch him.  The man is soaked in blood, skin and clothes nearly as red as his hair. “Ya think I don’t know what yer plannin’? Ya think I’m gonna let ya fuck me over?”

“We’re not trying to fuck you over!” Edward snaps. He touches Paulo’s arm but the man hisses and jerks away. A fleck of blood is running down the Saint’s throat. Her eyes look hollow and scared, as if she’s bleeding too. 

“Oh, I think ya are.” Mad Eddie says; pulling another primed pistol, aiming it for Paulo’s head.

“No!” Edward snaps, moving in front of the man, arms spread. “Don’t! Leave him alone, you asshole!”

“Ya don’t know what yer askin,” says Mad Eddie “It’s too late, laddie-buck.” The man grins, black and horrible, Edward can hear the roar of rain or blood in his ears. “This fecker is goin down.” He pulls back the hammer.

The click is loud in his head, the saint is crying, crying and crying and won’t stop. Will never stop.

“Say goodbye!” Mad Eddie screams and Edward finds himself screaming too, his own voice loud in his ears, rattling through his bones. He is running.. The report of the pistol jumps and knots his insides as it jolts in him, a flash of bright pain right above his heart—

It’s over-

It’s done-

Paulo-!

 “Nooo!”

He slams into Mad Eddie, knocking the man to the deck. Paulo was his mate! His friend! Goddamnit! Goddamnit! His fist flies, he can feel the man’s nose break under it, feel the hard crack of his teeth. Mad Eddie’s hand flies out and the blow knocks his head to the side, but he can barely feel it. He can barely feel anything. 

 Mad Eddie curses underneath him, struggling, starts to rise. Edward grabs him by the collar and head butts him hard, sending him back to the deck. He wraps his hand around the man’s throat and he squeezes, digging his fingers in as hard as he can, stinging wet  dripping from his face. 

Mad Eddie snarls and his sharp knuckled hands wrap around Edward’s throat, squeezing and squeezing. He can’t breathe. He’ll die like this. Let him die. Let him go. Down into that black. He doesn’t care. So long as this fucker comes with him. So long as they both go down together into that deep. Let it crush their bones to nothing. Black closes around his vision and he can taste salt on his tongue.

Another roar, distant and echoing and Edward gasps as Mad Eddie’s grip slackens. He watches the man fall to the deck, eyes wide, blood seeping from his forehead and making a sticky patch on the deck behind him. Edward heaves and retches for breath, clawing at his throat with his hand. Paulo is standing over him, arm bleeding, alive, flintlock smoking in his hand.

Edward sobs, rough and hard in his chest, his face wet, his arm wet, flooding, dripping tears from his shoulder and down his fingers. He’s alive. He’s alive . Edward wants to cling to him, to rest his head against the man’s warm side. He can’t seem to reach for him though. Can’t seem to move.

Paulo throws the spent pistol away and pulls another and presses the muzzle to Edward’s head.

Edward stares, feeling himself tremble, feeling the world and sea shift. 

“L-lo si-siento, p-primo. Con la obediencia, viene le fuerza.”  He pulls back the hammer. Edward can’t even close his eyes. He deserves this. He does. He deserves it like the rough rope on his hands and the salt water in his mouth. For leaving mother behind, for killing her husband. ‘My love,’ she had called him, used to call him, and Edward would see them holding each other close in the square of moonlight, foreheads touching, and now she is alone.

Mama , he thinks, hoping she can hear. I’m sorry.

Paulo’s hand shakes, he swallows and there is wet on his face too. His thick finger rests on the trigger.

“Basta.” Aconi’s voice rolls low over them, making him shudder. Paulo’s attention is caught. Edward doesn’t move. He can see the man standing not far away, another shadow, backlit by fire. He is holding a pistol too.

Edward doesn’t move. Can’t move. He is weak and empty and cold. His fingers drip tears on the deck.

“Ya le vendiste los cajones al conejo,” Aconi says. “No vendas también tu alma.” Whatever it means makes Paulo close his eyes tightly, then lower his pistol and slowly turn away.

“Th-there is a d-d-doctor here,” Paulo says gruffly. “I-Inglés. ”

“Bien, ” says Aconi. “Fetch him. We’ll spare his life tonight.” Paulo nods and leaves. Edward is alone. The world is closing in. Aconi is suddenly by his side, leaning over him like a warm shadow.

“Young Edward,” he says. “Are you alright?” But the last is a whisper or maybe it’s just in his head because he’s falling and all he can see is darkness.

Chapter Text

He is running across the deck, cannon thundering overhead, the shot of pistols like barking dogs filling his ears. Just beyond him in the thick shadow of roiling smoke, he can hear the fighting, the clash and shriek of steel, the screams high and harsh, Jack sobbing endlessly like a small child hiding under a dock, feeling the incoming tide lap coldly at his toes. His own heart beat high and fast and high in his chest, so high he could choke on it. A railing beside him splinters into a thousand pieces and he shrieks, the flintlock jerking in his hand so that it felt like it would take his whole arm off. He chokes and continues running, sweat or tears or blood trailing down his face, pooling at his feet.

The aft cabins lay ahead, light winking in the windows, fading in and out. It would be safe there, dark there, he could think, he could hide. He was up the stairs, he was at the door, there is no knob but that doesn ’t matter as he’s able to push it open.

…and he is home, the ground rolling under his feet, weak gray sunlight coming in through the cracked windowpane, Ana-nia gleaming just beyond. There is the table, and the chairs, the old stove, the iron bed, and there is Mother, her hair in two long thick braids that spill on the floor. Her back is to him and her slender hand is rocking a small cradle. 

She is singing softly, the sounds of cannons fading to nothing.

‘Kua a tipu ra
He kohu e hine
Ki atatu pouri nei
Ka rongo ahau ki to reo
E karanga mai ana i ahau.’ 

He wants to get up and crawl onto her lap and for her to touch his hair and hold him - but he can ’t move. His feet are stuck fast to the floor. Salt stings his eyes and runs down his face. 

Mama, he wants to say. I ’m here. I’m sorry. Turn around. But he can’t speak -and already hears it coming the thud of footsteps on the deck behind him like heartbeats, heavy and echoing. His own heart stops. Mama, go. Mama, run!

She doesn ’t seem to hear it. Just sings and rocks

‘Titiro ki te moana
Titiro ki nagangaru e
Kei reira pea, koe hine
E noho mokemoke ana.’

Paulo is beside him now, holding the flintlock high. 

‘L-lo s-siento, primo.’ He says, the thick words falling from his lips like music. 

‘Don’t!’ Edward snarls and claws at him, trying to get the pistol from him, trying to pull him to the ground- but he is too small and his shoulder numb with a pain that seems to sing in the back of his teeth. Hornigold grips his shoulders with soft palmed hands, holding him back, blocking the sight of mother who is singing again, her voice even further than before. No. No she’s going to die!

‘Mama!’

“It’s alright, lad,” says Hornigold in the voice of the doctor. “You’re alright. Lie still.” 

Edward head butts him hard and Hornigold yelps and bursts into a shower of sparks. Edward charges past him, the room lengthening, darkening, Mother somewhere at the end of it, voice a whisper. Edward calls for her again, tripping over something in the gloom and looking down at Mad Eddie ’s sightless staring eyes- 

Then it is too late. The darkness is a wall in front of him, lashing with rain. He hears one dragging footstep and then another and a gnarled hand, thick with barnacles, shoots from the darkness and crushes his throat. 

Edward jerks awake, breathing hard. He is lying on something soft, a bed, mid-morning light looping whirls on the ceiling. A clean blanket is lying over his hips, and he’s wearing a too large linen shirt that covers his thighs. He stares at the shirt, running his fingertips over it. The shirt has no tears or patches or even frayed sleeves and it rests softly against him, smelling faintly of cedar and something deeply floral that rests in the back of his nose. Something white catches his eye and he rolls his head to the side to see bandages wrapped over his shoulder. He can feel them against his chest as well, with a bulky patch just over his heart. 

He sits up with a grunt, his shoulder pinching and he rubs it absently. There is a small sea chest just opposite him, as well as a table, a sturdy chair next to it with a dark blue coat thrown over it, silver threads embroidered at the sleeves. 

Edward swings his feet over the bed and stands shakily–and then is struck with the urgent need to piss. A second of frantic painful groping under the bed produces some kind of strap, but more importantly a bucket, and he relieves himself with a sigh. A glance at the deck side window shows him the familiar lines of Hornigold’s ship. Six strange sacks lie on deck and near them is the heavy bulk of Paulo. 

The memory hits him thick and fast like a punch to the gut and Edward grips his shoulder hard. The smell of smoke is in his nose and he can taste iron on his tongue. Mad Eddie staring up, blood pooling the deck behind him- Paulo holding a flintlock to his head, his eyes dark. Edward shudders and rubs his arms, feeling a coldness seep under his skin.

 He clutches absently for the silk but his hand bunches in the linen of the shirt. Sudden panic tears at his throat. Shit! The silk! Where is it? He tears off the blankets and sheets, shakes them out frantically. Nothing.  He hauls out the strap and satchel from under the bed, combing through dry useless paper. The sea chest is locked and he kicks it hard, bruising his toe. What if they threw it overboard? What if it’s gone? The thought makes his eyes grit and sting and he dives his hands through the pockets of the coat. 

Please. Please. 

A compass, a pouch of herbs, a spy glass folded, a handkerchief which makes his heart start when he touches it and then throws it aside, something inside it clattering across the deck. Another rougher cloth with a silver knife and fork wrapped within… He digs his knuckles against his eye. It can’t be gone. 

It can’t be. 

Please… 

“So you’re awake I see.” 

Edward jerks to his feet, heart stinging in his chest, the knife gripped in his fist. The dark-haired English doctor stands in the doorway, a faint smile on his face, a bruise high on his cheek. What does he want? What is he going to do? He’s the enemy, isn’t he?

“Go away,” Edward says, holding up the knife, hand trembling. “Leave me alone.” The knife is dull but it’s not going to matter if it goes in his eye. The doctor holds up his hands giving Edward another hazy memory of the doctor in the cabin in the other ship, stealing something important.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you,” the doctor says. “I’m here to help…” 

“Help...?” No one helps him. Not really. Not unless he did something first. 

“That’s right,” says the doctor “You saved my life after all. One good turn deserves another, doesn’t it?” 

“Oh…” Yes, okay that makes sense. “Alright…” Edward slowly lowers the knife but doesn’t let it go. He’ll still stab the fucker if he has to. The man looks around and his eyebrows raise.

“Well– you’re quite the hurricane, aren’t you? But I suppose that’s my fault. Is this what you’re after?” And he pulls the silk from a pocket on his waistcoat and lets hangs from his fingers, vibrant and red.

“Give it!” Edward snaps, tripping over the chair to get to him and stumbling, dropping the knife. It lands by the man’s boot, and he unceremoniously tromps a foot on it. That doesn’t matter. Edward will claw his face off with his hands if he has to. He scrambles to his feet, feeling something tear and the prickle of liquid heat above his heart. 

“There there, steady on,” says the doctor. “Take a breath.” 

“Give it to me or I’ll kill you!” 

“I am giving it to you, lad. I promise. Take it…” He holds out his hand, the red silk dangling from his fingertips. The doctor can easily reach for the knife trapped under his boot, or maybe he has another weapon, or maybe the doctor will just punch him in the gut. Edward hesitates and comes just close enough to snatch the silk from the man’s fingers.

He has nowhere to put it so he bunches it up in his fist, presses it against his throat, the silk soft and slippery against his skin. The man doesn’t reach for him, doesn’t pick up the knife and slash at him, doesn’t even look angry. Instead his face clears and he smiles under his dark mustache.

“There, you see? I was only wanting to keep it safe for you. Still,” He raises his hands, palms upward. “It’s a horrid thing to wake up to. Mea culpa, I’m afraid.” 

“Mea…culpa… I’m afraid…,” Edward repeats. The doctor breathes a laugh. 

“Yes, it’s Latin. It means, essentially, it’s my fault… Now…” The doctor steps into the room and Edward steps back. There’s nothing but a wall at his back and if he wants to escape he’ll have to push the man over. 

“It’s alright,” says the doctor again, soothingly. “I’m in your debt, remember? And a doctor besides– and you need seeing to…” He gestures to a chair. “Will you sit so I can take a look?” 

He doesn’t want to sit. It feels dangerous to sit. But his legs are suddenly wobbling underneath him and he has the feeling that he’s going to anyway. He sits where he was asked, watching the man’s face and movements. The smile never leaves his mustache nor his eyes, even as he accidentally kicks the compass and sends it bumping against the wall. The doctor raises his hands again as he comes to stand in front of Edward. There are no blades in his palms or hidden in his sleeves.

“I’m going to take a look at you now. I’m going to have to touch you a little. May I?” 

Edward nods, dropping his fisted hand clutching the silk to the side so the man can’t get at. 

“Good lad.” The doctor tugs at the strings on the front of the linen shirt, loosening it, then slips it over Edward’s shoulder which prickle with goosebumps in the air. The scene of cedar and dark flowers is closer now and Edward realizes it’s coming from the man. How weird for a person to smell so nice. 

The doctor clicks his tongue. 

“I’m going to have to check beneath the bandage. This may hurt a little.” He unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up, revealing a tattoo of a snake wrapped around a staff on the inside of his forearm. 

“That’s really cool,” Edward says. He likes how peaceful the snake looks, as if it’s just resting there. 

“Hm?” the doctor says and Edward points. “Oh, old Asclepius. Yes, he’s been my friend a very long time.” 

“Asclepius…” What a weird word. The doctor leans in and Edward watches him tug at the bandage, pulling out the wad of linen that had been placed there. 

“Well it’s his staff, really. His sigil– symbol. Asclepius is the god of medicine and healing, according to the Greeks. Once, long ago, in a land far away, Asclepius was going on a long journey and spotted a snake on the side of the road. It was a poor thing, half crushed by a tumble of rocks and quite clearly dying… One moment…” The doctor moves to open the sea chest, pulling out scraps of linen.

“Now let’s see– where was I?” 

“The snake was dying,” Edward says, curious in spite of himself. 

“Yes, the snake was dying, and you popped a stitch there, but it’ll be alright in the front.” He tucks in the linen. “Now I’m going to come behind you and do the same thing. We’re lucky the ball went straight through you and didn’t get stuck on anything, but it made quite a mess.” 

The hairs on the back of Edward’s neck prickle as the man moves behind him. He doesn’t like it. The doctor could do anything and he won’t be able to see. 

“Just relax, best you can– lean forward a little.” 

Edward clenches his fists in his lap and does, gut churning. Let the doctor do anything. It’s fine. He doesn’t care.  He’s only shaking because it’s cold. 

“Now snakes are dangerous creatures as I’m sure you know,” says the doctor. “One bite can lead to a slow agonizing death. Asclepius, already knowing something of life and death, knew this. He said to himself, one less snake in the world might mean one man that yet lives.”  The doctor pulls at the bandage and Edward hisses at the sudden tearing pain. 

“You bled a little overnight. Nothing to worry about, we’ll have it cleaned in a tick…” The doctor strides to the door and then fairly snarls: “Here! You, dog! Fresh water up here on the quick! And not pulled from the waves or I’ll have your hide. Move!” Then he turns back in, pleasant as can be. “We might have to stitch you back up, won’t be the most pleasant but we’ll make do.” 

“Are they really going to listen to you?” Edward asks. It doesn’t make sense, unless he hits really hard. Maybe Hornigold is protecting him somehow. 

“They’d better,” says the doctor. Once more in the sea chest and he pulls out a brown bottle and a lacquered black box. “Now then, lad. We’re going to have to do a bit of a production, I’m afraid. But don’t fret. Just keep as you are and drink this.” He uncorks the bottle with his teeth and hands it out. The smell of rum hits strong. 

“This is for me?” 

“It is. Drink up.” 

Edward takes a swig and the rum goes straight down. It’s even better than Cook’s stock! Sweet and smooth, sending fire through his chest and belly. 

“Now we’re just going to have to get this out of the way a bit more…” The shirt slides down. “Now your arms.” 

In a moment his whole back and chest are bare, the shirt around his hips. He feels like a kid in a wash tub suddenly. He hooks his ankles around the chair and drinks deeply. Any moment the man can stab him or pinch him or slap him upside the head, but somehow Edward doesn’t think he will. 

“Another sip, there’s a good lad,” says the doctor as Edward obeys. The bandages start to come off and he watches as they coil white around him, rusted red in some places, looking like a snake itself. 

“Asclepius was a practical man, knowing a snake’s capacity for death and nearly passed it by,” the doctor continues. “But then the snake said in its breathy dying voice: ‘Please help me, it hurts so much.’” 

Poor snake, Edward thinks with a frown, licking his lips.

“What do you think Asclepius did?” the doctor asks. 

“Um…killed it?” That would be kind, to put it out of its misery.

“Well, the thought certainly crossed his mind. After all, one less scurvy snake in the world could only be a benefit.” 

A shadow appears at the door holding a bucket and Edward nearly stands as Jack stares at him. Fuck. He hides the hand with the silk under his other hand, wishing for the knife back or something to throw at him or shoot him with. Then he remembers Jack against the mast, holding his head, crying with dirt and blood and tears on his face. 

Jack looks away and Edward does too. 

“Fresh from the rain barrel,” Jack mutters. 

“Bring it here then, if you would.” 

Fuck no. Edward straightens and Jack stares at him as if he doesn’t trust Edward, which is just fucking fine as Edward doesn’t trust him. He will punch him in the gut if he has to. 

“Um… I’d rather not, uh, sir…” 

“Oh…” says the doctor. “Yes, I understand. Well leave it there and take that other bucket out with you, would you? There’s a good chap.” 

Jack sets the fresh bucket down and hesitates before picking up the other with a wrinkled nose and a glare in Edward’s direction as if he’d rather dump it over his head. Instead he goes to the door, stopping just outside it:

“Cap’n says we’ll be startin’ soon.”

“This won’t take long,” says the doctor absently.

Starting? Starting what? Are they going somewhere? Attacking another ship? And more importantly:

“Are you one of the crew now?” Because Jack is treating him like Cook or the rabbit. The doctor snorts.

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” He rises to fetch the bucket and then brings it back. “Now this might sting so drink deep.” 

Edward does, and even though everything is a warm haze, the sudden pain makes him grit his teeth. 

“Hang in there, lad,” the doctor murmurs in a soft voice. “Almost done.” There’s another small jolt of pain that lingers and slides, but the man speaks again, distracting him.

“Let’s see, what was happening to our old friend… Ah, yes. Asclepius looked at the snake and, being wise, took a moment to think of what he ought to do. He was a practical man, as I’ve said, but also a fair minded one. So after a moment, he said to the snake: 

‘If I save you, will you promise not to bite?’ 

‘No, I cannot promise,’ said the snake. ‘For I am a snake and know no other way.’ 

Another reason to kill it, and yet the snake’s honestly stayed Asclepius’s hand.

‘Are there many longing for your return?’ he asked the snake. 

‘No,’ said the snake. ‘I am alone.’” 

“Poor snake,” Edward says, feeling an uncomfortable squirm in his gut. Maybe it should die then. Why was Asclepius just torturing it by making it live longer and asking it stupid questions? 

“Poor snake,” the doctor agrees. “Asclepius also thought so as well and considered one last time of ending its life. But then, he asked himself, was he so different from the creature? For surely a man can kill, and a man knows no other life than what he is, and, like the snake, he was at the time alone. So instead of killing it, he picked up the snake very tenderly and let it rest on his staff as he carried it along. 

Hours and days he spent caring for the creature, binding its wound and making for it poultices and salves– medicines--from herbs he found. And slowly bit by bit the snake became better… There, all done. Now, we’ll clean you up—going to be a bit cold here.”

Edward yelps a bit at the sudden wet and the doctor laughs.

“Told you… Almost done… A bit of a dry now…Annd brilliant… Now let’s give you a fresh wrap.” 

Edward does as he’s told, moving his arms when asked and remaining still otherwise. All the while he can’t help wanting to know more.

“What happened next?” he asks finally.

“Well, by and by, the snake healed thanks to Asclepius’s gentle care,” the doctor says. “Then, one sunny spring morning, the snake was fully restored and ready to go back out into the world. Before it left, it slithered up Asclepius’s arm–”

Edward tenses, waiting for the bite, the betrayal, the sad end– 

“Instead of delivering a bite, or a squeeze, the snake slithered up to his ear and said to him: ‘Because you have helped me, I will tell you what knowledge I have.’ And, leaning close, the snake whispered into his ear the sacred knowledge of healing, medicine, rejuvenation- it was even said that from that snake Asclepius learned even how to raise people from the dead.” 

“Really?” Edward’s heart jumps. “Like…the one guy from the tomb?”

“Lazarus.” The doctor chuckles. “Yes. Though that is a knowledge long gone now.”

“Oh…” Edward says, sinking a little. It might be nice if you could really do that. The doctor takes a breath then lets it out as if he was about to say something but changes his mind. Instead he pats Edward’s good shoulder.

 “Now let’s get you back in order.”

 Edward shifts to help as the shirt is tugged back on and even though it’s just a shirt, he feels better once he’s wearing it. 

“The moral of the story, of course,” says the doctor quietly. “Is that anyone can change their skin. Man, or snake or boy. All it takes is one simple choice.” The words have weight to them, a heft Edward doesn’t understand but it sits in the back of his throat.

The ship’s bell begins to ring, the sound flitting sharp and pretty through the air. It doesn’t normally ring except to call the crew down from the rigging for food, but it doesn’t look like it’s time yet- and it doesn’t ring like that either-so slow and deliberate.

“Come, lad,” the doctor says with a sigh. “Let’s go. Can you stand?”

Edward nods and stands. The world spins and he immediately sits again so he won’t fall over. The man frowns.

“No, well, I’m not surprised. You lost a lot of blood and you’ve little enough reserves as is.” He shakes his head. “Well we should get you to the railing at least. You deserve that much. Come, my boy.”

Edward’s not sure what he deserves or what he’s coming for, but he doesn’t have much choice as the man all but hauls him upward. He staggers after him, leaning against him and his nice smelling clothes and brass buttons.  They come to the forward railing and the man keeps an arm around him even as Edward grips the warm wood to keep himself upright.

Down below, the crew are standing in a rough semi-circle around the strange brown sacks, the rabbit setting the bell down on the railing, silencing it. They all look serious, even Jack and Gilead Thorpe has lost his smile. There’s another man there too, slender with wild dark hair and leaning heavily on a crutch, his leg bandaged. Edward has no idea who the fuck he is but he seems sad, dabbing at tears with the corner of a ratty handkerchief.

Hornigold seems to be saying something, but whatever it is is taken away by the wind. It’s picking up today, as if urging them to be gone. The sky is effortlessly blue, the sea around them ruffling from its fingers. Hornigold finishes and the men all bow their heads, Paulo and the strange man crossing themselves. Scrawny Greg buries his face in his hands and Cook pats him on the back. Jack stares as if he can’t see at all.

Then Paulo and Aconi pick up one of the sacks, not burlap but worn bits of sail wrapped around something and weighted with ballast at the end.

“What’s going on?” Edward says. “What are they doing?”

“They are burying your shipmates,” the doctor says, sadness in his voice. Edward’s heart kicks as he realizes that those bits of sail are men sized and roughly men shaped. Five of them lay on the deck like fish at the market while Aconi and Paulo swing the one they’re holding wide over the sea.  Larks was missing. And Monto and Sepp. Old Hugh. Timbee he had seen die and one of them— one of them is Mad Eddie.

And he had seen him die. Mad Eddie had been alive, and then he hadn’t. Paulo had killed him. Death and hell, he’d said. Edward remembers his freckles and the scar on his belly and how hard he’d hit and that he’d almost killed Paulo- but then Paulo had pressed a flintlock to Edward’s head. The price of grog is cheap, he thinks.

He watches Paulo and Aconi pick up another body wrapped in sail- stitched in sail, he can see the black uneven threads even from here. Father had gone in without even a sail, like a big stupid turd hitting the water, the backwash sliding over Edward’s feet.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says and there is a cool pale hand on the back of his neck.

Edward’s blood flashes hot. He whips around, catching that wrist and wrenching the man’s arm. The doctor yelps like a kicked dog and twists his body to avoid the pain. Edward could break his arm. He’s not strong, but he doesn’t have to be.

“Alright, lad, you’ve made your point,” the doctor says, strained, pale skin draining. “Not sure your captain would appreciate you maiming a captive.”

Hornigold is watching them from the deck, others two have looked up at them and away. Hornigold meets his gaze and Edward stares back. He’ll do it. Why not? It’s just an arm. He’s not shooting someone through the fucking head. Paulo and Aconi pick up number three and Hornigold looks away again, as if he doesn’t care.

And he doesn’t. No one does. Edward looks at the doctor to make sure he knows that too. To make sure he realizes how alone he is. How soft he is in a world of thorns; his skin unscarred, his eyes even a soft blue like a cloudless day.  He would break under rocks like the stupid snake and no one would even cry over his corpse.

“Please,” the doctor says, gentle as the breeze.  It’s such a strange, soft word. Edward had never said it like that, Mother either. Please doesn’t make it stop. Edward lets him go, looking with a twist in his gut at the red marks on the doctor’s wrist. It would leave a bruise soon enough and the thought twists something in him.

“Thank you,” the doctor says. Then smiles. “You’ve got a good heart. “

“Don’t touch me,” Edward says. He doesn’t want to hear the man’s soft, stupid words and soft stupid lies. With some effort he staggers his way back to the cabin and shuts the door behind him. By the time he’s dragged over the chair to block it, he’s shaking and drenched with sweat.  He has enough in him to retch vomit and bile into the bucket of once clean water and stumbles over to the bed before falling into it.

He sleeps fitfully, silk pressed against his cheek, dreaming of Father floating in the sea, sail cut open, eyes bulging in his bloated face.

xxxxx

When Edward wakes again, night has fallen. Or, almost. There is a thin burnished line of red left that reflects wearily off the sea. Above that, the sky is becoming thick with stars. Edward stares at it stupidly from where he lays on the bed, sweat cooling on his forehead and in his hair. His mouth feels stuffed full of linen and his head full of sea foam, hissing and fizzing away. Somehow he manages to sit up, wincing at the ache in his shoulder, and looks around the room. 

With a jolt he realizes the chair has been moved from the door and the room has been placed back in order when he was sleeping. Someone had been in here while he was out. The thought raises the hair on the back of his neck and paws about for the silk with a thundering heart until he finds it half buried under the pillow. 

He takes a moment to knot the silk on his upper arm, so it’ll be under his sleeve and out of sight, before taking a few deep breaths. Now that his heart is slowing, his body is starting to crawl to life. He’s thirsty. His lips are cracked and his mouth is dry. His voice will be a frog’s if he speaks. He’s hungry too. It feels like his belly is pressed against his spine and he rubs it while it grumbles fretfully. 

Dinner will be done by now, but maybe Cook is napping or sleepy enough that Edward can put him down to steal something for himself. He slides out of the bed, waits for the dizziness to fade and notes the doctor’s coat is still hanging over the chair. The doctor himself has gone, stupidly leaving his things behind.

Slowly, one foot at a time, he makes his way out of the cabin. The deck is strangely empty. Eerily empty. It is warm enough to sleep outside, but there are no hammocks strung or lumps of men. There is no one in the rigging either and for a moment Edward thinks he’s died or is still dreaming and at any moment the ghost of someone will grab him by the back of the neck. 

But then the rabbit’s thin voice floats down from above. 

“Alright, men, pay attention.” 

Edward moves to the second set of stairs to the quarterdeck, and by the time he gets there, his legs are shaking. The crew is gathered  in a rough knot in front of the captain and the rabbit. Jack and Gilead Thorpe flank them like body guards, holding lanterns against the coming night. Aconi and Saladin rest against the railing, hip to hip, Aconi with his face wrapped with bandages on one side, Saladin with his arms folded. Cook stands near them, stroking his mustache, thick arm around Scrawny Greg who is leaning against him. The stranger with a splinted leg is resting on a barrel, the doctor beside him The only one who stands alone and a little further back is Paulo, just out of the lantern light. 

And that’s it. That’s all. There is no one else. Mad Eddie would be in front with the light on his red hair or Larks smoking into the night air or Timbee falling asleep against the railing. They are all sleeping now, under the waves, in the deep. 

Edward swallows and tries not to think about it. This would be the perfect time to raid the galley, but curiosity drives him further onto the quarterdeck. He keeps to the shadows and sits in the darkness by deck side railing. So far no one has noticed him. 

“We have an opportunity here,” the rabbit is saying. “The ships out there are unawares…” 

“Not that unawares,” the doctor says. 

“…like fat cattle,” the rabbit continues through gritted teeth. “Ready for the slaughter.”

“Even bulls have horns,” says the doctor. The rabbit glares at him. 

“You have no say here! You can shut up or lose your tongue.” 

The doctor holds up his hands. There are shadows of bruises on his wrist that Edward realizes are from him-from earlier. His stomach knots and he looks away. 

“We have every opportunity here,” says the rabbit. “And we should use it before our chance is taken from us. Think of the riches! Twice what we’ve pulled in already, I’d bet. But if we leave it, men, if we leave the pretty straits unguarded for others to find, then we will deserve the nothing that we get.” 

He’s changed his mind, then, Edward thinks. Though it doesn’t make much sense, and the words sound strange too, coming from him. Or maybe he’s speaking strangely. He’s not annoyed or triumphant but like he’s straining for it- like saying you were fine when everyone could see you weren’t. 

Silence falls then except for the hush of the sea. It’s a waiting silence and he watches the others shift. Aconi and Saladin share a glance, Cook purses his lips, Jack pales, Gilead Thorpe bows his head, bringing his other hand, trembling slightly, up to his collarbone. Only Hornigold remains still, the light in his flat, gray eyes. 

“O que ele disse?” the stranger says. Portuguese, Edward realizes. And there’s something else familiar about him too. Something that’s just on the tip of his brain. Edward doesn’t know anyone Portuguese though, not even from his hometown. The English man begins speaking in the same language, voice low. 

“What are you doing,” the rabbit snaps. 

“Oh for- I’m translating,” says the doctor. The rabbit glances at Hornigold who tilts his head slightly. The rabbit lets out a breath and turns back to the others. 

“So we are all agreed?” says the rabbit. “No one has any arguments?”

"Diga a ele que eu ficaria feliz em participar de uma batalha gloriosa quando estiver inteiro,” snaps the stranger. “Esta é uma missão de tolos, mesmo para você inglês estúpido.” 

“He says you’re an idiot,” says the doctor and Edward snickers behind his hand as the rabbit’s jaw works. 

“It is not- It is-” the rabbit draws himself up. “If we want to be more than we are- more than common pirates- then we should take this chance.” 

More than common pirates… Those are Hornigold’s words, Edward realizes. That’s why it feels so strange. Does the rabbit finally believe in it too? Or is there another reason why he’s speaking instead of the captain? 

“Toussaint, don’t we have the provisions?” 

“Oui,” says the Cook. “Enough for…” he casts a gaze upward. “Two weeks? Or so. More on grog and rum. Better if we can get fresh before then, but we can survive.” 

“If we can survive,” says Saladin. “It doesn’t matter if those boats are foundering with gold and jewels, if we cannot live to spend it, there is no point in risking our necks. The fools who have been sold on unspent promises are gone.”

“You’re the fool!” snaps Scrawny Greg, his mealy face spotting red as he tries to struggle from under Cook’s arm. “I’ll skin you in your sleep, you shit stain!” 

“Try it and we’ll stitch you in sail next!” Saladin snarls, his lips pulling back from his sharpened teeth as he pushes himself from the railing. Cook steps in front of Scrawny Greg as if to defend him and something in Edward turns- makes him want to punch Cook in the kidneys just because.

“Enough,” says Hornigold, but Saladin remains rigid until Aconi murmurs: 

“Fadel…” in his low thunder voice. Saladin spits on the deck, just missing Cook’s feet and moves to the other side of Aconi, sitting on the railing this time and gripping the rigging as if ready to fling himself up it. 

“Regardless of la colère des païens,” says Cook, tipping his head at Saladin. “He has a point. Dead men tell no tales and spend no treasure.”  He spreads his hands. “Un peu de patience ne nuirait à rien, non?” 

He says it to the rabbit, but Edward wonders if it’s for Hornigold instead. Maybe it is, because the rabbit looks back at the captain who makes a gesture, a flutter of fingers as if to say: ‘go on’. 

“I would say that you are all weak minded men with piss poor ambition,” says the rabbit. “Are we going to let our treasure be plundered by something or someone else then? The crown?” And here he jerks his head at the doctor who looks unimpressed.

“It will be plundered anyway if you set out with a crew of wounded men and beardless boys,” says the doctor. “You’re not unknown in these waters and it will only get harder the further you get and the less chance you’ll have to escape.”   He strokes his fingers over his mustache and looks to Hornigold. “Nassau is a week and a half sail from here with favorable winds. If you really want this treasure, why not pick up men there?” 

“Why Nassau?” says Hornigold, his voice sudden in the night and everyone’s attention fully on him. His voice was flat, expression calm and impossible to read.

“Why not Nassau?” the doctor counters, meeting Hornigold’s gaze. There’s a conversation then, one without words. Even the crew look at one another uneasily, or knowingly, or don’t look at all, either staring off into the distance or watching the deck in the case of Scrawny Greg. It’s interesting to see what people say or don’t say. The only one who he can’t see is Paulo, back to him, shadow stretching out behind him from the lantern light, now the only specks of light on the ship. 

In the darkness he looks like a monster. 

Edward gets to his feet, wanting to move so he can at least see the man’s profile and shake the feeling that gleaming white eyes won’t open in the back of his head. The moment he rises he catches Hornigold’s attention. The captain looks up and for a moment his expression falls open, something strange and vulnerable written across his features, but in a second it’s flat and still again. 

“And what do you think we should do, Mr. Teach?” says Hornigold.  The crew startle like a flock of birds and Edward has to hide a laugh. Even Cook looks wary, and Paulo nearly trips turning to look at him as if he’s afraid Edward will stab him in the back.  

Maybe he will one day. It might feel good.

For now, he comes toward them and the circle of light, watching their reactions, the way Aconi and Saladin’s face smooth out, Cook glaring at him, Scrawny Greg muttering a curse, Gilead Thorpe looking alarmed, and Jack rolling his eyes like it’s the stupidest shit he’d ever seen.  The rabbit has moved behind Hornigold’s shoulder and Edward grins at him, his teeth feeling hard in his mouth and sharp. 

“Santa Mãe de Deus,” the strange man cries, voice like a gull. “A criança demônio que surge da noite para reivindicar nossas almas!” He crosses himself fervently and then wrings his hands together in prayer. “Preserve-nos, ó Cristo!” 

It’s kind of funny. Edward wonders what would happen if he ran toward him. Would the man bolt? Would he throw himself over the side? He’s tempted but then the doctor puts a steady hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“Calma, Feliciano. É apenas um menino,” he murmurs. But the man… Feliciano? Seems to calma only a little. He is still muttering to himself, fidgeting, flinching a bit when Edward draws nearer Edward comes to a stop by Paulo’s side, wondering why he doesn’t move away too though his fist seems to be clenching at his side. 

“Go on,” says Hornigold as if Feliciano hadn’t happened. Edward had almost forgot the question. What should they do? And he shuts his mouth to think. Now he and Hornigold are having a conversation, or Hornigold is talking to him, saying things with his eyes and his posture and the set of his mouth. Only Edward doesn’t know how to speak back. He feels like a wall or a stick or a stupid kid with nothing smart to add, like a puppet without words.

But everyone is waiting. Everyone is watching. He can’t stand there like an idiot.

“We should go to Nassau,” he says, because that’s the blindingly obvious answer and he feels blindingly stupid answering it. “And get more men.” He had wanted to say it with confidence, but his voice had rose at the end, a high question and his face burns as the doctor chuckles.

“Everyone knows we should go to Nassau, dumbass,” says Jack and Edward wants to knee him in the gut. “’Course we need more men. Are you stupid?”

“Fuck you,” Edward snaps back. He’ll get Jack later, he decides. Maybe he’ll trip him or dump bilge water down his back or something. Jack smirks and opens his mouth.

“I agree with Edward,” Aconi says, startling the anger right out of him. The big man is looking at him, a faint smile on his wide mouth. “Ambition can’t succeed without willing men.”

“It wasn’t even his idea,” says Jack.

“I agree with Edward too,” says Gilead Thorpe in his quiet voice, watching Edward with a kind of secret smile.

“Autant que je déteste ça, nous devrions écouter la petite merde,” says Cook.

“It was the English guy’s idea,” Jack growls. “Why the hell is everyone--”

 Hornigold holds up a hand and Jack shuts his mouth so quickly Edward swears he can hear the click of his teeth. Then he lowers it again and stands, his short coat blending into the night around him.

“Well, if that is what you think, Edward, then that is what we shall do,” says Hornigold. “As we all seem in agreement.” He makes a fluid gesture. “Shall we plot our course, Saladin?”

And the lean dark man looks uncertainly at Aconi before nodding and murmuring:

“Aye, Captain.” And follows him across the quarterdeck and down the steps into the night,

Edward is left staring at the empty center of the circle and the swinging of the lanterns. The crew was watching him, the light reflecting in their eyes and even Aconi seems thoughtful - watching as if Edward has just cursed them all.

xxxxx

Edward pushes the mop across the near empty deck for the thousandth time. They have been sailing for almost a week under cool blue skies and fair winds that send them skipping over the waves. Even now the sails bellies are full and they clip through the water sending up sprays of froth.  No one has hit him. He hasn’t had a bruise or cut for days. He’s been given food and water and grog regularly, even if it’s shit and not much. Doctor John has let him keep the oversized shirt, gray and dingy now, which holds the silk. And he’s been up in the rigging twice now, but not for long, and is slowly learning the ropes from Gilead Thorpe who is feathery and vague and tends to trail off at important times.

Other than being hungry all the fucking time, things are a lot better for him than when he first stepped on this ship. He doesn’t feel so many eyes. He’s not dodging so many fists. He is out of the suffocating hell of the galley and the nose of Cook. And despite all of that, he feels cursed, as if always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 Maybe it’s the silence, the quiet, the emptiness that makes him feel like he died. There’s no laughter on deck these days. No cursing. No singing or music or fights. No clatter of dice. The only pipe smoke comes from Doctor John when he sits on the quarterdeck and annoys Hornigold. It all feels strange, like a tooth missing or a lost button. The spaces where people used to be are hollow and Edward can’t help but think how far behind they are now, lost to the churning sea.

Maybe it’s because hardly anyone talks to him, yells at him or even looks at him. They talk to each other a lot. Aconi seems to pretend he doesn’t exist or looks past and through him, words die on his lips when Edward comes near. Scrawny Greg, who is in the galley, talks with Cook. Edward can sometimes hear their voices drift up, deep in conversation. Jack, who is usually up in the rigging these days doing the work of ‘three fuckin’ people’ talks to Gilead Thorpe, though their words are usually lost on the wind. And Jack probably talks to Hornigold too or at least is acknowledged by him when he takes their meals back to the aft cabins.

Even Feliciano gets to talk- to the captain and Doctor John. Paulo will talk to Feliciano too when the man isn’t kept up on the quarterdeck, and despite Paulo speaking Spanish and Feliciano speaking Portuguese, they seem to understand each other enough.

Of course Paulo, that fucker, talks to the rabbit. And he talks to Jack. And one time Edward had woken up in the middle of the night to see Paulo with his arm around Jack’s shoulders and he’d wanted to punch them both. He’d punched the deck instead and scraped a knuckle and it hadn’t even made him feel better.

Paulo does talk to Edward too, but only to give him stuttering orders without looking him in the eyes, as if he’s ashamed or afraid.

If it weren’t for that and Doctor John talking with him once or twice a day, Edward would feel even more dead than he does already. Dead and cursed and he can’t sleep very well because the only place to sleep is out on deck where he’s exposed to everything. And when he does manage to sleep he has nightmares. Nightmares of home. Nightmares of here. Nightmares of Paulo standing over him with a pistol or his father or the rabbit pressing the full weight of his crutch into the softness of Edward’s throat. Last night he’d dreamed of Mad Eddie with his bright staring eyes, drowning the ship in his blood.

Well fuck the rabbit and fuck Mad Eddie too. In fact, fuck Mad Eddie most.

Edward had tried to do what he’d said. Had tried to navigate and help and do all the right things and still got shit. And it hadn’t helped Mad Eddie either.  Knowing his course hadn’t stopped him from getting a hole blasted through his head. There were things he hadn’t known. Or things he’d known too late to do shit about it.

So fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck everyone. Edward scrubs his nose with his sleeve and goes to toss the dirty water over the side, moving past Feliciano who is sitting by the railing, mending a sail. The man flinches and crosses himself as Edward draws near. He’s a slender man, but the torn sleeves of his shirt show arms roped with muscle and the line of scars on his broad chest speak of someone who can fight. But he is afraid. Edward wants to make him afraid. The thought makes him feel satisfied in a strange twisted way like a fist around his ribcage.

Feliciano leans away from him, groping for his crutch. It falls with a clatter to the deck and with it an orange, bright as the sun. Edward’s stomach gurgles. Cook had given everyone an orange this morning for breakfast, and thick meaty stew and a piece of bread only just going stale. Everyone but Edward. Edward gotten thin soup with rotting vegetables and hard tack.  He’d also gotten a bone which Cook had said was good for chien and that Edward should appreciate it. He’d wanted to shove it down the man’s throat but had flicked it at the back of Scrawny Greg’s head instead.

“Nem pense nisso,” Feliciano says, a bit of growl in his voice. “Eu estava guardando isso para mais tarde, seu demônio.”

Day mon yo.

Demon.

Maybe he is. Maybe that’s what he’ll be. Feliciano lunges to the side, nearly falling off his crate but Edward is quicker and grabs the crutch and orange, feeling a burst of power as he holds both. He could throw them over the side and Feliciano will have nothing. He can eat the orange right in front of Feliciano and there is shit the man can do about it. Feliciano’s jaw works and with a pained expression he draws himself upright, fine thin nostrils flaring.

Edward notices how stark his cheekbones are against his paling skin and the line of his collarbone. It would feel really fucking good to throw the crutch over the side, he knows, but- he rests it crutch back against the crate instead and holds the orange out. Feliciano stares at him, reaching out tentatively as if afraid Edward is going to take it back. Edward uncurls his fingers to hold it flat on his palm, showing the man he’s not going to take. Feliciano looks from the orange to him and a faint smile comes over his face.

“Obrigado,” he says. The man reaches out slowly and moves as if to grab Edward’s hand. Edward flinches back instinctively, the orange falling with a thump into Feliciano’s lap.

“Não tenha medo,” the man says, picking up the orange and holding it out. “Eu não vou te machucar. Em vez disso, quero agradecer sua gentileza, embora eu não a mereça. Você é um jovem honrado. Como eu poderia não recompensar isso?”  He gestures with it, as if Edward should take it. Then, with a faint smile, uncurls his fingers to hold it on his palm.

 “Aqui. Não tenha medo. É seu.”

The man’s face seems sincere, his eyes dark and earnest. Maybe he does mean that Edward should take it. Or maybe he just wants Edward to get close so he can trick him- like punch him or stab him or put a fucking flintlock to his head.

Feliciano’s thin eyebrows furrow. He works his mouth a few times.

“‘Ere,” Feliciano says in hesitant tones. “Me…” He presses a hand to his chest. “Tu…yyyou.” and then “Por favor.”

The world startles him. He’s heard Paulo say it sometimes, but with Feliciano the ‘r’ sounds more like a purr. Feliciano makes to toss the orange and Edward hesitantly holds up his hand. The orange sails small and wonderful and ends with a smack in Edward’s palm. Feliciano grins and holds up his hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger as if to say ‘well done’. Edward smiles a little, the citrus scent already filling his nose and making his mouth water.

“Hey!” Scrawny Greg snaps from behind him and Edward can hear him stomping up the deck. “What are you doing? You’re not supposed to have that!” A wiry smirk crosses the man’s face. “Fruit’s not good for dogs.”

Scrawny Greg doesn’t have much of a stomach, but there’s still a pleasant give to it as Edward sinks his fist into it. Scrawny Greg’s breath gasps out at him in a foul cloud and slumps to his knees, puking bile onto the deck. Stupid shit. Even worse it doesn’t make Edward feel much better and Feliciano is crossing himself again, as if a door that had been open was just slammed closed. Fine. At least Edward has a fucking orange.

But he won’t be able to eat it out here. The moment that Scrawny Greg is up he’ll talk to Cook. Edward needs to eat his gift before that happens. Turning, Edward gives Feliciano a nod in thanks and hurries his way to the aft cabins. Doctor John’s door is closed, but it’s not allowed to be locked except at night to prevent the doctor from wandering all over the ship. Since there’s still plenty of daylight, the knob turns easily under his hand and he ducks into the room.

 He’s surprised and pleased to see the doctor at the table, focused on reading something off cream-brown papers. The not quite noon sun streams in over his shoulders, casting him in light and shadow. Edward quietly shuts the door behind him.

Doctor John starts, making a noise like a started horse, and Edward finds himself at the other end of a flintlock that the man is definitely not supposed to have. It’s an old scarred weapon, probably loaded and Edward almost wants it to go off— Wants to feel his heart lurch at the earsplitting bang and the smell of scorched powder.

“You scared the life out of me,” says Doctor John with a faint tight chuckle, putting the flintlock back on his lap out of sight. “And nearly out of yourself,” he adds dryly. “What brings you here, lad? Came to hear more of Odysseus?”

“No,” Edward says. “I came here to eat.”

And while he’s curious about Odysseus’s fate, he’s really tired of Doctor John ending every adventure by saying Odysseus regretted his life on the high seas and would trade the world to go back home again. But could he really change his skin?

 Did he even deserve to change his skin, Edward wondered, if he told the stupid one eyed monster his stupid name? Should have stuck with calling himself no one.

“Fair enough,” says Doctor John, already distracted by the papers. “You certainly need it. You’d think Ben would feed you better with the loot you got from the Rosa.”

 Edward shrugs and wanders around the room, pressing his orange up to his nose, breathing in the citrus smell. He should eat it before Cook comes charging in but the moment he eats it, it’ll be gone. He notices Doctor John’s coat hung up on a hook and he takes it down and puts it on, liking the feel of the fabric against his skin even as the sleeves flop over his hands. Doctor John clicks his tongue but when Edward looks up, he’s still staring at his papers and shuffles them again.

Content to be ignored, Edward settles on the floor, shifting so the coat pools out behind him, and then idly searches through the pockets. It’s the same stuff as before. Handkerchief, fork and spoon wrapped up in linen, compass, small folded spyglass, also a scrap of black ribbon. He drops the spyglass and compass in his shirt and uses the ribbon to tie back his hair.

“Put the spyglass back where you found it,” says Doctor John. “The others you can keep but I need that one.”

Edward snickers and tugs a bit of his shirt from his trousers so the spyglass falls to a clunk on the floor and rolls under the bed. He shifts to his belly, resting his chin on the orange as he reaches for it and his fingers brush the leather strap of the satchel. It was there under the bed where he woke up, and…the one Dr John had taken from the Portuguese ship.

Edward fishes the spyglass out, scraping it along the wood a bit to cover the hiss and noise of the satchel too that he shifts directly behind him. He plops the spyglass back in the pocket with a little clink.

“Good lad,” says the man. He lets the satchel sit where it is and shakes the sleeves of the coat down to smell the orange again before setting his fingernails to the rind. It splits open in a satisfying way and he carefully peels it away from the juicy globe underneath that makes his mouth water.

Carefully, Edward wiggles out a section of orange, and after a moment’s hesitation, takes a bite out of it. The flavor explodes on his tongue before he’s even fully bit down and a trail of juice slides down and trickles at the back of his throat. It’s tangy and full and warm and perfect. He drops his head back with a sigh, caging his knees close to his chest. It’s so fucking tasty. He’s never going to be able to eat so delicious again. He doesn’t even want to chew! He wants to hold the flavor on his tongue for as long as he can.

The creak of the boards above them on the quarterdeck gets his mouth moving. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes after him and he doesn’t want to give them an orange to take away. Still he chews the first slice to a pulp before he swallows and wiggles out a second slice and pops it into his mouth. And he’s glad he did, because the next moment Doctor John slaps the papers on the table hard enough to make Edward jump- but the orange slice squirts between his teeth rather than his fingers.

“Lord, I am sick to death of this.” The doctor buries his face in is hands, looking like an old man all bent and shriveled. “If I have to look at one more bloody page I’ll lose my mind.”

“What are you doing?” Edward asks as he takes a third slice. This he bites the end off of and sucks the juice out as best he can, watching Doctor John raise his head with a sigh and flick a paper.

“Translating the Rosa’s log book- and not even the full thing but pages some imbecile torn out.” He gives a wry smile. “This in exchange for your beloved captain allowing me an evening’s shore leave when we arrive at Nassau, under supervision of course. If I wish to slip my traces, as it were, I must deliver unto him either a map of the area, which he seems assured I have--”

Doesn’t he? Edward wonders. If he didn’t have any maps, what was he stuffing into the satchel that night on the Portuguese ship. Even now the curling flap of the leather bag rests against his hips like a mystery.

“-or some secret from this mess. Some key to his bloody kingdom.” Doctor John shakes a paper at him. “As if the late mediocre Captain Ferreira would jot down anything that isn’t about heartburn or whores. I know the man. I slipped right under his snubbed nose, sailed with his crew, and not a single doubt clouded his hazy little mind about who I was or where I came from.”

He sighs and rises to stand at the sea side window, hands at his back.

“I should have followed my uncle’s advice and remained with geriatrics,” Doctor John mutters. “The elderly and their diseases will always be with us. As he says. But, no, I craved a different life. A dashing adventurer you will be, thought I, to wile away the secrets of others for king and country.  And it should be for king and country! For the glory of England! Not to fill some idiot’s coffers!”

He falls silent, seeming content to seethe and stare out the window. Edward takes the moment to eat the last slice of orange, then dries his hand on his trousers and shifts to work one of the papers out of the satchel quietly as he can. It looks like a map and as he lifts a corner, enough to see that he’s right. What’s so important about them that Doctor John doesn’t want to let them go?

“And now all that waits for me is burial at sea or with dancing feet.” Doctor John sounds so sad for a moment that Edward almost puts the map back, but instead stuffs it inside his shirt. Doctor John has other maps, he won’t miss one.

“But…perhaps you can help me…” Doctor John’s shoe scraping across the floor acts as a warning and gives Edward enough time to shove the satchel back under the bed.

“Help you?”

“Yes and help yourself. The truth is even if Ben had a map, he is known in these waters. That’s why even with a hundred men at his command, he won’t be able to take the straits… Take the straits…”  Doctor John rolls his eyes. “He’s a pirate playing king and he’ll die for his hubris. Either the Portuguese will get him or the Spanish with the Leviatán.” Then his face is sad again. “And you, too, lad, if you stay with him.”

The Leviatán— Leviathan, it has to be. The ship Mad Eddie was afraid of. A ship probably even bigger than the Rosa. A ship so big and dangerous had had left only four alive from Hornigold’s old crew, and only two now. Maybe he would die by the sword or pistol or something else- but what else could he do? Where else can he go?

“Listen to me young Teach,” says Doctor John, warm and bittersweet. And then: “Edward…”

The use of his first name shocks him a bit and he finds himself drawing the too big coat around him but smelling the man doesn’t help. Doctor John is crouching in front of him now, once again haloed by the light. He seems different somehow, even the set of his shoulders seeming friendly and a little sad. He’s good at that, Edward thinks, changing his face, changing his voice, changing his body. Like a snake changing its skin or a lizard changing its colors.

“…you will leave a sorry life and have a sorry fate at the end of a rope. And you’ve already led some of it, I’m sad to say, bone thin and filthy as you are.”

Edward flushes at that, annoyed and ashamed. He can see the dirt under his fingernails of one hand and tucks it away in the overlong sleeve but can’t do anything about the thick strands of knotted greasy hair against his neck. He hadn’t noticed before, but now that Doctor John says it, he feels like he’s caked in dirt and grime— something mother would order him to wash up at the copper tub for. We may be poor but we’re clean, she would say.

“I don’t know what lead you to this life, this path, but you don’t have to stay on it to be crushed under rocks,” Doctor John says, resting a hand on Edward’s shoulder. Edward can’t help but tense, even if his grip isn’t hard. “A clever lad like you could be just about anything. A tanner, a bricklayer, a monk or priest, an overseer of some vast estate…”

Edward shrugs. He’s not really interested in those things. He knows the stink of a tannery and has seen men working in the hot sun to build. Their old hobbling priest had taken him and a gaggle of other kids when he was really young to see the cell of a monk, and it had been boring and empty with a straw mat and a small window and a pair of worn sandals. He always thought he would be a sailor like Father or maybe a fisherman. Something on the water with the world wide open before him.

“And you’d be fed, Edward, clothed, have a solid roof over your head. You wouldn’t have to worry about beatings or theft. And…it would be honest work, work that would make your parents proud.”

A future his parents can be proud of…Would Mother be proud of him? Could she ever be proud of him again? He doubts it. But he’d like to make her a little happy- and as for the rest of it— he hugs himself and leans back against the bed. It sounds like a dream.  A fairytale. It’s not for people like us, Mother would say. And definitely not for someone like him, but he might take it if he could.

“If you’re very good,” says Doctor John, a smile lifting his face. “You can even work with me as a valet.”

That draws his head up. Even if the words were like something you’d say to a kid, they sounded sincere, they sounded interesting. He doesn’t know what a valet is but, maybe it’s some kind of special doctor, like a young doctor or one that did the cool things. He does like Doctor John and it sounds exciting, running off to sea, sneaking into cabins, wrapping bandages around people and pulling really tight if they annoyed you. And at least Doctor John wouldn’t beat him up. Even if he tries Edward is faster and knows how to make him suffer.

“How?” Edward asks. There’s a catch. There has to be. The man shifts his weight on his haunches and holds up a single finger.

“First you must promise me to never reveal what I’m going to tell you. We can be friends, you and I. But if you betray me, well, I’ll be around long enough to be your enemy.” The man’s thin smile seemed like the first honest thing Edward had seen from him. Edward isn’t really afraid of him, but he really wants to know what the hell Doctor John is going to say, so he nods.

“Shake on it,” Doctor John says and holds out his hand. “Promise me with your words.”

“I promise I won’t tell anyone what you’re going to tell me.”

Even so Doctor John looks at him hard, though if he really wants to be threatening, he should have his flintlock or a knife. It wouldn’t be difficult for Edward to headbutt him in the nose and send him sprawling, put a knee in his chest and pin him to the floor.

“I have a contact…a friend in Nassau, Elias Todd, he will be waiting for me at the Broken Bow Tavern.” Another hesitation. Then he digs in his waistcoat and pulls out a square of paper. “I need you to give him this. Stay with him when he reads it. Then you’ll be able to remain in the tavern, and you’ll want to remain in the tavern. You won’t want to come back here.” He grips both of Edward’s shoulders tight.

“Do you understand?”

He does and doesn’t, but nods to say he does and slips the paper into his shirt. Doctor John seems relieved.

“Good lad,” he says. “Now, be good, Edward. Keep your head down, mind your elders, control your temper.” At this last, Doctor John’s eyebrows raise. “A good valet is one with a level head who doesn’t fly off the handle.”

“Yeah, okay,” Edward mutters. He’ll be good. He’ll keep his head down. He’ll control his temper. It won’t be hard. And it makes the man smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Excellent… Just think. Very soon now, a new life, a new you. A future you can invest in.”

A new life. A new him. With clean hair and good food and all the adventure he wants, with someone who seems to like him. A future maybe… he could tell Mother about one day.

 He hears the creak of footsteps approaching the cabin. Doctor John doesn’t seem to hear and opens his mouth to say more. Edward holds up a hand, heart beating fast. If anyone sees them, they’ll think- they’ll know something is up. They might tell Hornigold. Or worse.

Doctor John seems to hear the footsteps now too and stands, taking a few steps back and straightening his waistcoat just as the door opens and light shines in around Paulo’s form.

“Hello, my friend,” says doctor John, voice tight. “How can I help you?”

Paulo ignores him, shifting to look at Edward, the light shining on his impassive face. His expression is as dull and dead as the eyes of the saint on his chest, nothing left but a hollow dead thing with a heart grown cold.

“C-C-Cook wa-wants y-you o-out on the d-d-d-deck.” For what, Paulo doesn’t say, but they both fucking know. Paulo sighs. “Y-you ju-ju-just c-can’t s-s-stay out of tr-tr-trouble, P-Primo.”

“Shut up,” Edward says, getting to his feet and taking off the coat to lay on the bed. He wants to tell Paulo not to fucking call him primo, but Doctor John clears his throat and Edward remembers his promise. Head down, polite and keep his temper. He swallows the words instead.

“Do mind telling me what’s going on?” Doctor John says in a way that sounds less like a request and more like an order with a blade in it.

“Cook wants my ass kicked,” Edward says, cracking his neck from side to side.

“What? Why? For stealing an orange?” Doctor John gets to his feet. “You can’t fault the boy for that! He’s skin and bones as it is! I absolutely forbid it.”

Fortunately, Paulo ignores him instead of backhanding him and Edward does too, slipping past the man out into the sunny day. The whole crew is gathered to watch with the exception of Gilead Thorpe. Their faces are somber except for the rabbit who looks satisfied and Hornigold whose eyes are stones.

“You stupid shit,” Jack says from where he’s hanging from the rigging. “The fuck did you do this time.”

“Made Greg puke.”

Jack snickers. “Nice.”

“Ay,” Paulo mutters and Edward grits his teeth as the man’s large calloused hand grips the back of his neck and he’s pushed forward like a misbehaving dog. One day he is going to be big enough to knife anyone who does that to him or break their nose or loosen their teeth. Only he won’t because he’s not supposed to do that kind of thing anymore.

 Still, he is about to squirm away from Paulo and go forward on his own, when he sees Cook is the one standing on the deck, alone. Like Cook is going to be the one to do this. Shit. Edward’s stomach tightens. Paulo’s hand grips, damp with sweat against his neck as he fairly pushes Edward down the steps toward the blond man who smirks, red eye canted sideways as if even if it is afraid.

Well, it can be afraid. Edward isn’t. What does he have to be afraid of? Even if his insides quiver and his palms prickle with sweat. Paulo pushes him to stand in front of Cook and remains for a moment, as if he’s going to tug Edward backwards or step in front of him. Finally he lets go and steps back, deck creaking under his shoes. Cook’s teeth shine ivory-yellow against his mustache.

“You can’t seriously mean to do this,” Doctor John says emerging from the cabin. Edward hopes he’s hidden the damned flintlock. “He’s just a boy. It’s just an orange.”

“Ah, but discipline must be maintained,” says Cook. “Especially for these ones. You keep them where they belong, non? Keep them well trained. Or they run right over you.”

 Cook’s hand snaps out and catches the flat of his cheek with his knuckles, sending Edward stumbling, his jaw throbs. It’s not like Mad Eddie. Cook wants to make it hurt. Feliciano babbles something by the railing and seems like he would have gotten up but for Aconi’s hand on his shoulder. Edward is more braced for the second one, a fucking fist heading right for his jaw, even if it drives a sound from him and makes him bite his tongue.

“Ben, please,” says Doctor John.

“Everyone needs to know his place,” says Hornigold.  “Unless you’d like to take it.”

Doctor John says nothing. There’s nothing to say. Cook curls his fist into Edward’s shirtfront and hauls him up, then snarls a grin at the clean pretty doctor, shaking Edward until his teeth rattles.

“This will be you one day, mon ami, unless you shape up. Lower than shit. Know who you are, know where you belong, know who you serve; and you will escape this miserable existence.” And then they are almost nose to nose, Cook’s breath washing over him and turning his stomach sour.

“You steal from my stores,” the man says in a low voice. “And I know you steal from my sleep,” he pats Edward’s cheek. “But you will not rise above your head and steal respect from my men. Now you will apologize. Hm?” 

Edward doesn’t want to. He didn’t do much wrong and anyway Scrawny Greg started it. Scrawny Greg could have punched the shit out of him and no one would care. But…

“I’m sorry,” Edward says, hating the words even as they cross his tongue- and the way it makes him feel.

“Louder!” Cook snarls. “So everyone can hear!”

“I’m sorry!” he shouts, only just stopping himself from cursing or planting a foot or fist into Cook’s gut.

Cook’s grin widens and his fists clench hard in Edward’s shirt.

“Oui, ma chien, you will be.”

But he isn’t. Not really. Cook hits hard but not half as hard as Mad Eddie did, and Edward knows how to turn his body so it hurts even less than that. Cook is so stupid he can’t even tell what Edward is doing. It doesn’t matter. Even if Cook hit like a brick, it would be over soon. He turns his gaze up to where the doctor is gripping the railing, pale as a ghost. He has to be good, he reminds himself, just to get through this— and then— something new, something brilliant.

Something he can look forward to.

Chapter Text

  Edward sits hunched forward, staring at his feet and the ragged hems of his dirty trousers. The small tender is packed with loot from the Rosa and Edward is forced to sit with his knees close to his chest, ribs aching and one eye swollen shut. Paulo rows with a sullen sturdiness, the saint on his chest seeming weary and distant, eyes flat and fading, as if she’s disappearing into his skin. There is no Mad Eddie perched behind Paulo, just more kegs of coffee and some crates filled with spices that are a mystery to everyone but Saladin it seems. Despite that, it feels so much like when Edward first came aboard Hornigold’s ship that it makes him want to puke.

 He won’t though. He fucking refuses.

  Just ahead, the town called Paradise sits right against the shore and back to the trees. Edward watches as dinghies and catamarans and rowboats of all sizes criss cross in front of it, heading landward or to the rigged ships just beyond bob uneasily in the rough waves of the deeper water, without flag or marking. Some of the smaller boats are flagging down the larger ones to sell their wares; bottles of liquor or bolts of cloth or food or birds with colorful feathers.

A strange sort of feeling like excitement or fear bubbles up in the back of his throat as they bob closer, but it’s too weak a feeling to hold onto. Mostly he just feels like shit. Being ‘good’ was a shit job and if Doctor John hadn’t promised to make him a valet, Edward didn’t know if he’d do it. Cook had ignored him mostly after that beating, but Scrawny Greg had been an even more of a pain in the ass than usual. He’d even hit Feliciano upside the head, which had prompted the man to hit him back right in the center of the rib cage which made  Scrawny Greg draw a knife on him. Feliciano’s leg was still busted but no one went to save him so Edward had punched Greg in the lower back, sending him down on deck.

That had resulted in a black eye and busted ribs and Doctor John looking pale and furious as he talked about snakes and rocks and fucking Odysseus again; but then no one but Cook would talk to Scrawny Greg after, so it had made Edward feel a little better. He’d also gotten to sleep in Doctor John’s room last night and watched the man sort through the log pages, ink stained fingers flying over the paper. Every once in a while he would look over at Edward’s hammock and give a thin smile under his mustache which made Edward feel good. Feel seen.  

 He presses a hand to his stomach to rub the bundle of silk against his belly, now wrapped around Doctor John’s letter to his friend. He can feel the warm brassy weight of the compass too and the crinkle of the stolen map that he’ll return once they’re free of this life, living as doctors and important rich men.  Which ship will they be on, he wonders? Will they have their own berth? Will Ed have a blanket or maybe even a hammock to call his own? It all seems like a dream…

He laces his hands under his legs and rests his chin on his knees to watch the shore, letting his mind drift. Paradise bobs closer and closer.  The water was shallow here, shining blue and carved with reefs that the little merchant boats expertly curve around, scaring the fish with their shadows.

One day he’ll be in a tender just like this but be able to jump over the side and swim to shore if he wants- unbruised and unbroken with a full belly. He imagines himself swimming through the water, chasing the fish- maybe hauling himself on one of the boats to join in on drink and song or poke through their wares or steal it and row away laughing. Well, Doctor Jon wouldn’t like that so maybe not. A valet should probably help people and not drink or steal things, even if it wouldn’t be as fun.

Edward raises his head as one of the boats, a small coracle that’s mottled green and brown like a turtle shell, seems to be coming up to them. After a moment, Paulo notices too. The man’s expression is hard at first but then softens as the merchant draws nearer and a strange  smile comes across his face. Edward can see why. The merchant is probably one of the most pretty women Edward has ever seen. She’s slender with strong arms laced with muscle. Sun shines off her gold brown skin and on the beads wrapped around her tightly coiled dark hair and she has a wide pretty mouth that’s dark up top and pale pink on the bottom.

“Hey, hey, pretty boys, coming in ta Paradise, ey?” she says, pulling alongside as Paulo slows to a stop to let her. Her coracle is full of strung beads of all colors and he likes the way they rattle as she stirs her hand in them. “Well welcome, welcome. Ya first time here?”

They nod and Paulo reaches out to hold her coracle steady as she takes up her oar to set it cross-wise resting on the lip of the small boat.

“Good, I like ‘em fresh.” She grins, showing a cute gap between her two front teeth, and cranes her head. “Ya got anytin for a weary traveler?”

“ S-s-sí . S-some g-grog i-if y-y-you wa-want it.”

“Aye, I’ll take it.”

Paulo hands the bottle over and Edward watches as she chugs it down, her throat moving. He didn’t even know women could drink that much. Mama would be shocked.

“D-do y-you l-l-live h-here?” Paulo asks.

“Mm, I do. Ever since I dropped outta my mam’s skirts. And whatta day dat was!” She salutes Edward with the bottle and he finds himself flushing as he ducks his head. She laughs.

“I see ya there, bey!” she says. “Whatcha name? I be Marguerite.”

“Edward,” he murmurs.

“Good name,” Marguerite says and right now it feels like the best name he’s ever heard. He tries to smother his smile with his knees as he watches her eyes dance. “Who ya sail wit?”

Edward hesitates a moment too long.

“H-H-Hornig-g-old,” says Paulo, giving Edward a look and Edward raises his head, daring him to say something about it. Paulo just shakes his head and looks away which just annoys Edward more.

“Hoo, ya be brave but stupid,” Marguerite says. “Sailin’ wit dat man?” Her mouth turns sour and she shakes her head. “Yinna be dead in a week. Last I saw he left with twenty men and came back wit five no, no….” She points at Paulo and Edward in turn. “Yinna should find someone else ta sail wit. Ol’ Flint be comin’ in soon, I hear. Or even l’Olonnais, if ya speak his words. Even da knobs if ya can get ‘em but don’t stay where ya are. We lose too many handsome men as is.”

She winks and Edward nearly chokes on his own spit. He doesn’t know if she means it and she probably doesn’t mean it because he feels small and scrawny and dirty, but that doesn’t stop his face from flooding with fire.

“Kn-knobs?” says Paulo.

“Mm! Two of ‘em. Dey don’t fly dere colors but ain’t no mistaken what dey are. Paradise be about full up wit dere crews right now— So ya watch ya step dere too.” Marguerite finishes the bottle and hands it back.  “But dere also be plenty pretty girls in town who wouldn’t mind sharin’ a bit of sunshine for one a dese.” She rattles the beads. “Whatcha say.”

“D-don’t ha-have a-a-anything to gi-give r-right n-now.” Paulo grins. “But n-no one has m-more s-s-sunsh-shine than y-you, b-b-bonita. ”

She laughs and slaps his arm. “Keep ya sugar in ya mouth.”  Then she turns her smile on Edward. He ducks his chin against his knees and flushes, but can’t help but smile back.

 “Yinna come by da Lusca, ey? Ask for Kupe. Ya be welcome dere.” She seems to be waiting for Edward to nod. He does and is rewarded with a wider grin. Then she leans over, smelling like the sea and shaded trees and holds out a string of beads. “Take a little sunshine from me, and keep ya chin up.” She winks at him.

“Okay,” he says, holding up his hand, still half afraid of taking them from her. She places the beads in his hand, fingertips brushing over his palm, then closes his fingers around them as if to keep them safe. His toes curl against the wood and he tries to breathe in softly so she won’t notice. Maybe she does, and maybe she doesn’t, but she just grins and pats his knuckles once before leaning back.

“Tank ya for ya booze and ya faces, but dis lady gotta get back to it.” She slaps the side of their boat. “Gimmie a push, mountain.”

“ Ha-hasta lueg-go ,” Paulo says, giving her coracle a shove as she dips her oar back in the water. She waves a hand in farewell, then paddles off, her high voice raising in a song filled with words that Edward didn’t even know women knew.

Paulo chuckles, dropping their oars back to the water, and even Edward has to smile feeling the rowboat tug through the tide.  He traces his fingers over the beads, surprised to find they are not actually beads, but bits of shells, tiny and with the edges worn off. Not all of them are white either. Some are faintly striped with gray or blue and one is a faded pink color. Marguerite. He repeats the name to himself silently, seeing how it feels on his tongue. Doctor John was handsome too. He was probably even better looking than Paulo. He bet Marguerite would like to meet him at the Lusca too- and would be impressed when Doctor John said Edward was his valet. 

“Y-you sh-should t-t-take her a-advi-vice , P-primo ,” Paulo says and Edward wants to kick him, the happiness seeming to leech out of him.

“Shut up.”

“N-no.” Though for a moment Edward thinks he will as there is silence save for the steady pull of the oars against water like a heartbeat and the cries of the gulls. Then Paulo lets out a breath through his nose like a bull and says: “F-f-find a-a-another c-crew o-or s-s-stay in t-town. Even y-you c-can’t t-t-take mu-much m-more.”

“Fuck you, I know what I’m doing,” Edward says, clenching his fingers over the beads. He wants to tell Paulo the whole thing, what he’s going to do, what he’s going to become- but stops himself because it would be stupid. It’s fine, Paulo doesn’t have to know. Edward will just become a valet and when he sees him again he’ll show Paulo just what he’s capable of.

“ Ay , n-no y-you d-d0n’t. You n-never d-d-d-do.” Paulo sighs heavily in the back of his throat and then shakes his heavy head. “J-just b-be ca-caref-ful wi-with your d-d-doctor, s-sí ?” The beads dig into the soft parts of Edward’s fingers as he clenches  them. “E-even if he ha-has g-good th-thoughts, he’s n-not g-g-going to gi-give you wh-what you exp-p-pect t-to g-get.”

“Fuck you,” Edward mutters again and glares at the coffee barrel.  He’s tempted to shove the beads down Paulo’s throat but they were a gift, and he doesn’t want to give Paulo more than he’s gotten already. "What the hell do you know anyway about anything. You’re just a stupid coward.”

Paulo winces at that and Edward immediately regrets having said it. Then just as quickly shoves those regrets aside. Why should he feel bad? The bastard had never done anything for him and he’ll never do anything for him so long as someone tells him different.

“You are. Obedience isn’t strength. Obedience is shit .  You’re shit! Everything you do is shit! You were born shit and you’ll die shit and I’m sick of hearing your fucking excuses all the time!” He throws the beads and they hit Paulo’s chest and clatter to the bottom of the boat. But it’s not good enough. It’s not loud enough. He wants Paulo to hurt and he wants him to know it’s him that did it.

And then it will be him on some rain slashed dock with a rope around his throat. Edward’s insides go cold and greasy and he buries his head against his knees. Though his ribs prick painfully, he lets them. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about any of it. He’ll do better. He will. He swears it.  He’ll make Doctor John proud and maybe, one day, Mother too.

“ S-sí, p-primo,” Paulo murmurs. “T-t-tienes r-r-razón c-como s-s-simpre. L-lo si-si-siento. ”

Edward squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to ignore him- but it’s easier as Paulo doesn’t seem to have any more to say. There is silence instead, filled with the lap of the water and the cries of the gulls and distant laughing voices living a better life than his. But only for now.

xxxxx

The anger lasts until they make landfall, and turns to something that’s a mix of awe and something like worry. Paradise seemed small from shore, but even by the docks he feels like he’s standing in front of a forest, thick with buildings. Most of the buildings have signs swinging in a fresh breeze coming landward, but some don’t. The dirt streets seem  about in wild paths, and are constantly clogged with people laughing and cursing and singing and fighting, music seems to spill out everywhere. He doesn’t know how he’s going to find anyone, let alone Doctor John’s friend.

But he doesn’t really have too much time to worry about it or be angry or even gawk at the town. For the past few hours, he and Paulo and Jack have been moving supplies from the tenders arriving from the ship to the wagon on the dock that sat under Saladin’s watchful eye. The sun has gone from mild and cheerful to hot and pulsing right overhead. The dock is rough under his bare feet and seems to sway as if still on the sea and every part of him aches and pinches and bruises.

It should have been absolutely fucking miserable, and it still kind of is…

…But there is an open cask of water nearby that Saladin didn’t care that they drank from. He didn’t tell them to hurry or insult them or lash out with his fist. Instead he stands there watching, occasionally scratching something into the thick brown book he held.

 At one shoulder there is the bustle and excitement at a new town, at the other there is the endless blue of the sea and calling voices. Ahead is a brimming future. He can’t help but be a little excited, even if every glimpse of Paulo’s face fills him with a prickling uneasiness that’s both anger and guilt.

He can’t wait to get away, to go out and explore, dizzying as the town is, and find Doctor John’s friend— and give his ribs a break before he collapses in the dirt. Thankfully, they are almost done. Edward hoists a barrel into the full cart with a wheezing grunt, then has to take a moment to catch his breath. Saladin glances at him briefly only to make another note in his book. With that gone, there is only one other barrel and a sack of grain left.

“Help the little fool before he destroys it,” says Saladin gesturing with the quill. Edward turns to see Jack half dragging the sack of grain across the dock, knuckles white and straining.

“I got it! God!”

“You don’t have it,” says Saladin. “And if it bursts I will make you pick up every grain with your teeth.”

Jack scowls at him but stops and then snorts.

“Fine, come on and help me then. Shit.”

With a snicker, Edward comes over, and they lift it together. It’s still heavy and they are both flushed and sweating by the time they move it to the cart and stuff it at the front. Edward’s ribs are screaming at him and he takes a ragged breath, wrapping his arms around them as he wobbles a little in place. The ground heaves up and down, back and forth, all the while remaining perfectly still and his legs stagger without him. 

“The sea will stay with you a while, but you’ll get used to it,” Saladin says, smirking. Then closes the book with a thump. “Your turn is done. Good work, men.”

 Edward jerks, startled pink by the praise and immediately regrets it, even if he feels a strange rush of pride. All he’d done was carry shit, but he can’t help but straighten along with Jack, rolling his shoulders which are starting to feel like overcooked noodles.

 Saladin reaches into the satchel at his side. “Here’s half your share now. Don’t spend it all in one place.” And he tosses two pouches in their direction. Edward catches one, the pouch hitting is palms with a satisfying clink.

“My share?” Edward says, picking open the knot of the twine closing it. “Holy shit.” Inside is full of copper coins, more than he’s ever had in his life! This could have bought half a week of food at home! A little more experimental jangling reveals a silver ring with a blue stone and a gold crucifix.

“Your share of the loot,” Saladin says with a sharp pointed grin. “And maybe more than that if we have a fair wind.” He holds up a third pouch. “Yours Paulo, but extra for you if you tug this market side.”

“ B-bien ,” Paulo says. He looks past Edward as he passes,  coming to stand between the shafts of the wagon. Saladin wedges the book between some barrels and tugs a bracer of pistols over his shoulder. Paulo straps on a cutlass at his side and takes one of the pistols to place on the other side of his belt. It looks like they’re heading into something exciting and a part of Edward even wants to come with them, even if his aches tell him what a bad idea that would be.

“We will be on our way. You boys go and relax,” Saladin says. “But stay out of trouble and make sure you’re here before the turn of the tide tomorrow. Captain wants everyone back aboard to prepare for the new crew.” 

“What? We only get one day here?” Jack says. “That’s shit.”

“Life is shit, boy,” says Saladin with a shrug. “It is your skin not mine that Captain will take if you’re late.”

It really is shit. It means Edward has less time than ever to find the guy and deliver the letter. That means exploring will have to come later, but there are probably going to be other towns and even cooler ones than this, he tells himself. And there’s still plenty of time after to bring Doctor John to meet Marguerite. Hopefully he’ll be kind and funny and won’t tell her any stories about boring old heroes.

“He’s gonna have a hard time hidin’,” Jack says after a moment. Edward blinks, coming back to himself.

“Huh?”

“Paulo.” Jack jerks his chin in the man’s direction. “He’s plannin’ on cuttin’ loose. Cap’n might not care if he goes, but he might and if that happens-” Jack whistles.

Paulo is leaving? Edward’s heart gives a little jerk, but he swiftly remembers he doesn’t give a shit.  It’s good. Paulo should leave. Edward doesn’t want to see him again- and won’t anyway so it’s fine.

“Rabbit’s gonna be pissed with no one left to boss around. Ain’t gonna be nobody from here that’s for damn sure.”  Jack spits onto the dock. “Come on, trade me that pretty cross there and I’ll show you around.”

Edward doesn’t want to give Jack shit just for the principle of the thing, and because it hurts still that Paulo was working for the rabbit, but of course he was. And what does Edward care? He doesn’t. And fuck Jack for reminding him otherwise. Edward wants to tell him to fuck off— but remembers what Doctor John had said about controlling his temper and takes a breath instead, letting it out through his nose. He doesn’t want to give Jack the crucifix, but it might be easier to find where he’s supposed to go if Jack shows him around.

Still, he knows better than to just hand it over.

“I’ll give it after you’ve shown me,” Edward says at Jack’s reaching hand.  And then, just to remind him he’s a shithead: “You’re working for the rabbit too, dumbass.”

“Not anymore.” Jack lifts his chin proudly. “And gimmie the cross first. How do I know you ain’t gonna run off with it?”

“Bullshit. And how do I know you’re not going to run off with the thing and not show me shit?”

“It ain’t bullshit. And, alright, listen, that thing’s gotta be worth at least four doubloons at least. So gimmie two doubloons so you’ll still have two to get from it if I run off and then I’ll give the doubloons back to you when we’re done.”

It makes shit sense, but it is only two doubloons and he doesn’t even know what to do with most of it, so he hands it over. Jack peers at them as if checking, then slips them into his own pouch and pats it.

“A man keeps his word,” Jack says. “And I’m a man now, a rigger full time. Ain’t got time for whatever petty ass shit the rabbit wants and he can’t climb the rigging anyhow.” Jack grins. “And you see this?” He pulls back his sleeve and flexes his arm to show a small but enviable curl of muscle. “Soon enough this baby will be big enough to bend men into pretzels and ain’t no one gonna fuck with me.” He kisses his muscle lovingly

“Paulo’s are bigger,” Edward mutters. “And you’re still a dumbass.” But he’s feeling better despite himself, which is also annoying. “Are you going to show me around or what.”

“Fine fine.” The wind shifts and blows the smell of something baking up Edward’s nostrils and makes his stomach gurgle and Jack’s echoes it. “But first, let’s get somethin’ to eat.”

xxxxx

A short while later they are walking side by side down one of the wider dirt streets. Edward nibbles the hot johnnycake, wrapped in paper. It’s his third one so far and it costs half a doubloon each and it’s so delicious he feels like he’s going to cry. He also has straw sandals that are too big for him for three doubloons, but after nearly stepping on broken glass he’s glad for it.  

“Goddamn, I miss land food,” Jack says, taking a swig from the bottle and handing it back. Edward takes a swig too, the rum like a shot to his system that makes everything that much brighter and makes the ground stop swaying from side to side, though maybe that’s because they are. He hardly hurts at all. He hands the bottle back, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and takes a bigger bite of the steamy cake, feeling the warmth spread over his tongue.

“I could eat thirty more,” he says, licking crumbs off his fingers.

“No shit, me too. And hell, we can probably buy thirty more. We’ll probably get even more when Saladin pulls through and…I tell ya what, any more hauls like this one and we’ll be stinkin’ rich. We could probably buy a hundred!”

 Stinkin’ rich. Edward grins. He likes that. Especially if it comes with pretty things and all the food he can stuff in his mouth and rum and shoes. Except he isn’t going to do this anymore. He’s not going to steal. He’s going to earn money the right way. The boring way.

“Do you think doctors are rich?” Edward asks as casually as he can. He accidentally bumps into Jack trying to avoid a pile of shit and they amble to the other side of the street, nearly interrupting a dice game. The men shoo them off with curses and drunken fists that are easy to avoid.

“Doctors? Rich? Pfh. ‘Course not. If they were rich, they wouldn’t work. Look at cap’n! He’s rich and he don’t do shit. He just makes us slugs do it.”

Well that’s true. Is Hornigold richer than Doctor John though? It’s hard to tell. They both wear nice clothes and talk really well. Edward considers as he finishes the johnnycake and then idly picks one of the silver rings with the blue stone from his pouch. Neither of them wear rings like this that he can tell which is stupid because if he were rich he’d wear rings all the time. Maybe he will! Lots of rings! Rings on every finger.

“I’m gonna be a rich doctor,” says Edward, mostly to himself.

“Anyway,” Jack says at the same time. “This here is the…the main part. The beatin’ heart of Paradise. All the shops and shit- wait you’re gonna do what?” Jack scoffs. “No one’s gonna trust you to be no doctor!”

“Why not?” Edward says ready to punch him.

“Cuz you’ll look at them with those scary eyes and they’ll kick it right away.”

“I’ll just close my eyes then,” Edward says, reaching for the bottle. Jack holds it away and takes a drink, relenting only when Edward punches him hard in the arm.

“Stupid,” Jack says. “We already got a doctor. And anyway cap’n’s  gonna make you his cabin boy when we set sail again.”

“Fuck off, he isn’t.” That makes even less sense.

“Believe me or not, it’s gonna happen. He was talkin’ ‘bout it and the rabbit was pissed .”

“Why would he do that? He hates me. He makes everyone hate me by his stupid questions and he smacked the shit out of me last time I was in the cabin. Not that it hurt.” Edward adds, because it did, but not in any real way and he isn’t a baby.

“No shit he hit you,” Jack says. “I told you sneakin’ in there was a bad idea! You made him look weak in front of the crew! He  has to look like the strongest, especially then cuz…cuz those…those guys… Mads and…and them were…” Jack sniffs and looks away, blinking hard. Edward hands the bottle back and Jack chugs it down before throwing it into an alley where there’s a muffled: ow! “They weren’t happy. Anyway, Hornigold hates everyone. You ain’t special. Well…” Jack scratches his nose. “I mean you are cuz you stabbed the rabbit’s hand and get in all sorta trouble that woulda got me skinned, but you make him laugh so.” Jack shrugs.

Well, that’s true, but Edward isn’t sure if it’s because he’s special. He thinks it’s just because Hornigold is weird.

“He wants to stick you up the riggin’ too to make a proper sailor of you. I mean, shit, you’re still gonna be on deck time to time though I heard he’s gonna get in more swabbies if he can. Though no more kids. Rabbit was all:” Jack changes his pitch to a squeak: “‘You get one more brat on this ship, Ben, I swear to Christ.’”

Edward laughs and regrets it a little because it hurts — It seems incredible. Probably a lie, but if it isn’t…! If it isn’t, it doesn’t matter, Edward tells himself,  because he’s going to be with Doctor John. And even if he decided to stay, Hornigold would still be an asshole and let the shit get beat out of him so other people would behave. And he…he is going to do something better. He is going to change his skin and not be a snake.

“I mean it ain’t gonna be easy—cuz I mean rabbit still hates you and so does Cook- Oh, that building over there is the Red Hen. You see it’s got a sign that kinda looks like a chicken?”

“That’s a chicken?” It looks more like a potato with feathers.

“I said kinda. Anyway it’s where Hornigold and them stay. We can stay there too, for like five doubloons to get a spot by the hearth and you gotta come after the room’s cleared out so middle of the night. Not bad though if you’ve got nothin’ better.” Jack shrugs and continues. “But it ain’t gonna be as bad as it’s been. Cook’ll be too busy feedin’ a full compliment to get on you much and we can mug Greg for food if we want.”

“If we want…?” Why is there we all of a sudden? Jack stops and turns to face him, his expression serious and for once he really does look like a man and Edward feels small and stupid.

“It ain’t fair these past few days. You didn’t do shit and you got us a doctor too, Aconi said. We’re pirates but we don’t torture people, at least not our mates. And I hate your stupid guts but we are mates, Ed.” Jack is gripping his shoulders now, only a little bit hard, but it’s the name that shocks him right down to his bones. Even more than when Doctor John said it. Not pisser. Just Ed.

 Well he doesn’t really like ‘Ed’. 

“Edward.”

“Fuck’s sake.” Jack rolls his eyes. “Edward. But listen, you gotta stay outta trouble as best you can and stop pickin’ fights and bein’ stupid.”

There it is again. Edward almost wants to headbutt him. Stay out of trouble. Behave. It didn’t matter if he did all those things on Hornigold’s ship. Maybe he’d punched Scrawny Greg once or twice the past couple days, but before that he hadn’t done anything bad and barely got shit to eat. He hadn’t even stolen that fucking orange that had gotten him beat by Cook in the first place, but that hadn’t mattered.

“Fuck off,” Edward mutters, shrugging away from him.

“I’m serious. You gotta stop pickin’ fights, or you’re just gonna give yourself a world of hurt. I mean, look at me! I haven’t started a single one.”

“You tried to kill me that one night.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Ho there! Ye little shits!”

They both turn to see two men pushing toward them from the crowd, one short and squat and the other tall and thin and with a purpling bruise on his skull.

“Did one of ye throw that bottle?” snaps the squat man.

“So what if we did?” Jack says. “Shoulda ducked. Now fuck off we’re havin’ a conversation.”

“Oh no, lad. I’m thinking, ye owe my mate here an apology.”

“An apology in blood,” says the tall man in a surprisingly deep voice. They grin and the squat man pulls a knife. 

Almost as one the two men charge. Edward sighs, teeth gritted as he has to jolt out of the way to avoid the squat man’s knife, then grabs his wrist and twists with both hands, jerking until he can feel the arm come out of the shoulder socket with a satisfying pop. The squat man screams, knife clattering to the ground and Edward jerks him down by the collar to headbutt him in the nose to send the rest of him sprawling into the dirt. Jack has knocked the thin man’s knife away and is kneeing the man in the balls hard and sharp, making him crumple to the ground. 

Bastards, Edward thinks, glaring at them. Now his ribs are twinging again and they’re out of rum.

“Well don’t just stand there,” Jack says. “Loot the fuckers. God, do I have to tell you everythin’?”

“Oh…” Edward flushes he feels he should have known that.

It’s not long before they’re walking again, Edward’s ribs throbbing. But he’s got a handful of more doubloons to buy more rum with if he likes and a nice knife and a faded blue cloth belt that he has to wrap six times around himself but that he can hide things in the folds. He notices Jack is swaggering and tries to copy it but trips a little in the sandals so walks normally.

“Shit, where was I?” Jack says.

“Uh…” Edward thinks, but their earlier conversation had flown completely away. “Shit, I forgot.”

“Whatever, wasn’t important.” They come to a stop in a kind of dirt plaza with a cracked well in the middle of it and streets leading off the sides like the lines of the web of a very drunk spider. “South of here is where the knobs stay- the people that think they’re too good for real pirating. Call themselves ‘privateers’.” He makes a sarcastic gesture.

“Because they pirate in private?” Edward says. Does it mean they’re super stealthy? If so he’d like to be a privateer… Maybe he could be a valet and a privateer. He doesn’t see why he can’t be both.

“Nah, it just means that they just work for the king and they gotta do what he wants.”

“Oh.” Fuck that then. “Marguerite says there are a lot of knob crew here.”

“Who the fuck is Marguerite?” Jack says. Edward lifts his head. He doesn’t want to share her with Jack either. She is too pretty and she didn’t invite him to the Lusca, but he’s proud to have met someone like her so he says:

“Someone I met.”

“Bullshit. I refuse to believe you met anyone named Marguerite. Maybe Marvin or…Marguer…rob…”

“Marguerrob isn’t even a name, jackass.” What’s wrong with him knowing someone named Marguerite anyway. “I did meet her. She lives here.”

“Sure…” Jack says. “ If she does, and that’s a big if-”

Edward reminds himself that gut punching Jack will only pinch his ribs again.

“It’s probably to the West. That’s where the locals stay at the edge of town and in the jungle and shit. But there’s fishing villages and whatever out there, so if you get lost they can probably tell you how to get back. That’s all I got for Paradise though, at least the important bits.” He holds out his hand and it takes Edward a moment to remember. He fishes out the gold crucifix before eyeing Jack back.

“My doubloons.”

“Shithead,” Jack says handing them over.

“Fuckface,” Edward says, giving him the crucifix. “What do you want it for anyway.”

“Oh, Jolene told me last time that if I come back with a bit of gold and some hair on my chest, she’d show me the ropes. And look at this.” He pulls open his shirt and Edward raises his eyebrows at the seven dark curls on his chest. He doesn’t know what exactly is going on, but he doesn’t think that’s enough chest hair to count for anything.

“Why not just ask Gilead Thorpe to show you ropes? Doesn’t he have to anyway?”

“Wrong ropes,” Jack says with a wild grin. “Why don’t you come meet her? Then you can see what a real woman looks like.”

“I know what a real woman looks like,” Edward grumbles. And she’s prettier than anyone named Jolene.

“You ain’t seen a woman ‘til you’ve seen Jolene. She got jugs out to here.” He makes a gesture with his hands in front of his not really hairy chest. Edward considers. He doesn’t really care about jugs - though he might if they were full of rum. He really does need to get the letter to Doctor John’s friend but he is curious. And he sort of has an idea where Doctor John’s friend might be- after all doing shit for the king is what Doctor John wanted so the south sounds like a pretty safe bet. Maybe Jolene could even tell him where to find the Broken Bow.

He nods.

“Okay. I’ll come see Jolene and her jugs and ropes.”

“Nah, jugs are hers, ropes are Grace and you don’t wanna fuck with that. I’ve heard things.” Jack shudders, then whacks Edward in the shoulder. “Come on.”

He starts off and Edward follows him, shaking his head. There are some things that he’s never going to understand.

xxxxx

The sitting room of the Swan is packed with women. Big ones, small ones, thin ones and round ones, all dressed in colors only slightly faded with thin shawls gathered about their shoulders. Smooth necks turned, earrings flashed, shoulders raised and lowered and there were breasts everywhere, some barely contained in a dress. 

Edward stares numbly at a very round woman with high red hair piled on her head and a pale doughy neck and her— her bosom like a shelf, so big and round you could set a tankard on it and it would stay put. Every time she laughs, and she does often, her red generous lips open wide and her generous breasts jiggle like beached jellyfish.

Edward grips the back of Jack’s shirt just as hard as the older boy is gripping the curtain, they are half hidden behind. The knuckle around Jack’s thumb white, skin pale and sour and sweat dripping around his temple. Is this really where Jolene is from? Could Jack have known that? Because this place…

This place is….

“This is a house of sin,” Edward hisses. He could practically feel his hair curling just from saying it. Mother would have a fit. She would go dark as a thundercloud. He had seen these bright parrot women cross the street rather than cross her and had heard one of them whisper to the other once that her eyes were like daggers- and they were. He could practically feel the blades burrowing between his shoulders now.

“No shit it’s a house of sin,” Jack hisses back. “Sinnin’ is just what I plan on doin’. What do you think the cross is for, you numbnuts?”

“Jugs!” Edward says. “You can’t sin with jugs!”

“Watch me,” Jack says, but he doesn’t move from behind the curtain.

Edward feels someone come up behind them and turns just as a man the same color and shape as driftwood steps close enough to touch. Edward cages his hand into a fist automatically and the man’s caterpillar thick eyebrows raise.

“And just what do you turdbaskets think you’re doing?” he says. “This is for paying customers only.”

“I am payin’ customer. Or I will be,” Jack says, lifting his chin and holds up the cross in a shaky grip. “See?”

The man snorts. “You jackasses don’t look like you’ve got a chin hair to split between you.”

“I got plenty!” Jack says. “And chest hair too!”

Edward is about to be defensive over his lip hair but the ladies laugh again and he’s completely becalmed. There’s something weirdly enchanting about it. Like a chorus of birds mixed with a flock of crows and one shrieking parrot that just makes him want to laugh along.

“Out,” says the man, reaching for him. Edward is two seconds from ramming his fist into the man’s gut when a husky voice calls from within:

“Problems, Craig?”

“Got some lil bastards in where who don’t belong.” The man yanks back the curtain fully and suddenly Edward is exposed, fourteen pairs of eyes stare at him with various shades of surprise or boredom or amusement. He half ducks behind Jack’s arm. Soft laughter and one shrill note echoes around the room.

“I’m lookin’ for Jolene,” Jack says, his voice cracking high. “I made a promise last time I was in port an’ I got chest hair an’ gold so I wanna see her.” He clears his throat and adds. “Please, ma’am.”

“Is Jolene available?” says the husky voiced woman. It’s the big one that speaks. The jellyfish breasted lady with large red hair. 

“I think she’s in the green room. Not expecting til half past.”

The jellyfish lady reaches between her breasts and pulls out a gold pocket watch that she clicks open.

“Well, young monsieur? Can you do what you need to do in fifteen minutes?”

“I can do it in ten, ma’am,” says Jack, prompting another ripple of laughter.

“Escort our young lad to his appointment, then,” says jellyfish lady.

“Madam,” says the man with a bob to his head. One of his driftwood gnarled hands settles on Jack’s shoulders and he levels a glare at Edward. “You stay.”

“But…” He doesn’t want to be left here alone with them! He’s starting to feel like a single fish caught in a tidal pool under a flock of gulls with nowhere to swim.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” Jack says as he’s fairly dragged off. “Maybe you can meet her later!” He yelps as the man all but shoves him up the stairs and Edward is left standing there, caught under their gazes. He folds his arms and then puts his hands in his pockets, and then realizing it’s rude, he laces his hands behind him, feeling like he’s at being stood up in front with the other children at church and made to recite a catechism.

“And you, young man, are you his brother?” says the jellyfish lady.

“Um…shipmate.” He curls his toes absently against the scratchy straw of the sandals, unable to meet her eyes and not wanting to stare. Even so he can already feel his face and ears are hot.

“Do you have any money?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “We just got our share of the loot.”

“Well you look like you need feeding up. For a copper piece we can put you up in the kitchen until your shipmate is done. Otherwise you’ll have to wait outside. Which would you prefer?” her voice is stern but not cold and Edward finds himself liking her a bit.

“I’ll take the kitchen, ma’am.”

“Very well.” There seems to be a smile in her voice and Edward looks up in time just to see her stuff her timepiece back among her breasts. He feels faintly envious. It’s probably warm in there, and soft.

“Polly, if you could put our young friend up?”

“Yes’m.” A girl not much older than Jack rose up from the floor and shuffled closer to him, hitching up her too long skirts with one hand. She is pockmarked and with a big beak of a nose but she rolls her eyes at him as she says: “Comon’ then.” And he decides he likes her too.

The kitchen is small and cramped with a long splintery table set against the wall. The back of it westward facing though and the sunlight comes in the tiny windows and shines off the copper of the kettle.

“Money then,” says Polly, tapping the table. Edward lays out a doubloon and she swipes it up and slips it in her belt. “Siddown. We got stew and bread and ale. S’alright?”

“It’s fine.” He’d take anything. The johnnycakes hadn’t been that long ago but it felt like ages.

“Better be. S’all we have. And you’re lucky ta get it. Your shippy too.” She wrenches her skirts up into her belt and he watches her and her skinny bare calves with half down stockings bustle about the kitchen. “We been at it for a week, more on our backs’n our feet. Full up we are. Like we’re the only place in town. Gents spend nice anyways, but it tires a body, don’t it?”

“Full up?” And then remembering what Marguerite said: “From Privateers?”

“Aye.”

She plops a bowl and a thick heel of bread in front of him before thumping a half full tankard there too.

“What are they like?” Maybe finding out more about them will help him figure out if they’re attached to Doctor John or not. Polly eyes him shrewdly.

“Don’t give nothin’ for free. Gimmie a copper and we can talk.”

“Ok…” He puts another on the table and she swipes it up before getting her own ale and sitting diagonal from him.

“They’re alright. Men.” She shrugs. “A bit nose in the air cuz they ain’t criminals. Most privateers are like that, but these’re English so are toffier than most. ‘Course that’s cuz English are the best. I’m pretty much English. Pap used to work near Cheapside, Mam always said.”

The snottiness definitely sounds familiar, even if he’s not sure what to make of the rest of it. “Are any of them doctors?”

“Why?” She gives him a flinty look. “You need one?”

“I’m looking for someone.” And then because it doesn’t matter. “At the Broken Bow.”

“You ain’t lookin’ for just anyone then! Biggest britches place in town that is. They won’t even let you near it lookin’ like you fell off the nightsoil wagon.”

“Fuck off,” Edward mutters, sipping at the soup. It’s thin but good and there are bits of soggy carrots in it and something mealy he doesn’t know the name of it but it has a give and a little bit of a bite.

“Just life, kittycat,” says Polly with a smirk.  He glares at her as he pulls off a hunk of bread with his teeth, but she’s right. He’s still dirty, smudged on his hands and the shirt and in his hair. It’s not like he has time to find a way to get washed first, so he’ll just force his way in and find Doctor John’s friend and slap the letter on the table. How hard can it be?

“Can you tell me how to get there?” he asks.  Polly takes a long gulp of ale and sets the tankard down with a clunk.

“Gimmie that pretty ring and I’ll show you.”

Edward doesn’t want to. It looks good on his finger, shining blue. But then it makes his finger look even dirtier, so he pries it off and hands it over. Polly buffs it with her breath and then on her chest before dropping it down her corset.

“Right. C’mon then. And be quick.”

In a moment she’s up and going toward the door. Edward curses, rising too fast and wincing as something inside jerks painfully. He wraps an arm over his ribs, grabs the heel of bread and slips out the door just before it closes behind her. Polly is fast. Her feet are small in ragged shoes but nimble and Edward has to kick off his own sandals just to keep up.

“This is the back way,” she says, darting down an alley. “You should remember it.”  He tries to memorize it, picking out landmarks as they go, but it’s difficult when she’s fast and he can’t breathe in too deeply without regretting it. She’s smart too, ducking into shadows as larger men slink by or picking the narrowest alleys they can’t be followed down.

She knows these streets, he realizes. This is home to her. The thought of home causes a strange jerk to his chest that he ignores. He focuses instead on the fact that they’re heading South and a little East. Closer to the coast than the trees, he thinks. Finally she reaches a low wall which some crates have been stacked up against. She hops up to the last and then drags herself up to the lip of the wall  with surprisingly strong arms, perching like a bird.

Edward takes a breath and does the same- or at least climbs to the top crate so he can peer over it to see the southern part of Paradise spread out just past the dull saffron color of her dress. The roads here are cobbled, kind of. Enough at least so the streets  won’t turn into a mire when it rains. Several men in coats as fancy as Doctor John’s stride along them, shoes and walking sticks ringing against the stone.

“There’s your Broken Bow, right there to the left. With the white sign.”

He spots it easily. It’s a two storied inn, sitting at the end of a row, that looks like one of the fancier ones of home. The sign is gray-white with dark yellow around the edge of it and the picture is a bow with the shaft splintered in two, the string a little squiggle.  It shouldn’t be too hard to sneak in there at night, especially if he takes the back way and goes in through the kitchens. It reminds him of how he used to steal food when he was young and stupid until he got caught. Mother had made him go to mass every day for two weeks until Father decided he’d had enough of it and gave him what was coming to him.

He watches idly as a clot of men go by, shining pistols wrapped against their chests.

“They’re pretty tight arsed these days. Tense like. Madam says when they get antsy, so should we; so you watch yourself before goin’ in,” Polly says. “Might be best to bribe someone to find the person you’re lookin’ for for you.”

“No…I’m going to do it myself.” He doesn’t trust anyone else with the letter. He rips off another portion of bread and chews thoughtfully, watching the inn and the passersby. “One day I’m going to be able to go in and they’ll let me,” he says, telling her, telling himself. “They’ll even welcome me.”

“Oh yeah? How’s that then? Not gonna happen without a lot of money or a brace of pistols.”

“I’m gonna be a valet.” He says it with a kind of pride, though the words feel strange in his mouth. Polly laughs in a high shrill barking way and if she wasn’t a girl and hadn’t helped him, he’d push her right off the wall.

“Fucking what?” he growls, throwing a wad of bread at her in revenge.

“You don’t even have any shoes! What are you thinkin’?”

“I had shoes! I’ll get even better ones.”

“Doesn’t matter what you get, you’ll still look like the raggedy end of a scarecrow.”

“Shut up! I’ll get better clothes!” He’ll work for them too. Good and honest work. Work that mother would be proud of. “And these are fine for right now because they’ll probably just get blood on them and shit.” He isn’t sure what a doctor in training did, but it’s probably messy. Polly is goggling at him now, looking even more parrot like as she stares down the bridge of her pointed nose.

“Here, what do you think a valet even is?”

The question strikes him hard he squints at her, squints at the building, swallows the bread he’s just eaten which goes down his throat a sodden lump.

“What do you think a valet is?”

She’s probably just trying to psych him out.

“I know what a valet is,” she says, hands on her knees. “A man’s man. A gentlemen’s gentleman.” And at his look she continues. “The one that packs the clothes and shines the shoes and wipes his arse and powders his wig and makes sure he’s shaved proper. My great uncle was one until he got kicked by a mule off Bayberry Bridge.”

So…if he’s good… if he works really hard at behaving….he’ll get to do that? To just…serve and shit? He doesn’t want to shine shoes or pack clothes or any of  it… But Doctor John probably didn’t mean for it to stop there. Right? He couldn’t just mean for Edward to serve for the rest of his life.

“And then when you get good enough you get to be a doctor,” he says, but not as certainly as he’d meant to. This time Polly is frowning at him as if she’s sorry for him and his gut clenches.

“No… S’not how it works. Maybe a butler at the end of the day but you ain’t never gonna be more than scum to the likes of them.”

 His fingernails are biting into the bread but he doesn’t care. He knows about butlers. Mother sometimes talked about the one she dealt with in the big house. Her boss. The one who expected so much from her that she didn’t dare complain but always looked worn out after a long day. But the butler was just a servant. Someone who listened to the master of the house. They didn’t sail or go on adventures or have fun- they just listened and did what they were told until they were old and gray and boring.

“Someone’s been sellin’ you pork pies,” says Polly, a frown in her voice. She takes a breath and then: “I mean, you could probably be a valet if you smartened up a bit. Got some new clothes and that. Nice ones mind. Have to reflect the pride of the master-“

Fuck the pride of the master, Edward wants to say.

“You can probably start as  a runner, delivering messages and parcels and that. I did it a lot when I was a girl. You get to know the streets real well, and they don’t beat you half as bad as that if you’ve fast feet.” She drums her heels against the wall. “Would have done it til I was married but Mam got sick…” She stops, grips the wall and then smiles thinly. “Anyway, you can do it. I couldn’t even be a lady’s maid, but you could probably valet real well.”

“And what if I don’t want to,” Edward says, tearing off a bit of bread just to tear something. It doesn’t feel as good as he’d hoped and he wants to throw it at someone. He wants to punch the wall or kick a crate or fire a pistol just to hear the sound- or something! “What if I want to be more than a fucking butler! Or bricklayer or priest!”  Because that’s all Doctor John had said he could be. Just some miserable shit always having to listen to others, always being ground down to nothing.

Polly hops down from the wall and then uses his shoulder to get to the ground. He winces a little at the pressure and finds that he hates even more when she’s being sympathetic from below then above.

“Madame says that all the miseries of the world are cuz people dream too big. Everyone has a place in life and if you keep your dreams in that place, you can only expect to be happy.”

He wants to ask if she’s happy, but that would be cruel. Mother wasn’t happy. Father wasn’t happy. No one is happy no matter what they dream. They’re just hungry . They’re just stuck being not those kinds of people. But why not? Why can’t he?

“Fuck that. I’ll dream whatever the hell I want,” he says, but even that sounds hollow. She smiles at him, some tired light in her dark eyes.

“You’re a wild one,” She holds up her hand as if to help him down. “Come on then, let’s get back.”

Get back… To what? To Jack? Who is going to tell him the same fucking thing. Keep your head down. Stop starting fights. He wonders what Jack thinks he can be. Probably nothing. Probably like Paulo or Mad Eddie, but nothing more than that. He doesn’t want to see the older boy’s stupid face.

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs.

“It’s a bad idea,” says Polly. “What should I tell your shipmate?”

Edward shrugs. “That I left.”

She screws her mouth to the side, as if she doesn’t think much of that. Then nods.

“Chin up, kittycat,” she says and tugs at his sleeve. “Once you get your head in the right place, the rest will follow.”

And with that she leaves in a swirl of skirts and perfume. He watches her until she turns the corner, and then shifts back to stare at the inn. Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe Doctor John means something else by valet. Or maybe Edward can change his mind. Though he’ll have to wait until tonight, he thinks as he watches another brace of armed men go by.

And then-

His heart jumps and his thoughts scatter, as he sees an old man, dark as a mangrove tree and wearing a bright red waistcoat comes out of the inn. Everything about him looks fancy , from his waistcoat to his breeches to his shoes which even has wooden buckles. Edward grips the wall, half wanting to haul himself over and go talk to him, ask him what he did to get where he was. Maybe he should! Maybe the man is even Doctor John’s friend, Ezra somebody.

Edward clambers up on the top crate to do so, hesitating a moment as he sees the drop on the other side that would make his ribs crunch and sting like a bitch— before he can even decide, a taller man that’s pink all over sails from the inn, practically shoving red waistcoat to the side. Edward wonders if he could break the pink man’s head open with the heel of bread.

Instead he watches as the man says something in a raised voice to red waistcoat, and red waistcoat just flinches and nods and bows his head before following obediently in his footsteps.

Edward watches them until they disappear into the maze of buildings, then thumps his head lightly against the building beside him, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

Fuck .

xxxxx

In the end, he is heading West hoping to find the Lusca, making his way through the cramped streets and alleyways, listlessly putting one dirty foot in front of the other. The knife he’d stolen is gone as it had hung too heavily from his stained belt and kept bumping annoyingly at his thigh. And then the belt had gone, swapped for a dingy brown one the color of shit but was smaller and didn’t slip so much. The pouch with the doubloons he has left are tucked in its folds.

The sun is setting, every once in a while throwing a scrap of orange sunlight in his eyes, even as it fights with the storm trying to swamp it out from the North, the wind already stirring up the stink and dirt, bringing with it the smell of rain, enough rain to drown the town in mud.

 The West is where the natives live, Jack had said, and Edward can tell. The buildings are even more ramshackle than in town, some barely cobbled together, and there are huts too, wandering off into the thick jungle, now lashed with the broad stirring leaves. He knows this part of town even though he’s never set foot in it before. He knows it because it’s his. Because it’s the same. Dirt streets, scrabbling houses and thin people picking over the threadbare market stalls. Father would have called this place a shithole, but Father called every place that including their house which had at first made Edward sad and then had pissed him off.

And then he’d found that it was true, everything was broken or bent or soured, mostly because Father broke it or bent it or soured it but there was a grime even he and Mother scrubbing on their hands and knees couldn’t get out. That’s the grime of this place. Even worse. It’s different here only in the people. Some are like him but many are darker, even darker than Aconi. He’s watched them talk to one another under the shade of trees or walk tired with dragging feet from the South. Sometimes he spots a group of laughing or singing friends which makes him want to throw rocks at them, and once he had stopped to watch a woman kiss the downy head of a baby she had in a sling around her shoulders and something in his chest had stung.

Of course they all moved out of the way of the privateer crews, men who walked bristling with weapons and shoulders back, going into one house of sin or another or drinking in the increasingly shabby ale houses. The sight of them tickles something in the back of Edward’s mind, but he’s too tired and annoyed to grab onto it.

And it doesn’t fucking matter.

Nothing does.

He’s only coming this way because where the hell else can he go?

Back to the ship? He wants to except he doesn’t want to fucking starve on it, to scramble for and hoard every scrap of food depending on how Cook is feeling. Even if Jack decides to help him, Jack can easily decide not to too or hold it over his head. And anyway there’s nothing Jack can do to stop Edward from being Hornigold’s fucking toy.

To Doctor John’s friend then? To hand over the letter and wait to see if he was good enough to be like red waistcoat and toddle after him every day? But he wouldn’t be good enough. It was just presented to him as a treat so he’d behave, like butter scraped over sawdust bread. Doctor John was probably thinking of getting Edward a job as a bricklayer or whatever. Something long and tedious with someone over him barking orders and punching him if he did wrong, or maybe just because.

Or maybe here in Paradise, being a runner, working hard, living here in the West, avoiding fists and scattering away from privateers just to keep from getting fucked up in his own town. Edward imagines himself older with a bad temper and a bad back with a small broken house and a small broken family and a small broken life. His wife looks a little like Polly in his imagination, but at least she’s not covered in bruises.

Whatever else happens it’s going to end up shit. That’s probably why Marguerite wanted him to come down here to meet his Kupe guy so that they could tell him what Paulo and Mad Eddie and…and even Mother had. Life is shit. You’re in this place because God put you there and don’t dare ask for more, because there is no more to be had. 

The clouds pull even closer overhead, casting the streets into darker shadows, thunder rumbles and a big fat drop of rain falls on his foot with more promised to come. Soon he’ll be drenched or else lost in the wild looming storm.  The shrieking creak of a sign catches his attention and he raises his head.

He’s come to the edge of town, small ramshackle buildings on one side of the narrow dirt road and small houses and huts on the other. He hears a laugh and watches as a dark man and woman link arms and wend their way into the shadows from the only sagging brick building of Paradise left in this part of town. It’s two stories with warped and cracked glass windows and a splintered sign that’s painted with a strange creature that looks like the cross between an octopus and a squid, holding a tankard of frothing beer in one curled tentacle.

He doesn’t know if it’s the Lusca or not, but it’s the closest he’s seen.

Beyond the inn, a patch of dark green grass leads to the dropoff and the sea. It is restless now, gray and white capped, freckling with rain. A small schooner lies anchored in the curl of the narrow bay, her sails wrapped tightly against her mast as she bucks and rides in the swells.

A strange bitter yearning opens up in Edward’s chest. He wonders if he could wade out into stern gray water and swim out to her. He imagines himself hauling himself up on her rain stung decks, tugging the sails free with the wet rope rough against his palms and sailing away into the horizon. Only he doesn’t know how to sail a ship that size and loneliness is almost worse than hunger. He can already feel both gnawing at his bones.

Still he watches, the landward wind lifting his hair from his face and filling his nose with the scent of brine. Rain begins to drift across his skin, gentle wet splatters at first and then increasingly sharp needles, as if trying to drive in him straight to the bone.

When the growl of his stomach is louder than the roll of the thunder, he decides it’s time to move inside. Even so he stands at the door a moment, watching water roll off the lintel and bracing himself for disappointment. Then with a heavy sigh, he pushes inside.

Even though he knows better, a small flicker of hope lights in his chest as the smell of baking bread swirls out to meet him. Lanterns and candles cast the room in a slow warm light and a low fire crackles in the hearth, throwing out warm shadows. The wooden tables and bar counters are scarred, but lit with fat thick stubs of candles, and some of the windows are cracked but keep the rain out which taps prettily against the glass. The most surprising thing are the people, though Edward doesn’t know why he should feel that way. Even though the tavern isn’t even half full, nearly everyone is brown or dark or muted gold. A few are even paler like him. But no one is milk white except the barman who is scrubbing away at the counter.

“In or out,” he says in a grating voice and Edward, flushing a little, steps in closing the door behind him. Then rather than stand there dripping in the entryway, he moves to the shadows beside the door, wincing as the water rolls off him and patters to the floor. He claws his soaking hair from his eyes and looks around for anyone who might be Kupe. He has no idea what they might look like.

There are several people who, in the dim shadows, look like they could be related to Marguerite, but that doesn’t mean anything. Kupe could be anyone. They could even be the barman. It would probably make more sense that they were the barman but Edward doesn’t want them to be.

Edward walks up to the bar, dripping everywhere, feeling like everyone is watching him and braces for a kick or a smack or someone to grab him roughly by the shoulder and ask him what the hell he’s doing here. No one so much as moves from the table and even the barman looks disinterested as he arrives. Edward takes a moment to admire the tattoos crawling over his neck and chest before saying:

“Kupe?”

The man shakes his head.

“Kitchen,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder and Edward’s heart sinks. Of course it’s the fucking kitchen. Where else would it be? With a sigh he slips through the door the barman waved at and makes his way back to the kitchen, again, the smell of baking bread growing thicker and making his stomach growl.

The kitchen is just as warm and inviting as the tavern, but the bitter feeling is too full in Edward’s throat for him to enjoy it. The kitchen’s only occupant— and he guessed, Kupe— is an old man, more white than black in his hair. He stands at the counter with his back to the door and kneading with one hand and humming under his breath. The disappointment only grows until Edward isn’t sure he can even swallow.

The man is cool enough for an old guy, he supposes. There are tattoos curling up on the back of his neck and across his forearm of his left hand and the stump of his right. There are scars here and there and Edward can see muscle flexing just under his skin- but he’s old. Old and working in a kitchen. Just another red waistcoat, he thinks.

He nearly spits on the floor, but doesn’t because the old man doesn’t deserve that. Fuck it. Fuck all of it. He’s just going to–

Then the man begins to sing, low and under his breath.

“ Kua a tipu ra, he kohu e hine~

Ki atatu, pouri nei~ ”

The tune is different but the words wash over Edward like the tide, warming and strangling him all at once. He clutches at his shirt, heart throbbing in his chest. He wants to say something but he doesn’t know what he can say.  Something hot burns in his face and the back of his eyes. Why is that song here? Why is this man singing it? How does he even know it?

“Um…” He doesn’t know what else to say. Or he does but he doesn’t know how to say it. There are too many things that he can’t let out. They are too soft and shine too dimly.

The man startles with a curse, knocking the rolling pin to the floor with a clatter. In a flash he’s turned, a knife gleaming in his hand. Edward stares. From the front he’s even cooler. Still old sure, but he’s got a scruffy white beard and more tattoos going up his neck and even over his face, his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose, around his eyes which are dark like coals.

“What do you want?” the man says, ice creaking in his words.

Edward swallows thickly. “Um…that song….”

  “What about it?”  The man’s gaze is hooded, cautious and the knife never lowers. Edward fiddles with the soaking hem of his shirt, not able to meet his eyes, something almost like fear creeping gently up the back of his throat. He manages to raise a shoulder in a shrug.

“I’ve…I’ve heard it before…”

“Yeah? And where would that be from?”

“Um…Mo-Mother…” Even saying that word out loud here feels like a betrayal. It makes him feel small and young and stupid.

The man is quiet for a long time, the knife lowers and then slides away.

“ Kei te aha koe i tawhiti atu i te kainga ?” the man says and it feels like a test. Edward can’t hope to understand it. Can’t even guess. Aside from the song he’s never even heard words like that before. He blinks his burning eyes, cheeks burning with shame and shakes his head. This is stupid. This is-

He should just go-

Go somewhere else. Anywhere else-

He shakes his head again and starts to back off into the hall.

“Can you bake bread, boy?”

The words surprise him and he blinks, scrubbing the wet from the corner of his eye with the heel of his hand.

“Uh…yeah, some.” He’d helped Mother when he was little and had to step on the splintery stool to even reach the table. The man gestures to the knot of dough he’d been working and Edward stares at him a moment before cautiously creeping forward, expecting a punch or a hit or the man to bury that knife deep in his guts.

He doesn’t though and when he raises his hand in a way that makes Edward jump and his ribs pinch, he is only reaching for a long stemmed pipe on a high shelf.

“Apron,” the man says pointing with his pipe.

Edward grabs it tying on the apron, then tries to remember what to do next.

“Get them in the flour before you start and then massage the hell out of it,” the man says, moving away from the counter. Edward nods. The flour is cool and dry against his fingers and palms and the dough feels good to squish and pull and push. His heart slows a bit. The ice in his veins thaws.

He watches out of the corner of his eye as the man stuffs tobacco in the bowl of his pipe, then clenches the stem between his teeth so he can light it with a rushlight  by the small stone hearth. Even Edward notices more scars that he hadn’t before and one crossing just over his eyebrow. It’s both amazing and sad for someone looking like that to end up here.

The man meets his eyes as he pulls on his pipe and Edward looks away, trying to focus on the work.

“Got a name?” the man asks.

“Edward.” He peers at the man.

“What brought you out here tonight? Fold it over.”

Edward shrugs at the question and focuses instead on grabbing the dough and folding it, pushing it with the heels of his hand as the faint memory slowly comes  back. He’s not really sure what to tell him. He doesn’t know. He’s not even sure what he was hoping for.

“Marguerite sent me.” Though by the man’s faint chuckle, he doesn’t think it’s a surprise and that annoys him a little. “I wasn’t expecting to work.” And then, just in case he was making even more of an ass of himself. “You are Kupe, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been called from time to time,” the man says. “It’s not bad work is it?”

“No…” Though it reminds him a lot of the galley and with that thought he has a sinking sense of dread. “She didn’t tell me to come here so I could find work, did she?” She’d said they’d take care of him, but he really hadn’t thought of what she’d meant. He doesn’t want to believe that. He wants it to be something different. Something larger. Something… something unnameable.

“Probably, yeah?” says Kupe relentlessly. “She doesn’t much care for pirates and has a big heart for lost boys.”

“I’m not a lost boy,” Edward snaps, punching the dough.  He fucking isn’t. He hardly feels like a boy most days but not a man either. Stuck in an inbetween. Whatever he is he knows just where he is- it’s just the future- though he knows that too and doesn’t like it. “And I’m not working here either.”

He is just making bread because he was asked. Because he wants to know about this strange guy who just shrugs at the statement and continues to watch with hooded eyes, smoke curling dragon like from his nostrils. He has white eyebrows and wrinkle lines around his eyes and mouth and the tattoos are long faded as if he got them a long time ago.

Kupe doesn’t seem to mind being watched. Instead he opens his eyes wide and sticks out his tongue like some kind of snarling beast in a way that’s both funny and badass. Edward does too and the man grins in a way that makes him feel better. Flushing slightly he turns back to look at the dough, punching and pushing and kneading and folding.

“I’ve never seen someone with tattoos on their face before,” Edward says. “Didn’t it hurt?”

Kupe chuckles. “Like a bitch.”

That makes Edward laugh a little, but he immediately regrets it and has to stop to take a few shallow breath until the pain subsides.

The man hooks his fingers around a dark brown jug and hands it to Edward who drinks from it and finds good sweet rum that chases most of the pain away.

“Now the next step,” says Kupe, lightly hip checking him out of the way. “Get me that board just on that shelf there.”

“Okay…” Edward does as he’s told, setting it atop the counter. He watches as Kupe carefully scrapes the bread from the counter with a bit of wood and sets it on the board. He has tattoos on the backs of his fingers too. They’re all different kinds. Like a jungle of tattoos. There are stars and beasts and an anchor in the webbing of his thumb- but there are ones that are just designs, shapes and lines and curls that go up his arm and into his sleeve and seem to continue on his face. These are all older.

“Do you have any tatts?” Kupe asks as he begins to shape the dough with one wide hand.

“No…” Edward rubs his arm feeling suddenly self conscious. “Mother said it was a sinful thing to do.” Though Father had had tattoos too and so did a bunch of other men who worked at the docks. Though the closer you got to town the less there were and everyone at the big house that Mother worked at had clean unbroken skin. He looks at his own dirty hands and frowns.  

“That’s a story learned from someone else, isn’t it?” Kupe says which is a strange thing to say and Edward doesn’t really get it. “Tattoos are just stories too. They say who you are, where you come from, where you’ve been— Who you want to be. Sometimes just for fun. Like Lady Beth…” He turns his arm around and Edward stares and flushes at the very detailed image of a woman without a single shred of clothes on that takes up most of his forearm. Did women really look like that? How the hell did they pee? Edward is too afraid to ask and instead takes a long drink from the jug.

“If they’re sinful, that’s your decision,” says Kupe with a grin.

“Mother would kill me if I ever made a decision like that!” Edward says and Kupe laughs, chasing away the darker thoughts that clouded up around it. Darker thoughts of other things Mother wouldn’t approve of that he couldn’t take back.

He should probably keep his skin unmarred for her too. Just so she would be proud of him for that anyway. For doing that one simple thing. Anyway, he has a shit past and a shit present and shit future. He doesn’t want to mark where he came from or where he’s going. It would just be a jagged line racing up his body. He doesn’t want to mark who he is. He doesn’t even know what that is. Just a scribble with a lot of teeth and sometimes no teeth at all. There’s nothing in him worth tracking.

Kupe gives a final pat to the dough which looks just like bread now. It’s something a little like magic.

“What tattoo says that you’re a baker?” Edward asks.

“Who says I’m a baker?” says Kupe.

“Uh…you’re baking?” What kind of stupid  trick question is that?

“So were you.”

“Yeah but…” This is a deeper trick than Edward realized. He doesn’t really know how to counter that or to say what he means. He searches for the words. “But I don’t want to be a baker. I’m just doing it…cuz …cuz I wanted to.” And because Kupe asked him but he doesn’t want to say that aloud. He snorts. “So does that mean I put a loaf of bread on my arm?”

“Do you want to?”

“Fuck no.”

“Then don’t.” Kupe shrugs and says: “Hold this.” Giving Edward the pipe while rooting around one on of the higher shelves.

“Maybe I’ll get one with a tray or…a letter or something like that. A fucking red waistcoat. Or a lead.” Like he’s a horse or a donkey or a fucking dog. Just pulled from one place to another. “I’d rather claw my own fucking skin off.”

“Take a pull instead,” says Kupe. “But not all the way in, or you’ll cough yourself to shit. Something tells me that’ll end you.”

“Fucking won’t,” Edward mutters, but he’s never smoked a pipe before so he does cautiously take a little pull, feeling the strange smoke fill his mouth. Some gets down anyway and he coughs and hacks, ribs feeling like their splintering in place enough to make black spots dance in his eyes even as tears roll down his cheeks.

“Motherfuck,” Edward wheezes.

“Told you,” says Kupe, amused. He drapes a cloth over the bread. “Take that and try again, but sitting this time. I have to check the oven but I’ll be right back.”

It’s not a difficult thing to obey as Edward feels the need to sit anyway. The chair is worn but comfy even if his feet don’t quite reach the floor. He takes another few gulps of rum before daring to try the pipe again and by the fourth time he’s hardly coughing at all.

Kupe bustles about the kitchen before leaving out the door and Edward sits in the silence and the stillness, feeling fuzzy headed and warm as the rum works its magic.

He’s almost half asleep by the time Kupe comes back with food in one hand and something wrapped in cloth held under his half arm. He puts the plate on the table and Edward immediately begins drooling at the smell of the fresh hot bread, spooled with a liberal dose of honey that drips off the side like liquid gold. There’s a sliced mango there too and heaps of berries on the side.

“Is that all for me?” Edward asks. Kupe nods.

“And this too, if you want it.” He unfolds the cloth on the table revealing a tattoo needle and a stoppered pot of ink. Fuck yes, Edward wants to say but then the doubts come back, squeezing at him.

“Nah, fuck that,” he mutters. Even if it would be cool and badass and something that he doubts even Jack has or he’d be showing it off all the time. “Even if I go back to the ship, everyone will just make stupid jokes about it.” He can just hear them now and see their stupid leering faces.  He picks up the bread and takes a big bite. The bread is hot and fresh and the honey drips over his tongue and slides toward the back of his throat, annoyed that it made him feel a little better. Stupid honey.

“And what would you do if they did?” Kupe asks.

“Mm.” Edward thinks about it as he chews. “Depends. I don’t give a shit if it’s the rabbit. Cook would be an asshole but I don’t care.” Hornigold might smirk and Edward would hate him, but he didn’t think the man would say anything. Aconi and Saladin probably wouldn’t. Gilead Thorpe probably wouldn’t even notice it. Maybe Feliciano would think it was cool.

  Paulo might even think it was awesome!

Edward sits up a little at the surge of excitement before remembering that Paulo wouldn’t give a shit and even if he did give a shit he was leaving anyway and even if he wasn’t leaving he’d almost shot him in the fucking head.

“I guess if Jack pissed me off I’d punch him, or Greg. I guess. But if I punched Greg, Cook would beat the shit out of me again.” He sighs and kicks his feet absently. “I’m gonna have to steal shit from him anyway just so I won’t fucking starve.” And then:

“Doctor John would probably just get this really preachy look and say that ‘that’s what Odysseus would do’. And he has a tattoo too, right on his arm, but he’s allowed I guess because he’s not a pirate. But stealing for the king or who the fuck ever is still stealing. I’m pissed at him anyway.” Edward sucks the honey from his fingers, and then drags a berry through what’s left on the plate and pops it in his mouth.

“He said, if you give my friend this letter, I’ll make you a valet. Like it was some big fucking deal. Like I could be something cool. But it’s not and he knows it. He’s just being a stupid…stupid… he’s treating me like a fucking kid.” And Edward feels like a kid. His cheeks and eyes sting and his nose fills because it hurts. That hurts more than anything else. And if Doctor John thought it was a big fucking deal for someone like Edward, that is even worse.

“Did you give over the letter?” Kupe asks. Edward shakes his head and takes another sip of the warmed rum. It makes the knot in his gut loosen up and even if wet slides down his face it doesn’t matter.

“Not yet. I guess I should… Hornigold’s never going to let him go even if he gives him all the maps he stole.” Because they need a doctor and Hornigold thinks he’s interesting and likes to use him. And maybe he can use Doctor John for other things because he is a soft man who cares where he shouldn’t.

“Christ, man, you sail with Hornigold?” Kupe says and Edward can’t help but feel a twinge of pride at the shock in his voice. “That’s going to get you an early grave.”

Edward shrugs. It doesn’t matter. Early grave is better than living long a long time and becoming broken and stupid. “Marguerite said something like that too. Hornigold must be really tough.”

“He’s middling,” Kupe says, lighting the pipe again and drawing it to smoke before handing it to Edward who takes a soft sweet draw. Too much more of this and he’ll want to slip right out of the chair. “Mostly he’s an idiot with more ambition than sense,” Kupe says. “He’s the kind who will see a pot on the fire and have his crew test to see how hot the water is.”

“Oh…yeah… That’s what happened to his last crew I think.” Edward hands the pipe back. “Have you met him?”

“No, but rumor is enough. No wonder your stuck up doctor man wants to leave.”

Edward shrugs. “I don’t think he knows about it. He just doesn’t want to be a pirate.”

“What an egg,” says Kupe and Edward nods, because it sounds right even if he doesn’t get it.

“A stupid egg,” he says. “A hard boiled egg.” Who looked tough but wasn’t even a little.  “But he can’t stay on the ship…”

  And not just because the man was soft, but he probably wouldn’t stop trying to get away and one day shoot someone with that pistol of his. If he shot the rabbit or Cook, Edward wouldn’t care so much but he might shoot someone like Aconi or Saladin. Or maybe he’ll shoot the rabbit and Hornigold will make someone like Jack or Feliciano suffer. And even if Doctor John didn’t shoot anyone he wouldn’t be so kind to Edward anymore, and maybe not at all. Maybe there would be another person after his back in the dark.

“His friend is a knob anyway,” Edward says. “Probably wouldn’t want me for a valet.” But would be okay with him as a bricklayer or a monk or someone who brought buckets of shit to the tannery, Edward thinks with a scowl. “I guess I just have to get in the Broken Bow…” And then the thing that had been bugging him about that all day needles its way into the light. “Ah, shit.”

“Do that and it’s going to be a blood bath,” says Kupe somberly and Edward nods. Because Doctor John was a privateer too wasn’t he? Or worked with them. And maybe Hornigold would give up Doctor John if faced with a small army of privateers, but maybe he wouldn’t, and maybe the privateers wouldn’t even give him a chance. But there was a reason that Doctor John had told Edward to stay behind.

“I don’t know what to do…” Both solutions are shit, but he has to do something . Unless he just does what Polly said and become a runner or stay here and bake fucking bread. Which wouldn’t be so bad with Kupe maybe, but the thought leaves him cold.

“That’s a hell of a situation you’re in,” says Kupe. He hands the pipe over and then leans back, crossing his arm behind his head as stares up at the ceiling. “And your captain wouldn’t accept something better on trade for your doctor friend.”

“No, he’d just take both.” Even if Edward had something more than a single map.

“Sounds like Hornigold,” Kupe says. “Egg.”

“Rotten egg.”

“Rotten to the core. And smelly.”

Edward snickers and nearly chokes on the smoke but he’s too warm to hurt much from it.

“You could try to sneak him out yourself,” Kupe says. “And we can keep him here until the air clears a bit.” The man rolls his head to look at him. “How much does Hornigold like you.”

“Hornigold doesn’t like anyone.”

“Does he trust you?”

Edward shrugs. “Probably not. I snuck into his cabin once. But it was day time and I was holding drinks. Oh, and I stabbed the rabbit in the hand.”

“Why?”

Edward shrugs again. “I guess I just felt like it.” He doesn’t remember now. It seems forever ago. Kupe huffs a laugh.

“Heard things about him too. Can’t blame you.” Kupe hums a nameless tune. “Any trustworthy crewmates? Or anyone burning to leave?”

“Paulo wants to leave, but he almost shot me in the head.” Edward picks out a seed from one of his teeth. “But he’s scared of Hornigold and the rabbit. He says Obedience is strength. But it’s not. Obedience is shit. Obedience doesn’t stop you from getting stepped on if people want to. You can be obedient all you want and do everything you can and even if what you do is perfect, if they want to beat the shit out of you they will.” He wants to spit, but he doesn’t want to dirty Kupe’s floor so he snorts instead.

“He sounds like a man broken by life,” Kupe says. “In this case we might be able to use it if we can get hold of him.”

“Well he might be coming here,” Edward says, peering at the man. “Marguerite told him about this place too… But how are you going to use it?”

“That’s for me to know and you to see,” Kupe winks, then gives a low flat whistle. Edward isn’t sure what to make of it. In a few moments there’s a ghost of movement at the door and Edward tenses as he sees the barman lingering there with a cool expression. Is Kupe going to get in trouble for sitting around? Is Edward going to have to kick the barman in the balls?

“Yeah, boss?” the man says in his gravelly voice and Edward blinks at Kupe who is smiling at him with his eyes and the corners of his mouth.

“ You’re the boss?” he says, flushing at the squeaky pitch.

“That’s right.”

“Not just of the kitchen, right?”

Kupe laughs, loud and bright and Edward feels pleased for having caused it. “No, you little shit. The whole thing. Kitchen. Tavern. Rooms above. The Lusca is mine to every last nail. And Francis too after a fashion. Edward, meet Francis. Francis, Edward, a new friend.”

“Pleasure,” says Francis and Edward waves a little, too surprised at the first shock to be able to think about the second.

“Francis, I want you to be on the lookout for a man called Paulo. Edward will tell you what he looks like. If he comes in, tell him I’ve got a business venture for him and bring him back here.”

“Yes, boss,” Francis says and Edward suddenly finds himself under the cool blue gaze.

“Um. Paulo is…” Fuck, what did he look like? “Tall? Brown? Has a tattoo of a saint on his chest. He looks sad most of the time.” Maybe it’s not good enough so he adds: “Marguerite called him a mountain?”

Francis chuckles and nods.

“Got it.” Then with another nod he makes his way back into the dimness of the hall.

“Now you get to watch me make my magic,” says Kupe with a grin. “And I think you have a magic yourself you know.”

“I do?” He doesn’t feel very magical, but little tingles go down his spine anyway, as if, if Kupe says it, it must be true.

“Yeah. You’ve got a mind, boy. You’re quick and observant and confident. You know who you are even if you don’t know you know it yet. It’s there. I can feel it growing. You’re holding onto something strong in that chest of yours and when you’re older the world had better watch out.”

Edward puts a hand against his chest reflexively. Is it strong? It doesn’t feel strong. But maybe it is. Maybe he is. He doesn’t know what the world is going to be watching out for, but he doesn’t think he’d mind if it’s watching out for him.

He looks at Kupe, and the tattoos that wind and curl and bend all over him. He wants one. He wanted one. He wants one from this man. He wants it on his skin forever and not fade like a bruise or a cut and not stay like a scar, just a reminder of bad shit. He wants something good. And maybe the crew would say shit but— what the fuck would he care? Besides… besides… there’s something else to it, too. Something he can’t name. Something deep and urgent but slow like the tide.

“I don’t know if what you said is me…yet…” Because it feels good, but it’s as if something that’s still growing, that he hasn’t gotten or learned or become. “But… what if it’s not? And what if something happens and I turn into someone different or end up doing something stupid like…a valet or whatever. I mean if I’m a valet and have a cool tattoo then it’s like a lie isn’t it?”

Kupe is smiling with his eyes again and Edward finds that he likes it a lot, even if he doesn’t understand it.

“Let me tell you the greatest lesson of life, boy-o. It doesn’t matter where you end up. Whether you are King or beggar, pirate or priest. Even if you spend your life as a slave in a rich man’s fields.” A look of old dull anger comes to Kupe’s eyes that Edward understands to the core of him. But soon it’s gone and Kupe’s expression smooths once more. “It doesn’t change what’s already in here.” He taps Edward’s chest with the tattoo needle. “That is what I’m going to give you. Your first step. Your foundation. The thing you can look back on and know, this is who I am.”

And suddenly Edward wants it more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life. He clears his throat and nods and says:

“Yeah, okay.”

  xxxxx

Edward sits with his head back against the wall, belly full of fruit and honey and booze. He’s getting better at the pipe now, holding the deep sweet smoke in his mouth before letting it trail through his teeth. Minutes or maybe hours pass by as Kupe works. Every prick of the tattoo needle hurts, but no more than a pinch and it’s a good pain- like picking at a scab instead except of leaving a scar, he now has bands going around his arm. There’s a thin one already done and a thicker one going into his skin prick by  prick, leaving sharp black ink behind. And it’ll still be there tomorrow and the day after that and onto forever. It’s part of him now and it’s so weird to think about. Weird and little overwhelming so Edward can’t watch the whole thing, instead staring into the fire until the antsy feeling in his limbs dies down.

The booze and smoke helps a bit. It also helps that Kupe works quietly for the most part, humming sometimes or singing under his breath in that far away language that lingers like an aftertaste in Edward’s ears. Sometimes he leans in and squints, his breath ghosting over Edward’s arm, and Edward can see the lines on his face beneath the tattoos, under his eyes, around his mouth, his forehead hills and valleys. It reminds Edward that Kupe is an old man and old men are too soon dead men, which doesn’t seem fair.

He tries not to think of it, letting his mind drift on its own, undirected, like a shell being rolled smooth by the tide. He thinks lazy summers on the beach and rain lashed winters. He thinks of starlit nights with Mother or watching her sit up at the window until the gray-blue dawn. Once, when he was very young, she had scooped him up and held him close and for a long time they had stopped to stare at the brightening sky until Father had appeared on the horizon. Mother had carried Edward out and Father had dropped his canvas bag on the street to run up and embrace them, smelling of sea and salt and charred wood. Edward had been smushed between them and listened to them cry and it had felt like home.

  Edward presses his hand absently against his shirt where the silk is, frowning as he hears the crinkle of paper inside it. What will the ship be like without Doctor John, he wonders? It’s not even that Doctor John has been there long but he feels part of it all, as if he’s already soaked into the boards. Maybe it’ll be quieter. Maybe it’ll be harder. Maybe Edward won’t even notice he’s gone after a while or maybe his ghost will linger. Maybe it won’t matter and maybe it shouldn’t. Edward hopes it doesn’t. He doesn’t want anyone else to miss.

 A low rising whistle comes from the hallway and Kupe’s chuckles.

“Looks like your mate found his way.”

Edward isn’t sure what he means until Paulo ducks into the room and Edward’s heart ticks into his throat. Marguerite had called him a mountain and now Edward sees why. He is big. Tall and thick with muscle. There is a storm on his face that Edward has never seen, his shoulders are back, his head his up, his eyes glitter like chips of eyes from under his thick eyebrows, his mouth under the mustache is a thin line.  By the door the man called Francis, who only comes up to Paulo’s shoulder, slips a hand behind himself as if reaching for a weapon and Edward holds his breath, waiting for the storm to break.

Then Paulo looks at Edward and and then looks at Edward again, startling as if shocked, the shock is followed by confusion, suspicion, confusion, and then some combination of the three with a strange smile bristling under his mustache. Edward wants to laugh in a high thin way but swallows it back.

“Welcome, hombre , have a seat,” says Kupe without even having looked up. Francis relaxes and fetches Paulo a chair in front of the hearth. It’s a smart place, Edward thinks. Paulo’s back is to the wall and he has a clear path to the outer door. The large man relaxes a bit, the chair creaking under his weight, and leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees.

“Paulo, am I right?” says Kupe and Paulo nods. “I’m called Kupe. We’ve been talking about you, Edward and I.”

The stone comes back a little to Paulo’s eyes and he sits up again, folding his arms. Edward can see his lips flutter under his mustache and when he finally speaks, it is strained.

“ S-si ? About what.” The words are cut off, like he doesn’t trust himself to say them.

“This and that. We’ll get to it. But firstly, you’ve nothing to fear from me. Or Francis,” says Kupe. Francis raises his hands to show they’re empty. “Would you like a drink there? Something to eat?”

Paulo shakes his head.

“Brass tacks it is. Take care of this.” This to Francis who sweeps the dirty dishes from the table and disappears back into the hallway with them. Edward can see him still looming though, nearly out of sight in the shadows. “I have a proposition for you. Edward says you’re leaving Hornigold, is that right?”

Paulo nods.

“Good for you, you might live long enough to see your next birthday. How old are you, hey? Twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

Paulo shrugs but there is a smirk back on his face as if Kupe amuses him.

“Have you  found another crew since then?”

Paulo shakes his head.

“Fair enough. I hear Flint might be hiring when he gets into port. l’Olonnais, too, always looking for men for his guns. Of course one crew is pretty much like another, hey? You might have a longer life under Flint, but I can’t tell you it’ll be a better one.” Kupe leans back, rolling his head from side to side, bones popping in his neck and regards Paulo. Paulo regards him back. They are both waiting on something but Edward can’t tell what. He wishes he could pull the words from the air so at least he could understand what is going on.

After a moment Paulo shrugs again as if it doesn’t matter or he doesn’t care or that’s just life to him. 

“Of course it doesn’t have to be that way.” Kupe takes his pipe up from where it had been sitting on the table and knocks the spent tobacco out into a plant. “Ever cleaned one of these?” This to Paulo who nods. “Do you mind, hombre ? I’m a little short handed.” He wriggles his stump. Paulo snorts and cautiously stands, reaching out a hand for the pipe. His is broad compared to Kupe’s and could easily crush the old man’s throat. But all that happens is Kupe sets the pipe in his hand and Paulo closes his fingers around it.

“Cleaners are on the mantle.”

Paulo nods and shuffles around above the fireplace before he finds what he’s looking for and settles back in the chair.

“I’m looking for men, too,” says Kupe. “I can’t promise you fortune or fame, but I can promise you the one thing that you won’t get from anyone else.”

There is another silence where they stare at one another. Finally Paulo lets out a breath and Edward sees his jaw moving, as if getting ready to speak. The corner of Kupe’s mouth goes up and Edward has the feeling that Kupe had won whatever had just happened.

“W-what i-i-is that,” Paulo says finally.

“Respect,” Kupe says. Paulo drops the pipe and it clatters to the floor. Kupe doesn’t seem to care and Eward knows he won this time. The word hits him too, right in the breastbone, and lodges there. Respect. He’s never thought of that word applying to himself. Respect. Could he get respect? It doesn’t seem possible, but now that he thinks about it he wants it. His throat feels parched for it.

“Marguerite would also be glad to have you,” Kupe says as light as air. “We’re small right now but strong and there’s only one ghost among us.” He gestures to the hallway and Paulo, picking up the pipe, looks too, but it’s only Francis that’s standing there, mostly in full view again. Edward doesn’t get it but Paulo seems to because his jaw works. Emotions spill across his face that Edward can’t read though it mostly seems frustration. Kupe leans forward, catching Paulo’s eyes. “Respect is strength.”

“ P-p-puta m-m-madre ,” Paulo snaps, rising to his full height, blood rushing to his face. “T-the he-hell d-d-do y-you kn-know? Ab-b-bout a-a-anyth-thing?”

“I’ve been where you are,” says Kupe. “And I know where you’re going. And if you keep going that way?” He shakes his head. “It’s not a pretty picture, man.”

Paulo looks like he is going to hit him but turns and spits into the fire instead. Still his eyes are still blazing when he turns back.

“Wh-what’s th-th-the ca-catch?” Paulo says, sarcasm in his tone.

“Ed needs help to spring a doctor friend of his from Hornigold’s jail.”

Paulo looks at Edward as if shocked all over again that he’s still there and Edward is shocked too to be suddenly under his gaze. He feels his hand gripping the seat so hard the pads of his fingers are bruising but keeps it there so he doesn’t punch Paulo in the gut or ram his head into the man’s chin or collarbone. Paulo blinks then laughs a short sharp bark that makes Edward jump.

“ Di-dios m-mio, e-este pequ-queña m-mierda.” Paulo runs a hand over his face, grinning harder than Edward has ever seen him, his teeth hard and white and set against each other. Then he drags his hand down to his mouth and says: “ P-por -- Wh-why. Wh-why are y-you he-helping h-him?”

Kupe grins just as hard and white and shrugs.

“Why didn’t you shoot him in the head?”

“Yeah! Why didn’t you shoot me in the head?” Edward says. That’s actually a really great fucking question. “The rabbit would have liked you then!” And Paulo could have gotten a lot of respect kind of like the sort Mad Eddie had, except the only ones that would be there to respect him would be Edward and Jack and maybe Scrawny Greg and he could probably only really get respect out of Greg.

Paulo looks up to the sky, a hand against his chest over the saint’s heart. “ T-t-tú ga-ganas, M-Madre, y s-si e-esto lle-lleva a u-una tu-tu-tumba, me-mejor qu-que te-te-tenga flores. Amén. ” He crosses himself and sits so that the chair squeals dangerously but holds.

“I-it’s not g-going to be e-e-easy,” says Paulo.

“Hey, why didn’t you shoot me in the head?” Edward says. “Don’t just ignore me!” He wants to know! It seems important. Paulo looks at him.

“Y-you are s-still st-staying w-w-with the cr-crew?”

“Yeah,” Edward says, lifting his chin and holding his shoulders back, daring Paulo to say anything about it. Paulo just shakes his head and taps his chest against the heart of the saint.

“That’s why we need you,” says Kupe. “The boy-o can’t get caught.”

“I-if th-that p-pendejo g-gets b-back to h-his f-f-freinds it w-won’t m-matter.”

“We’ll keep him here until it blows over,” Kupe says.

“Better tie him up,” Edward says, because Doctor John might sneak away. Maybe he won’t turn his privateer friends on Hornigold, but Edward doesn’t trust him that far.

“ S-si, ” Paulo says pointing. “And c-captain c-caught him t-trying to g-give out another m-message and t-tightened the g-g-gaurd.”

“Another message?” Edward says, clutching at the one hidden in his shirt as a wave of cold sweeps through him. Had Hornigold found out that Doctor John gave him one? If so, he’s fucked and there’s no going back to that ship. Whatever they did to free Doctor John, Hornigold would know who did it. Paulo nods and pulls a folded up piece of paper from his belt.

“H-he g-g-gave me this t-t-two d-days ag-g-go.”

And the cold becomes bitter and twisting. Doctor John gave Paulo a letter too? Just like that. Did Doctor John make the same promises? Did Doctor John tell the same stories?

“Can I see it?” says Kupe. Paulo nods and hands it over. “Yours too, Ed.” He nudges Edward gently in the arm. “Let’s just see what he says.”

Edward nods, fighting the feelings climbing up in his throat. He takes the silk from his shirt, flushing a little at it being out in the open where Paulo and Kupe could see it. Quickly he takes the letter out and lays them both on the table.

“Hmm.” Kupe spins both letters to face him, then pulls a pair of spectacles from his apron pocket and peers at them harder, his eyes huge behind the glass.  Edward watches impress as he reads, finger gliding along the lines, lips moving as he mutters to himself. Finally he makes a low whistle. “Same one. More or less. Sneaky bastard. Doesn’t even use any names. He could be giving this letter to every Tom, Dick and Harley.”

“Oh…” Well, what does he care anyway. It’s just a stupid letter. He looks at his fingernails and the dirt under them and the ragged hems  of his trousers and his bare feet. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care.

“It’s a good thing,” says Kupe. “It means that when you spring him, it could be anyone doing it, couldn’t it? Maybe Hornigold will count himself lucky not to call the privateer army down on his head.”

Edward snorts at that part the same time as Paulo which makes him feel a tiny bit better and Kupe chuckles.

“No, I don’t think so either. Which just means we’ll have to do something to get him back in his good graces. Let’s see your map now.”

Edward pulls that out too and opens it and Kupe bends over it, then takes a stub of charcoal from his apron and marks here and there. It’s not much of a map, Edward thinks. Even looking at it upside down he can tell how small the area is.

“B-but w-we st-still h-have to g-get hi-him out. And n-no one c-can g-get him p-past….” Paulo blinks, trails off and looks at Edward as if he’s never seen him beore. “Cook.”

“Oh…” Edward feels even better still. It’s not enough to push away the sting that’s pricking at his heart, but he can’t help but feel a little bit of pride at it. Kupe looks between them, eyebrows raised.

“I can make Cook fall asleep if he wakes up,” Edward says. It’s not even that hard now.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” says Kupe. “But it’s a risky business. The closer you are to this heist, the more dangerous it will be for you. If you get caught, it’ll be all over for you, do you understand?”

Edward nods.

 “So, you have to be careful . And I can’t risk the life of my men for this.” He taps his finger against the map. “You and your mate are on your own. You can secret your doctor here, but I can’t help you set him free. Are you sure you’re up for it.”

“Yeah…” Edward says. Of course he is. He can’t turn back from it now and doesn’t want to.

“Fine. First, the map,” Kupe slides it over. “Look at it, memorize it as best you can, the charcoal will fade but you’ll still see the marks and I’ll tell you what they are. If you want to use this as leverage against your captain, you have to keep what he wants locked in here.” Kupe taps his temple and Edward nods again.

“So you keep it, and you memorize it and you stay alive ,” Kupe says. “I didn’t spend an hour on this for it to grow cold before morning.” Kupe presses a finger to the place between the fresh tattooed bands where his skin is reddened and tender. Edward winces a little, but it’s also a welcome kind of pain.  “Got it?”

“Got it,” Edward says. He doesn’t plan on dying. Not when he’s so close to something real. Not when he can feel it throbbing on his arm and see the lines of his foundation, black against the pale brown.

“Good,” says Kupe, leaning back. “Now let’s hatch a plan, hombres . Got to admit I’m looking forward to it when all is said and done.” The man grins. “Been too damn long since I kidnapped anyone.” 

  xxxxx  

The moon is a fist in a night sky still scudded with dark thick clouds. The rain has washed away the heat of the day and left it a chill behind. Edward stands beside Paulo in the shadow of a lopsided building and can’t seem to stop shivering. He’s not shaking and his lips are barely trembling, but cold prickles race under his skin as if he’s been ducked in the cold sea.  The Red Hen is across the way, only a few windows lit against the night- because it’s late. So late that soon it will cross the line into being very early.

Beside him, Paulo shifts the coil of rope further up his broad shoulder and says:

“ B-bien ?” sounding amused. He’s been sounding amused ever since he agreed to work for Kupe. As if the storm in him has passed now there was just scudded clouds. But the way it’s sounding is getting under Edward’s skin. It’s not that Paulo is making fun of him, but like Edward is just some kid and it makes Edward feel like some kid and he really is starting to hate Paulo a little for doing that to him.

Anyway he’s fine. He nods impatiently to the question. He’s fine. He just can’t move his feet from this spot. He’s not afraid exactly despite his heart hammering in his throat. It’s just the same sort of feeling like before the raid. What if it all goes wrong? What if he gets shot? What if Doctor John gets shot? What if it all goes right? Things will change. Are changing. Have changed.  He feels like a sharp knife is threading just under his skin, peeling it away until he’s thin and translucent.

“Y-you c-c-can ch-change your m-m-mind,” says Paulo and Edward scowls.

“No. Fuck you.”

Paulo snorts in another soft laugh.

“Then, vamos .” He gives Edward a little shove and Edward nearly starts at it, the knife under his skin seeming to cut even sharper, his heart beating even louder in his ears. He can smell smoke in the air, feel the heat of the flames and hear the pop of pistol fire. Edward grips his upper arm, the bandage Kupe had wrapped around his tattoo to help it heal is rough under his palm, but the wincing pain brings him back.

The night is still. The air is cool. There is no fire. No screams. No dying men.

 Edward sucks in a breath and heads toward the inn.

He comes in through the back, the servant’s entrance, bare feet quiet on the wood  floor. There is a man there supposedly standing watch, but he has nodded off and is snoring loud enough to buzz the window near his cheek.

  Edward repeats in his head where Paulo had told him to go, slipping through the shadows into the main room. The fire is low in the hearth casting long shadows of the men snoozing before it, wrapped in blankets, though a thin bony boy that Edward doesn’t know has nothing at all and Edward can count his ribs in the firelight.

That’ll be him if Cook has his way, he thinks. Even if Jack does help it’ll be hard to get by. But it doesn’t matter. He’ll get food. Even if he has to steal it from Hornigold’s plate or thrash Scrawny Greg and scrounge in the storeroom himself. He looks away and heads toward the stairs and stops.

Aconi is sitting there in the darkness, blending into the shadows. It’s hard to see him except as a darker shape in the black, but as his eyes adjust he can see more details; the bone beads in his hair, the white of his eyes, the pistol on his lap.

Fuck.

In the darkness there is a gleam of teeth.

“Good evening, young Teach,” says Aconi. He is speaking barely above a whisper but his voice is still like distant thunder, rich and deep.  “Here to save the day?”

“No,” Edward says, because it’s true. He’s not saving anyone’s fucking day. Doctor John yes, kind of, but he’s still going to be trussed up like a cooked pig at the Lusca for a while. He won’t be happy about that.

“Liar,”says Aconi but there’s no heat to it. He shifts and Edward tenses, wishing again he had a pistol of his own, but he wouldn’t have shot Aconi even if he had one.

“Did you give anyone the letter?”

Edward jolts again. How the hell– But then, he realizes.

“He gave you a letter too?”

“Yes, and Fadel.”

Edward wants to laugh. It still stings but it’s funny too. He doesn’t laugh though because it will hurt and sound too bright and sharp in the dark warm air. So instead he focuses on the other part of it.

“Does Hornigold know?”

“If he did, we’d all be dead,” Aconi says. “Did you give your letter to anyone?” The man’s voice is tight as if he’s worried about the privateer army too.

“No. I don’t want anyone stupid to die.”

Aconi chuckles, sitting back.

“Good idea. I don’t want that either.”

“But…we can’t let Doctor John stay,” Edward says into the silence, watching Aconi as best he can, trying to catch his eyes.

“Captain won’t easily let him leave.” The stairs creak under Aconi’s weight. “I can’t let him down the stairs.”

“We’re not taking the stairs.”

Another silence, even deeper than the first.

“Cook is guarding the door. I will have to help him if he needs it.”

Which means Aconi might shoot him instead. Edward nods.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Aconi seems surprised, as if he’d expected more.

“Okay,” Edward says with a nod. For a long moment Aconi stares at him and Edward is wondering if he’ll have to fling himself past the man. Finally, though, Aconi just shakes his head, bone beads clicking, and rises to stand with his back against the wall.

“Go back to the ship when you’re done. Fadel is on until Dog’s Watch.”

Edward nods and moves past him, the hairs on the back of his neck raising. Aconi makes no move for him. As soon as Edward is at the top of the stairs there is a suspicious creak and he whips around, but Aconi has just settled himself at watch once more. There is no pistol raised at his back or ball through his head.

Edward breaths out a soft breath and keeps going. Doctor John’s room is on the next floor, but Edward can’t help but stop at Hornigold’s. Paulo had told him to not go in. To not look at it. To not even fucking breathe on it, Primo , I’m serious. Edward looks. Leans forward and breathes. Places his palm on the door and wonders what would happen if he went inside. If he stood over Hornigold’s bed and watched him sleep. If Hornigold woke up and saw him.

Edward smiles to himself and pats the door once before moving on to the third floor. He’s careful on each of the steps, not wanting to make a single creak. He can already see the dim amber glow of the lantern in the otherwise dark hallway. And there is Doctor John’s room at the end of it.

Cook is sitting outside on a low stool, hands on his knees. The lamplight makes his blond hair and beard look almost golden. Light gleams on his glass eye. Edward keeps to the shadow of the stairs and fakes a sneeze. Cook doesn’t stir. Carefully, Edward approaches, quiet as he can and relaxes when the man gives a soft snore.

Edward is tempted to shake him awake just so he can put him under again. And again. And again. And maybe he will when they’re back on the ship and under sail- but for right now he tests the doorknob and finds it locked. A quick glance at Cook shows the key, gleaming brass, hanging from a bit of twine just under his beard. Carefully, Edward wraps his hand around the key and gives a sharp tug.

The man starts and snorts, his good eye flickering under its lid, his glass eye seeming to gleam even brighter.

“Qui es dans ma chambre,” he murmurs.

“ Les monstres sont partis ,” Edward whispers and Cook sighs and slumps. Edward grins. He carefully unlocks the door. The sound seems almost too loud in the still hall and the door creaks a little on its hinges as Edward swings it open.

Doctor John’s room is small and moonlit. There is his satchel by the window and he is sleeping as well, burrowed under the covers.  Edward slips in and hears the pull of a hammer, coiling his guts up to his ears. Slowly he turns and looks up, expecting to see Paulo. Expecting to see Mad Eddie even, blood streaming down his face.

But it is Doctor John who is already slowly lowering the flintlock, one hand against his heart. Edward stares at him, hoping his own will restart.

“My god, lad, you gave me a start,” Doctor John whispers. The man  puts his hand flat on the door to close it, then winces as the hinge squeals and stops. Then his face breaks into a smile.

“Well? Did you give Elias the letter?”

“No,” Edward says, moving past him to the window. He pulls it open and leans out, whistling a falling note.

“No,” says Doctor John, too loud in the quiet. He pales then says in a hiss. “What do you mean no ?” And then with a slight hint of fear: “Did you get stopped? Did Ben find out? Does he know?”

It would be easy to say yes. Easier to say that and to get Doctor John out under his own steam but the thought of a lie leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“No.” He looks down at the empty street, his heart slowly turning to an onion in his chest. Had Paulo changed his mind? Can Edward do this without him? Fuck! “I didn’t give it to anyone.”

Which is a lie. The letters are still with Kupe as a failsafe, just in case something happens. The privateers will either be called for rescue or revenge, and probably the latter if this fails. But he doesn’t want it to fail, damnit. He wants to live.

“I don’t think Paulo or Aconi or Saladin did either,” Edward says because it feels good to say it. Of calling Doctor John out. Even if it makes sense it still fucking hurts a little. And there’s something to that. Something to who Doctor John gave the letters to.  Some kind of connected thread. And like a reminder of it Paulo appears then, slipping out of the shadows and uncoiling the rope from his thick arm.

“Lad,” Doctor John sighs. “I had to do it, don’t you see? In case anything happened to you. I can’t stay here. Ben is–”

“Did you give one to Jack?” Edward asks.

“Of course not, don’t be preposterous.”

“Preposterous,” Edward murmurs to himself, the word sounding thick on his tongue. He doesn’t get what it means exactly but gets enough.

“That young idiot wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

Of course Jack is an idiot but Edward almost wants to shove Doctor John for calling him that. And maybe Doctor John hadn’t given Jack a letter because Jack likes the ship. That Jack hadn’t argued that night on the quarter deck. Maybe Doctor John had nothing to promise him. Edward wants to think it’s that and not the other terrible thing he doesn’t have a name for.

“I understand you’re jealous, lad,” Doctor John says, coming closer. “But we don’t have a lot of time. Tell me why you didn’t and maybe we can talk through it. Quickly.”

“I’m not jealous.” And he isn’t. Not now. Doctor John had given his promises to too many and now they are worthless.

 Paulo swings the rope and throws it up but it falls too short, not even to the second story. Paulo scowls and gathers it back up.

“I didn’t want anyone to get shot by privateers,” he tells Doctor John. “They’re…my crew…” And he likes how that sounds. My crew. His crew. Doctor John scoffs and Edward glances over at him. The man is almost to the window now,  his expression is hard to make out but there’s something cold and closed to it.

“I understand the sentiment, lad, and it’s noble of you. But they are brigands and cheats and scoundrels. Filthy pirates down to the last man. They are not your crew, nor will they ever be” Doctor John holds out his hand. “You can be so much better than they are.”

A low annoyed whistle from below stops Edward from saying something stupid. So he’s a brigand and a cheat now, that’s fine. But the word filthy makes him feel filthy, and he is filthy. All of him is. And he will be in Doctor John’s eyes until he decides to do what the man wants him to do.

Edward sets his teeth and nods down to Paulo. The rope flails and comes up, Edward leans far out the window and has to grip the edge in a panic as he starts to fall. Doctor John yelps, too loud but satisfyingly and Edward is fine. His arm hurts and his ribs are a blaze of pain but he has the rope.

It’s the arm with the bandage too. The one that reminds him that not everyone thinks he’s filthy.

“Who is going on?  What are you doing?” Doctor John comes up to the window and looks down. “Is that Paulo?”

“These filthy pirates are getting you out,” Edward says, carrying the rope into the room and tying it to the bedpost with a bowline knot. He gives it a straining tug or two and finds that both it and the bedpost holds.

“Lad, I’m sorry, I didn’t–” Doctor John looks concerned now, brow furrowed even as he pulls the maps from underneath a pillow inside the pillowcase and pushes them down his shirt. Smart. Edward thinks. A good hiding place.

 “I didn’t mean that,” says Doctor John. “Not about you. I just think you can do more.  I think you have potential” The rope tugs on the other end and Edward goes to the window to wave to Paulo and let him know it’s alright.

“Do more?” Edward murmurs as he stares down into the crammed down of Paradise. They are close enough and high enough that he can see the silver of the sea. “You mean as a valet?” He turns back into the room and Doctor John smiles.

“Yes. I think you’ve earned that, don’t you.”

Earned it. The word hits as hard as the word respect but in the opposite way and anger flashes through him white hot. Earned it . As if it was a thing to fucking earn. As if he had been good enough to get it because he’d stuck his neck out enough. Because he’d risked himself enough. All to end up as fucking red waistcoat. Edward folds his arms and leans against the wall.

“What if I want to be you.”

Doctor John’s smile fades. “I’m sorry?”

“What if I want to be a doctor. Can I be that?”

“Edward, now is not really the time and the place to-”

“Can I be that,” Edward says. “Tell me.”

“Well…” Doctor John looks away. “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”

“Not in a manner of speaking. You. I want to be you. A doctor like you. Can I do it?”

“Edward-”

“ Can I ?” his voice is getting too loud and the rope tugs again. Edward tugs it viciously back.

“I-” Doctor John sighs. “I know it is difficult to hear at your age, but everyone has their place- a place ordained by God and society and I-”

“ No ,” Edward snaps. He is so goddamned tired of hearing that! “Fuck god and fuck society and fuck everyone who says that,” Edward finds himself snarling. “I am fucking tired of a place and everyone in it and it’ll be good if you just know where you belong. But it isn’t and it won’t be, it never is! It doesn’t stop you from getting shoved around and beaten and you’re still expected to feel fucking grateful! Well fuck that! I am going to make my own fucking place and everyone else can go to hell.”

“Alright, lad, alright.” Doctor John puts his hands up. “Quiet now and put down the rope.”

The rope. The rope is coiled between his hands rough and sweet, burning just a little against the crease of his hands. A part of him wants to feel more of the burn and a part of him is terrified of it. He takes a breath and lets the rope back down through the window. Paulo is still there, thank– thank someone, half hidden in the shadows. Edward waves and he can just see the man shake his head. Edward is running out of chances.

“Go,” Edward says, voice shaking slightly. “Just…” And then he stops, cold prickling over his skin as he hears the scrape and thump, scrape and thump, tired slow movements and the door creaking on its hinges.

“ Qui es dans ma chambre?”  Cook snarls, voice low and curled with menace. He holds a knife in a loose grip, drool seeping out from the corner of his mouth and down his beard.

“Bloody hell,” Doctor John gasps,  holding up his flintlock, hand shaking slightly. “I’d stop right there if I were you.” His voice is louder but still hushed, tight with control, like Paulo trying to make the words come out how he wanted.

“ Qui es dans ma chambre?!” Cook says louder, stumbling against a small wood chair and throwing it to the side with a crash.

“Stop, I say, or I’ll shoot,” Doctor John says, anger in his teeth now, but he seems to be shaking even worse.

Edward opens his mouth, the words drifting against his tongue, but stops himself from saying them. What if…. he doesn’t? What if…. he lets things happen? He can hear his own heartbeat too loud in his ears.

No, what is he thinking. He should say it. He will say it. A good person would.

“ Les …” Edward starts, clenching his hands, feeling the faint pain of the rope still on them. But he’s not a good person, is he? There is nothing in him that’s a good person. There is waiting darkness and evil and that is part of his foundation too. So Edward shuts his mouth and waits, breath still in his chest.

“ Qui es dans ma chambre?! ” Cook roars, charging forward, the knife flashing high in the air. The report of the flintlock rings in his ears. There is a flash of fire from the barrel of the gun, the smell of smoke. Cook falls back and lands hard, jolting a pitcher of the wash stand and sending it to the floor with a crash.

 There are shouts of alarm and the sound of feet.

Cook is lying there on the ground, most of the right side of his face gone, except for blood and jagged bits of bone gleaming white in the pale moon. His glass eye rolls across the floor, making an oddly pleasant sound against the wood, and taps against Edward’s foot, looking up at him.

“Ed. Edward. We have to go,” Doctor John is saying, tugging at him.

What a strange man.

 Edward ignores him.

Doctor John curses again, slings an arm around him briefly and Edward startles and claws at it but in the next instant it’s gone. And an instant after that, Doctor John is too. Edward watches him climb out the window and slide down the rope where Paulo grabs him by the arm and starts to run, darting into the shadows.

Edward should go too, probably, but he can’t help but turn back to Cook. Dead. Like Mad Eddie. Like Larks. Timbee. Old Hugh. Sepp. Monto. And Father. All dead. Just like that. But Cook is the only one who is staring at him still. He absently picks the glass eye up, staring back. The eye is red veined and horrible and it watchs him too, though there is nothing at the other end.

“ Les monstres sont partis, ” he murmurs. “ Les monstres sont là. ”

 There is light at the door and Edward looks up to see Aconi holding the lantern casting the amber light. Edward wonders if he’s going to get shot now too and his eyeball will roll out.

“Edward,” Aconi says, softly, gently. “Go back to the ship. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Why?” Edward says, the words slipping out of him, his lips moving, his voice sounding, himself faintly startled that his body could do this without him. “I’m a monster.”

“We are all monsters here,” Aconi says with a knife white grin. “Go.”

Edward puts the eye in the folds of the thin brown belt and goes to the window, takes the rope in hand. There is Cook. There is Aconi. There is the lantern with the flickering candle. Edward looks away and climbs down into the night.

xxxxx

Edward lies in bed in Doctor John’s cabin, staring at the eye and feeling the ship bob gently in the calm waters of the harbor. He is wearing another of the man’s shirts, one that Doctor John left behind with a few other things, but mostly his scent which still lingered on the pillow and the blanket. The other shirt, the old shirt, had blood on it, and Edward had given it to Saladin when he’d asked and let himself be brought here.

He had been in Doctor John’s room for almost a week now and no one had said anything. No one had come to see him except Gilead Thorpe once who had sat on the table and told him the going’s on in his misty airy way.

 The fire that roasted the Red Hen took another building with it and left them nothing but char. Hornigold had nearly died in it but was saved by Aconi who seared his shoulder badly in doing so. The rabbit had survived too and Scrawny Greg-- Jack had come back in the morning and nearly pissed himself wondering what the hell had happened. It had made Gilead Thorpe giggle to tell it, but Edward had lost his feelings somewhere and couldn’t even smile.

Now the rabbit and Aconi were requisitioning more men with Jack’s help to be errand boy, Saladin was still bartering for supplies and Feliciano- well Feliciano spent his days talking at Hornigold who barely seemed to hear him. Because the dear captain, Gilead Thorpe had said, was at the back end of darkness, where not even a light could find him.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

Edward’s stomach gurgles faintly and he sighs. He feels at the back end of darkness too, except he doesn’t mind it. It’s nice there. Steady. Hunger doesn’t bother him or pain or cold. The eye is with him too and he can’t stop staring at it. It doesn’t even seem real anymore or that it had belong to anyone at all.

His stomach gurgles again and he decides hunger does bother him a little. So with another sigh he gets up and gets to his feet, padding his way to the deck.

The sun is climbing in the thin eggshell sky and even that seems unreal somehow. Feliciano says something at him as he passes, but Edward ignores him, absently watching the hems of his trousers flap against his shins. They are new too. One of two that Saladin sent over because he was tired of looking at the mess that was Edward Teach. But they are too big and Edward has to ruck them up at the waist to not trip over them. The shirt is too big too and more open at the collar meaning it keeps slipping over one shoulder or the other. But it’s whatever. There is no one here to care and he kind of likes the sunshine on his bare shoulder.

Edward pauses at the entrance to the galley, hearing sniffling already and sighs a little. Scrawny Greg has pretty much chained himself to the galley, rarely leaving it- and most of the time it’s spent crying. It won’t be different from any other day then, he tells himself, and walks down into the dimness. Scrawny Greg is sitting with his forehead braced on his hand, tears dripping unheeded onto the table. His nose is red, his eyes are bloodshot, and Edward feels a little sorry for him and weirdly jealous too.

He feels like he should say something. He doesn’t need to. Maybe it’d be better if he didn’t. But Scrawny Greg doesn’t even seem to care anymore that he’s here. Or about anything. Like he’s slowly folding in on himself until he wilts away. The new crew will probably find a way to use that against him and make the poor bastard’s life even more miserable.

“Looks like you’re the cook now,” Edward says, feeling awkward, his voice rust in his throat. Scrawny Greg gives him such a tragic expression he kind of regrets saying anything at all. The man sniffs and blows his nose on a scrap of linen.

“I’m not. He is… He always will be… This place… this place is his…” Scrawny Greg touches the too large apron that’s spilling over his lap and onto the bench. “He was always so kind to me.” The man’s voice breaks softly. “He helped me when no one else would. He was a good man. The best there is. And I… he’s gone now. My mother used to say that when people die they watch over you but… it just feels empty.”

The words slip over Edward like a receding tide, leaving bare pebbles and slimy bits of kelp that would soon crack and dry and blow away. A kind man. A good man. There isn’t anything wrong with Cook, just something wrong with Edward. Maybe that’s why everything is a fight. Why he doesn’t have anyone to wrap his arm around and lean against. No one would cry if he died. Though Kupe might shake his head, which makes Edward feel a little better.

He clenches the glass eye in his hand, feeling it press against his palm and fingers.  He’s tempted to throw it out the window or maybe just drop it in the bilge and let the fucker stare at that for forever, but, Scrawny Greg folds more and looks like he’s about to start weeping again.

“Well,” says Edward. “You still have his spare eye.” Even as he says it he’s not sure about it. He doesn’t want to give it up. It’s not his but it’s— it’s part of— something. Something he can’t name. There’s a glimmer of hope in Scrawny Greg’s face and Edward knows he has to.

“Spare eye?” the man says.

“Yeah. Just in case the other one got chipped.” Or whatever the fuck happened to glass eyes. Edward goes to the pantry, feeling an odd nostalgic twist at the sight of it, and pretends to rummage around in the back before returning, fist closed and then opening it around the eye which sits in the center of his palm. Scrawny Greg plucks it up and looks at it, scrubbing away his tears with his sleeve.

“It’s looks exactly like the other one.”

“No shit. You think a man like that wants eyes that don’t match?” Edward spots a heel of bread and tears off the moldy part before biting into it. Scrawny Greg chuckles weakly. Sniffs again. Nods. Then frowns.

“You hurt your arm?”

“Huh?” Edward glances at his shoulder where he can see the dingy peek of a bandage. “No, that’s…” The tattoo… Edward slips his arm out of the shirt and using a small knife, cuts the bandage away. The two bands are still there, dark on his arm, the thin one and the thick one, like something is holding him in place.

“Is that new?” Scrawny Greg says. “It looks pretty cool.”

“Yeah…” Edward touches the marks, lets it drift against the black. His foundation. Himself. Something that exists even in the darkness.

"The rabbit is coming back today,” Scrawny Greg says, the words bursting out as if it was a last minute decision. “He’s not going to be happy where you’re staying. You should be prepared.”

“Thanks,” Edward says. “I will be.” He slides the knife into his belt and grabs an apple on his way out and Scrawny Greg doesn’t try to stop him.

Xxxxx

Edward is more than prepared when the rabbit returns. He has had a few hours to think, to plan, to realize some things and remember others. Now he’s leaning against the wall near the rabbit’s cabin, arms folded, watching the man get winched on deck by Scrawny Greg and Gilead Thorpe. Saladin is with him too and he tips his head to Edward who tips back. The rabbit scowls deeply, the sunlight flashing off the gold of his nose as he swings his way across the deck, swing hop, swing hop. He’s like Scrawny Greg sort of, like Doctor John sort of, like Mad Eddie; a small thin desperate man, holding onto the slivers of power he’s given because it’s the only thing he has.

“Insolent brat,” the rabbit snaps when he’s close enough. “You’d better lower those eyes if you know what’s good for you.”

“Or what?” He could have said it insolently too, but this isn’t a challenge. Not yet. And it’s good to say calmly. It feels nice to say calmly. Because he can. Because he knows . The rabbit’s lip curls into a sneer.

“When we get under sail again, you’ll see.”

“Will I?” Edward considers. “I don’t think so. How many allies do you have left?”  None, is the answer, or not fully, and he can see the truth written in the rabbit’s scowling face. Aconi and Saladin weren’t his allies, if they ever were, and now the three of the share the secret. Gilead Thorpe isn’t, Feliciano sure as hell isn’t unless the rabbit learns Portuguese, and Jack is too needed to be bothered much by the rabbit. The only one the rabbit doesn’t know about is Scrawny Greg, but that’s gone now too. The man has lost everything he had.

“I’ll have more,” he says, which he might. But Edward isn’t going through this shit again. “And the captain won’t like your tongue.”

“Unless the captain decides he likes me more.” And he kind of thinks Hornigold does if only because Hornigold doesn’t seem to like the rabbit very much. 

“You?” the rabbit scoffs. “Don’t be so full of yourself.”

Edward shrugs and pulls the knife from his belt.

“Maybe I’ll stab you in the other hand and we can find out.”

The rabbit flinches and stops at the foot of the stairs. His scowl deepens and he opens his mouth, looking one way or the other. But there is no one to help him. Which is strange in a good way. An interesting way. Though not one he understands yet.

“See how smart you are when you starve. ”

Edward pulls the apple from his shirt and takes a bite. He hadn’t planned on it but is amused that it happened. Very amused. It’s hard not to laugh. He bites into the apple and watches the expressions flit across the rabbit’s face.

“Yes, well you can steal all you wish, but good luck getting past Greg.”

“A flea could get past Greg,” Edward says and the rabbit snorts but doesn’t try to argue. It seems so easy that Edward is almost tempted to let it be this way. But the rabbit may get allies, he reminds himself. And Edward might not know who they are and he is tired of sleeping with one eye open waiting for the fall of a blade.

“Look,” says Edward. “We can go at each other. We can have a fight. Not all the allies will be yours.” He is sure he can get allies from the new crew. He just has to figure out how the fuck he got allies from the old crew. Paulo never did tell him why he didn’t shoot him in the head, that fucker. “Or we can get along. I can help you get the one thing that you’re not going to get from anyone else.”

“And what’s that?” the rabbit sneers.

“Respect.”

The rabbit leans back as if Edward had slapped him. For a moment his expression falls open and then closed and then cautious and then closed once more.

“How?”

“I have a map.”

The rabbit fairly launches himself up the stairs and Edward leans back, gripping the knife reflexively.

“Where?!” The rabbit snarls.

“I’m not going to tell you, stupid,” says Edward. “Anyway it’s mostly unmarked.”

“Then it’s useless.”

“But I know where things are.  I know the secrets.”

“And how the hell do you know that?”

“I have…friends…” Edward says, hesitating on the word. Is Kupe a friend? He’s not sure. He thought Doctor John was a friend too but he isn’t, and Paulo he’d liked but Paulo had tried to shoot him in the face. Jack is a friend sort of but not really. Maybe a friend is just someone who likes you until they try to kill you.

“Bullshit,” says the rabbit, close enough now that Edward can practically smell his breath unless he moves upwind.

“I mean you’ll find out, won’t you?” Edward shrugs. “I can tell you the secrets, or I can just tell Hornigold myself and when they work, he’s definitely going to like me more than you.”

The rabbit’s eyes narrow to slits.

“So if I agree to this…stupidity, what do you want from me?”

“Stop trying to kill me,” says Edward. “Stop trying to get other people to kill me.”

“Hm, I suppose I can do that much,” a smirk runs across the rabbit’s face and Edward can’t help but be annoyed by it. The man holds out a hand. “Map first.”

Edward pretends to consider it a moment  before slipping back into Doctor John’s room and shutting the door. He leans against it for a moment, eating the apple, hearing the hop swing of the rabbit coming closer the sun glances off his nose and shines a gold patch into the room as he tries to peer secretly in through the deckside window. Edward shifts until he’s just out of sight, and pulls the map from his shirt before opening the door, making the rabbit startle.

He holds out the folded map and when the rabbit tries to reach for it, snatches it just out of his reach. “I’ll give it to you,” Edward says. “But remember that you need me to make it work. And if you do send someone to kill me, they’d better to a fucking good job because if they don’t I’m coming after you.”

“You really think you’re capable.”

Edward just stares at him. He is. He can. He will find a fucking way even if he finishes dying in doing it. All the color leaves the rabbit’s face in a satisfying way.

“Fine.”

Edward holds out the map again and the rabbit snatches it away, searching through it. “You’re right it’s barely there. Fine, tell me a secret.”

Edward slips up close to his arm and crunches his teeth against the apple, chewing as obnoxiously as he can just to piss the man off. What should he tell first?

Hm.

“That island has an inlet.” He points to a tiny one a bit far from where Hornigold wants to be but not too far.

“And what the hell use is that?”

Edward shrugs. “Ask the captain.”

“I hate you,” the rabbit says. “I’m seeing him now, and you’re coming with me, and if he casts us both out on our ears I will release you from yours.”

xxxx

The moment Edward steps into Hornigold’s cabin, he wonders if they are all fucked. Something has shaken loose inside the man. The bed is unmade, the clothes are draped over chairs instead of put away, the pane of one window is cracked letting in the sea breeze and the cry of gulls and the room reeks of booze. Hornigold himself is sitting at the table, hair a wild mess around his face and dressed in just his night shirt and breeches, bare legged and bare foot with a coarse growth of blond beard. He looks up at them with tired red rimmed eyes and says:

“What?”

“What happened to you?” Edward asks and sparks dance in his skull as the rabbit slaps him in the back of the head. It’s all Edward can do to not kick his crutch out from under him. Hornigold smiles thinly.

“Life.” Hornigold shrugs and leans back, crossing his arms behind his head. “And death. We sailed together for fifteen years man and boy and just like that it’s over…. Burnt to cinders… Nothing left but ash.” His jaw sets. “I am going to strip that doctor of his ribcage when I see him again.” And then peering at Edward with flat gray eyes he says: “And what are you doing here exactly?”

Edward knows better than to answer that one and it’s interesting to watch the rabbit fluster.

“I confiscated a map from him,” the rabbit says which is annoying because he’s shooting himself in the fucking foot. Edward will have to point out that it’s not his fucking fault the rabbit couldn’t keep it together. It does make Hornigold drop his arms though, his eyes flicking between the two of them, like a dog that’s caught a scent.

“You got that from your friend?” Hornigold asks Edward and Edward hesitates again wondering if that term fucking applies to Doctor John or not.

“I stole it from under his bed when he wasn’t looking.” Which is the truth and possibly truth enough for Hornigold. Rabbit seems annoyed with himself but lays it out when Hornigold pats the table.

“It is not very well marked, as you can see, but I’ve managed to get extensive notes from the natives and when I translate them I’ll be able to tell you every secret that it contains,” says the rabbit, which is a fucking brilliant bit of bullshit and Edward is impressed in spite of himself.

“It’s useless,” says Hornigold, shoving back. The rabbit blinks, sputters.

“But- But it’s a map. The only map we have, Ben. We’ve come all this way, we’ve lost so much and-”

“And it’s not the straits. Not enough of them. We won’t be able to go in and plunder. We won’t be able to catch the Spanish by surprise. No, the King lickers will now, and they will suck it all dry like the leeches they are.”

“But…” Edward thinks about this, there’s something here, just at the edge of his mind. “But they don’t know these waters,” he traces his fingers over the map, remembering everything that Kupe told him, every line and bay and current and the little marks he’d put here and there helped as well.

“And?” says Hornigold.

And… And…

“I mean… they’ll have to come to Nassau right?”

“Many of them, yes, and -?”

“They don’t. know. these waters,” Edward says, partly to himself to drag the thought out into the light. “And we do.”

“So?”

“So …so…” And then he realizes. “So we let them do the hard work and steal what they’ve stolen.”

Hornigold stares at him, glances down at the map and back at him again before a wicked smile cuts through the scrub of the blond beard. Edward can’t help but smile back, and like Hornigold’s, his own is full of teeth.  

Chapter Text

Ed slaps the rag into the bucket and stands, stretching back and feeling his spine pop in a satisfying way. His hands are filthy. Most of him is filthy. The near empty ship has been scrubbed down to an inch of its fucking life. He even got the bloodstain by the foremast that had been there since Happy gutted some poor bastard three days ago. Ed sort of regrets puking after but who knew that was what intestines looked like?

To his right, Paradise gleams like a jewel under the afternoon sun. A jewel cemented in the mud, but there’s still some flash to it. Soon, he tells himself. Come hell or high water or the rabbit bitching. He whistles an absent tune as he dumps the dirty water over the side, laying the rag on the railing to dry.

A step behind him and Greg says:

“Teach.”

“Yeah, man?” He turns to regard him. Greg has filled out a lot and is doughy of face and arms. Jack had wanted to call him Doughboy but then Greg had spit in all his food and Jack had stopped that shit real quick. Anyway, doughy was a good look for him. Not that he could bake worth a shit, but he could work fucking miracles with fish.

“Cook wanted to know if you could ask Saladin to see if he can find some dates,” Greg says, fingering the small pouch around his neck.

“Sure. You want anything?”

“No, just Cook.”

Ed gives him a lazy salute and wanders up to quarterdeck where the rabbit is taking his tea and reading over a ledger. He’s taken off his nose, probably because it’s balls stick to your leg humid, and the hole that’s in the place of his real nose is slowly becoming pink around the edges due to the sun.

“I’m done,” Ed says. The rabbit looks up at him with a flat eyed expression.

“All of it?”

“All of it. Even got the blood out.” He stretches one arm across his chest and then the other. “Can I go.”

“Hm,” says the rabbit and slurps his tea. “And what have we learned about disobeying captain’s orders?”

Ed grins. “Not to get caught.”

“No, you little shit,” the rabbit snaps. “To not do it. He knows what he’s doing, even though you may think you know he’s been sailing these waters before you were even born. You should respect him and show him the respect he deserves. I keep telling you…”

The rabbit goes on and Ed tunes him out, lifting his head to the breeze that’s coming seaward from Paradise like a beckoning finger. A siren song. Once this skinny fucker lets him go and stops nattering at him.

Yeah, he’d snuck aboard Flint’s ship where it lay anchored not too far from when Hornigold had told him to leave it alone. All he’d done was draw a mustache on Toad’s face with a bit of ink. No one got hurt and the only reason that anyone knew it had been him in the first place was because Toad had woken with a shriek, screaming about spirits and Ed had reflexively punched him in the face. Anyway, it had been a dare and Hornigold should respect that, and Jack still owed him five doubloons for doing it.

“Teach! Pay attention!” the rabbit shrills. “I’m trying to make your future here a little fucking easier.”

“Yeah, fine, sure, won’t do it again,” Ed says, voice pitching high on the last word and making him sound like a scared kid. Rabbit smirks and he’d better be careful or Ed is going to put a lizard in his bed again. Ed had regretted it last time, but he’s prepared to regret it this time too if he has to. “Can I go.”

“I really shouldn’t let you,” says the rabbit. “But fine. Remember to not start any trouble this time. I mean it.  And take a dinghy.”  The rabbit finishes below him as Ed launches himself at the mast, scrambling up it.

“I said take a dinghy! Ed! Edward Teach, I know you can hear me!”

Ed reaches the yardarm and stretches, taking in a deep breath of sea air, the wood warm under his bare feet. Below him is the blue sea and the merchants in the harbor and Paradise. Paradise.

“Oh… Edward…” comes the wispy voice of Gilead Thorpe. Ed looks up to see the man peering at him upside down from where he’s hanging from his knees off a ratline, scraggly yellow curls caught by the wind. “Can you get me one of those pretty bracelets? I’ll give you a doubloon.”

“Nah, it’s on me.” He grins and Gilead Thorpe smiles, hands covering his pink mouth.  Edward paces back to the mast, looking down the yardarm, measuring the distance.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” the rabbit screams from below. “You’re going to break your stupid neck!”

"See you,” Ed says to Gilead Thorpe and runs. The spar is wonderful and warm and rough under his feet, the sea a warm bright blue. Edward launches himself off the end and tries to twist his body into a dive as Feliciano had shown him.

The water hits him hard belly first, knocking the wind and sense out of him and he finds himself sinking down and down and down into the deep blue. After a moment the spots clear from his eyes and he turns in the water to watch the sunlight play across the surface. His front stings from where the water hit it and his back stings from where the Executioner striped his back with the willow because of the Toad thing, but it’s a nice pain. A good pain. It reminds him he’s alive.

Won’t be for much longer if he doesn’t fucking breathe though. Ed kicks toward the surface, sucking a deep racking breath and coughing on the water. He scoops his hair from his face, takes a moment to orient himself and starts off toward Paradise, one pull at a time.

The bay is as usual crammed with merchants, more than usual and it’s kind of a pain in the ass to avoid them, but he likes the challenge. Even more he likes listening to their startled shouts and curses when he surfaces.

It doesn’t take him long to spot the coracle he’s looking for. With a grin he slips under water, narrowly avoiding getting smacked with a paddle from a passing rowboat and swims up to the coracle. He waits until her own paddle has left the water before springing up out of it.

“Hey, Margie pargie!”

Marguerite shrieks and stars bounce in his skull as the paddle cracks him hard in the head. He manages to not to inhale too much sea water before he surfaces again and spits it out before treading water and grinning at her. She has her hair out today and it’s a beautiful black cloud, back lit and haloed by the sun.

“Ed Teach, yinna scared ten years offa me!” Marguerite says. He laughs.

“But you’re pretty when you scream.”

Marguerite makes a face. “Ya be learnin’ all da wrong tings from Kupe.” She leans over and flexes her hand. “Come on, lemme get a look at ya.”

He obediently puts his chin in her impossibly smooth hand and lets her lift his chin up. Her lips purse as she looks at him one way, and then the other.

“Yinna be gettin’ some scruff here.” She rubs her thumb over his chin.

“Yeah, Feliciano is going to teach me to shave soon.” And he wants to learn just to learn but he kind of likes the scruff on his chin. Now only if his mustache would grow more than six hairs.

“Hmph. Growin’ up too fast. How old yinna be now?”

“Fifteen.” Though he felt like he’d been fifteen forever, more than four months.

“Fi’deen and still strong. Yinna may be thinkin’ if Hornigold don’t kill ya afta tree years, nuttin’ will.” Her fingers press harder, and she jerks his chin up. “But scare me again and see what happen.”

Ed laughs again, he can’t help it. Marguerite screws her lips as if she’s fighting a smile and tweaks his nose before rising again.

“Yinna gonna swim all da way back ta port?” she says, tilting her head toward the shore. Edward frowns at it.

“Um…” He probably could, but he’d rather hijack a dinghy first. Still, the rabbit had told him not start any fights so instead he fixes Marguerite with the best smile he can manage. “Can I get a lift?”

She chuckles.

“Grab on, mad bey,” Marguerite says. “And be me rudder.”  Ed grins and slips to the back of the oracle, grabbing onto the lip of it. After a moment to get himself sort he paddles them around until they’re facing port.

“Anyone interesting in town?” he asks as she begins to oar them toward shore.

“Bellamy be lookin’ for crew, but he near about done. Pullin’ out soon, I hear. Morgan here too, partyin’ his earnin’s. Liddel and Jennin’s shackin’ up- l’Olonnais is supposed ta be showin’ I hear.”

“I’ve never seen him,” Ed says. “Are you sure he exists?”

“He do! I be seein’ him once, but da man can’t find his way outta a two ended sty.” Marguerite shrugs in an elegant way.

“Has Flint come in?” Ed asks casually.

Marguerite stops paddling and twists back to look at him.

“Why ya ask?”

He shrugs and looks out over the water.

“Just curious.”

“Mph. Yinna no be messin’ wid Flint, ya hear?” Marguerite says sternly. “He got two ships now and lots more crew and more seasoned too. So don’t dance inna teeth of a dragon unless ya wanna get bit. Aye?”

Ed’s quicker than any old dragon. But he doesn’t really care about Flint. He wants Davenport- he wants to see the look on Davenport’s face when he finds out Ed is the one behind his crony’s mustache… and black eye. That’d show him. 

“Aye?” Marguerite says sternly, smacking him in the shoulder with the oar. “Say ya hear me.”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Ed says with a salute and Marguerite snorts, jerking her head in a nod.

“And yinna remember ya said that.”

xxxxx

Still, it’s not like he’s going to do anything to Davenport, Ed thinks as he makes his way through the winding dirt streets of Paradise, squeezing water from his hair. Just tell him what he did. Anyway, he doesn’t really care. Davenport is nothing.  Sure he’s Flint’s fifth in command or whatever and has kills as long as his arm but a dickhead is a dickhead is a dickhead. And he has his pack of six boot lickers that follow him around which makes doing anything risky. Hornigold can’t fault him for just talking to the guy, can he?

Anyway, he doesn’t give a shit about Davenport at the moment. Right now he wants a belly full of booze and food. Paradise has gotten even bigger than when he’d been last, and in the heart, the buildings are so close together Ed can barely see a strip of sky. He doesn’t mind except that he hasn’t hit his stride yet, so his view is mostly arms and elbows. He also should have worn some fucking shoes he thinks, skirting a pile of dogshit. He won’t the next time, though. Nor take a dinghy. He doesn’t want the rabbit to think he’s right. Maybe the time after.

Beggar’s Bar is just up ahead, sign headless again in a strange ragged way that looked like someone bit it off.  Ed is surprised a little to see foul ol’ Tom out there, slump shouldered and pissing against the side wall.

“Hi, Foul,” Ed says. “I thought you were shipping out.”

“Mm well fuashard not worth thfucshingtime forgo you? Didn wan.” Foul begins to sob brokenly, snot trailing down his lips. “Buggrit. Millennium hand and fish I tol’ em. I tol’ em.”

“You tell ‘em, mate.” Ed pats his arm in a sympathetic way and then ducks into the bar. Despite the muggy heat of the day, the bar is fucking packed, there are heads at every table and all of them turned toward the slender man in brown leather and a feathered cap that stands on the central table, gesturing broadly.

“And so there I stood, the very flower of youth and vivizity, wit and cunning! Ah, donzelas would swoon! Solteironas would clutch their rounded bosoms in hope! Matronas would cry: Oh, ser cortejada por um anjo tão bonito! Para a vida! Para a juventude! Para a alegria!” Feliciano doffs his hat and presses it against his heart.

“Get on wi’ it!” someone snaps, and a bottle comes hurtling through the air. In an instant Feliciano’s sword flashes and cuts it in half, sending the two halves smashing into a wall in a shower of glass.

“I shall, filo da puta, but you must know the hero of the story, no? Or how will you understand his downfall?”

Ed makes his way to his shipmates’ table, rubbing his palm against Long Bob’s bald head for luck before taking Jack’s beer.

“Hey!” Jack hisses and then, still glaring. “You shitter. Why the fuck are you all wet?”

“Your mother,” Ed says which is something Happy told him to say was a great insult for any situation. It’s a great one too because Jack’s scowl deepens.

“You-” he snarls.

“Shhh!” says Long Bob. “It’s my favorite part.”

“I cut men and they fell before me like wheat to the scythe.” The blade flashes through the air. “The fire, he burned brightly, the roar of the cannons left the weak shaking, ah, but I slew and slew and slew.”

“Yeah!” shouts Long Bob and gives a shrill whistle.

“Fuckin’ give me that,” Jack mutters, reaching for the beer. Ed lets him have it and rests his arms on Long Bob’s head, pillowing his chin on them as he waits for the finale.

“And then just when I was at the height of my glory and to lift my head to give thanks to Deus.” Feliciano’s gaze darts about the room before landing on their table and a grin splits his face as he jabs the blade in their direction. “This little monte de merda pops out of the darkness like a demônio and shoots me in the leg!”

Laughter erupts like a thunderclap through the room and several heads turn in their direction. Ed grins and wiggles his fingers. Some of the men scoff but others look thoughtful.

“And so, Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Rosa became a Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Ranger.  And while I could have torn their young tender hearts asunder–”

Jack snorts.

“-It is as they say in my beloved lands. Quem não arrisca não petisca.” Feliciano begins to dab at his eyes. “And though I have gained little fame and less fortune, I have come to a crew worth having. To mates!” he cries in a cracking voice.

“To mates!” the bar bellows back and Long Bob too, his voice beating out of his chest like a brass bell.

“To crew!”

“To crew!”

“To love!

“To love!”

“Drinks are on house!” says Feliciano and the bar roars its approval, feet stamping on the floor.  Then there’s a sudden scrape of wood across the floor as the men surge to get their drinks. Edward has a glimpse of the barman’s enraged face before he is snowed under with burly, thirsty men.

Feliciano bows with a flair and hops off the table to come join them, snagging too bottles of rum off a tray as he goes. Edward snags his own from Feliciano’s hand and pulls up a chair.

“Excellent timing, meu amigo,” Feliciano says sitting opposite him. Ed salutes him and takes a long drink, sighing contentedly as the rum hits his stomach.

“Fuckin’ love that story, fuckin’ do,” says Long Bob, wiping at his eyes with the back of his broad hairy hands.

“I wish you’d quit doin’ that,” mutters Jack. “You’re gonna get us kicked out of this bar too. We ain’t gonna have a place to drink in Paradise.”

“Ah, but you are such gato with your mustache,” says Feliciano with a frown. “No barman could turn you away for long!”

Jack’s mouth twists into a smirk and he strokes it.

“Guess it is comin’ along.”

More than that, he actually had hair on his upper lip. It was short but bushy and looked like he’d glued a dead rat to his face, but Ed can’t help but be envious of it. Jack had grown too and stood a whole head taller than him and his adam’s apple was prominent in his long tanned neck, shoulders broad, wrists knobbly. His voice doesn’t even squeak anymore the fuckstick.

“Better’n baby boy’s over here,” says Jack snickering at him and Ed kicks him under the table as Long Bob throws back his head and laughs like cannon fire.

“Fuck off,” Ed says kicking him in the shin and then regretting it as he remembers he didn’t wear his fucking shoes.

“He has scruff!” says Long Bob. “He can clean a plate with it. Remember you said he can clean a plate with it? Yesterday, Jack, you said that. Clean a plate with it!”

Long Bob is big man with a straining paunch and hair fucking everywhere except his head and though he’s shorter than Jack too, he’s more manly than Ed thinks he can ever be.

“Do not fret your head,” says Feliciano, patting the table between them. “You will grow into a fine pelt. I too could wash dishes with my scratch when I was your age and now look at me.” Feliciano turns his head and flips his hair, showing off his perfectly trimmed mustache and goatee. Ed wants to kick him too but he likes Feliciano, so he kicks Jack again instead.

“Shithead,” Jack says and kicks him back harder. “Cut your goddamn toenails before you draw blood.”

“Fuck you.” And then because he doesn’t want to fucking talk about beards all day. “I heard Davenport is here.”

Feliciano sits up at attention and even Long Bob blinks at him, a rushlight of recognition in his rheumy green-brown eyes.

“Yeah?” Jack stares at him over the beer. “From who.”

“A friend,” Ed says, meeting his eyes. He’s not going to say Marguerite or Feliciano will sing her praises for thirty minutes and then make them all go out and find her, even though last time that happened she threatened to take his balls off with a fork.

“Oh.” Jack sniffs and leans back and shrugs. “Don’t matter if he is. Cap’n told us not to mess with them.”

“Captain said so,” Long Bob agrees, nodding his head. “I heard it. Yes, yes, he said so. Long Bob won’t mess with them, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah?” Ed says to Jack. “That didn’t stop you last time. Or from daring me to fuck up Toad. You owe me five doubloons, you know.”

“You’ll get it when I see it,” Jack says, then looks away and sips his beer. “Anyway, things change.”

Something had changed, that’s for sure. Jack had spent some of dinner last night in Hornigold’s cabin after Edward was dismissed. Whatever had happened then, Jack had looked a little stunned after - enough so that Vance had insulted him six ways to Sunday and Jack hadn’t even so much as punched him.

Ed doesn’t like it.

“We gotta start listenin’ to orders and not goofin’ off so much,” Jack says. “Remember what Hornigold told us after the Marie Jois.”

“That wasn’t even our fault!” Ed says.

“Doesn’t matter, I like my fingers, Teach. Lose yours.”

“I like my fingers,” Long Bob mutters.

“We are worth ten of Davenport, per piece,” says Feliciano. “In charm and looks and je na ses quoi.”

“Yeah. So we should count our kwa and be men about it,” Jack says. Then: “Better make tracks.”

Because the barman is wading his way over to them, looking livid.

xxxxx

Jack remained weird even after they'd tumbled out of the tavern and darted into the maze of alleys that made up Paradise to shake off any lingering knife hands. Ed doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get it and doesn’t like it. The air tastes different, although that could be because the wind has stilled enough so that the piss drunken smell of the town seem so steam through the air, making the humidity ten times worse.

Last time they were a tight knot, rolling from one side of the street to another, being kicked out of taverns and alehouses because of Feliciano’s trick. Jack had laughed just as hard as any of them and didn’t act like he had a whipstaff rammed up his ass and all the way up his spine. Now he walks ahead of them, shoulders back, head up, and it reminds Ed of something he doesn’t like but he can’t suss it out.

“Long Bob is hungry,” says Long Bob. Which Jack seems not to hear though Ed knows he did because even at a whisper, Long Bob could wake the dead.

“We’ll get you soon fed, meu amigo.” Feliciano wraps an arm around Long Bob’s shoulders and gives him a squeeze.

“Let’s eat!” Long Bob says. “Let’s eat, Jack! Hey, let’s go eat and have good food!”

“We’ll get food.” Jack turns to face them, his hands on his hips in a pose Ed likes even less. It pisses him off somehow and he almost wants to ram his fist into Jack’s gut just to get him to stop doing it. “But thanks to cock robin over here-”

“And his stunning wit and charm,” says Feliciano in a flat voice. “Who has provided more drinks than some.” 

It’s funny but Ed is too distracted to laugh.

“Cock robin?” he repeats to himself. That’s not a Jack word. That’s a…a fluffy one that the Vance might use, or maybe the Executioner. But neither of them had been in the captain’s cabin before Jack got weird. Just Hornigold and the rabbit. “Whose dick have you been sucking?” Ed says, half to himself, just to say it. It’s funny because Jack taught him that too and it’s great to watch his face turn red and for Long Bob’s booming laugh that rattles the windows.

“No ones!” says Jack. “Fuck!”

“Sucking dick,” says Long Bob, rubbing tears from his eyes. “That’s great. I love that. Sucking dick. Ha!”

“Real men don’t suck dick,” says Jack.

“I would,” says Long Bob.

“Real men who ain’t long Bob don’t suck dick,” says Jack, folding his arms. “I’m done with childish things like revenge and shit and now I’m-”

“A jackass?” Ed says.

“No!” Jack snaps.

“A sucking dick!” says Long Bob.

“No, goddamnit, I’m-”

“A man,” says Feliciano.

“No, you assholes. I mean. Fuck. Yes. But only what he said.” He points at Feliciano. “The point is-”

“We should continue this on the walk, no?” says Feliciano, gesturing behind them and Ed looks over his shoulder to see the barman and some heavies from the Beggar coming through the crowd, followed by the Landlord from the Blind Duck that Ed might have bit a few months ago, also on a dare from Jack. But he was probably more mad about Jack and Long Bob pissing on his alehouse floor.

“Shit, come on.” Jack slips sideways through a narrow alley, clambering over some busted crab traps and Ed waits to see if Long Bob can get through before following. The walls are so close he can smell the plaster and it’s hard not to sneeze. At it’s narrowest point he has to give Long Bob a good shove along with Feliciano while Jack pulls on his other arm, but soon he’s free and they’re in a slightly wider alley, leading alongside a secondary street.

“The point is, we gotta be men about this. Even you.” And smacks Ed upside the head and is fucking lucky they’re on the run or Ed would have bit him too, or maybe punched him in the kidneys. He knows what they are now because Greg had cut open a fish once and showed him where they were and Ed is not sure if it’s the same place as it is on humans but he’s willing to find out.

“I am a man,” Ed says instead, even if he doesn’t really believe it yet.

“Nah, too shrimpy,” says Long Bob and Ed whacks him in the gut, but lightly, just enough to make him grunt. He ducks out of the way as Long Bob’s return hit makes the plaster crumble a bit over the brick.

“Some men are short,” Ed says.

“Ain’t about height,” says Jack. “It’s about maturity….”

“The fuck is that?” He’s never even heard that word before. “That’s not a word. You’re just making up shit.”

“It is so a word!” Jack turns back to scowl at them. “Ain’t it, Felix?”

“It is,” says Feliciano. “But let us keep moving. Young cocks might be roasted but I am too beautiful to die.”

“Yeah…” says Long Bob gustily in a way that makes Feliciano’s cheeks tinge, but he just gestures with both hands.

“Vamos, vamos.” And even if the word isn’t said the same, it sounds alike to make Ed twitch a little.

“Yeah, yeah, we’re vamusin’,” Jack says. They come to the end of the alley, lingering inside the mouth of it. This alley opens into a narrow street where more alleys snake away into the stinking shadows. In one of them an old man is vomiting blood and Ed watches curiously for a moment before realizing he must have went to the nearby Sals in which case he deserved it. 

“We should cut South from here,” says Jack.

“No, West,” says Ed and Jack rolls his eyes.

“You just wanna go to the Lusca.”

“Yeah? So what?”

“So I hate the Lusca and we were there last time and it’s my turn.”

“Fine,” Ed mutters. He’ll go later if they have time. They dart to ShipYard Alley which will lead them South and to where the knobs were, though less knobby now then it had been. Privateers didn’t show their balls so much in Paradise anymore, because if they did they’d get them cut off, but Jack likes to pretend he’s knobby more and more which Ed doesn’t get.

“So what’s maturity then?” Ed says as they climb over a person and a half high pile of crates that have been dumped in the middle of the alley and then stand well away. From the other side and out of sight, Long Bob scuffs his feet against the dirt, preparing.

“Maturity…” Jack sniffs, folding his arms again. “Maturity is like… not doin’ what you wanna do for the sake of somethin’ bigger. Like, doin’ what you’re told and goin’ where you should and not threatenin’ people just cuz you can.”

Ed considers.

“That’s stupid.”

There is a roar over the other side and Long Bob bursts through, sending crates and splinters of wood flying. It’s fucking fantastic even if he has to duck out of the way of raining splinters and there is the crackle of glass.

“That was a good ‘un,” says Jack nodding.

“Holy shit I think that crate went in a window,” Ed says with a half laugh, craning is head to check and sees not a crate but a fist sized hole in a window that wasn’t there before.

“Excellent form, meu amigo,” Feliciano says, applauding.

“Long Bob is the best!” Long Bob says, flexing.

“Who the fuck is out there?!” someone bleats from the window and a willowy man throws up the pane, sending more glass raining onto the street and glares at them. “You fucking kids! You’ll regret that!” The man yanks out a flintlock and levels it at him. In a liquid movement, Long Bob shoots it out of his hand, making the man squeal like a butchered pig and the flintlock tumbles to the ground going off with deafening a roar of its own.

Long Bob scoops it up, examines it, then shrugs and shoves it in his belt.

“Take that, fuckface,” Jack says and Ed flips him the double bird just because he can while Feliciano just shakes his head sadly.

“It is too dangerous a place for such a sheep.”

“Right? God. They’ll just let anyone into town these days,” Jack says as they continue. “Anyway, where was I?”

“Maturity being stupid.”

“Maturity ain’t stupid,” Jack says. “Real men are mature.” He draws himself up then as if he’s the most matureist there is.

“I’m mature!” Long Bob booms. “I’m mature like cheese. That’s what Gracie says. And she’s the wine. I want to see Grace Grace and get food.”

 Feliciano smiles as if he’s remembering all the times Jack wasn’t mature until just this morning just like Ed is. He could bring it up, but there’s something more to that that makes no fucking sense. If maturity is holding off for something better or doing what you’re told or not threatening people just for the hell of it then–

“Does that mean Captain’s not a real man?”

“What?” Jack says. “‘Course he is!”

“But what about Fish Hook Island, that wasn’t very mature.”

The people who had lived on the next island over had told Hornigold not to go and that if he was going to go it was better to wait until high tide, but Hornigold had wanted to beat the fleet of fat bellied merchant ships to their rendezvous point and lie in wait- so he had ordered the Ranger through the narrow pass of Fish Hook bay and they had nearly foundered on the rocks and coral.

They’d had to pump the bilge all the way back to Paradise. Ed had had to stay awake for two days straight helping with that, and by the time they got back he was hallucinating spiders and smacked Happy in the back of the head so hard he’d knocked his skull into the capstan and still had a kind of a dent in it.

“That was- that was ambition.”

“Que idiota,” says Feliciano.

“Um idiota,” agrees Long Bob.

“It was ambition!” Jack snaps. “Sometimes you just gotta take a risk.”

“Like Skull Fort?” Ed asks. Jack pales at that and Feliciano crosses himself, muttering under his breath.

“That was baad,” says Long Bob and he hadn’t even been there then. It had been bad, and stupid. Skull Fort was a Spanish fort, high up on a rocky ledge of a narrow inlet, spinning out from the mainland. Supposedly it had held an enormous treasure, or at least Hornigold had said, but the fort had been shabby looking like no one there had a pot to piss in. The rumor was that the commander of the fort had insulted Hornigold at some point or his reputation and so Hornigold had wanted them to blast it and storm it. Shitty shambling fort though it was, it was still a fort and it had had cannons and had blasted the fore tops’l right off. They’d lost seven men before they’d manage to limp away and hide among the scrubby shallow channeled  islands that the Spanish warships were too big to pass through.

“Everyone  makes mistakes,” Jack mutters. “But look at what we’re doin’ now…” He stops at the mouth of an alley and Ed ducks under his arm to look around since the landlords and barmen have cut them off before. They know the streets of Paradise just as well and sometimes they gather people like shit rolling down a hill. So far the way is clear and they make a left to go walk along the shadow of one of the stone walls that shields one of the fancier South inns from the tannery that abutts it.

“It takes real maturity to sail with Flint so we can get rid of the Leviathan. Prolly the most mature thing anyone’s ever done.”

Ed shrugs. “Yeah maybe. But that’s only because Flint would kick our ass otherwise.”

Ed’s not sure how it came about that they ended up sailing with Flint on this, allied with him by force, but he had a feeling that Hornigold would rather do anything but. Still, it’s not as if they had much of a choice. Flint has two ships stacked with a hundred and fifty men, thirty cannons each. There is no escaping from them either, at least not at the moment. Though the Walrus, Flint’s flagship, sat in the calmer deeper waters of the harbor, The Siren is right up their asses, cannons pointed broadside as if they’ll sink them before they let them go.

“That’s maturity,” Jack says proudly, lifting his pimple studded chin skyward. “When you’re a man you’ll get it.”

Ed snorts. Jack’s no more a man than he is. Just taller and older and his voice deeper.

“That’s not maturity. That just means Hornigold’s afraid of him,” Ed says.

“He’s got a lot of guns,” Long Bob puts in. “Really fancy ones.”

Jack flushes. “Hornigold ain’t afraid of shit.”

Which is stupid because they both know Hornigold’s afraid of shit and if he wasn’t afraid of shit he wouldn’t be sending everyone ahead of him.

“Point is we ain’t messin’ with Davenport,” Jack says. “Cuz we were told not to.”

“But that’s stupid.” Who the hell cared what they were told not to do? Anyway, it’s fucking Davenport. “Last time he called you a-”

“I know what he fuckin’ called me.”

“And he said your mother was--”

“Yeah, shitstick. Those are just words.” He flips his hair back. “A real man ain’t bothered by just words.”

“Chicken,” Ed says, because now Jack is just being annoying. The other boy’s face goes even redder.

“I ain’t no chicken.”

“Chicken!” Ed says louder. “Hey, look at me I’m Jack and I’m a chicken scared of a little fight. Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!” He clucks flapping his elbows like wings. Long Bob laughs.

“Chicken! Chicken! Bawk! Bawk! Bawk!” the man adds, his voice buzzing off the buildings as they circle Jack, elbows flapping.

Feliciano puts a hand to his face but Ed ignores him.

“I ain’t a chicken!” Jack snaps, hands balled into fists.

“Chicken!”

“Chicky chicky!” Long Bob says.

“Your mama’s a  chicken!”

Ed punches him right in the gut. It feels good to see Jack double over, breath and spit flying out of his mouth. It feels weirdly better for Jack to punch him back, clipping him right in the jaw and sending him stumbling. He charges back the next second though to headbutt Jack in the ribs and Jack’s arm goes around his neck as his sharp knuckles rap against Ed’s skull and Ed bites his arm, not hard, or not enough to draw blood and it’s a familiar taste. Like whatever weird storm that had blown up since the Beggar had passed and they were back to normal again.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” Long Bob chants.

“Gentlemen,” Felicinao says. Then, annoyed: “Crianças!”

“Uh oh,” says Long Bob.

Ed spots a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye but it’s too late. Cold filthy water splashes over them both and Ed gasps, wrenching away, face heating at the laughter that surrounds them. It’s soon followed by the rasp of Feliciano’s sword and the echoing rasps of others, the clicks of hammers being pulled back on flintlocks.

“Little boys should behave on the street,” says the smooth oiled voice of Donovan Davenport as he smiles at them, his mates at his back. Edward spits out a thin stream of water and shakes the wet hair from his eyes, hand hungry for a knife or pistol of his own. Davenport is a few years older than him, maybe closer to Feliciano’s age. He doesn’t look much like a pirate with his silk black hair and narrow clean shaven jaw and eyes like the underside of a wave. His shirt was a soft unstained red and he even wore a fancy cloth around his throat. A single gold ring looped in his ear and another with a small white stone one it shone on his finger.

“I think you ought to put your toys away, hm?” Davenport said, handing the bucket back to his mates and wiping his hands on another cloth as if even holding it was distasteful. He was so fucking clean. They all were. Who the fuck even heard of pirates being clean.

“You oughta first,” Jack said, face closed and proud. “This ain’t none of your business.”

“It is my business when the pride of my captain is on the line. And if he must be seen with the likes of you-” and here he wrinkled his nose. “-you should at least attempt to make better showing of yourselves.” He paused and then a smile cut across his pale face. “ A bath might help.”

Ed wants to bury both fists into the man’s stupid clean face and only Feliciano’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“It is with sorrow that a bath would not do anything for your face,” Feliciano says and Jack barks a laugh. Davenport’s gaze flicks to Felicano and then away.

“Well one of you is worth something,” he says easily. “Perhaps we should cull the rest of you.  Would your captain miss you, I wonder?”

Of course Hornigold won’t miss them. He’ll be pissed if they die maybe but will replace them soon enough with someone else. Still Jack’s jaw flexes as if he’s hurt by that but doesn’t want to let on. Which is also stupid. Who the fuck cares what Hornigold thinks?

“He’d miss us,” says Long Bob with loud confidence and Ed tries not to flinch. “I do the cannons and Feliciano does the fighting and Jack and Ed do the cleaning.”

Ed wants to hate him but can’t and Jack face goes even redder. Flint’s men laugh even harder at this, but they’re not stupid and their hands remain steady on their weapons. Ed grits his teeth but Jack isn’t moving against Davenport, so Ed won’t either. Even if his knuckles are curling. He’ll be calm and - and mature whatever that means, because Hornigold wouldn’t be happy with them attacking Davenport or his mates.

Even when Davenport is looking them up and down, his pretty lip pulled into a sneer.

“No wonder you are covered in filth,” says Davenport in a lazy way. “Two whelps from the same bitch.”

Nope. Can’t do it. Felciano’s hand grips his shoulder tight but Ed wrenches out of it, gut seething as he steps up to crane his head up to look into Davenport’s face. Guns and cutlasses raise but what does he care?

“Hey, shitass,” Ed says. Davenport smirks and looks down at him.

“Yes, puppy?”

“Come here,” Ed says.

“Shit, Teach, don’t you fuckin’ dare!” Jack snaps. Davenport bends his head a little, looking like he won. And maybe he had. But not completely. Ed grips his face hard, digging dirty fingernails into his cheeks and when Davenport bears his teeth, says:

“Shut the fuck up.” Then rears back and headbutts him hard.

Their foreheads meet with a satisfying crack and maybe it’s too hard because black and stars bounce across his vision. Davenport grips his wrist and Ed finds himself falling with him but that doesn’t matter. His knees hit the dirt hard and he can feel Davenport’s long lean body underneath him and then the dirt is hard against his back, his head banging into the ground as the man’s knee sinks into his gut making him gag. A hand wrenches hard into his hair, pulling pain at the roots and there is another sharp sting as Davenport slaps him hard, right across the bruise that Jack had left.

Ed wrenches his eyes open. Pistol shots boom over them and somewhere he can hear the crashing of steel. Davenport is glaring at him, blood slipping down his forehead.

“Are you going to apologize, you fucking dog?” says Davenport, perfect teeth clenched and pearly white.

“Nah,” wheezes Ed and punches him right in the face. Davenport’s nose gives and he falls back with a snarled cry. Ed sits up as best he can and grips his collar, wrenching him close to headbutt him again only gets him in the fucking chin and Davenport’s hands wrap hard around his neck and he can taste blood in his mouth. His vision is going again as it’s getting hard to breathe and hard to think.
     Then Davenport freezes and slackens his grip and Ed sees a sliver of a blade against the man’s neck.

“Release him,” says Feliciano, voice like a soft blade itself. “Or lose an ear.”

Davenport lets him go, his breath heaving in his chest and Ed blinks the darkness away. Feliciano is bleeding a little as well. Long Bob is reloading his gun. There is the smell of powder and blood and bile in the street. And footfalls. A lot of them.

“There they are!” A voice shouts and Ed looks over his shoulder to see the barman of the Beggar.

“Aw, shit!” Jack says. “Split!”

“Where are we meeting?” Ed says, scrambling to his feet. “Jack!”

“Fuck you, I don’t wanna talk to you! Bob!”

“Yes, boss!”

One of Flint’s men fire at him and Long Bob fires back, hitting him square between the eyes. Ed tries not to be stung by it as he watches Jack bolt away, Long Bob at his heels. Davenport is slowly getting to his feet, looking confused.

“Caralho!” Feliciano snaps, sheathing his sword. “Ed! Vamos!”

Yeah they better, the Beggar’s barman has gotten a huge swarm with him. Ed is about to follow Feliciano who is already loping into an alley, but one look at Davenport’s dazed expression gives him a better idea.

“Davenport!” he shouts, voice echoing along the buildings. “Don’t let them know you’re with us!”

“…What?” Davenport says, and Ed runs, just as a bullet bites up the dirt where he had been standing. Behind them there the roar of anger and Davenport’s outraged shout and Ed tries not to laugh.

There is no time to laugh. There is just time to run, feet pounding, blood singing in his ears and down his face, a wild hunted chase through the narrow alleys of Paradise.

xxxxx

Though the laughter didn’t last long. Half an hour later and they are hiding. Ed stands guard in narrowest alley in town. He can breathe and touch the opposite wall. The rooves of the buildings here overlap and he can’t even see the sky, which he’s finding he doesn’t like much. He stinks and his head and neck throb and Feliciano is muttering to himself, resting against the mold covered brick wall and massaging his leg.

He can’t run for very long or fight for very long and that is Ed’s fault. Ed had shot him. He still remembers it or can if he tries, the kick of the flintlock, the smell of the smoke. But it’s kind of faded now like an old drawing left out in the sun too long. Ed doesn’t even feel bad that he shot him, that’s the worst part. He should feel bad. He should feel guilty. A good person would. But it just feels like something that had happened.

Mostly now he feels guilty about fucking with Davenport. He couldn’t even say he hadn’t meant to do it, because he really fucking had. Mature or not, Jack had been right that they shouldn’t be messing with them because Flint still had his cannons aimed at them and more men. Even if Flint doesn’t care about them, he’d probably be pissed one of them got shot due to Long Bob, but maybe they can play it off like one of the barmen did it.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Ed says in a murmur because it needs to be said.

“No,” says Feliciano, levering himself up against the wall with a shaking breath.

“Do you think Jack is going to get in trouble?”

“I think we all will be in trouble,” says Feliciano, then gives Ed a dark eyed look. “But I think perhaps Jack will have the heaviness of it.”

“Shit…” Ed nudges a broken bit of cork with his toe. He’s sure Feliciano is right, but he doesn’t know why. Or he does, but he doesn’t know the words of it. It’s a feeling. Because Jack is older, but he’s still young. Feliciano and Long Bob are older than them both. It’s sort of like Aconi, or Happy who leads the crew into fights and raids. And Jack is neither of them, but he’s something like them. Or is starting to be.

 “It’s not fair,” Ed mutters, the words sounding small and stupid. Of course it isn’t fair. Nothing is fair.

“Ah, bem. As they say: Papagaio come milho, periquito leva fama. The one bird is known for what the other bird does.”

Ed picks up the cork and throws it against the wall. He doesn’t like it. It stinks more than himself right now. He should do something about it. He should make it better somehow. Make up for it somehow. Though if he wasn’t such a shit it wouldn’t have happened at all. Feliciano pats a gentle touch against his shoulder.

“Let us to the Swan,” he says. “There will be food. And a hot bath. And warm skin. And Jack will be there I feel, and Bob. It will be good to settle our hearts before we bend to the old willow.”

Ed nods. He wants to go to the Lusca. It will be warm there too and the food good and full of fresh fruit. Kupe will be there and Ed can talk to him and ask him what he thinks. Except they’re not all that close to the Lusca and Feliciano’s face is drawn tight like his leg hurts. Anyway, Jack won’t be there or Long Bob or Feliciano’s ‘warm skin’.

Ed wrinkles his nose at that even as he draw the man’s arm around his own shoulders, taking his weight as best he can. He gets the warm skin part anyway. Sort of. It’s nice to curl up with someone warm like they do on colder nights. It’s safer too. Ed knows he can sleep beside Jack or Feliciano or Long Bob and no one will try to stab him. No one has for a few months anyway and the last man who had had been run through like a roast pig by Feliciano and they gave his body to the sea the next day.

He also gets the other part of that too. Or what Jack and Feliciano really mean, and Long Bob. All that about…messing around. He tries not to think of that though too much because Mother wouldn’t approve and he’s already disappointed her enough probably in being a pirate.

And even if she didn’t care, he wouldn’t do it anyway because women are too strange and the thought is too strange and why would you want someone else to touch you anyway? It’s better with a couple of minutes alone on Dog’s Watch and then it’s done.

But Jack- well, Jack has gotten really annoying about …about messing around recently. At first he didn’t talk about it all that much, but now sometimes Jack and Feliciano and Long Bob or even Happy or Greg or practically any other member of the crew beside the captain and the rabbit and Gilead Thorpe will sit and chat for hours about this woman or that woman and their…their chests and…other parts.

Lately it seems Jack is more interested in being with the other crew too. The older crew. It used to just be them and now it’s not and it’s weird and Ed hates it.

“It’s his fault for changing,”Ed mutters. “And being an ass.”

And maybe Jack is the one who should fuck off. Maybe Ed shouldn’t talk to him.

“You’ve changed too, demoniozinho,” Feliciano says. The tone of his voice makes Ed feel young and stupid and makes his ears fuzz red.

“I haven’t. Not that much.” He’s just taller and he’s got more whiskers and he’s Ed now because only a baby is called Edward, but he’s still the same person. And he hasn’t changed as much as Jack.

“I think you will be surprised,” says Feliciano. His voice is light, teasing. If Feliciano wasn’t Feliciano, Ed would have dumped him in the street. But he is Feliciano so Ed just adjusts his weight a little.

“I won’t change,” he mutters. “I fucking refuse.”

Feliciano chuckles, but only replies: “Let us see.”

xxxxx

And he’s got more hair elsewhere too, that’s a change, Ed thinks a little while later, knees pulled up to his chin as he sits in the cooling water of the copper tub. It’s the expensive tub and barely big enough for him but it’s heavy and funny to hear Craig curse him as he lugs it up the narrow stairs to Polly’s small cramped room at the top. Ed can afford it though because he doesn’t really buy much else.

She’s gone for the moment, to tell Craig to bring up more hot water and Ed stretches out as much as he can to look at himself. He has hair on his chest, though not much and on his arms and legs. It’s just about enough, he thinks. Definitely he wants more on his chest though because Jack has a lot and he wants to have more than him, but not as much as Long Bob. Otherwise the only other things he wants is a good beard and to grow a few more inches.

Ed hears the stairs creak and hugs his knees to his chest again. A moment later Craig opens the door for Polly who is carrying a small steaming pot by the thin wire handle, her hair bedraggled from the heat. Craig glares at Ed and Ed grins back, flipping him a finger so the man scowls and closes the door again.

“He’s gonna kill you one day,” Polly says, but she’s grinning. She’s changed too. Her skirt is rucked up on one side, tucked into her belt and out of the way and he can see her still skinny legs and knobbly knees and a tattoo of a leaf on her thigh before shadows hide the rest of it and he’d look away even if they didn’t. Legs aside though her hips are curvier and her…her chest is larger, though smaller than most of the women that work here and peek over the top of her dress like melons. Her hair is longer and her face is fuller and her mouth is nice and she has a mole now too, one beside her lips and the other sitting like a star in the dip of her throat.

“Lookin’s free,” she says, her mouth twitching into a smile and Ed ducks his head, flushing. Even her voice is a bit deeper now, not like a man’s but mellow and soft like good mead.

“I wasn’t looking,” he mutters, “Just noticing.”

“Oh? Whatcha notice then?”

“You’ve grown up.” It sounds like a good thing to say, and then the worst thing he could have said as she throws her head back and laughs, that at least is still shrill and pretty and loud enough to wake the dead.

“That’s rich,” she says. “You’re barely out of short trousers yourself.”

“Shut up,” Ed mutters, face blistered red. Polly giggles and comes behind him, a little water pattering against the old wood floor.

“Gonna drench you and scrub that head of yours so close your eyes, tight mind, so you don’t get anything in ‘em.”

Ed shuts his eyes and holds his breath as the hot water splashes over him. Then there is a pause and the strong smell of harsh soap before her hands are in his hair, fingers scrubbing away so much so that it feels it might come out by the roots. He doesn’t mind that too much though because it’s completely opposite of what Mother used to do when he was little.

“Heard you lot were sailin’ with Flint,” says Polly. “Had a customer the other day told me so and ‘e said: Ol Flint’ got another ship to ‘is name and another cap’n to boot! Gonna hafta call ‘im Admiral Flint soon!”

“Ha!” Ed says and then regrets it as he has to spit out soap.

“Well keep your mouth shut then,” Polly says, pinching his ear. “Anyway, that’s what I told ‘im, I says: Hornigold’d sooner sail with Death then stay under Flint longer’n ‘e has to. An’ the customer says to me, he says, Pols, you ain’t got the sense God gave a bird.”

Ed risks another dose of soap long enough to ask: “Did you punch him?”

“‘Course I didn’t! He’s a customer and he don’t pay me Grace.”

Whatever the fuck that meant.

“Anyway, he’s just some bloke from the colonies and they don’t know nothin’. Shipped out on the Hag which means if I do see him again, ‘e’ll be missin’ six teeth an’ babblin’ about sea monsters.”

“Why the fuck does everyone lose teeth on that ship. Fuck!” He spits out more soap and she slaps him lightly on the shoulder.

“Keep your mouth shut I said! And that’s due to the  mate collectin’ ‘em. From a head hunter tribe ‘e is and in service to dark gods, they say. Gonna give you a rinse now.”

Ed holds his breath again as the water washes down over him washing away the last of the soap. He opens his eyes to a curtain of damp hair and a stinging scalp and tingling tongue.

“I want to meet a dark god,” he says, just because it’s fun to say, but he can practically imagine their old priest  clutching at his rosary in shock.

“You would, little spider that you are.”

“I’m not little.”

“No. You ain’t anymore.” Her voice is the same tone as Feliciano’s had been and he wishes people would stop sounding like that at him. “Gonna dry you now.” Ed has just enough time to grip the sides of the tub and brace himself before the scratchy linen flips over his head and her hands scour at what hair is left.

“‘Nother thing I heard from one of your mates is that Hornigold’s thinkin’ of gettin’ another ship.”

Ed wants to ask ‘which mate’ but is too focused on not getting his neck broken.

“‘E said the captain wasn’t even askin’ about who was to crew her, or lead her, but he says to me if it’s that no account wet skin boy I’ll join right up with Flint I will.” Polly finally releases him and he gingerly pushes his hair behind his ears. Hornigold getting another ship, or at least wanting one, he knew.

But the wet skinned boy? He wonders if that’s what Hornigold was talking to Jack about. He wonders if that’s why Jack is so weird.

“Thought of you right off and what a terror you’d be,” Polly said with a laugh and Ed tries to smile but most of him feels like he’s been smacked upside the head with a boom. It’s dumb of course because Hornigold doesn’t even have another ship yet and they’re not going to get any from Flint. It’ll be a while until he can get one. But Jack as a captain… or kind of a captain anyway… in charge of his own ship.

Would Hornigold want Jack to do that? Maybe… He’s not really a man but more of a man, and he’s loyal to Hornigold. But the rabbit and Greg and Aconi and Fadel have sailed with Hornigold longer. He can imagine the rabbit going over as authority since now Hornigold has the Executioner, his grip on the first mate has slipped a little-  But who would be the real lead? Greg wouldn’t leave the galley and Fadel’s head was more in numbers and ledgers than leading men over the side or into a fight- but maybe Aconi? Maybe Aconi and Jack. Ed can see that and is a little envious of it.

More importantly right now other than that question:

“Who said it?” Ed says, taking the linen from her and beginning to dry his neck as she sets up the folding screen. It’s wood and pictures so faded it might as well be squiggles and gaps and knot holes but it works. He waits until she’s around it before he rises to dry off the rest of him.

“Hm?” says Polly.

“Who told you about Hornigold’s ship?”

“Oh uh…Hap or Hob I think, or summat.”

Happy.

Son of a bitch.

The door opens and Ed tenses. He hadn’t heard anyone on the stairs and he doesn’t even have a knife in reach.

“There you are, Milly, took ya long enough,” says Polly. Ed peers through a knothole to see a girl with skinny legs and missing teeth, hair done up in knotted bows and a the dress too large on her thin flat frame. She hands a bundle over and bobs a curtsey.

“Had to get you some new drapes,” says Polly. “Your old ones are dryin’ but near rags, better for the scrap heap really, and no one can get the smell out of ‘em. They’re just a couple coppers each though.”

“Oh, okay,” Ed says, though he doesn’t like it even if he sees the sense. His old clothes were kind of falling apart he supposes and he doesn’t want to stink but he feels weird about losing them. The girl, Milly, peers around as if looking for him and then claps her hands together and coos.

“Oh wow, miss, is that real silk?” And she comes toward the chair the silk is drying on after he’d washed it himself. He tenses. She’s just a kid, a kid younger than he’d ever been but–

“Don’t go touchin’ that, runt!” Polly snaps, slapping her hand away with  a sound that makes Ed wince. “You get yourself right back down where you belong or I’ll take a strip off you, I will!”

Milly bobs, squeaks a ‘Yes, miss!’ and flees the room.

“It’s alright,” Ed mutters, even though it isn’t.

“It ain’t,” says Polly. “I know you wouldn’t do nothin’, but some other brute might, or one of her betters. She touches Helen’s lace or Margaret’s satin bow? She’d be out on her arse and in the street faster’n a cat can bite. And that’s nothin’ compared to what someone else might do.” Polly shakes her head then reaches around the screen to drop the bundle of clothes by his feet.

Inside is a soft white shirt only slightly yellowed with sweat and trousers that are a bit long on him in alternating blue and red stripes. He hikes the trousers up a bit, tightening the yellow cloth belt around it and tying it off on a secure knot. He comes around the screen, feeling a shaft of sunlight warm on his neck and Polly smiles at him.

“There you are, all cleaned up and less like a rag man. You should start mindin’ your looks more.”

“I should?”

“You should.” She nods. “It’s what separates the greats from the swabs.” And she flourishes a comb. “Comere and I’ll get your rat’s nest sorted.”

“Uh, no thanks. I’ve got it.”

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Ed first tests the silk, and finding it dry enough, folds it up and tucks it away inside the unfamiliar shirt. The trousers have patches on them he sees now and the hems are a little ragged.

“I don’t think I look that different,” he says, taking the comb from her to gently run it through his hair.

“You do though. I’ll show you.” She gestures and lets her guide him in place, then goes to the opposite wall and whips a ragged shawl away from a mirror, cracked from side to side with pieces missing. 

Still when he looks in it, he can see- himself.

And it’s stupid because he’s seen himself before- at least his face- in bits and pieces of Feliciano’s shaving mirror which just is really just a piece of brass polished to shine, but- but this is different.

The few whiskers he has stand like black flecks above his upper lip and a dark, embarrassingly small smudge on his chin, like leftover dirt. But the face is not a face he remembers, or it is but it feels like there are bones in it there weren’t before and his hair falls in a strange way across his forehead, though still lank from water.

His neck is still skinny but he can see the faint bulge of his adams apple where it wasn’t before. His shoulders are broader too and his hands which had just seemed like regular hands before look larger than they should and his feet are longer than they should like he is half of one thing and half of another.

“You’ll be a tall one, you will,” says Polly coming to stand behind him and he realizes with a start he’s almost as tall as she is. When the fuck had that happened?  He swallows and sees his own eyes widen and wrenches his expression back again so he doesn’t see the scared kid staring at him. 

“I don’t like it,” he says, voice rough in his throat. “It’s weird.”

“It is,” Polly says. “But you get used to it. And one day you look in the mirror and just say; oh, hello there, me.”

He doesn’t think he can ever say that. He doesn’t even think he feels it now. He feels outside of his skin somehow or if staring at a stranger.

“I don’t feel like me.”

“But you are. Here, see?” She pulls up his sleeve, rolling it over his shoulder and the knot in his gut loosens some as he sees the bands on his arm, one thick and one thin. He remembers the prick of the tattoo needle, the lull of Kupe’s voice, the smell of bread and the taste of honey and the crackle of the low fire. His throat, that fucker, closes without him.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” Ed says, looking away. He shakes his arm until his sleeve falls back over and tugs the comb through his hair. Then because wet hair is annoying  clinging to his neck, he steals one of Polly’s ribbons, earning an:

“Oi! You rat!”

And uses it to put his hair back. She pouts and puts her hands on her hips.

“You think I’m just going to let you get away with that?”

“Yeah,” he says with a grin, feeling a little better. She snorts and smacks him in the arm.

“Just this once then.” A tinny chime sounds in the hall. “Your mates should be finishin’ soon and Madame says you lot can eat in the parlor. I think she just wants to oggle your Spaniard.”

“He’s Portuguese.”

“Same thing.” Polly shrugs.

Ed grabs his coin purse, leaving a few extra for Polly and another pretty little ring he got from Skull Fortress, then tucks the little leather satchel in his belt.

“Tell them I’ll meet them at Carlotta’s tonight,” he says. “I’m heading out.”

“Where to?”

“They’ll know.”

She sighs and shakes her head.

“Not without proper payment, you ain’t.” And she gives him a steely glower and taps her cheek. Ed rolls his eyes and gives her a cheek a quick peck.

“Happy?”

“Very. Now get.”

“See you!”

“And use the door, not the win- Eddie! Ed! Damnit, you’re going to break your fool neck!”

Ed laughs and drops to the window ledge below and then to the one below that before landing on the street. It’s annoying that his feet hit the dirt so shoes first and then the Lusca.

Oh and Happy. He thinks of the word and the person, committing  to memory what Polly said he said, what he was going to do. That would have to be dealt with soon. Soon, but not yet. 

xxxxx

It’s a lot later in the day by the time he gets to the Lusca and the wind has picked up, sweeping in from the sea and knocking the pressing heat on its ass. It also brushes away the drifting stinging smoke and smell of charred wood from where a couple buildings in the south are burning.  He wishes it would blow the weird thoughts from his head, he wishes it would make him feel normal.

Polly’s words are itching at the back of his brain, itching along his skin, making him feel seen in a way he doesn’t like. It feels like everyone is staring at him, thinking, what the fuck is that kid doing walking around in those trousers? That shirt? That belt? He wasn’t wearing that before. And the shoes are new too. New for him anyway. Soft leather and big enough so that his toes don’t poke out of the ends because his feet are so fucking big.

The ramshackle building is close now, the slope beyond it thick with summer grass and the sea dazzling with light. Ed hesitates, slows to a stop, catches his reflection in the warped cracked glass window of another building and scowls at it. It’s only from the chest up, but he looks like an idiot. He looks like…like Greg back when he was scrawny all gangling and stupid with stupid trousers and a stupid stained shirt. If he went in the Lusca now, Kupe would take one look at him and say:

‘Who the hell are you? Edward? Well you’re not cool enough to be here. Go to the Beggar like the rest of the losers.’

“Fuck,” Ed mutters. He hears footsteps and ducks into the alley just so people won’t see him staring at the stupid tavern rather than go in. He doesn’t have to go to the Lusca of course. He likes to though. It’s like good luck. It makes him feel…feel something… Especially when Feliciano is there with him the drowsy hazy glow of the night time fire, tucked up in a blanket against the wall and listening to the rain or the wind or the waves. Sometimes Kupe will join them and tell them a story. Or sometimes Aconi and Fadel will sit with them for a while until they go up. Last time Ed had laid there, head on Feliciano’s leg while he and Aconi and Fadel talked of adult things, like tides and laws and women and men and Ed had fallen asleep listening to the sound of their voices.

But Feliciano is at the Swan and Aconi and Fadel might be at the Lusca, but if they are they’ll see him in these stupid trousers and know that he’s gotten changed and they’ll think he’s a fool for doing so. But the thought of not going leaves Ed unsettled like he’d forgotten to tie up a line or lock a winch.

He curses and pulls off his shoes to hide them in an empty barrel and tugs at his shirt a bit, but that’s the most he can do to feel more himself. Even pulling the ribbon from his hair is a bad idea because it’s damp and if the wind catches it, it’ll be everywhere and drive him fucking crazy. He just hopes it doesn’t look stupid.

Ed lifts his chin and marches toward the Lusca. He hesitates only a second more before pushing inside.  The tavern unfolds like an embrace with the familiar lingering smells of beer and baking bread. It’s near empty this time of day, its usual patrons either working in town or laboring on the fishing boats on the far side of Paradise in the channel between this island and the bigger one to her East. There’s only old Guthrie who sits in the corner and drinks and doesn’t say anything to anyone.

Francis is behind the bar as usual and looks the same as he always does. Nothing much changes about him. He’s still got the same pale hair and weather beaten face and now bare forearms showing off his tattoos that crawl up from his wrists to disappear into his sleeves. Francis looks up at him and before Ed can react says:

“Hello, Ed.” Without surprise. But then he’s not surprised by much. “The boss is out but he’ll be back soon. Want something to eat.”

Ed relaxes a bit.

“No…not hungry.” He comes up to the bar and vaults over it just because he can, because it feels good. Francis makes a noise of something like amusement and goes back to wiping the bar down with a gray rag. As if it could get any cleaner. Ed pokes around behind the bar, looking for the box of cigars that Kupe keeps there for important patrons.

“To your left,” Francis says. And then: “They’re saying Knob Hill is on fire.”

Ed doesn’t know why they call it a hill because it’s just as flat as anything else but he shrugs.

“Yeah, I guess. What?” Because the corner of Francis’ mouth has tipped into a smile.

“That seems to happen when you’re in the neighborhood.”

“I didn’t start it,” Ed mutters. “Or the last one.” Some jackass had tried to knife them in the dark sometime last fall and Ed had punched him in the gut and the lantern the man had had cracked open like an egg and caught on the boxes in the alleyway. Nothing had burned down that time. Not completely anyway.

“But it seems to happen.”

“Shut up,” Ed mutters, not sure if it’s a good or a bad thing. He finds the box and pulls out a cigar. Francis wiggles his fingers and Ed hands it over, watching Francis pull a small knife from his belt and cut off the plug at the tip, feeling a small jolt of envy. He wants to have a knife. Surely, he’s old enough to have one now.  As Francis hands the cigar back, he spots a flash of black on the man’s wrist.

“That’s new,” he says, pointing to his own wrist for emphasis when Francis blinks at him.

“It is.” He turns his hand around and Ed tries not to smile at the cute little lizard tattoo seeming to crawl up the blue vein pulsing under Francis’ pale skin. “I have some time,” Francis says. “Do you want one?”

Something like a spark goes up under Ed’s skin. That’s it. That’s what he needs to feel more like himself. He doesn’t have any tattoos but the two rings around his bicep. Those are special, though and he doesn’t want something special. He just wants something… something him. Something to claim his weird body before it decides to do something else.

“Yeah. Not a lizard though.” Because he doesn’t want Feliciano freaking out and smacking it in the middle of the night. “What else is cool?”

Francis hums, flicking the rag and setting it on a shelf. “How about a skull?”

“Yeah!” Ed says with a grin, his voice squeaking high. The tick is at both corners of Francis’ lips now and Ed straightens to remind the man the fact that he’s almost a man as well. But that only seems to make Francis’ smile grow wider. “I mean… it sounds alright. Whatever I guess.”

“Alright,” said Francis. “Settle yourself by a window. I’ll be there in a moment.”

xxxxx

It doesn’t take long after that for Ed to feel like he belongs back inside his skin. The worn chair is comfy and familiar. He sits to his back to the wall, the bar at his left, the window facing the open water to his right. Francis is bent over him, hair pulled back sharply from his forehead as he concentrates on pricking the tattoo needle against Ed’s skin in pleasant sparks of pain. The cigar feels good in his fingers and the smoke sweet in his mouth.

He leans back, watching the glittering water and a small schooner drifting past in the deeper water, far enough away so that it looks muted and dreamlike on the waves. Already he can’t wait to be back on it, to feel the ship like a living thing ride over the waves. To smell the sea and watch the gulls and clouds and stars. He wants to feel the rough rope across his palms and to feel the wind in his hair.

Of course he might have to clean the ship again from stem to stern or even empty the bilge with a wooden spoon depending on what kind of mood the rabbit is in. Fucking Davenport. Ed sets his teeth against the end of the cigar, letting the smoke hiss out between them. They’re all going to get shit for this, he has a feeling, since this is the second time. They’re all going to get the willow or worse unless he can think of a way to get around it.

The problem is Flint. He doesn’t know anything about the man or what he’d do when or if he found out. He hadn’t done anything the last time they and Davenport had gotten into a fight, but no one had been roughed up much then or shot between the eyes. Then again, he might not have even known about it. Flint had been on the opposite side of the beach where Hornigold had set up camp, monitoring repairs. Ed remembered coming out of the forest with an armful of coconuts, surprised at the sudden appearance of two fuck-off ships cluttering the mouth of the bay, and strangers on shore of the small crescent shaped island they’d stopped at for supplies and patchwork.

Ed had been too far to hear what was being said but close enough to see what Flint looked like. And it was mostly unrefuckingmarkable. He looked like almost every pirate captain Ed had ever seen, just swap out hair color and style. Flint’s hair was a nut brown that he kept tied up in a bristly pigtail.  He had a big bristly mustache and a small bristly beard. He had a nice coat though, deep blue almost black with silver buttons and rings glinted from every finger which was how a pirate captain should look, he thought. And by his side was a big bristly fuck-off dog that Feliciano had called a boarhound and Ed felt sorry for any boars that came across it.

Anyway, Ed had wanted to see more but had wanted to drop off his coconuts near the longboat first and then Davenport had strolled by to be an ass and one of his men had tripped Long Bob making him drop a water cask which had split and Jack had gotten pissed and thrown a coconut at Davenport’s head missing him but hitting the Toad. Davenport had said shit and Jack had said shit and they might have brawled then, only the Executioner had appeared in their midst, a gray man with his gray coat and his face shot through with scars and snapped his willow rod so hard on a cask it had made everyone start.

‘Do not ye taunt the bull lest ye be gored,’ he had said.

Which obviously he wasn’t referring to Davenport because Davenport wasn’t a bull but a jackass. Later on in the evening when everyone had been back shipboard, Hornigold had told them they were sailing with Flint in the same tone as if he would have said they were returning to Paradise or chasing after some merchant fleet. He acted like he didn’t care but he cares just enough to not want anyone to mess with Davenport.

Maybe it is because of Flint’s big fucking guns, but he can’t help but wonder… 

 He’s distracted as the Lusca’s door opens, throwing in a shaft of sunlight. Francis looks up and then straightens, head lifting as Kupe comes in, leaning on his cane, followed by the bulky shape of Aconi and the slender form of Fadel.

“I don’t know, it’s a hard situation,” Kupe is saying. “If you want my advice, man-”

“Boss,” says Francis. Kupe trails off and looks at them, surprised at first and then his mouth slipping into a smile. Aconi and Fadel peer around him like curious birds, then Aconi sighs and Fadel snorts a laugh, shaking his head.

Something is going on, Ed thinks with a curl of something like jealousy prickling just under his ribs. He wants to know what Kupe’s advising them on. What situation they’re in. Well- he knows the fucking situation they’re in, they’re being led by cannon point to fight the big fuck-off ship. So what does Francis know that no one wants Ed to hear?

He tries to be annoyed at it. He wants to be. But he can’t because it’s Kupe coming toward him with his cool tattoos and his kind eyes - his hair is more gray and white now, more white than gray and his hand is gnarled against his cane which he’d only been using a little the last time Ed had seen him and Ed buries the unsettled feeling that creeps in the lining of his gut.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” Kupe says. Ed holds out his hand and Kupe slaps his hard palm against Ed’s, front and back and then gripping Ed’s forearm as Ed grips his and leaning into bump their foreheads together. “Kia ora.”

“Kia ora,” Ed repeats, which just means ‘hello’, but it pricks at his heart to hear it and to say it. Kupe smiles at him, then to Francis, says:

“Get Colin to watch the bar and come finish what you’re doing.”

Francis nods and rises, setting the tattoo needle aside and Kupe touches his arm. “Bring me a stave too.”

“Yes, boss.”

Kupe takes the empty chair with a grunt and Fadel brings over two more for himself and Aconi. It’s still really strange, Ed thinks as he shifts to put his feet on the floor, sits a little straighter. When he’s here, just sitting with them, or sometimes when it’s the three of them on deck or high up in a spar, it’s like a change in air pressure or a patch of moonlight in a sea of clouds. Like a piece of their own world somehow.

Though not always a great one. He meets Aconi’s one eyed glare. The man’s angry. Even the old burn scars on his face seem to stand out like cracks on the ground. He leans forward and in his low thunder over water voice says:

“Please tell me that fire wasn’t you. Again.”

And Kupe chuckles, a sound that makes Ed grin and look suspicious he knows so he tries to hide it by drawing on the sweet deep tobacco in the cigar.

“I didn’t start the fire the last time,” he says in a cloud of smoke.

“It better not have been you,” says Aconi. “Because if you’ve been messing with Davenport again…”

“Oh, that is as sure as a sunset,” says Fadel, lighting his small clay pipe. “You have too much hope, mate.”
     “Call it faith.” Aconi leans back, arms folded. “That my crewmates aren’t idiots.”

Ed flushes. “I’m not an idiot.” Well maybe a little bit of one but. “Is Flint really that scary?”

“Have you failed to notice his cannons, brother,” says Fadel, eyes glittering. “Or his men? Or are you not yet tall enough to peep over the railing?”

“Fuck you I can see it,” Ed says, flipping him off. “Also Greg wants some dates.”

“I’ll remember.”

“And I don’t care how many fucking guns he has, I’m not afraid of him.”

“Welll there’s nothing to be ashamed of, a little fear,” says Kupe. “Ta.” He accepts his pipe from Francis and lets him light it before leaning back in the chair. Colin comes over to see if they want drinks. He is young but older than Ed with milky brown skin and wild hunted eyes. There are a lot of those kind around Kupe, Ed thinks. But not in a bad way.

“And that man is plenty worthy to be afraid of,” Aconi says. “And even more if you provoke him.”

“Might as well ask lightning not to strike,” Fadel mutters.

“And you’re not helping!”

Fadel holds up his hands with palms up in a shrug as if to say it is what it is. Ed doesn’t mind, he likes being compared to lightning. Lightning is cool.

“What do you know about Flint,” Ed asks Kupe. Because Kupe knows a little of everyone and everything that comes into these waters.

“Arm, please,” Francis murmurs and Ed shifts his arm back in the right position so the man can continue his work. Kupe hums and takes a draw, dragon pluming the smoke out. Ed hasn’t quite got the knack of that one. Whenever he tries he ends up sneezing his head off.

“Good question,” Kupe says. “Not much. Rumors. He’s from the Scotch people, arrived here, three years ago? Four? That heahea got caught a gale on his way here and when he arrived, he was running that galleon of his off a skeleton crew. Afterwards, he recruited, made a small name for himself- though less so than your man-”

“Bet that sticks in his craw,” Aconi mutters and Fadel laughs. Ed isn’t even sure which one Aconi means.

“Then- oh what was it? Last spring? The spring before?”

“Mid-winter year before, boss. The dry season had just started, the bad one.”

“That’s right, mid-winter, year before, he shows up with the second galleon. And people were pissing themselves over it,” says Kupe. “That no account showing up with a second ship? No one could believe it.”

“He’s going to have a third when all is said and done,” mutters Aconi.

“It won’t come to that,” Fadel says.

“Won’t it?” Aconi replies.

“It might and it might not,” says Kupe. “Hornigold’s got a certain perspicacity about him- “

“Per-perspi—.” Ed wrinkles his nose. “Fuck, that’s a hard word.”

“Per spi cacity,” says Kupe. “It means he’s shrewd. Clever. He can find his way out of the eye of a needle, so a wise man once said.”

Fadel grins at that and does a fancy little sort of bow with his shoulders and a fluttering hand.

“Hey may be able to hang on. There’s a good chance of it in fact. But whether he does or not you can’t use the direct approach, mates. It’s not as easy as it seems.”

It’s a part of the conversation that Ed wasn’t in. He wants to ask but he doesn’t want them to clam up, so he keeps silent and smokes down the cigar, and takes the rum when Colin places it on the table, thanking him with a “Ta.” But only gets a blink in response.

“I think you’re overstating things,” Aconi says, but doesn’t sound convinced.

“Hey, it’s your boat to row, man. I’ve never been a pirate exactly, I don’t have that kind of expertise. But what I will say is that genius can even come from shit. You won’t meet a man here who wouldn’t want to see the Leviathan taken down. You won’t meet a captain here with the balls to do it. If anyone can, it’ll be Flint, and now Hornigold- and everyone knows it. No one will lightly offer you a berth if you’re not part of it. If Flint wins it, you’ve nothing. If he loses it, you’d better hope no one survives with a bitter word to spread about you.”

“That’s why Hornigold won’t try to run away,” Ed says. He doesn’t get all of what Kupe is talking about, but he understands the important part. Hornigold can escape, maybe, but his reputation would sink whether Flint won or lost in the end, and Hornigold would never allow that. But did Flint know that too and was that why he had sought them out on the crescent island? Or had that just been a chance encounter?

“I’ve already given so fucking much to that man,” Aconi grumbles. Fadel rests his long fingered hand on Aconi’s shoulder for a brief moment, a strange touch and a soft one before he drops it as if it had never been.  “So you’re saying we should just bear with it and hope we’re not shot to shit? We’re only there as the bait, you know that.”

     “We’ve always been the bait,” Ed says, wondering why Aconi is acting like it’s new. That’s what it’s like with Hornigold. You go in and test the waters and hope there’s no sharks.

“Ash,” says Francis. Ed realizes there’s a huge block of ash on his cigar now, ready to drop on the table, and he puts it all out on the dented ashtray since he’s bored of holding it.

“Anyway, we’ve got-” Ed counts on his fingers. “Seventy cannon between the three of us. Even the Leviathan isn’t going to stand up to that right?”

“Problem is she’s got two sister ships, Edward,” says Kupe.

“Fuck off.” Ed leans back. “Are they galleons too?”

Kupe shrugs.

“Jesus, I hope not,” Aconi says.

“La samah allah,” says Fadel. Which Ed guesses means roughly the same thing.

“Yeah, but we’ve survived everything before Fish Hook and Skull Fort and - well- everything. You guys even survived the Leviathan before. Two more ships aren’t going to make much of a difference.” And then an idea, remembering other things he’s heard today. “And Hornigold is thinking about another ship- so maybe we can capture one of the sister ones first and then have four against two. He’ll probably even have you be in charge of it, Aconi.”

  Because it has to be Aconi. There’s no one else that can do it. There’s no one else Hornigold would trust that far. Aconi had saved his life that night of the burning building. It sounds fucking fantastic to him but no one else seems to think so. Instead they are all watching him and the stretching silence seems to creep under his neck and he can feel his cheeks go hot.

“It can happen,” he mutters into his rum.

“He’s not going to give me command, young Teach,” says Aconi. “Not like that.”

“Why not.”

Another silence, like no one wants to say it. Like it’s something terrible but obvious but Ed just doesn’t get it. Finally Kupe sighs.

“You’ve good thinking. If things were different, I would agree with you, but they’re not. Look at me. I have dealings with all sorts of people. Some people like our friends here, hey, I can just go as I am- others? Men like your captain and Flint, most of your mates? I need Francis.” He puts a hand fondly on the man’s head. “Tell me why that is.”

“Hell if I know!”

“Use your mind then, boy-o, if you’ve still got one,” Kupe says, kicking him lightly under the table. Ed scowls. Why should he know? It doesn’t make any sense. But he can make it make sense. He can figure it out. Kupe scratches his fingers through Francis’ pale hair as if making a point, his own hand seeming darker against the strands.

He still doesn’t get it. What’s the difference between Aconi and Fadel and Hornigold or Aconi and Fadel and Jack? Age, maybe and size and skin-

-Oh.

“Well that’s shit,” Ed mutters, kicking at a knot at the floor.

“You’re telling me.”

“And Aconi would be good at it! It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Not much in this world does,” says Kupe.

“And he’s just too handsome to be trusted,” Fadel says but it’s probably just to make Aconi smile and he does a little. Ed isn’t satisfied with the answer, or with everyone just seeming to accept it. He wants to say Hornigold won’t be that stupid, but it’s not about stupid either. It’s about…about something else. Something Ed doesn’t have a word for. Something about the red waistcoats of the world who are always the one taking orders even if they could do so much more.

"I would give you a ship,” Ed mutters into his rum. “I would give you loads of ships.”

“Thank you, lad,” says Aconi in the voice people use for kids or puppies that just make his shoulders twitch. “But first we’ve got to survive sailing with this one.”

“They say that few who sail with Flint survive.” Colin’s soft voice slips like a ghost into the conversation. “And those that do sail with him forever.” Just the way he says it sends a shiver down Ed’s spine. But the look Kupe gives the man is even worse. It’s a kind of close mouthed, soft, sympathetic look which just makes Ed’s teeth grit. Fucking sheep. Shouldn’t even be on Paradise. He’d get killed in an instant if he didn’t huddle in the Lusca and bleat weird shit. Ed chugs down the rest of the rum and then slams the cup on the table, only making Colin jump which just pisses him off more.

“Well I’m not going to fucking sail with him forever,” Ed snaps. “If he tries to make me I’ll bite his fucking kneecaps off.” He fairly flings his empty cup across the table and Colin has to stumble to catch it. “Get me another.”

More silence follows that and Ed feels a little bad but not so bad, though even worse when Colin looks at Kupe who nods in that cool way he has, just a tilt of a head and the slow blink and that’s enough to send Colin back to the bar. Fuck him anyway. This isn’t his fucking conversation is it?

 After a moment Francis is done, wipes Ed’s arm with a clean cloth and nods, heading back to the bar himself and it’s just the four of them again. Well the three of them plus Ed. He’s not big like Aconi or anything like Fadel and Kupe is just sitting there fucking watching them and smoking.

Ed feels like a stupid kid and even worse when it’s Francis the one who gives him his drink. He just wants to melt under the table and die. He sips his rum instead and stares at the table, even annoyed at the cool new skull on his arm. After a while Kupe lets out a stream of smoke before tapping his pipe out and leaning forward.

“Well, brothers, you came to ask my advice and here it is: ride it out. The upside is with a venture like this is win or lose you come out on top. You don’t even have to take risks, you just have to be there. With that, you get a name, you get a reputation, you get more opportunities and it’s opportunities that you need.” He taps the table with his index finger. Ed looks up and is startled to see Kupe looking straight at him. “So be careful. Know who you’re facing. Know who you’re sailing with. They’re going to look down on you because of how you look, because of who you are, some might even see you as young and stupid, and you use that against them. Use that and survive, right?”

Ed nods faintly, even if Kupe’s not talking just to him he feels pierced by the words through and through.

“And most importantly, look out for one another, hey? Because no one else is going to give a shit about you. No one.”

The last one stings a little. He hasn’t done a good job at looking after Jack, and Jack will be in even more trouble than he will. It’s alright, though, he can fix it somehow.

“To not dying, then,” Aconi says, raising his cup.

“To not dying,” Ed echoes along with Fadel and their cups click together.

“Fucksake that was the most miserable toast I’ve ever heard,” Kupe says with a grin. “I know it sounds dire, and it is. It’s fucking dangerous as hell. But Flint is just a man, more than that a man used to being on top, and I’m willing to wager there’s one member of your crew that he hasn’t yet met.”

And suddenly Ed finds himself once again the center of their attention, but they’re all giving him strange half smiling looks as if they know a secret he doesn’t.

“What?”

xxxxx

The sun is staining the clouds red and blistering gold over the smoke smudged air of Paradise by the time they leave the Lusca heading toward the Carlotta. The fires have been put out and the streets are starting to bustle with the evening crowd, but in a lazy swaggering way of people who aren’t drunk yet but are damn sure heading that way.  They’re not heading that way. They’re just heading for trouble, maybe.

Aconi and Fadel don’t seem bothered by this. They’re walking on the other side of him like twin shadows, talking in low voices as if Ed can understand what they are saying. He can’t though. He can’t understand whatever that is and hasn’t heard enough to piece anything together. It’s kind of annoying to only have one tongue and only scattered words of a couple others. He wants to learn Kupe’s, but he can’t bring himself to ask.

That aside, he’s annoyed in general, and unsettled, like he has a splinter in his finger that he can feel but can’t see. Something has changed again. Something is weird in the wind. Or maybe it’s not changed but something more. Like Aconi and Fadel and even Kupe are waiting or watching for something. Something big. Something strange.

“Go to the market,” says Aconi suddenly at his elbow and Ed is about to ask why, then realizes Aconi is still talking to Fadel.

“Yes, fine,” says Fadel. And then, his face grows serious and his dark eyes warm. “Alyawm khamr waghadan 'amr.”

“Aye, but who's order is it going to be,” Aconi mutters. Fadel smiles in a way that seems sneaky or sarcastic, but his eyes don’t match.

“Mine,” Fadel says, pressing a hand to Aconi’s chest. And that makes no fucking sense. And the touch is weird and Aconi folding his hand over Fadel’s is weird and Ed feels like a piece of rubbish forgotten on the side of the street.

“Do you want a ship too?” Ed says, which sounded more clever in his head then it did out loud. They look at him as if surprised he’s there.

“Not this one,” says Fadel, letting his hand slip away. And then, as if deciding something: “We are meeting Flint today. Well, you are.” This with a glance at Aconi, then back at Ed and the smile was definitely a sneaky one this time. “I’ll be sad to miss it.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And why hadn’t anyone told him they were meeting Flint? He doesn’t want to meet Flint in stupid striped trousers! And weird shoes! Fuck! But the Carlotta is just in the distance and Ed has a feeling that’s where Flint is and that’s why Aconi is sending Fadel away.

“Go,” says Aconi.

“Good luck,” says Fadel and leaves. Aconi watches him go and then looks down at Ed as if thinking about something, but all he says is:

“Come.”

Ed follows along beside him again, feeling less like Aconi is his shadow and more like he himself is some stupid dog trotting by the man’s side. He grumbles and tugs the linen free from his arm where the skull is looking red and puffy and gross and obviously new but it’s much cooler than looking like he fucking hurt himself.  At least he’s on just the right side to spot Jack in the alley beside the Carlotta before Aconi does, head in his hands, shoulders caged, looking like he’s trying not to be sick. Long Bob is patting his head and Feliciano, spotting them, moves gracefully to the other wall of the alley to mostly block Jack from their view.

“Hey,” Ed says. “What’s going on?” Did Davenport say something? Did Hornigold? Feliciano opens his mouth only to be shoved to the side by Jack who has the man’s shoulder in a white knuckled grip.

“I’ll tell ya what’s goin’ on!” Jack snaps. “We’re meetin’ with Flint! Do you know what that fuckin’ means? Do you even care? You just gotta go and ruin every…fucking…thing… uh… hey, Mr. Aconi.” Jack shifts to rest arm on Feliciano instead, face pale. Feliciano gives him an annoyed look but doesn’t try to push him off.

“Gentlemen,” says Aconi.

“Nothing happened!” Long Bob bellows right at Jack’s shoulder, voice even louder in the alley and enough to make Ed wince.

“This meeting was set last night,” said Aconi. “So it isn’t going to be about whatever it is young Teach did to Davenport.” And then a pause. “Probably.”

“How the fuck did you know about that?” Jack says, blinking. Feliciano gives him a look, Aconi gives him a look, even Long Bob gives him a fucking look and says:

“Big Boss isn’t stupid.”

“Oh…” Jack flushes.

Whatever the fuck that means. Ed would like to know how Aconi fucking knew and always knows. But if he says he doesn’t know then Jack will think he’s an idiot and will remind of him of it every chance he gets.

“Anyway, it ain’t my fault,” says Jack, jabbing a finger in Ed’s direction. “I told him to stop, but he won’t listen to me.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says. “You’re not my captain.”

“You don’t even listen to your fuckin’ captain!” Jack says. “And if he knocks me to shit for this I’m comin’ after you!”

“Come on then!” Ed says, excitement prickling at the thought of a fight. That’s what he needs. That’s what he wants. Fists and feet and teeth and skulls. “You think I’m scared of you?” Ed snaps. “Chicken!”

“That is fuckin’ it.” Jack starts to come for him and Ed starts to meet him, but then squeaks stupidly as Aconi drags him back by the collar. At least Jack looks stupid too with Long Bob’s arm around his throat.

     “Boys,” says Aconi, but he is looking at Ed as if trying to remind him of something. “Now. Is not the time.”

Oh. Right. They’re trying not to get killed by Flint. Ed takes a few moments to watch Jack rapidly turning blue under Long Bob’s arm and then sighs.

“Fine I don’t care about that loser anyway.”

“You’re the loser,” Jack wheezes. “But yeah fine whatever. Leggo, goddamnit!”

“Sorry, Jack! Sorry, sorry!” Long Bob lets him go and Jack bends over, sucking in lungfuls of air. Aconi releases him but cautiously like he’s going to run loose and bite Jack in the leg which he might have done but he’s going to be… going to be mature and not do it even if he wants to.

The door to the Carlotta opens and the Executioner peers out making everyone but Aconi stand a little straighter.

“It is beginning,” he says blandly as he says everything. “But thou should not enter with the rabble.”  This it seems to Aconi. Aconi nods and taps Ed’s shoulder as if in warning before going into the inn, bone beads clicking in his hair as he ducks to get in the doorway.

“Yeah, rabble,” Jack says tugging his shirt and rising up to his full stupid height. “You stay outside until you’re wanted.”

Ed almost says fuck it and goes for him again but Feliciano slips an arm around his shoulders, holding him back as Jack and Long Bob go in.

Then it’s just the two of them on the street and Ed relaxes a little. He almost wants to lean into Feliciano but that’s what a kid would do. Instead he shows his arm and the skull.

“Look what I got, isn’t that cool?”

“Very,” says Feliciano. Ed waits for Feliciano to say something about how Ed should behave or be mature or how they are going int a dangerous situation or how Flint will fuck them over. But he doesn’t seem to want to say anything at all. The breeze stirs his hair across his face and the sun glints on his small gold earring.

“He is beautiful, no?” says Feliciano and points. “Veja, you can just glimpse between the buildings.

Ed vejas and can see a blue green sliver of sea, shining now with amber flickers of sunset.

“I want to be out on it.”

“And me as well,” says Feliciano. “So let’s live through this.”

Of course he had to say something in the end, but that’s fine. Feliciano can be forgiven. Feliciano can be forgiven anything. The Carlotta’s door opens again, the Executioner framed in the darkness. He says nothing but he doesn’t need to. Feliciano squeezes his shoulder as if in comfort and the back of Ed’s neck prickles as he’s lead in.

     It feels important is the problem, though he doesn’t know why it’s a problem. Or why it makes his shoulders tense or make it feel like there’s stuffed cotton in his lungs. Worse is the Carlotta itself. Ed’s never liked it much to begin with. The main room is brown with serious paintings and serious men with serious faces. It’s where the captains and first mates hang out. There’s always a certain pressure, like the heavy promise of rain.

Now it’s even worse and he can practically see the rain clouds forming, thick and iron gray. Hornigold sits on the left side of the room, closest to the door and most of the crew is there as well, looking ominous, except for Happy. But then Happy never looks ominous. Ed remembers suddenly what Polly had said about him threatening to sail with Flint, but there’s no time for that now.

Flint and his crew stand on the right side of the room and practically fill the room, and it’s not all of them either. Ed doesn’t know if they all belong to the Walrus or there’s some from the Siren as well. Flint watches them come in and he’s much bigger and taller in person, broad shouldered and thick calved. His eyes are a kind of frosty blue which seem to stand against his sun worn face and the bristliness of the rest of them. The big hound at his side looks even bigger in person, even as it’s lying on the ground, but it lifts its head to eye them and Feliciano tenses, and leads him to the side of the wall in the shadows, the furthest away from the beast.

From this part of the room, Ed can see both sides clearly. There’s a conversation happening, one without words, not just between the captains, but between the crew. Hornigold is sitting, sprawled but in a controlled way, as if it doesn’t matter to him the force that he’s presented with but he’s not a fool. He’s shaved the grit from his face and his hair is freshly trimmed, and his eyes a flat gray as always. The rabbit hasn’t come, and instead Vance stands at Hornigold’s right shoulder, not as tall as Aconi who stands at Hornigold’s left, but still broad shouldered and thick muscled as they are his pride and joy. He likes to wax his biceps every night to make them shine and Ed has caught him talking to them once or twice.

The rest of the crew stand behind Hornigold, loose hipped and casual, except for Jack who is as tense as a hawser rope at full tow where he stands back in the shadows. Gilead Thorpe is not there, nor Greg- and Fadel might have been if Aconi hadn’t sent him off.

On the right side is Flint, though he stands near the center, the dog at his side. All the rest of his crew is sitting, their faces bored as if they don’t care to be there, but every one of them is clearly armed with pistol or cutlass. The only one who isn’t bored or serious or armed is a bow legged man with a wide ruddy face and a parrot on his shoulder. The man catches Ed’s eye and nods at him, one side of his mouth curling into a smile.

There is a click and Ed looks away toward the sound to see that the Executioner has shut the door and then comes back to prop his hip on the table, resting his blunderbuss along the top of his thigh.

“And so,” says Flint, even his voice bristly with accent. “We begin.”

“So we do,” says Hornigold. Ed arranges his face to look as solemn as the rest of them as he glances back over Flint’s crew.  And then he spots Davenport in the back who is completely fucked up.

The laugh escapes him before he can stop it, more of a snort than anything he wishes he could stuff back in. Suddenly he’s the center of attention in his stupid trousers and weird shirt and strange out of joint body with the skull tattoo burning on his arm. Ed finds himself flushing.

“Come here, lad,” says Flint. Ed is about to go but then doesn’t want to follow Flint just fucking because and glances at Hornigold instead. For a brief moment Hornigold looks as if he’d like to wrap both hands around Ed’s throat, but then his expression flattens again and he nods. Ed paces to the center of the room to stand in front of the man, noting Flint’s own pistol and the cutlass at his side, hidden under his coat. He doesn’t wear stupid striped trousers, but charcoal gray ones and a matching waistcoat and shirt with a red scarf tucked in looking like a stripe of blood. His eyes though are like ice water.

“Is there something you find amusing?” his tone was casual but threaded with warning. Still, what is Flint going to do? Shoot him? Who cared? Though Hornigold might and Ed is determined to be mature about this so he puts his hands behind him like he’s standing in front of the priest from forever ago and far away.

“No, sir.”

“Nay, lad,” says Flint. “Be honest.”

Ed tries hard to fight a smile. He’d asked after all. And the mature thing would be to do as he was told.

“Davenport’s face, sir.”

Davenport’s face goes scarlet and he stands up so fast he knocks his own chair over. Ed tilts his chin, daring the man to come for him, only to see him pale as Flint turns to look at him.

“It only takes a mere a child to rile ye?” says Flint and Ed tenses at being called a child- then remembers what Kupe told him about using things to his advantage and flips Davenport off while Flint’s back is turned. He manages to put both hands behind him just in time for Flint to come back around and see him.

“I’d find it amusing too,” says Flint with that still water danger in his voice. “But what I don’t find amusing is that one of my men is out of fighting form and another is dead due to a brawl that was started by your crew. What have ye to say to that?” Ed can hear a soft shuffling behind him hopes that Jack keeps his stupid mouth shut and doesn’t fuck things up- because this is interesting.

Flint is talking to Ed, but really talking to Hornigold- and yet Ed is still the center of things. He can almost feel the pressure of it, the power of it. His stomach is doing flips as he looks into the cresting wave. It’s not a question he can avoid answering either as Flint leans down a little and says:

“Well?”

“That sheep don’t belong in Paradise, sir.” Because what the fuck else can he say really? Anyway, it’s interesting to watch Flint’s men who are no longer sitting lazily. They have straightened, gripping their weapons, scowls on all their faces, looking ready to move at the slightest twitch. Well, all of them except the ruddy faced man who is looking mildly surprised but no more than that.

“Aye, that may be true,” Flint said, raising up again, face hard to read. “But I’ve only one sheep among my crew who until now I thought was a wolf and equipped to lead men.”

Davenport looks away, clutching at his sword arm which Ed sees is bandaged. His face is almost pure white now but there is anger glittering in his eyes, or something anyway, and Ed feels a little bad about it- but also something about it is so interesting, the push and pull of… of power? Strength? Balanced on…on what?
     “I can only blame myself for the oversight,” says Flint. “But that does not settle the fact that I am down two men.”  

“There is tide and time enough to recruit,” Hornigold replies, sounding bored. Anger comes to Flint’s face sharp as stone, and though he seems to try to mask it, Ed can still see it in in his eyes the slight curl of his lip.

“I was thinking of recompense.”

“Think again,” says Hornigold. “So my crew, you claim, started a brawl. What of it? Even if the brawl had been started by another crew, or a prostitute or even a filthy beggar, the end would be the same. It’s not my burden if your men can’t hold their own in a fight.”

Flint draws himself up and the dog stirs, rising to its feet and standing with its head back nearly to Flint’s thigh. Holy shit, it’s a big fucker.

“Ye might come to bear a greater burden than ye think to know,” says Flint.

“And who would put it on me?” Hornigold says. “Or would you prefer to take the Leviathan on your own.”

The room seems to be singing with tension. Hands on pistols and swords on Flint’s side and out of the corner of his eye he can see Feliciano’s wrist on the hilt of his own. He is sure his own crew is ready to fight and Ed has to fight down the grin. It’s excited in the blood quickening way, like before a raid or attack which means he’s going to be sick after but he wants the sting of it, the thrill of it.

“Now, now, Masters,” says the ruddy faced man and Flint seems to twitch a little, hand clenched though half hidden by his long sleeve. Ed watches with some surprise as the ruddy faced man comes to the center of the room, back to the fireplace so he can look at either side. Even the parrot on his shoulder doesn’t seem to care that a fight will break out at any second and is simply preening.

“There’s no need for this commotion, says I. You are both great captains in your own right, though begging your pardon Captain Hornigold if I see mine as the greater. And my crew the greater because there’s a great many more of us, you see. But if you had no name, our great captain would hardly ask your hand in this matter would he? No, no, he could go to anyone he chose, but he chose you.”

Ed shifts to watch them both too. Hornigold seems unmoved by the man’s words, but that doesn’t mean anything.

“I am just a humble sailor myself,” says the ruddy faced man. “I’m fair in the rigging and better on the wheel, though I’ve not the arms for cannon or capstan. More at home on the deck and assisting as I can with the comings and goings. So take my words as you would the words of someone simple who but knows the ways of the sea and minds of men. And I say that any captain can set their crews against one another, but it takes a great captain to come to a parley.”

That’s not a word Ed has heard before, but he assumes it means some kind of agreement.

“It be true that our Mr. Davenport got caught in over his head, but young men have hot blood as I’m sure both of you great masters know. It be also true that no matter who started the brawl, the end might have been the same for our poor Mr. Davenport. Thirdly it is true that we are down two men, and though we have many, all men are precious and well selected to sail with the great Flint. And yet there is a chance to meet both our hands over the table so that we may well work together in the future, as well we’ll need to.”

“What are ye proposing?” says Flint, voice tight in his throat.

“Why, a simple exchange of men,” says the ruddy faced man. “One for one. We’ll be taking the brunt of the battle, so we take, no, borrow, one of Hornigold’s fine young fellows for our fine young fellow so he can recover. And then, if the Great Captain in the sky wills it and saints preserve us and they both survive the ordeal, why, we swap them back.”

Hornigold stands then, coming to Ed’s shoulder and wrapping his arm around him. Ed tenses, hardly daring to breathe because what the fuck is this? Hornigold has put a hand on his shoulder before but this is just weird. Even weirder when Hornigold pulls him close against his side. It’s all Ed can do not to shove him off because that would look bad, he knows. Really bad.

“I can agree to those terms,” says Hornigold. “And I would like to thank you for sparing the boy and his foolish words.” And Hornigold squeezes his upper arm affectionately. What the fuck. What the fuck.

“And what say you, Captain Flint?” says the ruddy faced man. “Can you agree to settle our differences? After all, getting worked up over a reckless little boy is hardly worth it.”

Ed grits his teeth. The next person who calls him a little boy is going to get kicked in the balls and hard. Hornigold’s affectionate squeeze becomes briefly painful and Ed calms down a bit because finally something that makes a little fucking sense. Flint peers at them, his eyes sharp.

“Little is worth it about this crew,” says Flint. “But it some worth may be found in teaching the boy some manners.”

Fuck. He’s going to get the shit kicked out of him isn’t he? Or worse, he thinks, eyeing the dog. God, he is not looking forward to that at fucking all. The only consolation that if he survives it, he might be able to swipe a different pair of trousers while he’s recovering.

“I will not send him alone,” says Hornigold, voice thick with emotion that sounds strained.

“Then ye must sacrifice another of your crew to come with him,” replies Flint with a cold smile.

“If it pleases,” says Feliciano suddenly, stepping toward them. “Allow myself to go. After all, you are down a swordsman. Senhor Davenport and I are well matched when it comes to the dance.” He bows.

“Well, Hornigold?” says Flint and through gritted teeth Hornigold says:

“Agreed.”

Flint holds out a hand and Hornigold clasps it. They shake and the ruddy faced man smiles proudly.

“There, now. I knew you were great men.”

“Great fools, maybe,” says Hornigold. “Let me have a few moments alone with the boy.”

     “A moment only,” says Flint. “And stay right where ye are.”

Hornigold jerks his head in a nod. Ed suddenly finds himself turned to face Hornigold, the man gripping his upper arms and resting their foreheads together. It’s so weird. So fucking weird. Ed gets it. He does. But it’s giving him the spider sensation again, and if Hornigold wasn’t pressing right against the bruise from Davenport, Ed might have headbutted him out of instinct.

“Do not,” says Hornigold in a very soft whisper. “Fuck around. Or I will come over and gut you myself.”

Ed has to press his lips around the bubbling laugh that is trying to rise out of his throat.

“Ah, and there is one more thing,” says Flint and Hornigold’s grip tightens. “As your two count as one, there’s still the matter of the one of my precious men who is dead. I demand recompense for that.”

Ed is surprised Hornigold doesn’t gut Ed where he stands given the look in his eyes, the tenseness of his jaw where he is gritting his teeth. And then his face goes cold and Ed feels panic rise. Hornigold is going to do it. He is going to kill one of the crew and he is going to make sure it hurts. Maybe he won’t kill Jack and not Feliciano or Aconi- so that only leaves Long Bob. Ed can’t let him do it. He can’t let Long Bob die.

He thinks a quick frantic moment and knows he’s out of time when Flint says:

“Well?”

“Happy said he’d sail with Flint,” Ed whispers as low as he can and when Hornigold narrows his eyes, adds: “Polly told me. From the Swan. You can ask her or you can risk it.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll fuck around.”

Hornigold lets out a single long breath from his nose, eyes glittering. He lets go of one of Ed’s arms to hold up a single finger as if to say this is the only one you get.

     “Shall I choose this time as well?” says Flint and Hornigold straightens, his grip on Ed’s other arm starting to sting and bruise.

“No,” says Hornigold. “Fair is fair.” And then: “Happy, I hope you enjoyed your time at the brothel.”

“What?” says Happy, his face going sheet white- and then is splashed with red as the Executioner shoots him in the temple. Happy falls hard on the floor, knocking over a chair with a loud enough clatter to make Ed wince, even though he barely hears it. The sound of the report is still ringing in his ears, the smell of gun smoke filling his nose. From the shadows, he catches Jack glaring at him, but fuck if he knows why. But it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Happy is dead and Long Bob isn’t and that’s all that matters right now.

“Satisfied?” says Hornigold.

“For the moment,” says Flint. “The boy comes with me now.”

“I’ll send Feliciano with his things.” Hornigold moves from Ed’s arm to pinch at the back of his neck with rough fingers. “Serve well, boy. Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t, sir,” Ed manages as he’s pushed forward.

“Enough nonsense,” says Flint. “We need to talk plans. I with my Finn, you with your darkie, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Alright, maties, you heard the captains. Let’s be on our way to make ourselves prepared for the grand adventure,” says the ruddy faced man, drooping this thick arm over Ed’s shoulders. “I’ll take this lad on with me and will treat him well, by God, I will.”

“He’s to serve me,” says Flint, harshly, as if he doesn’t really trust the ruddy man all that much.

“Yes, Cap’n, of course he is. I’m just getting him settled to the ship, you don’t want a boy underfoot do you now? No.  Best let John Silver handle that.”

     Flint gives him a scowl, then waves a hand in dismissal and Ed finds himself being shepherded out of the Carlotta into the street. The light of the setting sun makes him blink and the excitement has risen high enough in his throat to set his teeth together.

“Now don’t worry about a thing,” says the man. “Safe as houses with me, you are. I’m Silver as you’ve heard, you can add the mister to it as you like and as you better. You are?”

“Ed Teach,” Ed says, his voice seeming to come from somewhere different, somewhere far away.

“Well then, Eddie lad, we’ll get along fine. And you know, the world is a grand funny place it is. Do you know why?”

“Why,” Ed says because it’s expected of him. Silver grins, light shining off a likewise silver tooth.

“The bird here is called Polly, too.”

Chapter Text

Once again, he is up to his elbows in shit. Ed curses from where he’s crouching on the main deck, scrubbing his hands and forearms with sea water he had hauled up from the side. The shit smell still lingers. It seems to be ingrained in him now, on his skin, in his hair, on his shirt and stupid striped trousers, all stained and stinking.  He’s been on The Walrus for three days and already wants to burn the whole fucking thing down to the keel.

The fucking ship is crawling with animals. Aside from Neptune, Flint’s Boarhound, there are two other dogs on the ship, small bitchy yappy things that like to try to sink their teeth into his ankle. Ratters, Mr. Grottle calls them with pride, big moist eyes going in different directions as if to look at both of them at once, best dogs there is, ratters.

The dogs look more like actual rats to him and stink just as bad as if they belong in the bilge. There’s also a cat, seventeen chickens, and a goat called Cromwell that everyone thinks is hilarious. And they all shit. Big long shits, small stinking shits, brown smears with fluffy white on top, pellets that look like berries. Ed hasn’t found the cat shit yet, but he’s seen it vomit a blot of wet fur onto a freshly scrubbed deck and had resisted throwing a bucket at it.

There are two other swabbies on the Walrus of course, a man Feliciano’s age and an old man with no teeth and a face like a beaten turnip. Ed doesn’t know their names and doesn’t much give a fuck as they liked to call his attention to the next pile of crap and stand over him to make sure he cleaned it right.

But they don’t touch him. In fact no one does, which is still the weirdest thing. They seem to come close, a hair's breadth from a punch or a kick. And they threaten to often enough- or else do the stupid thing where they trail off into silence like Ed is supposed to be afraid of shit they haven’t even done yet. But no one’s so much as tries to actually throw a punch.

He wishes they would. He can tell they want to, by the way their muscles bunch and hands flex and smirks rise then fade on their faces. He’s the shortest for now on board and the youngest and they are itching to put him in his place, but they do nothing. As if they’re held back or stopped by something. It’s like one of those heavy pressing days, waiting for a storm to break, and you can’t tell for sure if it ever will.       

Well whatever the fuck is stopping them he wishes they’d either ignore it so Ed can hit them back or stop treating him like a baby who is going to piss himself over the threat of a little beating.

With a sigh, Ed dumps the bucket back over the side, then rests his forearms against the smooth wood of the railing. The Ranger bobs not too far away, well within cannon range, anchored for the night. Her sails are furled and the warm yellow light from the windows of Hornigold’s cabin is gone, leaving a coal gray. He can see the slender form of Gilead Thorpe, curled up against the foremast, and just below, Long Bob on watch. He’s usually on dog’s watch, seeming to not need sleep as much as everyone else or any at all. 

He wishes he could be over there with them. It would be nice to sit the dog’s watch or to hang out in the crow’s nest and gaze at the stars, or even just lay in the cabin listening to the snores of the others. Maybe soon. Hopefully fucking soon. Ed resists the urge to call out to Long Bob and pushes away from the railing.

Ed stretches until his spine pops in a satisfying way, then glances up to say good night to Ana-nia. She’s shining proudly tonight in a clear sky- though a low smudge on the south west holds the potential for a damp morning if the wind changes. A jaw cracking yawn overtakes him and he rubs his suddenly sandy eyes with the heel of his hand. With heavy feet he trods down deck to where Feliciano is lying in the hammock just under the narrow jutting eave of the forecastle.

Feliciano is already sleeping, caught mostly in shadow but a soft brush of tired moonlight across his face. He looks so… strange lying there. Ed has seen Feliciano sleep a lot, so there shouldn’t be anything odd about it, but there is in a way that Ed can’t figure out. Not bad strange but…strange. Maybe it’s the way his hair falls over his forehead or the shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. Or maybe it’s just that Ed’s getting sick because his stomach flutters like they’re riding down a steep swell in a raging storm. If it was a storm he’d understand. If there was wind and rain and lighting, that he’d get it. But it’s large waves on a quiet sea and Ed swallows past a dry throat.

There is a small movement as Feliciano opens an eye then blinks and sits up, hair wild on one side, hammock swaying with the movement.

“Ed? Algo está errado? ” He rubs his hair and mutters something under his breath. “All is fine?”

“Yeah.” Ed shrugs, feeling himself flush for no stupid reason. Feliciano looks around as if searching for hidden trouble, then yawns and pats the hammock.

“Venha. Venha .”

 Ed hesitates. Though he’s scrubbed off as best he can, the smell is still there lingering on the edges of his senses and that close he’s sure Feliciano can smell it too. 

“I stink,” he mutters. “I can sleep on the deck.”

“Life stink.” Feliciano shrugs. “It is cold. Venha , Ed.”

Ed venha s, flopping on the hammock and bumping into Feliciano a little harder than he needs to. Feliciano grunts and then yawns and wraps an arm around him. It is not new. Sometimes when it gets chilly on the Ranger they throw all the blankets and shit on the floor and fight to be the one to get closest to Long Bob who is a fucking stove of a man. Ed has woken up lots of times in tangles of arms and legs and Jack drooling on his face.

It’s not new… but…

“I was grown at a…a place for forgotten boys,” says Feliciano, his sleep rough voice stirring Ed’s hair. “The ah…holy men watched over us and we watched over peppers and chickens and pigs and goats and three burro. They should beat us if we left our duties unless we were quick and cunning- and no one was quick and cunning like myself. Still I did not always escape.”  He yawns and sighs. “I too had life stink.”

“You were forgotten?” Ed murmurs, wondering who the hell could forget him ?

“Mm. Mamãe was the most beautiful índios of the jungles, said the holy men. She grew this beautiful flower and left to sing with the anjos . Pai was a strong fighter for the king, but he has forgotten or is perhaps dead.” His arm shifts in a shrug. “Life.” And then. “You?”

“I forget,” Ed mutters, cheeks stinging as he ducks his head. He doesn’t want to talk about Mother and Father or their small, cracked house or the small cracked street they lived on. It was forever ago now and far away.

“Hm,” Feliciano says.

The hammock sways gently in the swells. Ed can feel Feliciano’s deepening breathing against his back, he closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled into the tide- only to hear not a moment later, a step on the forecastle above. The watch is changing.

Feliciano’s hand tightens slightly against his stomach and Ed slips a hand under the pillow to touch the reassuring wooden hilt of Feliciano’s knife. A shadow passes through the lattice of the stairs. The footsteps come closer and a man with peeling reddish feet comes down them, yawning and heading below decks.

 The stone faced man named Dirk is the one coming toward them to take his place. He’s a man to watch, big and lean and craggy like a cliffside washed by the waves, complete with pox scars like clinging limpets, climbing up the right side of his face and down across his neck. His arms are roped with tight muscle and he moves as gracefully as a cat. He’s lean and hungry and dangerous, even without the two fuck off knives and a pistol jammed into his belt.

Dirk gives a lazy wave to his departing crewmate, then continues to approach, a smirk crawling across his face as he gets closer. Closer. Too close. He comes to stand beside the stairs, resting a hand on the narrow ledge, blocking out the moonlight so he becomes nothing more than a shadow, an ink blot. Ed tightens his fingers against the dagger, and Feliciano’s hand relaxes slightly against his stomach, as if he is speaking to Ed, as if he is warning him.

“Sweet dreams, chickadees,” Dirk says with a sea snarled voice, the knife blade of a threat in his words. But he doesn’t so much as reach for one of the knife blades or run his fingers over the flintlock. Like just words are going to terrify them. Who the fuck gives a shit about words? Dirk chuckles, low and grumbling as he mounts the stairs, passing over the deck above them.

“Why the fuck doesn’t he just stab us,” Ed murmurs when the footsteps fade. “What is everyone waiting for? They can’t be afraid of Hornigold.”

“Someone has told them not to,” Feliciano says.

“Who?”  Not Flint, he doesn’t think. Flint doesn’t seem to give a shit about him. He hasn’t even really seen Flint since Carlotta’s. It’s not even a rabbit situation either, because he’s only seen Bill Bones, Flint’s first, from a distance. If not them, then who? Who has that much sway?

“And why,” Feliciano adds. Then yawns again and pats his stomach. “But that is a question not for tonight. Let us enjoy our miracle and sleep. Tomorrow we will watch and wait and see what is to be done.” 

Ed nods, head heavy, Feliciano’s yawn and sleep warm voice catching. He finds himself drifting off into the hazy deeps, lulled by soft breathing and the swing of the hammock.

xxxxx

Rain comes in the morning as Ed thought it might, washing down the decks, but by the early afternoon it’s long since fucked off and left only a few pale puffy clouds in the cheerful blue sky.  Ed’s arms are aching a bit from the morning chores, mostly a lot of fucking scrubbing, and his ankle itches a little where from one of the ratters nipped at him while he passed, but he feels better now. 

He and Feliciano are sitting side by side, an orange split between them, as they work on patching a sail. Beside them and a little ahead, the Ranger skips on the waves, and on the Ranger’s other side, the Siren pulls steadily in her course. She’s a slightly smaller ship than the Walrus but not by much, and seems newer and sleeker, but not as pretty as the Ranger.

Ed reaches to snag an orange slice, listening absently as Feliciano tells the story of how he fought a jaguar bare handed to rescue a fair lady  who was tied up fetchingly in a nest of vines. Feliciano seemed to fight a lot of creatures barehanded to rescue fair lady or gentleman who was tied up in vines or ropes or seaweed. Ed has always liked the fighting part more than the actual rescue part where he saves the fair whomever who is grateful enough to shower him with kisses, but now he finds himself oddly looking forward to that part for some reason.

Right now though Feliciano has suffered a swipe by the jaguar’s paw that had raked a huge gash across his chest and he is on his last legs. Though Feliciano always ends up on his last legs. Jack had once said that Feliciano must be a fucking centipede but everyone ignored him.

As Ed listens to Feliciano lament of his own fading life and a beautiful star gone from the heavens, he waits and watches.  The Walrus isn’t that much different from the Ranger, only more. As usual the captain and the mate stick to the stern of the ship, though when Bill Bones moves among the crew they watch and pull into themselves a little, annoyed and sullen and hesitant. When Flint walks among them, they get the fuck out of the way, or look like they really want to. Ed can’t tell if it’s because of Flint or the ever present Neptune that seems to like to click his teeth at men he passes.

Otherwise there’s the helmsman who stands apart, and a doctor so old he doesn’t have a single black hair on his head. Dirk is the lead gunner, which makes sense, but he doesn’t stay on the stern with the helmsman and doctor as Aconi might have done.  The strangest thing is there is no one like the Executioner. No one stands before the stern, legs braced, arms folded and gives orders. There are no punishments. Few fights. Barely even an argument.

It doesn’t feel right. It’s not natural, but he can almost understand it. He can almost see what’s happening or who and almost why, though the why is a vague thing, like the memory of a taste on the back of his tongue.

He watches a knot slowly begins to form in the eddy and flow of men working on deck. There are five men in all in the knot, among them Pew, a man called Black Dog who looks more like a Pink Pig with a face like a bloated egg and accident prone Job Anderson who is picking splinters out of his fingertips. All of them have threatened Ed at least once or twice. Ed has also seen Dirk hang around them, but not for long and not happily as if he can’t stand to be in their presence for longer than he has to.

Who is the bolt ring that they’re secured to? Who and why. He runs his tongue along the edges of his teeth behind closed lips as he thinks. Are there any other knots around? Not that he can see. There is no shadow of Bill Bones watching from the quarterdeck, or anyone else even really interested, despite the fact they are at full sail. The Executioner would have busted heads open for anyone not actively working at full sail, but these men don’t even seem afraid.

Though Black Dog keeps looking up, over the head of Job Anderson, close to the starboard prow, though there is no one there but Silver, winding rope with his brawny arms. Their eyes seem to meet. Black Dog drops his head and Ed finds himself under the quick gaze of Black Dog’s small dark close-set eyes and the men huddle closer together.

“Wind is shifting,” Ed says, popping the orange slice in his mouth and leaning back on the heel of his hands to enjoy it.

“So I see,” says Feliciano. “We will watch and wait, hm? It is a bigger wind than before and I wonder…” He’s regarding Ed now, lips pursed in thought. Ed widens his eyes and sticks his tongue out at him like Kupe would do and Feliciano grins, teeth glinting.

“Sim , demônio . You are very good at terror. But I wonder if you could act the opposite.”

“Opposite?” Ed says, idly drumming his heels against the cask he’s sitting on.

“Act as they suppose. As they want to make you. Afraid.”

“Fucking afraid.” Ed wrinkles his nose. “Afraid of them ?” Seagulls are scarier.

“Sometimes to bait a trap you have to put out the honey.” He pricks Ed’s shoulder with the needle.

“Ow!” Ed says reflexively, rubbing the spot though it doesn’t hurt.

“Try. And see what comes.”

“Yeah, sure, fine,” Ed grumbles even if he doesn’t like it. Even if the thought of it makes him feel stupid.

“Thanks you. Now, where did I end?”

“The stars were crying out for their lost brother.”

“And so they should,” says Feliciano. “For I was nearly dead where I lay, the last drops of my blood falling like precious rubies to the green forest floor. The fair donzela , ah, to hear her weeping would have broken your heart as it did mine! And I knew that I must gather my strength for she was believing in me and longing for me as the sea longs for the shore…”

But the men are approaching them now and Feliciano switches stories to talk about plans for the upkeep of the cabin, which Ed is glad for. It’d be hard to pretend to be afraid if he’s annoyed that these assholes are interrupting the longing part.

All five men come to stand in front of them, casting shadows over he and Feliciano as they stand in a semi-circle, crowding them against the railing. Feliciano has his knife though at his right side and sword at his left. Neither of them have a flintlock whereas these bastards have three among them and two knives and a sword, but it wouldn’t be very difficult to steal a flintlock if he needs to since they’re just wearing them in their belts and not even out of arm’s reach. Dumbasses.

Except he’s supposed to be scared of them.

“Hello, lads,” says Pew. “We’ve been talking, me maties and I, and been thinking ye aren’t very friendly. That’s well understood for the ship ye come from, ye must think ye are better.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Ed says. Feliciano clears his throat and Ed remembers that he’s supposed to act afraid. He leans back instead, widens his eyes, acts like he’s afraid that the punch of someone like Black Dog is actually going to hurt.

“We think ye need some softenin’ of the mouth a bit,” says Pew after a moment, and the group snickers. Job Anderson, long and lean and wispy about the hair, licks his knife and then curses, holding his fingers against his bleeding tongue.  It’s really really hard not to laugh and Ed clenches his hands into fists to stop himself.

“What do ye have to say to that?” says Pew.

Good question. What the fuck does he have to say to that? Ed thinks.

“Don’t…hurt me?”

The men stare at him, look at each other, Feliciano groans.

“Mas que coisa , what do you call that?”

“What? I told them not to hurt me! The fuck else am I supposed to say!”

“You need to put more life. For instance-”

“Maties-” says Pew.

“Cala-se ,” says Feliciano. “I am teaching. For instance, you could say: Ai !” Feliciano puts the back of his hand to his forehead and drops back against the railing as if in a faint. “Please do not use your hard fists on my tender body.”

“Fuck off I’m not saying that.”

“We’re really going to maul ye…”

“Well think of what you could say,” says Feliciano. “Or at least say it convincingly. Perhaps raise your voice high.”

“How.” It just did it on its own at stupid times.

“Pretend as if you are embarrassed.”

“It’s going to be a brutal- Ye won’t survive it.”

“I’m embarrassed even pretending to be afraid of them.”

“I didn’t think we were going to kill them,” says Black Dog.

“Shh!”

“See?” Ed gestures. “They’re morons.”

“Listen, ye little shit.”

“Pew, Pew, Mary and Joseph, Pew my tongue won’t stop bleedin’.”

“Avast, bilge rats! What kind of nonsense is happening over here?” Silver’s voice comes drifting through the air and Ed can just see him approaching around Job Anderson’s side.

“It’s Silver!” cries Pew, loudly. “Scatter, men!”

“But my tongue! My tongue!” cries Job Anderson through freckles of blood.

“Will ye come on?!” Pew grabs the man by the arm and the men scatter to the rigging like frightened pigeons. Ed watches Silver approach. He’s another man to watch. Unlike Dirk, his expression is fluid, changing. Right now his eyes are narrowed in anger at the fleeing men and his fists are clenched at his sides, but his bird doesn’t seem at all bothered by it and Ed isn’t buying it. Silver is barely trying to sell it. It’s like he’s trying to get them to buy a pot and he thinks they’re too stupid to see the big fuckass hole in the bottom.

“Amateurs,” Ed mutters, another Jack word that fits just right. Feliciano elbows him and he presses his lips together, unsure if he’s supposed to be afraid of this guy or not. He definitely doesn’t trust him. Silver’s anger fades into a smile and he spreads his broad hands, palms up as he approaches. He carries nothing but a small knife in his belt and a flintlock, but at the back and walks too easily for a man that can scare five others up the rigging.

 “Please excuse my mates,” Silver says. “They’re good men, save for that they’re sons of the sea, as are we all. They’re not used to guests, you see, or to men on loan, as you might say. And I’m sorry to say that a fresh faced lad like you sticks under their skin a bit, as you can well understand.”

“So is the blessing and curse of Feliciano Gabriel Duerte de Ranger!” Feliciano sighs. Shaking his head. “There are many who have lost their very minds at the sight of my face and slender yet powerful body. There is no shame in love.”

Silver has an expression a moment as if he’s just realized he’s stepped in dogshit, but then the easy smile is back on his face and a laugh too.

“Well there is that, I admit, I admit. No fire like the fire of the loins, says I, and there’s a lack of good looks on this ship saving yourself. The young fresh ones are on the Siren and so all these men with shoe leather for faces, well, they’re a little envious, as you can imagine. But they mean no harm.”

Which is bullshit firstly, and secondly, no one lasting more than two days on a ship like this is ever going to believe a line like that. Pirates always mean harm. That’s the whole fucking point of it.

“I appreciate that you came to our rescue before harm could come,” says Feliciano.

“Yeah, and we weren’t even tied up,” Ed puts in just to hear Feliciano choke.  Silver chuckles too as if he’s in on the joke, his eyes going squinty even.

“To be sure, and so you won’t be, I can assure you of that. But for right now, I wonder if I can borrow young Eddie here.” 

“Edward,” Ed says, just to see what will happen. Silver’s smile never wavers, but his eyes go hard around the edges.

“Young Edward then,” Silver says easily and gestures as if wanting to guide Ed somewhere else. Ed leaves Feliciano the rest of the orange and carefully sets the bit of sail to the side so it won’t tug out of the man’s grip before hopping off the barrel.

“Take this with you,” says Feliciano, taking the knife from his belt and handing it over. Ed takes it, feeling his breath catch a little and the weight of it. He’s not sure why getting to hold Feliciano’s knife feels cool as fuck, but it does. He tucks it in his own belt just a moment before Silver’s thick arm settles across his shoulders. Ed sets his teeth together.

“I can promise you no harm will be done,” says Silver.

“It will if you do not remove your hand,” Feliciano replies, voice like a blade. Silver tenses then lets out a slow breath through his nose, soft as if not meant to be heard, but Ed is too close to miss it.

“To be sure, to be sure.” Silver’s arm drops away and Ed rolls his shoulders. “Come along, Eddi- Edward.”

Ed follows him down the deck, noting some of the men from before staring at him down from the rigging. As soon as they catch him watching though they scuttle away.

“It’s good of the old captain to allow you a mate aboard,” says Silver. “He’s protection for your tender self, no doubt. And your captain thinks of you as a lad still, I wager, a little boy- which I don’t believe you are,” says Silver. “And you should forgive old Silver for saying that, trying to keep the peace, you understand, but a lad- a young man like you, doesn’t need protection.”

No, he doesn’t, not really. But he does like Feliciano being here. It means he can get some fucking sleep for one thing and…it would be a lot harder to watch the Ranger otherwise. Like the sea longing for the shore, except it would have hit a reef instead or some fucking thing.

Hornigold thinking of him as a little boy though is strange. He doubts Hornigold ever thinks of anyone as a little anything. He is too hard a man for that.

Ed realizes suddenly that Silver seems to be expecting him to say something, but he’s not sure what he’s expected to say, so he shrugs instead.

“It be true. I’ve seen many a young man in my day, and you would hold your own against any of these sea dogs.”

No shit he could. There were a few that would give him trouble but he could take them all on if he wanted.

“Now if you were on the Siren, that’s another kettle of fish. Oh, she is an unforgiving ship and a worse crew and you robbed them of their mate- no least to say their commander isn’t happy with you for doing such. Not that Davenport didn’t have it coming, no, I think you were right saying as you were, but it’s still a hard thing to say. Cap’n Flint was going to put you there first, but I talked him out of it because it would be a waste of a lad with such potential like yourself.”

Would Flint have put him on the Siren? Maybe. It seems stupid for Flint not to keep Ed in arm’s length, but on the other hand, it would be a good way to show he didn’t give a fuck. Could he afford to show that though?

“In fact,” says Silver opening the door to the galley and ushering him inside. “I’ve done a lot of work keeping you safe and sound, you and your mate too, it is hard work, but I am happy to do it for a guest- and a friend.”

“Oh,” Ed says, realizing finally what Silver is expecting. “Thanks, man.”  And he is grateful in a sense because even if he’s figured out the who, it’s nice to have it confirmed that everyone was just listening to Silver and not being super weird about hitting him.

“No need to get on bended knee, Eddie,” says Silver in a dry voice. There’s danger in that too but it’s interesting.

“Edward,” Ed says. “And don’t worry, I won’t.”

Silver’s cheerful smile goes taut and he looks as biting down on words that he doesn’t want to say. Then a smile as smooth as butter comes over his face and he chuckles. It’s an amused sound as if Ed had done something to please him, but not in a way Ed likes. He could feel a sort of warning  prickling down his spine.

“I’ve forgotten how sharp a boy you were, Eddie lad,” says Silver, seeming deliberate this time. He moves around Ed to the galley proper, setting the bird on the back of a chair

It settles and whistles softly.

“Teaching her to talk, I am, slowly. I got her from a cage oh, a decade or more ago, before you were even born, a filthy cramped thing it was and most of her fellows were dead. You’ve never seen a sadder creature than Flint here.”

“I thought you said her name was Polly,” says Ed and then regrets it because Silver looks up from where he was rooting in a chest and smirks, a little glint in his eye.

“So I did. And oft times I call her that. But it’s Flint sure enough because it gets under the old man’s skin like sand to an oyster.” He sets a beaten tin tray on the table and goes to attend a pot over the fire where water has started to burble.

“And he is a man worthy of his name to be sure, keen of eye and strong of spirit, striking up sparks as he goes. He would plunder these seas for all they are worth and move on to the Indies. Rob the world of every last scrap of gold it had in it, the old pinch penny, and jewels, and ropes of pearls long enough to go round even the thickest necks half a dozen times- but spices, no- no man has a blander tongue than our Flint and will have his gruel and bread and strong tea.”

“He’s not my Flint,” says Ed, wondering what Silver is getting at. The man sets a chipped teacup on the tray and a worn tankard. The first he fills with the hot water and tea, the second, rum straight from the bottle.

“So he’s not. Leastwise not yet. And may not at all if your captain keeps his wits about him. But Flint is a hard man and a grasping one and won’t likely share the spoils he gets. Nor will your captain allow him his spoils, says I, if your captain is a smart man, and I think he is. After all, he sent you. Though I can’t help but ask myself why.”

A bowl of Brazil nuts goes on the tray as well as a lump of bread and soft cheese. Ed absently reaches out to touch the bird with a finger, jerking his hand back as it snaps at him and instead folds his arms.

Why is a good question. What exactly does Hornigold want him to do here? Or not do? Or is this just some kind of punishment? And if Hornigold does want him to do something, what is he going to do if Ed screws it up.

“Well, I don’t blame you for keeping it to yourself,” says Silver into the silence. “A smart boy you are, smart enough to see the writing on the wall. We sons of the devil don’t lightly join hands …and we keep them held light enough when we do, with the other crossed behind our backs.  So let us enter into a pact, you and I, for we have a common enough enemy in Flint.”

“Flint is your enemy?” he’s surprised enough to say it aloud.

“All captains are enemies of their crew in the end, because they want the glory for themselves, and no one wants to divvy up their shares. I look after the crew, am their voice in the captain’s ear. Of course, the devil takes his own share, to be sure, but little enough and looks after the demons in his keep. They know this and don’t bite the hand that feeds them, as the good book says.” Silver strokes the bird’s side with a finger and its dark eyes close. “But I need to know where the food is coming from, where the course is taking us, what Flint will not say to the likes of me, but he may say around the likes of you; for he wants to see you and I’m to send you. But for keeping a close eye and a ready ear for me, I’ll offer you my protection in return.” Silver smiles. “And not only for yourself, but your matey above deck, all alone.”

 Ed’s heart jerks in an ugly way and ice crackles down his spine. Feliciano is alone up there with a sword and a needle and a bad leg. Ed wants to charge up there right away and protect him, but he can’t. Maybe against the five idiots that had threatened them, but Dirk would be a problem and maybe there were others that Ed didn’t know about. He couldn’t fight them all off at once.

 Anyone could be an enemy.

Anyone could be a threat.

 He half wants to throw Feliciano in a dinghy and shove him back to the Ranger where at least he’ll be safe. But Hornigold will probably send him back.

It’s on Ed’s lips to agree right away though the thought makes him feel young and stupid, and trapped- just like the bird in a filthy cage.  But he stops himself. Closes his mouth. Considers. Silver might not just stop at spying. He might ask other things. Ed can see it building and building until there is no way out- and he won’t do that. He fucking refuses.

What had Kupe said? Think. To use things to his advantage.  But what does he have other than himself? Though maybe that’s all he needs, Ed thinks, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart. Because it’s not straightforward. It’s more tangled than that.

It’s about needs and wants and fears. That’s what it is. Flint needs Hornigold, why exactly, Ed doesn’t know. Bait, yes, but more than that. Silver needs Ed, at least a little, though Ed doesn’t know why yet either. Or rather he can guess why, a spy on the outside is more trustworthy than a spy already on the crew who is more easily brought by Flint or has more to lose.  But the question is, is Silver looking for something in particular? And if so, what?

Ed considers.

“I’m not interested in protection.” It’s a dangerous wild thing he says and he can feel the fragile flame of Feliciano’s life in his hand. Silver’s smile goes sharp.

“Are you sure about that, Eddie boy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure. If Feliciano dies, then I’ll tell Flint what you said.”

“And maybe you’ll follow your matey before you get a chance.”

“And then Flint will lose Hornigold, and both of them will know who was behind it.”

It’s a guess, but given the smile dropping off Silver’s face, it’s a good one.

“Then what are you interested in?”

A good question, though it only takes him a moment to come up with something.

“A favor one to one,” Ed says. “I tell you what you want to hear, you help me get what I want.”

“And what sort of favor would that be?”

Ed shrugs. “I don’t know yet.”

“And what if it’s not a favor I can give?”

Ed thinks of this too.

“We’ll negotiate.” It’s a bigger word than he’s used to using, but he’s glad of the way it comes out of his mouth, deeper, mature, manly. “And when you agree to the favor, I tell you what I heard. You take it back, I go right to Flint.”

Silver blows out a breath and then draws himself up.

“You’re a smart lad alright, Eddie.”

“Edward.”

“Is that a favor you’re asking?”

“No.” Ed lifts his chin. “I’m not your Eddie. Or anyone’s.” Except Polly’s but she’s different. And…well if Feliciano ever wanted to call him that then…then maybe…

“Edward,” says Silver. “I suppose I can go along with that. Shake on it?” Silver bows a little and holds out his hand, the other held elegantly behind his back.

“Hide your hand and I hide mine,” Ed says and Silver laughs, straightening and holds both hands out in front of him before extending his right hand again, the other clearly visible. Ed takes Silver’s hand. It’s hard and callused and his grip is strong, but not tight. They are not kids after all proving who is stronger but men striking a bargain.

“Let’s get on with you then,” Silver says when their hands have dropped. “Cap’n will be expecting you.”

“I guess I’m bringing that to them?” Ed points to the tray.

“Aye, so he ordered. The last cabin boy was put down for nosing where he didn’t belong, so old Flint’s been on his own for a fortnight or so.”

Good to know.

“Okay. I will tell you what they say for my favor.”

“And what’s this to be then?”

“Protection,” Ed says with a grin and Silver laughs again, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You have it then. I swear by all that’s in me you’ll either die young or live to terrorize us all.”

 xxxxx

And once again Ed is a cabin boy, but he finds he doesn’t mind it so much. It’s familiar by now, like an old shirt he doesn’t have any more. Carry the tray of drinks and food across the deck and stand there while the captain and the mate make plans or discuss the day or brood in vinegary silence.

This time it’s a little different of course.

He’s almost in a good mood, casting a wave at Feliciano as he crosses the main deck.

“Aww, lookee there, Black Dog,” says Pew from the rigging. “Cap’n’s little boy.”

“Better captain’s boy than Silver’s bitch,” Ed calls back, flicking the man off. Black Dog barks a laugh then claps both hands over his face and goes the color of a boiled lobster. Ed smirks and tosses his hair from his face as he continues toward the steps.

He may be captain’s boy- almost captain’s man- but he’s Hornigold’s and he has Feliciano’s knife in his belt. Just with that alone, he’s cooler than half this ship put together. He tries not to look so pleased with himself though as he approaches Flint’s cabin since he doesn’t really want to start anything. He works his mouth until it feels like a flat line and straightens his shoulders a bit. Then he shifts the tray to his other hand, knocking on the door twice before stepping in.

 Flint’s cabin is much larger than Hornigold’s, yes because it’s a bigger ship, but there’s more stuff in it. There’s a giant window casting in freckles of light over walnut desk which Flint and Bill Bones are bent over, studying a map. In a little alcove to his right there is a curtained bed like Hornigold’s, a sea chest and a table for sitting two people. To his left there are all sorts of things hung on the wall. There are crossed sabers and a long rifle, the jaws and teeth of some big fucking fish, maybe even a shark, hung with ropes, and a painting- of what he doesn’t know. It’s like a seal except big and fat and gray with a mustache and long sharp fangs that almost reach the wave soaked rock it’s sitting on.

A low growl fills the room, reminding him of the big fuck off dog and he can see it by the bed now, hackles raised. Ed takes a half a step back, then freezes.

What in blazes-” says Flint, turning toward him, and stops, light catching in his icy blue eyes and paling them even more. “Well now,” says Flint.

Billy Bones turns too. Flint’s first is nothing like the rabbit. He is tall with rounded shoulders, a square jaw that’s beardless but looks like it should have something. His eyes are dark, his arms large beneath his coat and his hands thick fingered and scarred. His expression is as flat and cold as his captains. He has no flintlock on him, but an admittedly cool black hilted cutlass with a white skull etched on it hangs at his side.

 They both watch Ed while the dog growls and advances slowly, lips pulled back from sharp white teeth. Ed wants to stare back to show he’s not afraid, but he also doesn’t want to get fucking bitten by that thing.

“Who the hell is that?” says Bones.

The dog lunges and Ed startles, dancing back a foot or two, somehow miraculously not spilling anything but a slosh of tea that sends searing heat over his arm. Son of a bitch.

“That boy of Hornigold’s ye great sot, pay attention when I speak,” says Flint. And then to the dog in a stern voice. “Down.”

The dog flops down on its belly, puffing out a breath through its nose and Ed tries not to look relieved.

“Come closer, boy, so we may have a look at ye.”

Ed obeys, making sure to skirt the dog’s snout just in case. They are both big men, taller than Hornigold, and Ed has to crane his neck to look up at them.

“Not much to him is there,” says Bill Bones. Ed tries to stand taller, lifts his head, squares his shoulders. He might be short, but he’s got plenty fucking to him thank you.

“Aye, a scrap of a lad he be.” Flint takes the tea cup and swirls its contents around “And is he to the old beggar, I wonder.”

“Probably his get with a grass skirt and a string of beads,” says Bill Bones and Ed can only stare at him. He understands the words but he can’t get them to make sense. Flint snickers which annoys Ed but he can’t place why. Partly it’s because captains don’t snicker. They’re not moved by anything unless something surprises them enough to laugh. The fuck is Flint even playing at?

“I can’t see that man even bothering with a muslin one.” Flint peers at him. “Why did your captain send you, boy?”

Ed shrugs. “I don’t know.” He can’t understand why Hornigold does anything half the time.

“Light between the ears, Hornigold’s men, eh?” says Flint. Ed flushes, stung. He can’t even say they’re not light between the ears some of them. But he’s not. He’s got more between the ears than anyone else on this tub.

“Here, boy, where’s the rest of it,” says Bill Bones, frowning into his tankard. “You didn’t take a sip or two did you?” The man glowers at him. “Answer me straight or I’ll crush your skull like a melon.”

 It’s a familiar phrase in a familiar tone and makes hot bile rise in Ed’s throat.

“I didn’t touch your fucking grog,” he snaps. It’s the wrong thing to say and the wrong way to say it. He realizes that a second before Bones’ fist comes flying. The next thing he knows he’s on the ground, the tray fallen with a crash, bread lost somewhere and soft cheese splattered a bit against the wall. His jaw throbs where Bones had punched him and he can feel blood on his lip which he wipes off with an impatient hand. Fuck. He’s out of practice. He hadn’t even braced for that.

“And so ye will learn to mind your tongue,” says Flint mildly. “And you, William Bones, your temper, or I will have you keelhauled, I swear it.  The Leviathan is not a small prize, nor easily won, and we will need to keep our cur at heel, and his filthy pup is the way to do it. He is not yours to bludgeon as you please, and you’ll not kill again without my order.”  Flint’s cold blue eyes meet Ed’s briefly, then look away. “Starting tomorrow, you’re to come twice a day, and be clean when ye do. Grime is not acceptable, boy. Now clean up your mess and get out of my sight.”

Ed wants to tell him to fuck off. To throw the tray at his head. To drive his fist into Bones’ teeth. Instead he slowly picks up the food, using the bread to scrape the cheese off the wall, disgusted with himself for the way his hands tremble. What does he care about Bill Bones? Words are just words.

Already Flint and Bones have turned back toward the table, their backs toward him and it stings- Ed would love to plant Feliciano’s blade in their spines, but knows no one can save them if he does that.  So instead he rises, tray in hand, trying to keep it from rattling.

“Like I said, we need a decision, captain. We’ve five days, maybe six depending on the wind, we have to know what we’re doing before we get there.”

“And so we will.” And then. “ Out, boy.”

Ed leaves, pushing through the door.

It is too bright outside, the sky above feels hard, the sun even harder and he feels as if everyone is watching him. Eyes from the rigging. Eyes from the deck.  Ed grips the tray and hunches his shoulders, wanting not to be seen, to blend in with the shadows only there aren’t many just close to noon.

“Capn’s boy not so happy now, is he?” Pew says, landing beside him and Ed punches him hard in the face, pleased to feel a tooth give under his knuckle. It only makes him feel a little better though, even as the man rises with a snarl and points a flintlock at him. He can’t fire it. He won’t. But for a moment his hand shakes as if he will.

Ed stops and stares at him, watches his face twist from anger to confusion to something like fear. Worthless shit. With a grumble Pew puts it away and says:

“Don’t let it happen again. I’ll spare you now but-”

His words are lost to the wind or maybe the thudding pulse in Ed’s ears as he moves away from him, still gripping the tray with one hand, the raised edge digging against the soft joint of his thumb. Feliciano is still by the railing, sail spread over his lap- talking to the younger swabbie. Not just talking, but smiling , dipping his head, eyes warm and inviting, hair tossed by the wind. The swabbie gestures and Feliciano’s smile is suddenly white and brilliant.

Ed wants to shove the swabbie over the side, or kick him in the balls, or headbutt him so hard he puts a dent in his forehead. And then what? Sit beside Feliciano? Bruised like a stupid kid, thumbs slicked in slimy cheese and grime?

Feliciano looks up and spots him, straightening. Ed looks away pretending he hasn’t seen and hurries back toward the galley to give back the tray and tell Silver what happened. The man is waiting there as if he’d never left, talking to someone who Ed assumes is the cook. Ed for a moment is hidden in the shadows and almost wants to stay there but Silver looks up too easily.

“I’ll be right back,” Silver tells the cook with a smile and rises. Ed keeps both hands on the tray so he won’t knife Silver if he touches him or says something sarcastic or annoyingly obvious.  Though if he has to talk about it now he might want to do something anyway. If he has to listen to Silver’s voice he might do something anyway or have to listen to him speak and speak as if his words meant anything. But Feliciano has to be protected.

“So, you’re back,” says Silver. “That was quick. Why don’t we-”

“I’ll tell you later,” Ed says.

“What? Listen, lad.”

“ Later ,” Ed snarls. “Tonight. I promise.”  He shoves the tray in his hands before Silver can say anymore, can do anymore. And instead of going back out into the sunlight, he moves down instead into the ship. There’s cat shit somewhere down here and he still has to find it. Even if not that he’ll find something to scrub or clean or mend. Something for his hands to do until his knuckles are red and the shadow tangled in his ribs is chased away.

xxxxx

Sunset is leaking its way through the sky by the time Ed has to stop. He doesn’t want to but hunger and thirst drive him on deck where food is being handed out by one of Silver’s men. Ed sighs and leans his forearms on the railing, watching the Ranger where she floats in her usual place, just anchored for the evening, though more distant than last night. She’s well within range of the Siren though and he can still see the others on her deck, preparing for their dinner.

 There is Vance and Morgenstern, arguing as usual. Aconi is on the quarterdeck, talking to Hornigold and the rabbit. Jack is there too, leaning up, arms folded and looking up at the mast, the red sunlight on his hair. He looks cool too with his sleeves rolled up. Ed wants to be standing beside him, watching the Walrus, glad that he’s not there.

Jack would probably do okay here, Ed thinks. He probably wouldn’t get punched by fucking Bones because he’s smart enough to stand there and just be mature about it. He doesn’t have a big stupid mouth…at least not when it comes to Hornigold or the rabbit or Aconi. He probably wouldn’t have to clean up shit either. He’d probably just convince someone else to do it. Ed wishes he could be more like him.

After a while, Ed watches a dark haired figure emerge from the Ranger’s galley and come into the light, approaching Jack from behind. It takes Ed a moment to realize that it’s Davenport. He straightens as Jack doesn’t need to notice, filling his lungs to shout across the water. But it’s too late, Davenport says something and Jack turns-

And they start having a conversation. Not angry or shouting or pissed off at all, just talking, Jack making large gestures and Davenport shaking his head. What the fuck? Why the fuck? What had happened? Had they entered into an agreement too? Was this part of being mature? It makes no fucking sense.

Ed wants to shout and ask Jack what the hell he’s doing when Long Bob booms:

“ahoy, ed !” and Ed can see him now, standing on the other side of the main mast, waving and winces. God, not now. He doesn’t want to talk to Long Bob now, he wants to figure out what the fuck is going on.

“we … epsejes !” Long Bob bellows, pointing to his bowl. Ed can’t not reply to Long Bob, even if he kind of wants to ignore him. He’ll be upset later if Ed does.

“What?” Ed calls back instead, his voice is high and rough, and he can’t help it because there’s a lot of fucking water between them.

“what ? ”

“WHAT? ”

“espejes! … last and …leicino, so tell…crisp, okay? ”

“Okay!” Ed calls back, still not knowing what the hell he’s talking about. He notices Jack is looking over at him too and raises a hand, heart jerking but Jack just turns away and it sinks again. Ed flicks him off and turns away himself so Long Bob won’t keep trying to talk to him.

The view on the Walrus’s deck isn’t much better- just full of bastards he doesn’t know. And assholes who don’t like him but can get fucked.  A loud rich laugh comes from the other side of the ship near the stern. Feliciano is standing there, hip cocked to the side, two bowls in his hands as he talks to Dirk who is still grinning at whatever it is he said. The stupid swabbie no one gives a fuck about hovers nearby, a faint flush on his thin cheeks and a couple of other men stand around as well. They look happy. They look like they get along.

It’s fine, Ed thinks, tucking his chin against his knees. Just fucking fine. He doesn’t care. Who gives a shit anyway about the stupid fucking swabbie or Feliciano’s other stupid fucking friends. They’re real men anyway, and a good height. They’re not bruised. They don’t smell like shit or have grimy skin that Ed has a sinking feeling won’t go away. That it’s just part of him. He tips a palm toward the sunlight to catch the red in it, like blood, and sees how rough it is.

There’s a low flat whistle to his left and makes him immediately think of Kupe, then of Colin which makes his heart sting like an onion again in his chest. It’s neither, of course. The whistle had come from Silver’s stupid parrot which sat on his shoulder and was singing to itself and chirping in low trills.

Silver himself looked pleased.

“Evening to you, lad. Edward.” He corrects himself with a nod and comes to stand beside him. He smells of onions too and beef broth and flour. Ed stands, head lifted proudly. He wants to step away but doesn’t want Silver to think he’s afraid or anything so stays put. He can see Silver’s eyes on his face, staring at the bruise, now big and purple blue and puffy. But Silver doesn’t say anything thank fuck or Ed might have decked him.

 “Seems that your matey has found a nice little group of his own, as promised,” says Silver instead, nodding toward them. “After all, there’s no better protection than a group of mates, says I, and men to watch your back.”

“Feliciano doesn’t need you to help with that,” Ed says. “Everyone likes him.” Which is true. People just liked Feliciano wherever they went. “And who’s going to come for his back? No one better come for his back.” That’s not part of the agreement and if someone does come for Feliciano’s back, Ed is coming for Silver’s.

The man holds up his hands. 

“My reach is only so long and even the best ships have rats. But you won’t find better men-and better to have them now than before the fighting begins.”  Silver grins with a glinting tooth and the parrot squawks softly, moves closer to Silver’s neck. “And now it be your turn. You see I’ve made my part of the deal and now you. What did the old men say? I noticed you didn’t stay for long.”

Ed shrugs. “Flint said to come back tomorrow, I didn’t hear much. They wanted to know why Hornigold sent me. Before I left that fucker Bones was annoyed because they had no plans and five days.”  He thinks about this. “What’s in five days?”

“Hm,” Silver says. “And anything of the Siren?” 

“No. Why would there be anything of the Siren?”

Silver hums as if considering. “She’s not a happy ship, not in the least. Not that I will speak against the captain, no, for he is a far better man than I and heavy is the head that wears the crown, they say.  But Davenport, as I said, is theirs. Their mate. First mate, if you could call it that, under Hawke. And a fine man he is. He has charm, experience, smarts-”

“And if he’s on the Ranger, Flint can blow him right out of the water,” Ed says. It’s a good way to keep the Siren behaving, and that must be the reason why Flint did it, otherwise why risk the Siren being angry before a huge fight? The cleverness of it almost soothes the stinging thought that even fucking Davenport is cooler than him. A whole fucking ship wants him back.

“… I never thought of that,” says Silver which is fucking stupid because it’s obvious. Flint must have thought of it though. Or maybe he’d seen a way to take advantage of a situation. Does Hornigold want Ed to do something about it? Or to not do anything about it? Or had Hornigold just sent him because he was the easiest one to lose?

  It feels like there’s too much going on at once, like more than one battle is being fought before they even got to the fucking Leviathan- all silent conversations and mysterious words and Ed feels a little like he’s drowning at the weight of expectation he doesn’t understand.

“Anyway, lad, come away and get some supper.” Silver taps his arm. “Leave your fickle mate with his new friends.”

New friends? The fuck does he mean by new friends? Looking back at them Ed sees that the men have come in a little closer and Job Anderson is now is at Feliciano’s left shoulder, and since he draws from the right, he will have a hard time defending himself since Ed has his knife. Is it a trick? Is it a trap?  Ed starts over and is stopped with a jerk when Silver grabs his arm. Ed tenses every muscle in him in order not to punch the man in the face.

“No need to get in a fuss, you-”

“Get the fuck off me,” Ed snarls through his teeth. Silver’s grip loosens and Ed jerks his arm free. Job Anderson is lifting his hand as if to touch Feliciano’s back and Ed punches him hard and fast in the ribs. The man yelps like a kicked dog.

 “Hey!” he squeaks.  Feliciano’s expression is sharpened steel as he turns, which quickly warms over in the eyes and the mouth, leaving Ed flushing a little and feeling stupid, and embarrassed that now the man can see his bruise clearly. Now Feliciano will know he’s a kid. Now he’ll be an asshole like Jack and just hang around with people like Davenport or fucking Colin.

“My apologies,” says Feliciano, handing him a bowl. “I was held up by these gentlemen.”

“More like assholes,” Ed mutters, looking down in his bowl. It’s mashed up hard tack with bits of graying meat and some left over onion in and a bit of a fried egg. Almost the same as yesterday but the egg is a treat.

“Better mind your tongue, chickadee,” says Dirk. “Or I’ll give you a pretty little mark to match the ones Bones gave ya.” The men laugh and Ed wants to throw the bowl at them, or break Dirk’s nose with his head, but at least Feliciano isn’t laughing. Though he might be smiling. Ed can’t bring himself to look into the man’s face.

“You would regret it,” says Feliciano mildly. “And Bones is protected by his captain’s grace, or he would regret it too.”

“You can’t go after Bones,” says the swabbie no one gave a fuck about. “Don’t even fink it. He’ll kill you and the cap’n will get what’s left.”

"It is not me that would make him regret,” says Feliciano and Ed twitches as the man’s fingers rest on his shoulder. He both wants to twitch them off and lean into that hand, or duck under his arm like he is some stupid kid. Dirk laughs.

“That brat? The only thing Bones is going to regret is shitting him out after he eats him.”

A bubble of anger rises high and sharp in his throat. He is so sick of shit. So sick of touching it, cleaning it, being linked to it. If this were the Ranger, he would make Dirk regret it as he made everyone regret it. Just once but once was all it took usually. Everyone but Long Bob knew better and that’s because Long Bob was the only one who had ever come on board pleased to see him. But then, Long Bob was pleased to see everyone.

“You speak easily,” says Feliciano. “But you have not seen him rise in front of you in a dark morning, a demônio , an avenging creature from the deep, eyes empty of fear.”

That…that is…that was is… Fuck yes that is badass. Does Feliciano really see him like that? Now Ed really doesn’t want to risk looking into his face. If he’s not serious it will hurt, but if he is serious— Ed can already start to feel himself turning red against his cheeks and neck and hopes no one notices.

“Aw, the bashful sot,” says Dirk and the men snicker again.

Fuck.

“I’ll show him a bash or two,” says Pew. “Make him red with these fists of mine and-”

“Why don’t you show me what you’re made of then, little creature from the deep,” says Dirk. “I’ll even let you use your little knife.”

Can he? God, he wants to but-

“And so, you all have heard and seen,” says Feliciano. He squeezes Ed’s shoulder then holds out his hand. “I will hold for you”

Ed hands him his bowl, and then, after a moment’s thought, the knife as well. A murmur goes around the group but Feliciano only smiles, raising his eyebrows as if he’s amused at what Ed is going to do next. Dirk stands, arms folded, looking down at Ed from the length of his nose. He’s a tall fucker and even taller at the head of the circle of men who are all watching him and elbowing each other excitedly, leers on their faces.

There’s danger in the air and under his skin, but the kind of danger that feels good . That he can do something about. That everyone wants him to step up to and no one is going to get beaten or shot at the end of it.

“Brave, aren’t you?” says Dirk as Ed crosses the deck. Ed snorts, watching his eyes, feeling the sun warmed wood under his feet, excitement flooding his veins.

“What’s to be brave about? You’re an idiot,” he says, and the man’s annoying smirk turns into a scowl, his thin nostrils flaring.

“Told you he were a little shit,” mutters Pew.

“Well, you are.” Ed shrugs. “I don’t need a knife or a pistol to take you down. I know where you sleep.”

He lets that drop, hears the silence fall. It’s an easy line and he’s used it before. It falls easier and cleaner on the Ranger, and even here, Dirk shifts his weight, his expression going flat. He could leave it there, but he wants to say more. He wants to speak as if he has a river of clever words inside like Feliciano. Only he can’t think of anything good to say.  Well, he thinks, looking at the man’s pox scarred cheek. He might have something.

“Am I supposed to be afraid of you? All big man with a stupid face. You look like you got smacked by an octopus.”

Laughter at that and Ed tries not to grin. Real men don’t after all. Instead, he mimics Dirk’s pose, arms folded, eyebrow raised. “If you want me to be afraid, you’re going to have to try a little harder, mate.”

In a sudden movement, Dirk comes for him. The man is fast and graceful, a fighter, but so is half of the Ranger’s crew. Ed sees the hit coming this time and ducks under the man’s flung out backhand and steps in closer as easy as breathing. He grasps the handle of one of Dirk’s big fuck off knife and presses the tip of it just under his ribcage. The man stutters. Pauses. Pales.

“Oh, you look sad, mate,” Ed says. Happy’s words float back to him as if his ghost is standing over Ed’s shoulder wearing a savage grin. “I bet I can make you smile.” And then Happy would slit the poor fucker in a curve, throat or guts or right into the bastard’s chest and carve back .

“Ed!” Feliciano snaps, startling him and nearly making Happy proud. “That is not how you hold a knife!” But there is something else in his voice. A sort of warning. Step back now. Step away now.

“Oops. My bad.” He hands the knife back to Dirk, hilt first. Dirk takes it and then slaps him open palmed hard across the face. For the second time that day, Ed lands hard on the deck, ears ringing, though at least no one is laughing. He grits his teeth and jolts when a shadow falls over him, but it is Feliciano, face lit by the sunset, dark eyes cold.

“You asked for him to prove and so he did. You strike him again and you will taste steel.”

Dirk scowls, face dark as he slides the knife back home in his belt.

“Better stay close to mama bird, Chickadee,” he says, then turns on his heel and stalks off. A few others of the group follow him, some go to the rigging or to another part of the deck, but the swabbie that no one gives a fuck about lingers. He is holding one of the bowls, Ed notices, between his long scabbed hands, and the annoyance climbs right back into Ed’s throat.

“Dirk will give you a lot of trouble,” says the swabbie with a deep frown. “Shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“Well it is good to have mates to watch our backs,” says Feliciano, tipping the man’s chin up with a finger. “This is true?”

“Yep. Yep. Very true.” The swabbie nods, face red all over and thrusts the bowl at Feliciano who takes it with a slight bow of his head. “I’d better--” the swabbie jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “I mean uh…you know…”

“Of course.” Feliciano waves in an elegant arc. “B oa noite. ”

“B-boa Noi chi!” the swabbie says and scampers off, dropping his mop three times before finally dragging it with him.

“Dumbass,” Ed mutters. Feliciano sighs and suddenly looks tired. Ed wonders suddenly if he’s done something wrong. He can’t think of anything- well except pulling the knife maybe. But Dirk had pretty much asked for it.

“Sorry,” Ed says, hoping it’s the right thing and Feliciano gives him a faint smile.

“No… Let us sit and eat for a while, and tonight we will talk.”

xxxxx

It is late before Ed can make it back to the hammock, late and the night is cold, and chillier now that he’s scrubbed his arms and hands as best he can under his fingernails. The air on the Walrus has changed a little, a slight shift in the wind. The crew themselves, the one closer to Silver anyway, haven’t done much more than watch him more closely than before. 

Dirk has loomed a bit closer, watching him from the railing or the rigging, sharpening his knife. It’s supposed to be a threat, Ed guesses, but it’s going to be annoying if he has to see that jackass out of the corner of his eye all the time.

And there’s also Bill fucking Bones. Ed hears a door shut and the clatter and roll of a bottle on deck, making him twitch and his heart lurch somewhere in his throat. The big man lurches out of the shadows under the steps of the captain’s cabin, the darkness falling like a curtain over him and only a little lighter as he steps- fucking stumbles into the gray of moonlight. A bottle glints in his hand as he tips it back and then throws it to the side, smashing it on deck, shards glittering over the boards.

The man staggers to the railing to puke over the side, loud enough to make Ed’s stomach turn, then turns down into the darkened galley, bellowing:

“Where th’ fuck is the rum?”

God.  He hates this fucking ship. It’s not a great ship. It’s not even a good ship. It’s an old fucking tub stuffed with gap toothed old pirates who have no sense of discipline. Hornigold would have had the Executioner beat Bones’ ass for pulling something like that in the middle of the night. He wouldn’t have even had Bones as his first. Maybe Silver, Ed thinks, though they’d probably choke each other to death before long.

Ed sighs and rises with his bucket of sea water. The sound of crashing and yelping in the galley makes him wince and thin bile rise to his throat, but he does his best to ignore it. He dumps the water and then gets a broom to take care of the glass so Job Anderson won’t slice open his fucking feet- and then, that’s it.

That’s all chores done unless he wants to check for shit again.

The only thing left is sleep.

But before that, an apology. He’s figured out how he fucked up. The first is obviously to be the reason they’re here on this shitty ship to begin with; because he fucked with Davenport. The second because he pulled a knife on Dirk, probably. The third, well, he’s not sure about but he’s going to apologize for that just in case.

Ed blows out a breath, shakes out his hands to get them loose, and then approaches the prow. A jolt goes through him as he spots the hammock, white over white looking like a cocoon or a body sewn into a shroud and he almost cries out, the sound of something else breaking in the galley sharpening the edge of it.

But he takes a deep breath instead and lets it out, comes tentatively closer, and lets the breath out as he realizes as it’s just a blanket. Feliciano stirs, raising his head a little, though it’s too dark to read his expression.

“ Venha ,” he murmurs, pulling back the blanket to pat the sacred space beside him in the hammock. “I am cold just looking at you.”

Ed squares his shoulders and lifts his chin.

“I want… I want to ap ol ogize first.” Goddamn squeak. Feliciano chuckles.

“Warm first. Venha. Do not have me come out to drag you.”

Ed sighs and slips into the hammock, trying and failing to avoid bumping against the man. There’s barely any room to move and even less when Feliciano pulls the blanket around them both and tucks it in under Ed’s ribs. The blanket is high up on him though and he has to shift so he can at least get his nose out.

Quiet falls but he can tell by Feliciano’s breathing he’s not asleep. By the breathing and the fingers that start to drum teasingly against his ribs as if telling him to get on with it.

“I’m sorry I fucked with Davenport and now we’re here.”

“I am sorry for that as well,” says Feliciano dryly.

“I should have been mature.”

“ Sim .”

It wouldn’t have been the first time he was dripping with sewage… and it probably won’t be the last, Ed thinks, face stinging as he sinks further into the dark of the blanket.

“And… I’m sorry for pulling a knife on Dirk. Though he deserved it.”

“Ah,” Feliciano pats Ed’s side. “Defense is important, but making a bad enemy worse is not wise.” The pat turns into a poke.

“I shouldn’t have talked like Happy,” Ed says.

“You should not have.”

“And… it’s my fault Happy’s dead.”

“It is.”

It is. He doesn’t like that it is. But it is.

"Não faz mal , do not burden yourself too hard with it. He was a fool and what is said into the ears of whores is easily said into the ears of mates. But it could have been Roberto.”

“Yeah… I was… I was trying to keep Long Bob out of it,” Ed murmurs, picking at the fuzzies on the blanket with his fingertips.

“So I thought.”

“And you… you can hang out with whoever you want and I won’t care.” Well he fucking will, but Feliciano doesn’t have to know that. “Even that fucking swabbie…” Ed mutters. “Even if he’s not that interesting.” He ducks his head further. “And smells.”

“Do you know why I do?”

“No…” He pulls the blanket up beyond his nose, wondering if he could just cover himself completely. “You’re cooler than them. Way cooler than that shitface. But maybe they’re cooler than…than …than I don’t know…other people… in your crew…”

He braces himself for Feliciano to agree.

Feliciano lets out a soft laugh and Ed’s face heats a little.

“There is one cooler than my crew,” says Feliciano.

“Fuck off,” Ed mutters, pleased and flushed.

“And it is true that not many can match my charm. My charm is keener than my sword, my beauty is sharper still, so sharp and sweet that no one knows they have been pierced until their blood runs hot.”

Ed half wonders if he’s already been stabbed, but if he is he wouldn’t mind it so much. It wouldn’t be so bad to be stabbed by Feliciano. Better than looking down Paulo’s flintlock anyway. It’s a much more interesting way to go.

“Well, you’re stabbing them all over the place then,” Ed mutters, thinking of Flint’s crew and how they had drawn Feliciano in, laughing at his jokes. “Pretty much gutted that swabbie fucker.”

“I am,” says Feliciano and it’s so surprising that Ed half turns toward him. Feliciano is smiling, hand tucked behind his head, ripple of faint moonlight caught in his eyes. “You see, you have it all in there.” He taps Ed’s forehead with a finger. “But it is on fire inside, ah, a paixão implacável da juventude! ”

“Listen to me, demoniozinho, ” says Feliciano, tapping his forehead again and then pushing aside a lock of hair with his fingertip. Ed wishes he wouldn’t fucking do that. “More than money or place, a man is how others see him. A man’s…ah…what is it… reputação.. .”

“Reputation?” Ed mutters, staring at his feet instead and the shadows beyond.

“Sim. The rep-yu- taschhyo is most important.”

“That’s what Kupe said too.” More or less.

“He is correct. They may not harm us here-”

They better not or he’s going to feed Silver his own fucking nose.

“-but they are watching myself always. I do not have the words of order, nor have I wealth.”

“You have your sword,” Ed says. “You could just scare them into thinking you’re cool.”

“Fear fades faster than love,” says Feliciano and Ed tries not to shiver at that. He’s not afraid of fucking anything.  “I don’t have strength to renew it. Nor heart. And as we learned from the orfanato , you can chase the goats to water and arrive without breath. Or, you can have them follow and drink yourself.”

“Hmm.” He would follow Feliciano to water, he thinks, or maybe he’d make it difficult for him. Might be fun to be chased.

“Without fear or love, a man is nothing.”

“Well no one’s afraid of that swabbie fucker,” Ed mutters. “And no one is afraid of Jack, or loves him.”

Ed doesn’t even like him right now. And never would again. Bastard.

“Roberto cares for him,” Feliciano says, sounding amused.

“Long Bob likes everyone,” Ed mutters. “Almost.”

“And you care for him.”

“Fuck off no I don’t. He can die.” Well maybe not die but get his face messed up a little. A black eye maybe or a busted lip.

“Mm,” says Feliciano but out of the corner of his eye Ed can see that he’s grinning. Annoyed, he turns away from him, making the hammock rock in wide arcs.

“And no one loves Hornigold,” Ed says, realizing this. “And not everyone’s afraid of him. Aconi and Fadel aren’t. And the rabbit isn’t. And I’m not. I don’t think the Executioner likes anyone.”

“Ah but he has command which is both love and fear.”

“I don’t love Hornigold.”

“No, but you follow him.”

Well, yeah because- because- just because. Who the hell else is he going to follow? Flint? Please. Jack? He’d rather choke on a boot.

“I’d follow Aconi if Hornigold actually gave him a ship.” Which he won’t. Which is shit. And he’d follow Feliciano too. Probably. Maybe. If Feliciano wanted him to.

“And so you would,” Feliciano says with a sigh, flopping an arm around him. “And as would I. But look at us, meu amigo .” He pulls his hand from the blanket and holds it out, fingers splayed. Ed can see all the fine bones of his fingers and the tattoo of a compass needle in the web of his thumb. “We are not like Aconi, yet we are not like Jack. We have to take care. We cannot let ourselves stop ourselves.”

“Yeah, know our place,” Ed says, bitterness welling sharp in him. That was what Paulo said too. That was what Kupe had pretty much said. This far and no further. Because what? Because why ? It doesn’t make sense but the world is stupid like that.

“No,” Feliciano says, tapping Ed’s arm through the covers with the palm of his hand. “We must work harder. We must do more. We must pull whatever we can to us with both hands and not let it go.  Aconi can well gain a ship if he fights for it, but the fight will be hard and harder to keep it and much might be sacrificed. But he can. ”

“So why doesn’t he?” Ed would. If he were old enough he’d fight tooth and nail to do something like that.

“That is a question not for me. But that is also a question for tomorrow. Today, I must learn the dance of the ship. We may need them on our side, or we may need to know where they are weak in mind and heart so we can reach in and twist it out.”

Yeah…that makes sense but…

“I don’t think I can dance like that.” It’s hard to make people like him. He’s not sure if anyone likes him except Long Bob who likes everyone and Feliciano who…who is Feliciano and Polly maybe and Kupe who has fucking Colin now so who gave a fuck.

“You can ,” Feliciano pokes him hard on the forehead.

“Ow.”

“You are smart enough to cut yourself and everyone around you. But it is not an easy dance and I won’t have you learn it. But you have to learn some dance, Ed. You will not be a young man soon, and here your chances are thin. Here the cannons are pointed at our mates and the sword is always above our heads. Do you see?”

“I have to be  mature…” Ed mutters, face stinging again, but not at all in a smoldering way.

“Sim. But.” Feliciano taps his nose. “It is… a small thing. You are young. Your face is round still, your eyes still like a doe’s at water.”

 “They are not!” His eyes are dark and mean and that’s just how he likes it.

“They are.” Feliciano pinches his cheeks and Ed yelps then because it really does hurt since they’re still bruised and puffy as hell.

“Ah, desculpa , apology,” says Feliciano. “But the point is…now they are young, soon they will be old. Soon you will be tall. Soon you will be strong. And if you can dance today, you may not have to dance tomorrow. Others may dance for you as they do for Davenport, or Flint or even Hornigold.”

“Really?” He can’t imagine that. Would people really…? No. No who fucking would. But could they? “Fuck off. Are you serious?”

“I am,” says Feliciano sounding amused. “But we must live so long first. So less of this.” He taps Ed’s lips. “And more of this.” He taps Ed’s head. Agree?”

“Agree.”

“Good. Now we rest save for one thing. Silver. Our ally?”

 Ed says just to make Feliciano chuckle, and he gets a breath of a laugh which is good enough.

“Our ally because?”

“A dance.”

“You see?” Feliciano thunks his chin against the top of Ed’s head. “You knew how to dance all along.” 

xxxxx

Only, God, sometimes dancing is so fucking boring.

Ed stands with the tray in his hands as he has twice a day for three days, four days now. This morning he’s been standing there long enough for the deep gold sunlight to move from his shins to his stomach. A stomach which is fucking empty because he’d been up before it on shit cleaning duty and feather cleaning duty and dog vomit cleaning duty as one of the ratters had swallowed half a soggy rat it had found and had puked it up and then started eating it again. Then he’d scrubbed the filth off him and scrubbed the fore deck and then scrubbed the mid deck after Dirk had accidentally dropped rotting fruit meant for the side all over it- and he’d had to scrub himself again before getting his tray from Silver.

It is hell as his arms are now red and raw and still smell faintly of rotted apples.

All that just to stand here. Holding a tray. Saying nothing. Listening to Flint slurp his morning coffee and scratch his ass with his hand down the back of his breeches. He had thought Flint was a hard man like Hornigold, solemn as a stone and cold as deep water. But the more Ed comes to hold the stinking tray, the further Flint seems to degrade. He’s barely even half dressed this morning, just his night shirt stuffed into his breeches, one stocking on a table the other hanging off the sharp toothed jaws on the wall. His hair is bristled all over like that time that he and Jack looked after they’d stuck their heads too close to a sachet of gunpowder they’d buried in the sand and nearly blew their fucking faces off.

Really he is kind of pathetic. Hornigold would never look like that in the morning.

Ed would have said as much but he is dancing now. He is mature now. Mature enough to just stand there while Flint ate a scone dripping with jam and two fat sausages with only a little bit of gristle and a beautiful egg with a sunshine yellow eye. The only thing left on the tray was a small plum, that had only just gone off, small and purple like a bruise, and Ed’s mouth watered.  His stomach stuttered and grumbled. Hornigold wouldn’t have let him have it either but if it were Hornigold, Ed would have taken it anyway.

Actually he still kind of wants to.

“Mind yourself or I’ll feed ye to the hund,” says Flint. “No grumblin’ here, stomach or otherwise.” But he sounds roughly amused. Neptune raises his head at his name, thumping his tail on the floor and Ed might have found him cute if the damn thing didn’t drop a turd the size of a melon this morning.

 Flint wriggled his hand, gesturing that he should take the coffee rather than coming over and putting it on the tray himself. Ed is tempted to see if Flint will say something or move first if Ed doesn’t, but then gets a better idea and trots closer.

“Woops!” a little trip and there goes the plum right on the floor where Hornigold wouldn’t eat it, or Jack wouldn’t eat it but he’d wrestle for it with Long Bob if he had to.

“Oaf,” says Flint and before Ed can even reach for it, Neptune wolfs it up, stone and all. 

Fuck.

“Stand up straight. Didn’t anyone teach you any manners?” Flint sucks his teeth. “Not on that ship, no doubt. Look at her. Ratty sails. Poor keel. She won’t last the year.”

Ed says nothing because Flint is just being an asshole. The Ranger sits pretty in the morning swells, and if her hull is roughly patched that’s only because they needed a bigger haul than they’d been getting to fix her right.

“The Siren, now, she’s a beaut. Do ye agree?” Flint eyes him as if daring him to argue.

“Yes, sir,” says Ed because that’s easy enough to say…and agree with. The Siren is pretty. Sleeker. Newer. No repair work on her hull. She’s not as pretty as the Ranger, but she’s pretty enough.

“Thought so. Balls have shriveled up, have they?” Flint sighs and sets the coffee cup on the tray and then stretches, farting quietly before he moves further into the room.

“How did you get the Siren?” Ed asks after a moment. A flash of movement in the water catches his attention and he stands on his tiptoes to watch a pod of dolphins dart joyfully between the Walrus and the Ranger, their mottled backs flashing

“Easy enough. They’re a smart crew. Knew I could offer them more than their captain did and so went with the one who could win.”

Had they actually seen him in the morning? Ed wonders. They can’t have. He’s like a hedgehog caught in a windstorm.

“If you can win, why do you need our help with the Leviathan?”

“Help? It’s a service I’m offering. Of fame. Fortune. Reputation.” Fucking reputation.  “And maybe your cap’n will agree with the Siren and join up. Or maybe your mates will,” says Flint.

And maybe a bush would grow out of the rabbit’s ass before Hornigold even considered it. As for the rest of them- well there was Happy, Ed thinks with a bit of a wince. But after that none of them are going to say it out loud.

“I thought you needed us,” Ed says.

Flint scoffs. “Need? That’s overselling it. Come here, laddie and learn a thing or two.” He nods over to the table where the map is laid out and Ed comes over to look at it. There are little brassy pins made to look like ships.

Ed reaches for one. Flint slaps his hand away hard enough to sting and Ed clenches both hands against the tray so he won’t hit him back.

“I said look, not touch. Lord knows where your filthy paws have been.”

Ed sucks in a breath through his nose and slowly lets it out again. He’s dancing. Fucking dancing. That’s all.

And the map is more interesting anyway. All the ship pins are the same size, but he can spot the three that are them, and then two more on the western side of a group of islands port side to the open sea.  Another is tucked away in the leeward side of an island about two days sailing from Blind Man’s Cove.

“This is us,” says Flint as if Ed was an absolute idiot. “And this is them. Now do you note anything strange about this, laddie.”

“One is hiding,” Ed says, then tilts his head. “And they probably wait for pirates to come out one of these channels, trick them into the current and drive them to where the Leviathan and the other ship are.”

“...Aye…” says Flint, staring at him. “Hornigold trained ye to say that did he?”

“No. It’s fucking obvious.”

Wait. Shit.

Flint hits him hard enough upside the head so that his ears ring and Ed can feel his fingertips dimple into the tin tray. Yes. Okay. He deserved that. Less mouth, more head. Once it stops spinning.

“Lies are a mortal sin,” says Flint. “And so is bravado. I know a monkey when I see one.”

In a mirror? Ed wants to say but somehow keeps his mouth shut.

“Tell me then, why I don’t need that rat bastard captain of yours. Go on.”

“Because there are only two ships,” Ed says. Which, no shit. “And if you cut one of yours through this way.” He traces his finger just above the paper, annoyed at how red his hand is from the slap. “You’ll be able to engage them with one and come up behind them with the other.”

“...Aye…” This in a different tone as if he just realized it himself.  Ed can’t believe it. Didn’t he even look at the fucking map? Now Flint does, pulling it closer to him, staring at it.

Ed rolls his eyes. What was Flint going to do without the Ranger? Just come up right out of the current and say hello and start blasting? Even if it’s two for two, the Leviathan is the strongest ship in these waters- If both of Flint’s ships were like the Siren it would be okay, but the Walrus wouldn’t be able to withstand it.

  Or maybe Flint had been planning to take the longer way and approach from the open sea, which would give them plenty of room to run, but it’s the difference between a longer fight and a shorter one, and again, too long and the Walrus would be shitfucked.

Out of the corner of his eye Ed sees the door to the cabin open, a dark shadow filling the space, bringing with it the drenched smell of liquor like a breath of wind before a storm. Ed feels his teeth grit, as if a hand has wrapped around his spine.

“Mornin’ captain,” comes the rolling voice of Bill Bones and Ed tries to breathe slow and steady through his mouth.

“It’s nearing noon. Christ, man, ye smell like a still.” Flints stubby nose wrinkles. “But never mind. Come have a look at this.”

Ed should move he knows it. But somehow he can’t get his feet unfrozen from the floor. That is until Bill Bones grips him hard by the shoulder and shoves him out of the way so that he nearly trips over  Neptune who yelps and snaps at him.

“Fuck!” Ed yelps only just barely avoiding a bite.

“Next time I’ll have the hund eat ye,” Flint snaps. “Now get out. Get working. Fetch Mr. Griff afore ye do.”

Ed turns, wanting to go and hating to. Still, he takes his own damned time, long enough to hear Flint say:

“I’ve had an idea. Look.”

And then a moment later Flint reply:

“Through the Devil’s Eye? No one will go for it.”

Go for what, Ed wonders, hand on the door. What is the Devil’s Eye.

“Out I said!” Flint snaps. “Neptune. Get .”

The dog scrabbles up and bolts for him and darts out, slamming the door behind him, listening to the scratch of claws on wood and hopes it leaves a mark.

It feels better though out here in the sunshine. Some of the chill fades away. He takes a breath of fresh air, eyes closed then open a second later. No one is watching except for the beet faced swabbie who was scrubbing the deck and Pew who is watching nearby, hanging off the rigging.

He gives Ed a gap toothed grin. Ed flicks him off and goes up to the quarterdeck to find Griff just behind the wheel, peering up at the sky, his face a roadmap of wrinkles. The clouds are small and wispy, floating high and serene. It will be a fair day today, he thinks, though they’ll have to struggle for wind.

“What’s the bug in your ear,” says Griff without looking at him.

“Flint wants you,” Ed replies.

“Hmph. Should’ve been gone hours ago and now he wants me. Wasting my time and his. Little Lord Flint.” He mutters to himself as he shakes his head, striding away. Ed catches the words: “Silver will hear of this.” Before he’s gone down the steps and out of sight.

Ed takes a moment to look at the Ranger and see if there is anyone to wave to. There isn’t yet so he goes down the steps as well, heading toward the main deck and galleyward. Feliciano is due up in the rigging this morning and Ed wants to join him but first he has to speak to Silver.

The man is just outside the galley as usual sitting cross legged on deck, curving the peel off potatoes. The swabbie that liked Feliciano is beside him, bruised and broken, lip split, two black eyes and fingers that barely seem to work. Bones had beaten the shit out of him last night for no other reason than the swabbie was there. The whole ship had heard, but no one did anything.

Ed might have knifed him in kidneys, or yelled at him to knock it off, or shoved him over. He’d almost wanted to, but Feliciano’s arm had been tight around his middle.

 The swabbie notices him looking and ducks his head, chin close to his chest.

“The fuck you looking at?” he mutters.

“Nothing,” Ed says, because that’s just polite.

“Well I am looking at a fool,” Silver says. “We all on this ship know better to stay out of old Bill’s way when he’s deep in his cups. Three bottles last night, and another of grog mixed with whiskey. He’s heading for an early grave, says I, but so are we all. And some sooner than others. Now go find something else to do, Davey. You’re bleeding over the potatoes.”

 The swabbie stands up with a grumble, wiping his bloodied nose with his sleeve and shambles past with a limp.

“Sit down and help an old man with his work,” says Silver. Meaning, let’s get the agreement sorted. Ed sets himself near the railing, setting the tray aside and tucks his hands behind his head as he watches the pale blue sky through the net of the rigging.

“Well?” says Silver.

“I’m still thinking of a favor,” Ed says. He doesn’t even know what he could ask for. Food he can get, and he doesn’t even have to sneak into the galley to do it. Feliciano is protected.

“We can settle on the favor after you’ve told me.”

“No, we’re going to settle on the favor now,” says Ed. Silver stops mid knife stroke the curl of potato resting against his thumb. His eyes are for a moment flat and cold, but then the easy smile comes back to his face.

“This will be curling the skin off your tongue in a moment, Edward Teach,” says Silver. Ed shrugs and sits up to leave and Silver adds: “But an agreement is an agreement, and I’m a man of my word, I am, and you can ask anyone.” He finishes the peel with a deft flick of the wrist and there is a tiny click of claws on the deck as the bird takes it up with its beak and brings the potato peel back to a small nest it seems to be building by the shadow of Silver’s thigh.

“You could help out while you think,” says Silver.

“Nah.” He wrinkles his nose. “Don’t think I will.” It’s not that he minds peeling potatoes. It’s actually a lot of fun. He and Jack and Feliciano and Long Bob would sit around, drinking and peeling and throwing peels at each other or trying to stuff them down each other’s shirts or trousers. Sometimes Greg would join them or Vance or…or Happy. Once in a while, if Jack wasn’t being too fucking obnoxious, Fadel would sit with them and tell them stories.

But this wouldn’t be fun, this would be work, and he’s already worked enough today. And it’s still dancing, he tells himself. It’s Silver after all. He doesn’t have to pretend to listen to him. And it’s better if he doesn’t listen really. That’s what makes them equal. That’s what makes the agreement work.

“If you can eat them, you can peel them,” Silver says.

“And you can fuck off,” Ed replies. “You’re not my captain.”

“I can see why yours was eager to rid himself of you,” Silver says. Ed shrugs.

“Who the hell else was he going to send over?” Well, maybe Jack, Ed thinks. And Jack would probably go right ahead and peel the potatoes like a loser. “I don’t want to pick up shit anymore.” That’s a favor. A good one. He’s about to tell Silver to make the swabbie no one gave a fuck about to do it but since Ed is starting to give a fuck, he can’t. Anyway, if Feliciano has to pretend to like someone it can be someone who doesn’t stink.

“Ah, well I’m afraid that’s out of my wheel house,” says Silver, looking smug. “That’s Flint’s own personal favor to himself and he won’t be talked out of it.”

“Asshole,” Ed mutters, kicking a nearby bucket full of peels just enough to make it slide a bit.

“He is that. But a captain has to make a showing to hold onto his power, you know, but men like myself, well, it would be unwise to discount them for long, or to push them too far.” It’s a warning in the way of thunderstorm far on the horizon, easy enough to avoid but dangerous to sail into.

And it is pretty dangerous, Ed thinks. Because it seems the crew listens to him, at least enough to be friendly with Feliciano. He’s dangerous enough for the captain to realize he’s playing a game and not just shoot him. Dangerous enough that the helmsman wants to complain to him.

“Why do the crew listen to you anyway?” Ed says. Silver finishes the potato, scooping up the peels with one hand before depositing them in one bucket and the potato in the other.

“That is an interesting question,” says Silver. “Might take a favor to answer it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Ed says and Silver shrugs and smiles as he takes another potato. It is bullshit but Ed wants to know and it doesn’t mean he has to tell the man everything. “One for one then,” Ed says. “Answer the question and I’ll tell you something I heard, and we can keep going from there…if I have more questions.”

“You drive a hard bargain, lad, but aye, I suppose that suits. They do because I’m their quartermaster.”

Damnit. That’s an answer, but one that Ed doesn’t understand.

“Flint said he’s doing Hornigold a favor.”

“You call that worth knowing?” says Silver.

“You call that an answer?” Ed replies.

“Fair enough,” Silver says though he looks again like he’d like to peel Ed next. “Ask your question.”

“What does being a quartermaster mean?”

“Well, it means the men chose me to be their voice. There are over forty souls on this board, wanting to be heard, and if everyone spoke at once, why, there’d be no sailing at all. So we come to an outcome to suit most and it’s me who drops the word in ol’ Flint’s ear.” Silver regards him. “Not so on the Ranger?”

Ed smirks and opens his mouth and Silver shakes the knife at him.

“That didn’t count as part of the agreement. That’s a question between men, just as friends like, so you don’t have to answer but if you choose to it’s going to be struck off the ledger. But just so you know I gave you more than I had to.”

“Struck off the ledger,” Ed repeats, liking the way it sounds. He can keep it to himself just to show up Silver, but if it’s between men then he guesses he might as well. “Nothing like that. If we had a voice who told him what we wanted, he’d just tell them to piss off.”

“As hard to tell forty men to piss off as it is to tell twelve,” says Silver. “If you’re only one man.”

That’s true. That’s very true. Ed can feel the truth of it hook against his ribs. But Hornigold wasn’t like other men and he definitely wasn’t like Flint. If he told a hundred men to piss off, they’d listen.

“Your turn,” says Silver.

“What? Oh. Um. Flint said that he didn’t need Hornigold because he could take the Leviathan without the Ranger. He showed me the map where one of their ships was hiding by an island.” He’s sure Silver knows most of this too, if not all of it.

“That’d be the Dorter, I expect,” says Silver. “She’s as fleet as the wind for her size, they say.”

“And what’s the other?” says Ed and at Silver’s expression adds with a grin. “Man to man.”

Silver gives him a look, then shakes his head and sighs.

“That would be the Princess Anne. But I don’t know as much about her, and if I did, it wouldn’t be worth to tell you man to man.”

Which told him a lot really. She is either really strong or Silver suspects she is. She’d have to be to be on par with the Leviathan. Is she even stronger? Who knows. No wonder Flint wants to avoid the Dorter but…

“What’s the Devil’s Eye?”

Silver’s hand pauses on the knife and his eyebrows shoot up. Whatever it is seems like it’s exciting as hell.

“Man to man, I’ll tell you the answer, but I’ll go first, agreed?” Silver says. Ed nods. “Why do you ask?”

“Flint is going to cut through it.”

“Which of us is cutting through it?” Silver says, fingers gone pale against the handle of the knife. “The Walrus? The Siren? He wouldn’t be mad enough to send all three.”

Ed raises his eyebrows and Silver curses under his breath.

“You, lad, would frustrate the devil.”

Ed grins. He’d like that. Might be fun.

“The Devil’s Eye is a rough patch of sea. There’s storms and shoals and some say sea monsters. It’s a haunted place. A cursed place. Even if you were to get through unscathed, you would never be the same again.”

“Fuck that sounds cool.”

“Boy, didn’t you just hear me say that it was haunted and- well never mind. Which ship is he sending?”

Ed shrugs. “He didn’t say.”

Silver stares at him, then lets out a long steady breath and sets the knife on the deck before folding his hands together.

“One day, laddie-buck, we need to have a talk about your unwise decisions.”

“What? He didn’t say. He kicked me out and set the dog after me.”

“Hmph.” Silver is watching the deck now. The parrot leans its cheek against his leg, and he scratches it absently. “Well it won’t be us, that’s for sure,” Silver mutters to himself. “The man is power mad but not as mad as all that. Not to send us ahead of the fray and he is  not going to release his pigeon so soon either.” A sly smile creeps across Silver’s face then and the wrinkles leave between his forehead. “This might work out.”

What might work out, Ed wonders. It’s interesting that Silver doesn’t seem to care about the Siren. Ed’s not sure why it’s interesting but it prickles along his brain. Something here is as delicious as a roasted potato if he could just figure out how to roast it. Why wouldn’t Silver care about the Siren? Why would he? What is going to work out? What game is he playing. Ed wants to pull him apart like an oyster and poke the meat inside.

“I think we’re done here,” says Silver after a moment. “On with you now, lad, and find something to clean if you won’t help an honest man with honest work.”

Ed shrugs and stretches, pulling his arms high over his head before standing and looking down at Silver who is trying now to feed the bird with a bit of potato, but it keeps hiding its head under its wing and peeking out with a shining black eye.

“I know what Flint wants,” Ed says testing the water, prodding the muscle. “And I bet Hornigold will help him get it.”

Silver gives him a dry look.

“We all know what Flint wants,” says Silver. “And if Hornigold is a stupid enough to let the Leviathan fall into Flint’s hands then he’s more of a fool than I thought.”

“Flint wants the Leviathan?”

“Oh, you shit faced little bastard.” 

Ed is too preoccupied to laugh much, because now Flint’s plan all makes sense. If they can avoid the Dorter, it’ll be three ships against two. If Hornigold lures away the Princess Anne with the Ranger’s speed and it’s the Walrus and the Siren against the Leviathan who would either surrender or be boarded.

“How the hell is he going to crew her,” Ed mutters. Since either way her crew would be killed. They’re not pirates after all but navy and couldn’t be trusted by either captain. Flint could possibly leave one ship behind, but why would a man do that if he could have a fleet?

“By grace of God and donkey farts for all I know, and if you play me like that again I’ll run you straight through,” says Silver, making Ed laugh.

A shrill whistle sounds over the deck and Ed’s heart leaps. It’s the call for everyone to get into position, a sign they will soon be under way, over wave and under wind. What fucking wind there is anyway.

Silver rises with a grunt, wiping the peels off his trouser legs, his parrot on his arm.

“Let’s set to then, lad. Help me sort out this grub and I’ll let you set up with your mate.”

Ed nods and gathers the still unpeeled potatoes by the armload to set them in the bucket. It’s a good idea really. He needs to talk to Feliciano anyway. There’s a lot to tell him.

xxxxx

Feliciano is where Silver says, at the main royal yardarm, feet braced on the ratline, one arm looped around the yardarm and sail so he can unwind the line from the bulging canvas.

“Beneath,” Ed calls when he’s close enough, trying not to notice his really long legs or calves stretched taut with bracing himself or- well he tries not to notice is all. He focuses on climbing instead until he reaches the yardarm itself, then, rather than stand on the ratline, moves to stand on the spar of wood itself, lightly gripping the mast as he looks out over the ocean. This is his favorite sail, his favorite mast, the tallest point and the wildest. The wind is strongest up here, blowing cool and curling fingers through his hair almost as rough as Polly might. The world spills below, the deck of the Walrus and the sea surrounding her, freckled with light, smudges of islands and beyond nothing but ocean and sky and clouds onto the rim of the world.

The Ranger is not as tall as this, Ed thinks, feeling somewhat traitorous as he looks over at the smaller ship, and the tiny flecks of his mates also preparing for sail, swarming up the masts. Ed still likes her. She’s his ship. He likes the wood of her and the lines of her and her great sails filled with wind. He likes her under sail, and pulling her lines to tack into the wind or jibe away from it, setting sail and weighing anchor and drawing on the capstan while Long Bob relays orders in his booming voice.

Ed likes her a lot.

He just wishes she were taller…

“O!” Feliciano smacks him lightly on the ankle. “Dreaming is for sleep. Get over.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed says but cheerfully as he gets on the starboard ratline, feeling the tension and vibration under his feet like the ship is a living thing, some kind of beast waiting to run. He wraps an arm around her yardarm and begins to unwind the line from the sail.

“How did your dancing go today?” Feliciano asks.

“Good. Learned some stuff. Flint wants to take a ship through the Devil’s Eye, which is like Fish Hook, but worse.”

“If it is what I’m thinking, he is right. We called it…hm…hell’s… hell’s… ai- berço do inferno .”

“Berço do inferno ,” Ed repeats, liking the way the words flow on his tongue. “Have you been through it?”

“Somehow. On Rosa. How we survived? A miracle.” Feliciano shrugs. “Which of us.”

“Dunno.” The line is free and Ed hangs onto the sail, waiting for the call from below. “Silver wants it to be the Siren.”

“It is so,” says Feliciano, seeming to mean that made sense to him. Feliciano catches his look and adds: “Silver is not on Siren. The men of Siren do not count on him. They are outside of his lines.”

“Oh.”  Now he gets it. “I guess that’s why Silver doesn’t want Flint to take Leviathan.”

“Leviatã ? How does Flint plan to crew him?”

Ed shrugs again. “Donkey farts and prayers, Silver says.”

“There aren’t donkeys or saints enough.”

“Royal! Keep fast !” comes Silver’s bellow from below. “Let fall sheet home and hoist the topgallant sails !”

“I hear there is a meeting on the day after tomorrow,” says Feliciano. “It is a shame we can’t tell Hornigold.”

“Yeah…” Ed looks over at the Ranger again. Then blinks. “Wait…why can’t we?”

“Um?”

“Yeah, I mean, we can. I can,” Ed says excitedly as the plan forms. “I can swim over there. It’s not that far.” Closer than where they’d been anchored in harbor and Paradise anyway.

“Someone will see.”

“Let fall sheet home, and hoist the royals !”

“I can do it at night,” Ed says. “At Dog’s watch.”

“Who is to be watching?”

“Let fall sheet home, and hoist the royals !”

“Get your swabbie to do it.”

“My swabbie?” Feliciano gives him a look.

“Well the one you’re batting your doe eyes at. Oohhh, swabbie fucker!” Ed coos and bats his eyelashes, then laughs when Feliciano tries to scowl through a smile.

The man’s smile quickly turns to a frown.

“But-”

“Let fall the royals, you fucking bilge rats, or I’ll skin your miserable balls off .”

Oh shit. Right. Ed lets drop the canvas drop and as Feliciano does. He takes enough time to make sure nothing gets tangled before hopping back onto the ladder and heading back down to deck. There will be plenty of time to plan more later. For now they have to get underway.

xxxxx

Only goddamn did things on deck look closer than they actually are. It is night. Moonless. The Ranger sits high the water, closer now. The gleam of the lantern on her prow the only thing driving him on as he pulls through the water.

The water is cold as balls too, because it’s the middle of the fucking night. Or past that. And he hurts. His arms are sore from pulling. His muscles tired from chasing the wind. His feet and his legs exhausted from up and down the rigging. Fingers stinging and chapped from scrubbing.

This…was not a good fucking idea. A bad idea. Using something else other than his head. But once the idea was there, he knew he had to do it. It had grown throughout the day. Telling Hornigold. Giving him an advantage. An edge over these stupid piss bastards. Bribing the swabbie somehow so he only watched while Feliciano lowered him into the water on a rope to avoid the sound of a splash. Holding their breath at the drunken sounds of Bones rolling around deck, praying he didn’t come to the railing, relieved when he didn’t.

He could have asked it as a favor from Silver, Ed supposes, stopping to catch his breath and tread water. But Flint had shut up like a clam that night, muttering with Bones and Griff with the only words being caught where Griff’s complaining. Nothing to charm Silver with. Not that Ed’s sure he wants him to know about this anyway.

A swell slops him in the face and Ed coughs, shaking the wet from his hair and blinking the sea from his eyes and pulls again until he’s treading water near the prow.  He takes a moment to catch his breath, then purses cracked lips so that he can whistle. The first two are weak falling things, but the third brings the warm light of a lantern and the familiar hulking shape of Long Bob to the railing. The man squints, holding out the lantern and Ed realizes Long Bob can’t really see him.

“It’s me,” Ed says and Long Bob’s face breaks into a grin. Ed winces as the man sucks in a breath and says quickly. “Shhh! Not now. We’re being sneaky.”

Long Bob’s lips close and he nods, jerking his thumb as if to ask if Ed wants to be pulled up. Ed nods then realizing the man still can’t fucking see him says:

“Fuck yes.”

Long Bob disappears, and a moment later a rope is dropped over the side. Ed sighs with relief and grabs onto it, feeling like it’s the first dry thing in ages. He coils it around his leg too and then gives a little whistle so that Long Bob pulls him up.

It’s not long before Ed finds purchase on the railing, legs wobbling dangerously, too dangerously. Long Bob catches him before he falls, his big thick meaty hands under Ed’s armpits and lifting him in the air. It wouldn’t take much for the man to toss him over the side, but he sets Ed gently on deck instead and pats his head.

Ed flops where he’s placed, letting himself rest. He feels a little like he wants to die, and doesn’t even want to think of the swim back. Long Bob flops beside him and then after a moment, mimes drinking from a bottle and then thrusts his hand forward like he’s clinking that bottle against another.

“No, not that,” Ed whispers. “Not for fun. I have to talk to Hornigold.”

Long Bob nods, face serious.

“Rigging watch?”

Long Bob puts his hands under his chin and bats his eyes. Gilead Thorpe. That’s fine.

“Executioner awake?”

He shakes his head and mimes wiping sweat from his brow.

“Okay.” Ed grabs his shoulder to get himself up on his feet, legs still wobbling. “Hornigold…”

Long Bob mimes carrying him. Ed hesitates. On one hand, Jack wouldn’t be fucking carried across deck. On the other, Jack hadn’t worked all day and swum his ass off. With a sigh, he nods.

Long Bob scoops him up in one arm and trods across the deck. They go down to the main deck, just for van Morgenstern to pop his head out from the galley, eyes sleep filled.

“What?” the man says and it’s all the man says before Long Bob pops him soundly on top of the head and sends him back to oblivion. Well he’d have a fucking headache in the morning, but it’s fine, Ed supposes. He’ll buy van Morgenstern a drink or something.

He thanks Long Bob as he’s deposited outside of Hornigold’s room, feeling a lot better.  Long Bob mimes a drink again and points to Ed who really fucking wants one, but would drown on the way back if he did.

“No thanks, mate.” And then thinking. “I’ll take that though.” He gestures to the lantern which Long Bob hands him. Not going to risk getting his face shot off after all.

He turns to the door but Long Bob pats his arm. Points at Ed, points at himself, points both fingers at his smiling mouth and Ed grins a little.

“Yeah, happy to see you too.” He pats Long Bob on the arm, then shifts to stand before Hornigold’s door. He’s sopping wet and looks like shit and is still a bit bruised up but that’s alright. His captain has seen him worse.

Still he takes a moment to tie his hair behind him before opening the door and slipping inside. Hornigold’s cabin is dark, but unchanging, small and cramped without even a curtained bed. It’s a good cabin, a better cabin than stupid fucking Flint’s. And Hornigold looks better too, Ed thinks as he comes nearer. Sure he has more wrinkles and grooves in his forehead and down the sides of his mouth, silver in his hair, but he’s just old. That’s all.

Ed reaches out to gently prod Hornigold in an arm. In a moment his hand is knocked away and he only just keeps hold of the lantern as he’s jerked forward by the collar and a flintlock is jammed cold under his chin, forcing his jaw shut.

“Hi,” Ed says through his teeth. He can see Hornigold’s wild expression out of the corner of his vision, eyes gray and blood shot, hair wild, teeth gritted. Expressions flicker fast over the captain’s face and it might have been funny if there wasn’t a fucking gun about to blow his brains across the ceiling.

“Edward,” Hornigold says. The gun drops and he sits back, blinking. “How the hell did you get here?”

“I swam.”

“All that way?”

“Yeah.”

Hornigold’s face goes from mild surprise to fury. But cold fury. Controlled fury. Fury could get Ed shot by the Executioner, or whacked to within an inch of his life.

“If this a prank–”

Of course it’s not a fucking prank, Ed wants to say. As if they’d ever pranked Hornigold. None of them are so fucking stupid. Instead he says:

“I have news.”

At last Hornigold’s expression smooths out and he leans back against the wall. Ed’s heart starts beating again.

“Tell me,” Hornigold says.

“Flint plans to cut one of the ships through the Devil’s Eye to avoid the Dorter hiding at some island-”

“Can you find which one?”

“Yeah. And he wants to take the Leviathan, not just sink her.”

Hornigold looks surprised and then confused. Didn’t… didn’t Hornigold know Flint was going to take the Leviathan? Ed would have thought he knew ahead of time.

“Take the Leviathan? How the hell is he going to crew her?”

Ed shrugs. “Donkey farts and prayers?”

“Hmh.” It’s almost a laugh. Ed is kind of proud of himself for it. “Get out the maps. I’ll get Harvey fetched.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ed would rather lie in the bed or at least drag the blankets off it to nest on the floor, but maps it is. He does his best not to drop on anything as he hauls maps out of the chest and sets them on the table. At the door, Hornigold tells Long Bob to get the rabbit quietly and then returns to help Ed set them up, pouring a cup of brandy for himself but not for Ed who would kill a man for water right now.

After a moment there is the tap thump, tap thump of the rabbit on his way, a faint knock and the door opens.

“What-” says the rabbit. “Ed? How the hell did you get here?”

Ed sighs. “I swam.”

“What, all that way?”

“Yes.” Fuck’s sake.

“Young Teach has news,” says Hornigold. “Tell him.”

God. Ed takes a breath. “Flint wants to cut a ship through the Devil’s Eye.”

“Which one?”

“Don’t know. But he wants to do it to avoid the Dorter so he can take the Leviathan not sink her.”

“Take her? How the hell does he plan to crew her?”

“With donkey farts and prayers apparently,” says Hornigold getting a short surprised chuckle from the rabbit. “Where’s the Dorter, Edward.”

Ed peers over the map, searching out Blind Man’s cove so he can follow the line he remembers back to it.

“Probably he’ll take the Siren through, don’t you think?” says the rabbit.

“The Siren will be hard pressed,” says Hornigold folding his arms. “And are not happy with him if Don can be believed. It would be foolish.”

Don? Don ? What the fuck?

“Well the Walrus won’t survive it,” says the rabbit. “He can’t take all of us… Maybe he means to cut around it to the open sea.”

“We don’t have the provisions for that.”

“Here it is,” Ed says, finding the island finally. Hornigold and the rabbit peer over it.

“That makes sense,” says the rabbit. “The most sense. You could cut through the Devil’s Eye easily without getting their attention, but we’d be sunk if we went all together.”

“I can’t see him stupid enough to send the Siren alone.” Hornigold rests his knuckles against his lips. “What is that man playing at?”

“Maybe he is stupid,” Ed says. He expects Hornigold to smack him or the rabbit to nag him about respect, but they both hum as if that’s something they’ve thought of too.

That’s not going to help them- but looking at the map, Ed gets an idea. If the Dorter is known for chasing ships up the current, then–

“What if we take the Dorter.”

The captain and the mate slowly look at him, eyes glittering in the light.

“How do you mean?” Hornigold says.

“We take her, crew her, we can come in to get her from here.” He points to the northern side of the island. “Then we pretend to drive one of us up the current, the other two behind, and when we get to where the Leviathan and Princess Anne it’d be four against two.”

“We couldn’t crew Dorter that well,” says Hornigold, bracing his hands, leaning over the map. “But if we can bring her to Blind Man’s Cove and lure the Leviathan and Princess back, they’d be caught in the bay.”

“But we can’t crew her that well,” says rabbit. “We’ll be missing too many men.”

“Hm, we can’t,” says Hornigold. “And not without Flint but…” He smiles. “Have Mr. Robertson fetch Don. Quietly.”

As Hornigold stares, Ed manages to snag an unused blanket to wrap around his shoulders and takes a swig of brandy, sighing as it warms his blood.

After a moment there is the pat of bare feet against the deck and the door opens. Davenport enters, dark hair pulled back into a neat braid, and dressed though sleepily.

“Ben,” he says, voice quiet but sharp. “I know that I am a guest, but I would prefer it if you waited until at least dawn before-” And then he spots Ed. “How the hell did you get here?”

“Swam,” says Hornigold. Davenport looks out the window, then back to them.

“All that way?”

“He’s done worse,” says the rabbit and Ed smirks, pleased.

“Why?” Davenport asks. Hornigold gestures to Ed, looking faintly amused. Ed hates him. Just a little. He lets out a breath, then:

“Flint wants to take some ship through the Devil’s Eye. Probably the Siren in which case he’s an idiot but if it is the Siren, he’s still an idiot. He wants to take the Leviathan, not sink her-”

“Take her? How the hell is he going to crew her?”

“Donkey farts and prayers,” Hornigold and the rabbit say at the same time.

“-and we might take the Dorter, bring her to Blind Man’s, lure in the Leviathan and Princess and pound the crap out of her.”

“You’re going to what?” says Davenport. Hornigold sighs and rubs his forehead.

“Edward…”

“What? You told me to!”

“Never mind,” says Hornigold and Ed huffs. So much for listening to fucking orders he guesses.

“Flint will never allow it,” says Davenport.

“He may if the Siren agrees,” says Hornigold. “If you command the Dorter-”

“Me?”

Oh, Jack is going to be pissed.

“-and we crew her with people from all three ships–” 

“I want to come!” Ed says. “And Feliciano knows the Devil’s Eye.” Probably. “We’d be perfect!” He’s never taken a ship from land before.

“It would be to his advantage…” says Davenport. “But why do this?”

“I can go right?” Ed says.

“Because I have better things to do than die on the altar of Flint,” says Hornigold. “And so do you.”

“You are going to let me, right? Right ?”

“Oh, shut up, Edward for God’s sake,” says Hornigold. Davenport snickers and Ed wants to throw the brandy at him but he is just mature about it and takes a longer sip instead.

“He won’t be satisfied with a puppy,” says Davenport, whatever the hell that means.

“I think he’ll see through the veneer soon enough,” says the rabbit. “If he hasn’t already.”

“Hm,” says Hornigold and all three men are looking at him. Ed glowers back a little, legs tucked up to his chin because he’s still fucking cold.

“What?”

Hornigold shakes his head and goes to the door.

“Mr. Robertson, Jack, please.”

“Aye!” Long Bob bellows. Then: “Oops.”

Hornigold sighs and returns, shutting the door behind him. He takes the brandy bottle from Ed’s hand, pours everyone but Ed a cup and takes a long swallow of his own before the door opens.

“Yeah?” Jack looks at Davenport who looks at him and Davenport seems to want to say something and Jack looks as if he’s worried. Davenport raises a hand and then drops it.

“Are you done?” says Hornigold. They both flush like the fucking weirdos they are and turns his gaze to the captain. “Yes, sir- Oh what the fuck are you doin’ here?”

“Yo,” Ed says, pulling the blanket under his chin.

“How the hell did you get here.”

“Your mother.”

“Edward…”

“You little shit,” Jack snarls.

“Fine, Davenport’s mother.”

“Watch your mouth,” says Davenport.

“Yeah, watch it!” Jack snaps. “No one wants to hear you.”

“Gentlemen,” says the rabbit.

What? Why is- Why is Jack-?

“Jack, remember when we spoke last-” Hornigold starts, but then Ed gets it. He gets it! And the rage drives him right to his feet.

“You were making doe eyes at Davenport, you fucker!”

“Fuck you I was not!” Jack snaps back. “I ain’t got doe eyes!”

“You did and you were! I saw it!”

“Oh god.” Davenport turns, hands over his face.

“Ya did not!”

“Boys ,” Hornigold says, a thread of anger in his voice.

“I did so. You said his face looked like a monkey’s ass!”

“You what?” says Davenport.

“You little shit for brains.” Jack’s hands are around his collar but that’s alright because his are around Jack’s. “I’m gonna stick your face up a monkey’s ass if you don’t keep your goddamned mouth-”

Too late Ed feels Hornigold’s hand on the back of his head, sees it on the back of Jack’s. A terrific crack goes through his skull as it bounces off that fucker’s. When the darkness clears, he finds he’s lying in a heap, Jack half on him.

“I told you not to bring children aboard,” says the rabbit. “I told you.”

While Davenport is whispering: “Just kill me. Oh god.”

“Ow…fuck…” Jack tries to raise and slumps.

“Jack, you’re taking Edward’s place,” Hornigold says. This time Jack surges upright.

“I’m what?”

“Ha! Suck it!”

“You’re taking Edward’s place,” Hornigold says. “Because Flint will want someone of value.”

…Oh… Ed hunches in the blankets.

“Knew you’d fuck it up,” Jack mutters and Ed can’t even find it in him to kick him.

“But that’s not until our meeting. Edward, go back to the Walrus before you’re missed.”

“He won’t be,” Jack says and Ed wants to say Feliciano will, but his words are too heavy. He drops the blankets and drags himself out the door. Long Bob is there waiting and pats Ed’s head gently.

“Do you need a hug?” Long Bob says and Ed flushes at Jack’s laugh from inside.

“No! Fuck, mate, I’m a man, aren’t I?”

“Not on your life!” Jack says and Hornigold shuts the door.

The silence feels overwhelming. Long Bob gives him a smile and another pat and Ed pats his arm back and looks over the light flickered water toward the Walrus.

It is going to be a long fucking night.

xxxxx

By the time Ed gets back to the Walrus, he almost doesn’t want to take the rope that’s dropped down the side. The sky is getting lighter, but it won’t be dawn for a few hours yet and, Ed thinks, it might be nice to sink into the deep black of the water and just not come up.

Only the thought of Feliciano left all by himself makes him lift a weary hand and tug the rope. And then tug the rope again. There is no answering tug and for a second he wonders if the man has fallen asleep or forgotten or decided that Ed wasn’t worth it after all. He’s almost grateful for it. He can sleep. He can sink.

No one will miss him if he goes.

The answering tug makes him sigh and Ed looks up at the pale face of Feliciano and the paler face of the swabbie fucker. Ed is tempted to tell them to let him go. To just let him drift to sea, forgotten by the waves and time- but he grips the rope instead, tangles his leg in it and lets himself be pulled upward.

Now he’s fucking glad the Ranger isn’t so tall because it feels like it’s an eternity before he’s on the railing let alone on deck. There is no Long Bob to lift him off this time, so Ed nearly falls onto the planking, though Feliciano catches him, stumbling a little under his weight.

“Well and so?” Feliciano says. Ed just shakes his head. He can’t even think to speak. He doesn’t want to say. How the fuck can he say?

“You were gone a long time,” says the swabbie. “What did you say? What did you tell him? God, what did I do…”

Ed rolls his head to look up at him, blinking salt sting from his eyes. The swabbie is nervous. Fingers gripped. Backing away.

“Look I- I think I have to- have to be somewhere else.” He sends a terrified glance at the aft cabins and begins backing toward them. “I-I have something to do.”

“Of course, I understand,” says Feliciano. He pats Ed’s back briefly before rising. “But first, for one last time, close your eyes.”

The swabbie hesitates, then obeys, lashes feathered across his cheeks, leaning forward. The cutlass slides smooth as water through the swabbie’s neck, cutting out any sound he might have made, though his eyes fly open and his hands reach. A slight twist of the blade and his hands stop reaching, his eyes roll, his body falls. Feliciano catches him and tenderly helps him slump to the deck, head resting against the wall. Blood pours from his throat and over his chest, seeps into his shirt. His eyes are wide and staring.

Ed can only stare back.

“So it is,” says Feliciano, laying the bloodied cutlass down near the body, black hilted with a white skull. “ Venha .” He helps Ed up, and Ed is surprised he can even rise at all, let alone stumble back to the hammock.

“You have told our captain?” Feliciano murmurs. Ed nods.

 “There are plans?”

Ed nods again.

“Good.”

“I,” Ed swallows, wanting to say more, to do more than just nod like a stupid kid. “I d-d-didn’t d-dance very w-well,” he says, and hopes Feliciano knows he’s just stuttering because it’s cold. He’s cold. So fucking cold.

Feliciano only smiles.

“Ah, well, you will learn. And soon you will dance as beautifully as me.”

Chapter Text

And now the swabbie is sewn up in a canvas shroud, ballast tied around his ankles and set on the deck near the port side railing. The drizzle patters faintly against the white of the canvas and Ed watches the tiny water drops slide against the white. The crew of the Walrus is arranged in front of them, a ragged semi-circle, some clinging to mast or rigging to get a better view, while Flint and Bones stand apart and further back. Flint has a black hat on with a red feather that is damp with wet and Bones has nothing to protect him from the fine rain. Instead his head is bowed and his large hand keeps drifting to the hilt of his black hilted cutlass and then away again as if he’s too afraid to touch it. Even the dogs are watching somberly, Neptune at his master’s heel and the two ratters, sitting and shivering in the cold and the wet. 

Ed is shivering too, though he tries not to. It’s because the rain is chilly, dripping in his hair and down his neck into the front of his shirt, which is now just as damp as the rest of him. The only thing dry is the back of his neck and shoulder, due to the weight of Feliciano’s arm. He has to keep his jaw clamped shut to keep his teeth from clicking. He doesn’t know why. He’s seen death before. A lot now. They’ve tossed men to the sea, mostly other crew, but sometimes their own; and Happy…

Was Happy fed to the sea? Was he brought on board and pushed over into the deeps? Or was he just left there in Carlottas as if he didn’t matter? Ed had never thought of it and tries not to think of it now as he hugs his arms tight across his chest, then folds them. It’s just death. That’s all. It’s just death and he can stop shaking. 

He tries not to think of it at all and instead watches Mr. Grottle who is standing in front of the body and saying words over it. Words from the Bible, Ed guesses, but his voice rises and falls so it’s hard to hear, and he loses his place and has to start over. 

It would be funny if the words he did hear didn’t sink into him like a Sunday mass, filling his nose with the smell of a moldy old wood church with rotting boards and splintery pews and thick greasy incense. Mother had told him once that the smoke was frankincense and myrrh like they gave to the blessed son, and Ed had thought he couldn’t be too blessed to have to smell that over him.

“Fer th’ wages a sin is death, ya see,” says Mr. Grottle. “Death and…though we walk through the valley, we still have good grog at the end ‘o it and…” 

“Yes, and well done, Mr. Grottle,” says Silver suddenly and everyone breathes out just a little, Ed too. Mr. Grottle blinks at him, tilting his head this way and that as if trying to get his eyes to focus. 

“Those are blessed words to be sure.” Silver pats the man’s back with a thick hand. “And we’re all very well sanctified by them. Any holier and the deck would start to smoke, so full it is of brigands and sons of the sea.” 

Pew leads Grottle off and Ed can’t help but be a little grateful for it, though the thought of Silver speaking now doesn’t help his stomach being in knots, because Ed is cold and Silver talks so damn much and there is a smile at the corners of the man’s mouth as he seems to watch them, seems to watch Ed, as if he knows. 

“And I’m sure we won’t forget Davey, short as he was with us, but he had ambitions, did the lad, and a big heart easily swayed-” And here Silver smiled in their direction fully, water dripping from the brim of his hat making him look like some creature rising from the sea. Ed wonders if he’ll have to sleep lighter or plunge the knife through Silver’s neck one day. 

The thought makes him want to puke. 

“But the life of a buccaneer, well what more can we ask that it be beautiful and that we find something sweet before the end of it?” says Silver, spreading his hands. “Even if it ended too soon.” 

“Twere murder!” says the turnip faced swabbie and Billy Bones seems to flinch while Flint’s mouth tightens as if he’s holding back whatever words he wants to speak. 

“Well, it could be called that, aye,” says Silver at Flint now and the captain’s jaw works but he doesn’t do anything else or even act like he’s going to shoot Silver in the face like Hornigold might. 

“But misfortune happens to us all, firstly and secondly moreso to us who put our lives on the sea for a scrap of what’s due us and thirdly, we all know to stay away from the beast when he rises, don’t we? Some men cannot control themselves and there’s no one to fault for that,” says Silver. 

All the crew is looking at Bones and Flint now. Some roll their shoulders and others rest their hands on whatever weapon they have at their side. Tension is thick in the wet and Feliciano grips his shoulder as if warning him to bolt, but his expression remains unchanged, solemn, somber, his glance only with mild curiosity at Flint. 

“I’m sure that our mate, our good old Bill Bones, will make reparations, and I’m sure our beloved captain will too. Perhaps spread Davey’s share to us all for the ships we’re after are bound to be filled with Spanish loot, and perhaps a bit more to warm over our grief, though nothing will quite close the gap in our hearts.” 

“We will come to terms when we know what terms there are,” says Flint. “But we can’t disperse treasure we’ve not retrieved.” 

“To be sure, to be sure, but still, some reparation must be made, for Davey was a fine member of our crew, not the greatest of us, no but he did he job- a hard worker, as you yourself admire, I’m sure, Captain. And doesn’t the good book say that the least of us will sit at the head of the table? Because even the least of us has a value that needs to be repaid.” 

There are so many fucking words, but every one of them seem to land on their mark and Flint’s face grows darker by the moment. But as Flint grows darker, the crew seems to turn the opposite, smiles sliding across their faces. It’s a game. A fight. One Ed doesn’t fucking understand but wants it to be done already. 

“Bring what ye will to the table when the time comes,” says Flint finally. 

“And an extra ration of grog, I’m thinking before we set to our final course. For our hard night and in preparation of what’s to come.” 

“I would think ye’d have enough of liquor,” says Flint wrinkling his nose. “But aye.” 

“And reparation too,” says Silver. “Most important to seal it firm like in our minds.” 

Flint clicks his tongue and jerks his head. Bones nods and draws his cutlass, still faintly red tipped and Ed feels his own bile rise but swallows it down. Bones lays the cutlass on the white of the shroud where it is lashed down and Ed has a sickening feeling the blade will slit it through and the body will spill out on deck for everyone to look at and know. 

It doesn’t and when Bones steps back the shroud is still in place.

“And now,” says Silver. “Let us show our lad his final home.” 

Two of the stronger men of Flint’s crew step up to haul the shroud between them, carrying it the short distance over the railing and then just like that the shroud is dropped over the side. He splashes into the water with a deep sound, a dropped stone, no coming back from that. 

“So let it be the end of it,” says Flint. “And no grog until after parley. If I see even one drunken lout before then, I’ll be having some reparations of my own.” 

“Aye, Captain,” says Silver, with a faint smirk, touching the brim of his hat. “Now all hands to stations or rest if you’re due. If you’re in the rigging mind we don’t have another shroud to set by- We can only take so much blessing.” 

 xxxxx

Ed’s stomach unknots little by little as he and Feliciano make their way to the fore and their makeshift berth. He and Feliciano had rigged a bit damaged canvas to the railing above very late last night, so that it gave them some shelter from the wet, but even so Ed is shivering again as he sits against the wall, pulling the blanket around them. 

“Ay, it will be good to be back on the Ranger some day soon,” says Feliciano, grabbing a scrap of linen to dry his hair. “I grow tired of so much air. And the smell inside? Oof. Worse than a barn.” He is grinning, as if he hadn’t stabbed someone through the fucking neck last night. As if they hadn’t just seen him buried. As if he hadn’t made the same dumbass blush just the day before when he’d been alive. 

Ed tucks his chin against his knees. It doesn’t make any sense. He’s seen Feliciano kill people before and it hasn’t mattered so he’s not sure why it does now. 

“You are sad?” says Feliciano frowning at him. Ed flushes. 

“What? Fuck you. No I’m not. I’m not sad. Why the fuck would I be sad? I’m just freezing my balls off.” 

“Hm.” Feliciano throws him the linen. “Dry and we must change or we shall be carried away by the sweet arms of Dona Morte, who will hold us close and touch our hair and say:” He presses both hands to his heart. “Vou te levar ao paraíso, meu amor! Não chore você que se foi cedo demais dessa vida! A beleza tão rapidamente se foi! Meu coração dói pelo que o mundo vai perder!” 

“We’re just going to get wet again,” Ed mutters, running the linen through his hair. 

“We will stay until the rain fades. And there is plenty to do here to keep us from wet.”

He gestures to the piles of old worn rope that they’d been tasked with picking apart to the fibers. Eventually the thin fibers would be mixed with tar or old grease and stuffed into any open gaps on the ship to keep the water out. It is a shit job and makes his hands hurt after a while, but better than picking up shit and they don’t even really have to try that hard to get it done. 

Ed huffs and grabs a bit of rope, beginning to pick it apart just for something for his hands to do. Feliciano pulls his shirt from his trousers and pulls it off, flapping it out as if to shake off the wet. His shoulder blades move under the skin of his back which is mostly smooth, the welts from the willow all but gone now. Ed spots a mole under the curve of his shoulder and looks away. 

“I’m not sad, fuck that,” Ed says again. “I don’t care. I don’t give a fuck. He was an idiot anyway.” 

“So it is,” says Feliciano with a shrug. He pulls another shirt from his sea bag. One of four shirts, Ed knows. It’s impressive really. Ed only ever has two and when he has three it’s because he’s growing out of one of them. But not fucking fast enough. 

“I mean isn’t it weird though?” Ed says. “He liked you.”

“So do many.” 

“Yeah, but-“ But what? He doesn’t know. He shrugs again and ducks his head, the rope fraying and fraying, fingers getting sticky and blackened with the old tar that had been on it. “Still fucking weird,” he finally mutters.

“There is push and pull,” says Feliciano, tugging on the new shirt and then shrugging on a waistcoat of soft brown leather over it. “Step and step. A dance. If you pull something must come, if you push, something must go.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Ed grumbles. He’s tired of dancing already, and he’s not very good at it. He wants to go back to the Ranger where he doesn’t have to do this shit. And he’ll get to, too, Ed thinks, stomach twisting bitterly. Because Jack is coming to replace him. Because Jack is someone of value. 

Even the swabbie is someone of value.  

Was.

And Ed is… has he ever really been? He’s not sure. He probably wouldn’t even be stitched in a canvas if he died. He’d probably be just left there to rot with no one caring -except maybe Long Bob but Long Bob cares about almost everyone. 

“You look like the rain,” says Feliciano and pulls out another shirt. “Venha, get changed. You will feel better.” 

“Fucking won’t.” But Ed gets up anyway, letting the blanket fall and wiping his tarry fingers on his trouser legs just to make Feliciano wince. 

“Then you will look better,” says Feliciano. “Do it for the pride of the Ranger.” 

“Fine, I guess for the pride of the Hahnjeh,” Ed says, mimicking Feliciano’s accent. Feliciano glowers at him, setting the shirt on the hammock.

“You have to take care or the…” Feliciano makes a face, screwing his nose up. “R..Rrr…Rain jhurrr will have one less pride.” 

Ed pauses, shirt half tugged from his belt. The pride of the Ranger as a person. He’d never thought of pride being a person before and for a second he’s surprised at it, shocked even, like biting into something sweet after a long time. Only he knows it’s not true. The Ranger doesn’t have a person that’s a pride, and even if it did, it would probably be Jack. He wants to ask why it can never be him and as he looks at his hands, he can hear Kupe’s voice asking him: ‘Why do you think, boy-o?’

But that can’t be it, can it? That can’t be the final answer. That can’t always  be the answer. He should at least have a chance at being the Ranger’s pride.

“Ed?” says Feliciano and Ed flushes as he realizes he is still holding the folds of his shirt like an idiot. 

“Yeah sorry, thinking. Shit.” His shirt tugged free has sent his compass falling out and rolling across the deck, rolling under the canvas to get rained on. The silk is soon to follow it, slipping free like a living thing and resting near Feliciano’s boot. He raises his eyebrows at it, but closes his mouth as the sound of footsteps approach and there’s no fucking time to do anything to prepare. 

In a heartbeat, Feliciano scoops up the silk as Silver says from the other side of the canvas: 

“Knock knock.”And before either of them can answer, Silver pulls the canvas back, letting in a splatter of rain. Feliciano’s hands sweep easily behind him, closing his hand around the silk and hiding it from view. There’s no time to worry about it as Silver steps forward, at least far enough to get some shelter under the eave, the canvas falling behind him, blocking him into their space. He smells of rain and thick wet wool from his coat and faintly of onions.

“Well you lads look cozy enough,” says Silver. “I wouldn’t half mind it myself if my old bones could take it, which they can’t much these days. They prefer a warm dry room and a warm dry bed which you can be assured I’ll be returning to with a cheerful heart. But before I do, I was wondering if I could ask you-“ and a smile spreads over his face. “What it was you told your captain last night.” 

Shit. 

Feliciano’s head jerks up and Ed can see him pale, his hands fisting tight, knuckles sharp against his skin, and  Ed’s heart is jumping too, high and hard in his throat. They’d forgotten that night whoever might have been watching from the rigging. Whoever might have seen. Whoever might know. 

“Now don’t panic,” says Silver, looking pleased. “I’ve got eyes and ears, I do, and more than you’d count. Perhaps even some on your own ship.” 

Who? Ed wants to say, but keeps his mouth shut. 

“And I am on your side as much as can be, for we all sleep under our captains and take their orders, but we need someone that looks out for us, and as you’re our guests, I’ve taken you lads under my wing; so long as you keep me abreast of the current.”

There is a threat in the words. That if they don’t it won’t go well for them. The old trapped feeling is back, the caged feeling, the sinking feeling. How the fuck does Silver do that? He has no sword or flintlock, no willow like the Executioner and life or death aboard the ship isn’t really up to him, or at least Ed has never seen it. 

And yet Ed’s heart is racing hard. 

Except… it’s stupid. Ed takes a breath through his nose and lets it out. It’s really stupid. Silver talks so much like he doesn’t want people to realize what he’s saying. And what he is saying isn’t enough.. It just sounds like enough. 

“Or what?” Ed says, taking off his damp shirt. Feliciano shoots him a look but says nothing.

Silver’s smile pulls tight. 

“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in, Eddie.” 

And another thing, he always uses Eddie like a weapon. Like he’s trying to make Ed feel small. Well, Ed can do that too. Sort of.

“Yeah, I understand, Johnny,” says Ed, watching with interest as Silver’s smile goes flat and Ed can see his jaw harden. “And if you wanted to scare us with that, you shouldn’t have used Bones as a bargain piece against Flint.” 

“An easy misstep,” Feliciano says with a shrug. “Change, Ed, because I am cold watching you.” 

Ed pulls on the other shirt on quickly, and it’s a mistake he realizes right away because it smells like Feliciano and he’s not really expecting it to hit him right in the face like that. There’s no time to get struck by it though even if he feels weirdly dizzy and the cresting wave feeling is back again.

“Do you need to be reminded whose ship you’re currently standing on?” Silver says. 

“Flint’s.” Ed unwinds his belt so he can shove the length of the shirt of his trousers, trying not to think too much about it, then wraps the belt around again, knotting it tightly. 

“We might agree on words if you agree to put your ah…dick back in,” Feliciano says. And Ed tries not to laugh since the word isn’t obnoxious at all in Feliciano’s accent. It’s pleasant almost. Dickee. Like the sound of a hiccup or the name of some tiny bird.

Silver is silent a moment but then he laughs once in a short harsh burst. 

“Maybe I did come on a little strong, and I beg your pardon for it. Instinct in dealing with men who are more used to jumping to commands than talking about them. Fighters, you understand, men who think with their hands and the strength of their arms. Which I can well understand why you lads don’t. No offense intended.” 

What is he calling their arms skinny or something? Ed looks at his reflexively, smiling as he sees the skull, then tugs the sleeve up to see the bands as well, flexing his arm to see the faint bulge of muscle. It’s not as impressive as Vance’s or even Jack’s but…

“I’ve got more than Pew. What does he think with?” 

“Not much between his ears or anywhere else, I’ll agree,” says Silver. “But come on now, there’s little enough time and we’ll treat it the same as before, Ed lad. Edward. I do you a favor, you tell me what you said.” 

Ed thinks a moment. He doesn’t really need a favor now, but might in the future, still, Silver left a pretty big opening and Ed wonders if he can dance with it, just to see what happens. 

“Well, just this once I’ll tell you without a favor,” says Ed. “You know, man to man.” 

“Oh?” Silver seems surprised and some of the deeper lines disappear from his face. 

“Generous boy, attend yourself,” Feliciano says, handing him a wooden comb and Ed begins to push it through his hair. 

“Well man to man, I accept,” says Silver. “And I won’t forget it.” 

“I told him what I told you.” Which is pretty much mostly true. Silver waits expectantly. 

“Here, Ed, let me adjust,” Feliciano says, gesturing. Ed comes to stand facing Feliciano, practically feeling Silver’s anger growing at his back and the thought makes him grin. Feliciano tugs at Ed’s belt, glances up at him and flares the silk briefly blood red between his fingers, then tucks that into Ed’s belt as well before patting it in place.  Ed’s not sure what to think of it. He’s not sure he can think at all. His mind feels like sea foam. Which is why he’s grateful when Silver brings him back to it by saying: 

“Well, and?”

“And what?” says Ed shifting to look at him over his shoulder. 

“What did old Hornigold say?” 

The answer comes quick and makes him grin.

“That’ll cost you a favor.” 

It’s impressive really that Silver doesn’t hit him. He can tell the man wants to. He can see it in every line of him. But he doesn’t. God, if Ed had known before that annoying people would feel this good, he would have done it a lot more.

“My favor to you will be not gutting you where you stand,” says Silver. “Though if I’ve any luck at all someone else will do it for me. Honestly, lad, I don’t have the time to chat. What do you want.” 

“Interrupt for us at parley,” says Feliciano. “Should we need it.” Which surprises Ed, because that’s really fucking smart. Silver’s eyes narrow. 

“What makes you think I’ll have a voice at all?” 

“I think you may,” says Feliciano with a shrug. 

“Fine. I will, should you need it, but nothing that’ll fuck me over completely. Agreed?” 

“Agreed,” Ed says. Then with a grin. “Shake on it.” 

“Oh for all the- Here. Both hands even in full view.” Silver’s hand thrust nearly into Ed’s stomach and his grip was harder than the last time.  

“He thinks it’s a stupid idea to capture the Leviathan or send anyone through the Devil’s Eye.” 

“So odds are he’ll speak against it.” 

Ed shrugs. He has no idea what Hornigold will say or do half the time. 

“Anything else I should know?” 

“Maybe.” Ed grins wide, watching Silver’s face darken into storm clouds.

“God’s left tit. Fine if it be worth it. What.” 

What is worth it? Hm. Oh!

“Hornigold’s going to replace me with Jack.” 

“Who in the six bleeding hells is Jack?” 

“He’s captain’s favorite.” If he had one. “And is going to be like Davenport one day with his own command.” 

“Anjos e ministros da graça nos defendem,” Feliciano mutters.

“Well that’s something,” says Silver, taking off his hat and running a hand through his thinning hair. “It’s that sour faced one, isn’t it? Is he as bad as you?” 

And he has no idea what that means, or what Silver means by it, but there’s really only one thing to say. Ed grins. 

“Worse.” 

“Lord save a simple sailor,” Silver says, glancing skyward. “Well and good. We’ll see what shakes out, as I can’t see ol’ Hornigold giving up that weedy lad so easily.” Well why the fuck not? Ed wonders. He tries not to look annoyed about it as Silver plugs his hat back on. “I’m needed elsewhere, but try not to annoy anyone else into murder, thank you kindly.” 

And with a sarcastic bow, Silver leaves the way he came, the rain puddling on deck behind him. 

That was good, Ed thinks, raising his head. Really good. That was a dance. He had even been annoyed about Jack and hadn’t said anything. But Silver’s easy. If Ed really wants to impress Horngiold he has to dance even better than that. And that’s the answer, isn’t it? If he wants even a chance at being a pride or a favorite, he has to work harder. He has to do more. Be more. Maybe Aconi doesn’t want to fight that hard, but Ed does. 

He touches his belt reflexively where the silk is then notices Feliciano watching him. 

“You worry me when you think so hard,” the man says, but he’s smiling a little.

“I’m just thinking of dancing all these fuckers into the ground.” 

“That is why I worry,” Feliciano says with a soft laugh. Then, gesturing, adds: “Here, let us tie back your hair. The brave men of the Ranger are not just strong, but stunning, and so we must sweep them off their feet.”  

Ed obeys, finding Feliciano’s fingers much gentler than Polly’s. He tries to ignore the quiet surging in his stomach to plan for what lies ahead. He can do this after all. And he will. He’ll do whatever it takes.

xxxxx

All too soon, Ed finds himself sitting at the stern of a tender, wind off the water feathering his hair. The pleasant lifting of his stomach has turned into a storm of nerves and he is pressing sweat damp hands to the tops of his thighs to keep them still. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous or why this feels different. It’s not even their first parley. But maybe it’s because he feels…strange. He looks strange.

His stupid striped trousers are still the same, but Feliciano’s shirt is soft and billowy on him and is not stained at all and it makes everything else seem better somehow. The knife in his belt makes him feel stronger. His shoes feel like new even though they’re not. He looks good. Anyone can see that he looks good. No one is noticing or maybe pretending not to notice.  Black Dog, who is rowing, only seems bored and Feliciano is still and quiet, fingers tapping on the hilt of his cutlass as if he’s nervous too.

Just ahead, low in the water still, sits the island called Sinner’s Spine. Ed can already see the crew of the Walrus setting up for the parley against the black rocks that march down the middle, which Ed guesses makes up the spine part of the name. The island is little more than a sandbar, and Ed had seen it from a distance, the rocks sticking jaggedly out of the water until the tide had pulled away, leaving a patch of land only half as long as the main deck on the Ranger but twice as wide.  Some of the Siren have arrived too, though there is another tender for her, pulling closer to shore. All together it’s two tenders from the Siren, three from the Walrus not including the supplies, and one from the Ranger. 

The Ranger’s tender has Hornigold of course, at the stern, sitting beside the Executioner who he seems in deep conversation with. Vance and van Morgenstern are sitting stoutly side by side, rowing and at the fore are Davenport and someone in a too big blue coat. Had they picked up someone from the Siren in the night? Would Jack be coming on a different tender?

Well it’s not his business, Ed thinks, lifting his head. If he’s supposed to know he’ll be told and important crew, valued crew, doesn’t ask questions, they just trust in their captain and so he will too. He’s a man now after all. A man who can dance. All that kid’s stuff is left behind, stitched in the canvas like the swabbie and tossed over the side. The only thing left is…

The only thing left is maturity.

The tender scrapes against the sandy ground and Feliciano rises gracefully and steps out, the thin surf charging over his boots. It looks a little less cool when the same cold surf runs over Ed’s shoes and sends prickling cold up his calves, but at least he doesn’t trip.

“Here,” says Black Dog, sounding angry. “Aren’t you going to help unload.”

“No,” says Feliciano without even looking back at him. God, that’s cool. Ed ignores Black Dog completely since there’s nothing really to add to that and follows Feliciano up the sand. The beach is littered with interesting shells and bits of coral. Ed spots a crab hurrying down into its hole and further on, a starfish sits in the shallows, right next to a strange white rock with two holes-

Hold on, is that a motherfucking skull? Right in the sand?

Ed wants to grab Feliciano’s arm and point at it. Almost charges over the sand to pull it out and see how much of the skull is left. Will there be teeth, he wonders? Jack said he’d found one with a gold tooth once, which would be fucking amazing and he could put it on a string and give it to Polly who always said she wanted a bit of gold.

He almost does all that, but he is a man and men did not charge after skulls in the surf. Instead they stand with their wrists resting idly on the pommel of their cutlasses as they stare out over the sea and watched the tenders come in. Ed rests a hand on the hilt of the knife instead, looking out over the water, in silence. It’s hard, though. It’s really hard. Especially as the Ranger’s tender draws closer and his nerves start up stronger than before. At any moment he expects Hornigold to catch sight of them-and if they’re lucky and he’s surprised enough, they’ll see it on his face. Ed won’t react to his reaction, though, he will remain serious and still.

Even if from behind him Black Dog shouts:

“Holy shit, is this a skull?”

God damnit.

“By gor it is,” says Pew. “Here, let’s get it up. Might be a gold tooth!”

A splash followed by an: “Ow,” from Job Anderson.

“I said get it up, ye bilge rat! Not trip ass over tea kettle.”

That is his skull! He saw it first!

But he is man enough to let them have it and he hopes it bites their kneecaps off. Anyway, it doesn’t matter because the Ranger’s tender has come into the shallows and Feliciano is striding forward. Ed hurries to catch up. Vance and van Morgenstern hop out right away, hauling the the boat onto the shore fully so Hornigold doesn’t even have to get his boots wet. Ed shifts a bit to be seen around van Morgenstern, trying to catch Hornigold’s eye. Davenport gets out of the boat in a swirl of gray-blue coat and then-

Ed laughs. “Oh my God, dipshit, what the fuck are you wearing?”

Because it’s Jack dressed in the too big blue coat with a white shirt and a blue cravat and his hair pulled back in a blue ribbon. He’s even wearing blue trousers. The only thing that’s not blue about him is his face which is stark red and bare as a baby’s butt.

“Shut the fuck up, shithead! This is called dressin’ to impress! Not-whatever the fuck it is you’re doin’.”

“Not looking like a dumbass,” Ed says. Stupid striped trousers aside. “Who are you trying to impress anyway?” Ed grins. “Is it Daavenport?”

“Shut up!”

“Oh Daavenpoooort…” Ed cups his hands under his chin. “Will you look doe eyes at me-Ow! Fuck!” A sharp pain rips through his scalp as harsh fingers haul at his hair. Ed tilts his head back to make it stop and winces into the gray scarred face of the Executioner.

“Still thy tongue, child, lest I rip it from thy mouth.” And then he gives Ed’s hair another sharp tug before moving beyond him over the sand.

“Fucker,” Jack mutters. “The fuck do you know. This is how men dress. So you can shit in your little boy pants.”

Fuck you, Ed wants to say, but the Executioner is too close to risk it.

“I told you to ignore him,” Davenport says as Jack passes him but Jack only says:

  “Get fucked,” as he tromps through the sand toward the table. Davenport looks annoyed at first and then cold before turning on his heel to where the Siren’s tender was making a landing further down the beach. Ed rubs the back of his head where his scalp still stings, feeling a little bit bad about it even if it is fucking Davenport, and looks to where Hornigold is talking to Vance and van Morgenstern.

“Stay alert, no drinking, keep primed. Understood?”

They nod though van Morgenstern’s thin mouth droops in a pout under his shoulder length mustache at the order not to drink. Ed straightens, expecting Hornigold to look at him now, hoping that his captain hadn’t noticed him fucking up around Jack. It’s not his fault. He would have been super mature if Jack hadn’t looked like an idiot. 

Hornigold looks to Feliciano instead who is lingering nearby.

“Suponho que Flint ainda precise de um espadachim...” Feliciano says, slower like he always does to Hornigold. Ed takes a hesitant step forward, wishing he knew even one helpful word Portuguese so he could understand what was being said.

“É mais verdadeiro dizer queJack precisa de um acompanhante,” Hornigold replies, though slower still and like choppy water compared to Feliciano’s smooth waves. Still the side of Feliciano’s mouth twists into a smile and Ed wonders if they’ll say his name next. Not that he cares but…

Ed hears a shift in the sand behind him and half turns to see Silver behind him, not very close but close enough to swipe a cutlass at him and tear the skin. A chill pricks down his back but Silver just smiles his bland smile before looking past Ed to Hornigold.

“Begging your pardon, sir, if I could just have a moment of your time.”

“Yes, Silver?” says Hornigold, still not even looking at Ed, as if Ed doesn’t exist.

“I was wondering, since you’ve had your reunion and all, touching as it it may be, if we can take this scallywag off your hands.” Silver drops an arm around Ed’s shoulders and Ed tenses at the weight of it but knows he can’t shrug it off. He has a feeling Silver knows it too. Fucking Silver. Hornigold looks at Ed then expression flat, then flips a hand to tell them to get on with it and turns back to Feliciano

“Quanto você foi informado?” Hornigold says and they walk toward the table too, side by side. Damnit.

Damnit.

Stupid Jack. This is all his fault.

Well it doesn’t matter. It really fucking doesn’t.

“Come on then, Eddie-lad,” says Silver, patting his shoulder. “Let’s get you all set up.”

“Set up for what?” Ed mutters, following Silver away from the table to where the supplies are being set up.

“Oh, you’ll see.” Silver smiles. “Cap’n has a job for you. One you’re suited for, I’ll be bound, so long as you keep your mouth shut.”

 xxxxx

And once again he is a fucking cabin boy. Even worse, he’s fucking Flint’s cabin boy where he gets to do nothing but stand around with a tray and listen to everyone talk. Like he’s not there. Like he doesn’t exist. Except when they want a fucking drink. He does his best not to glare at anyone, except for Jack and sometimes Davenport and smirk at the Toad who still has a ghost of ink on his face, but doesn’t seem to notice Ed anymore either. Eleven fucking men are sitting at this table and the only one who so much as looks at him is Feliciano. Ed would have thought at least the conversation would be interesting, but no, they are all just chattering like old gossips at a well. They’ve been talking so  long that sunset is nearly over, lanterns are lit and in the distance are the cheers and songs of men having a good time. Even these men are having a good time.

Hornigold is deep in conversation with the Executioner, Silver is laughing at something the Toad said, Jack is listening with rapt attention to Bill Bones who has gone through a bottle and a half of rum, Flint is debating beers with Hawke, commander of the Siren–and Feliciano is talking to Davenport. Fucking Davenport. At least neither of them are making doe eyes at each other, but they look like they’re enjoying the conversation and it makes every vein in Ed’s body go taut.

He guesses it’s dancing, but it sure as fuck doesn’t look like dancing, especially with Feliciano’s chin on the heel of his hand as he listens to Davenport. It looks like they’re mates. Old mates. As if Davenport has been sailing with them from the beginning. And Feliciano looks like he belongs there at that table. It’s not fair. Ed wants to belong there too. When does he get to be the one sitting there talking?

“Boy,” Hawke snaps his fingers and points to his tankard and then goes back to whatever he was saying to Flint. Ed wants to pour the rum all over his head. But he is dancing. Dancing now, damnit. So he picks up one of the fuller rum bottles where it rests on the cask and doesn’t even stomp over to deliver it. Only then he has to pour the fucking thing and his sleeves are too fucking long so he has to hold one back like an idiot so it won’t get drenched in the stuff.

“Rum will never do ye as much good as ye think it might,” says Flint. “One day I’ll convince ye of it.”

“Take away rum from the men and see what good it does,” says Hawke with a laugh. Hawke looks at Ed then, finally. His eyes are a muddy brown with a little bit of green in them and Ed wishes he had cool green in his eyes too.

“This is Hornigold’s boy?” says Hawke.

“Aye.”

“How is he? Seems fit.” Hawke squeezes his bicep and Ed clenches his jaw, wondering how much trouble he could get into. After all it’s not like Hawke is a captain after all. Not really.

“Not bad,” says Flint. “But wants some training.”

Training in fucking what? No. He doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. He starts to go but Hawke’s grip tightens.

“I didn’t give you leave, boy,” says Hawke and Ed won’t punch him in his big stupid nose. He won’t. He won’t. “Here, Ben, you need to give your boy more discipline.”

“There aren’t enough switches in the world,” says Hornigold. Laughter around the table and Ed hates them. All of them. Even Feliciano a little who doesn’t laugh at least but is still smiling.

“What about entertainment then,” says Hawke. “Can you sing?”

Ed wants to ask if Hawke’s mother can sing. But he won’t. He will fucking dance even as his ears blister and his fingers press hard against the rum bottle.

“Little light between the ears this boy, eh?” says Hawke, giving him a shake with a little laugh.

“Yeah well what do you expect from a puppy,” Jack says and Ed decides when they’re done with this whole thing he is going string a few of Jack’s teeth into a pretty necklace.

“Obedience,” says Flint flatly, making all the smiles flatten. And then: “Away wi’ ye, boy. And let’s begin business.”

Hawke lets him go and Ed paces back to the cask, still feeling the pressure from the man’s hand like a burn. Stupid fucking Hawke.

“So let us the second parley of Flint and Hornigold begin, and the first official one as you might say,” Silver says. Beside him, the Walrus’ doctor readies a quill and peers at all of them through his spectacles.

 “Hand raise which suits you, aye or nay.  Flint and Hornigold speaking for their ships, myself speaking for the crew of the Walrus. For the crew of the Ranger?”

“Mr. Forecastle,” says Hornigold, nodding to the Executioner. A scribble.

“For the crew of the Siren? I’m assuming you Mr. Tadpoole?”

The Toad nods and Hawke says:

“Aye.”

“Then to the first parcel of business,” says Silver. “Which is to say my own. I bring to the table that, being as the Siren may need operate at some points out of sight of Walrus, Mr. Hawke should have a voice at the table. Hands for aye?”

For a moment no one moves, all eyes on Flint who seems to consider and then raises a hand, and so do the others, though the Executioner a moment after Hornigold.

“The second parcel of business,” says Silver. “Which is to say my own as well, sad to say. As we may have to jumble around more than usual for this venture, the mates should also have a say. Bill Bones for Walrus, Don for Siren and for the Ranger?”

“Rackham,” says Hornigold and Ed wrinkles his nose, wondering at first who the fuck Rackham is and then being surprised that Jack straightens, flushing all the way down his neck. Rackham? With a last name like that Ed might be embarrassed too.

“Mr. Rackham,” says Silver. “Hands for aye?”

Again everyone agrees almost at once, though Hornigold and Hawke before Flint, which is interesting though Ed’s not sure why. Wait, Jack’s fucking mate now? What about the rabbit? And why isn’t the rabbit here anyway?

Why do you think?Says Kupe in his head again and Ed is really starting to hate that phrase. It’s because he wants to train up Jack, that’s all. And Jack’s going to be traded. But Ed also can’t help but notice now that Hornigold hadn’t brought Aconi or Fadel either, or Long Bob- but then again Long Bob would get drunk quicker than  a bird could piss so maybe that one at least was planning.

“Now to the tasks at hand,” says Silver. “We should start with…”

“Who are you planning to send through the Devil’s Eye, James,” says Hornigold blandly.

Flint glowers, nostrils flaring.

“I don’t consider that a valid question.”

“I don’t consider that a valid answer.”

“Now, now, gentlemen if you please,” says Silver. “Let’s have some order…”

“How about I answer ye with a cannon broadside?” says Flint.

“Then you’ll have to find another ship,” says Hornigold mildly, which is brave as balls, Ed thinks.

“Speaking of ships, James. I heard you were thinking of claiming Leviathan not sinking her,” says Hawke, touching Flint’s arm and then at Flint’s sudden thunderous expression, leaning back. “My God, man! How do you plan to crew her.”

“Donkey shit and miracles,” says Jack, which proves that just because he’s annoying doesn’t mean he makes jokes ten times better than Silver’s. But that’s only because Hornigold’s crew is better in every way. No one laughs though and Ed is too pissed at him to crack a smile so he can just eat dicks this time, Ed thinks.

“It’s not your business what I decide,” says Flint. “I am the captain, the decision is mine.”

“Not when it’s our crew doing the dying for your spoils,” snaps Davenport and Hawke puts a hand on his arm. He doesn’t seem afraid either of Flint’s glare and Ed feels a touch of grudging respect.

“Ye will get yours, laddie, don’t fret about that,” says Flint as sharp as his name. “But as for the Devil’s Eye, that wasn’t even my idea. That was…” He trails off, looking at Hornigold and then clears his throat. “Bill’s.”

It’s a lie. And not even a good one. Hornigold smirks as if he knows the truth- which of course he fucking does because he’s smarter than anyone.

“Wh..a…?” says Bones, lifting his head from the table, voice already slurred with booze. “What’d I do?”

“Christ, man,” says Flint.

“It’s not a bad idea,” says Hornigold which makes Flint furious for some reason and Hornigold’s smirk widens. “Especially if we commandeer the Dorter.”

“The Dorter?” Hawke leans forward. “How do you mean?”

“This is absolute horseshit,” snarls Flint. “And we should focus on the issue at hand.”

“Silver, take a vote,” Hornigold says.

“All in favor of hearing about the Dorter,” says Silver. All hands raise save Flint’s, even Bill Bones though he doesn’t seem to know what the hell he’s voting for and drops his arm back down the moment Flint knocks him upside the back of the head with a satisfying smack.

“Mr. Rackham, the map,” Hornigold says but Jack is too busy snickering into his drink. With a sigh Hornigold digs into Jack’s pocket to retrieve the map and lay it on the table and this time it’s the Executioner who leans over and smacks the back of Jack’s head. This is already the best parley Ed’s ever been to.

Hornigold sets out the map, using tankards for weights and Ed comes nearer to see. Everyone but Flint and Bones and the doctor stand up to get a better look, too. Ed finds himself hoping that Hornigold will tell them the Dorter was Ed’s idea. Of course he won’t. Ed knows it. And he doesn’t even need Kupe in his head telling him so. Hornigold wouldn’t have even given Jack credit for it if he thought of it. 

Instead he listens to Hornigold explains the plan, the plan Ed had came up with, mostly anyway. But he doesn’t care. It’s fine. It’s all for the pride of the Ranger after all, so it only stings a little when Hawke says:

“But that’s brilliant.” 

And Hornigold just grins without so much as looking at Ed. But it’s fine. Ed can’t help but grin a little too, because it is fucking brilliant isn’t it? He leans his hands on the table to get a better look at the map though he has to brace his weight on his toes to get close enough.

“Only how will we crew her?” Hawke says. “Politically, I mean.”

“How I tell ye to,” Flint says as if it was his idea all along. Everyone ignores him. Ed feels a sudden sweet rush, a strange realization of something dancing on the back of his brain. Everyone is ignoring Flint. Even if he’s the captain and has two ships, not even Hawke or Davenport who are part of his crew is listening and Bill Bones… well he’s fallen asleep so he doesn’t count.

Ships don’t matter. Firepower doesn’t matter. Well it does, but something else matters more. What is it? He lets it sit in the back of his mind as he watches the others think, lost in their own thoughts as they peer at the map. Jack is thinking so hard he’s sweating and a vein is pulsing at his forehead and Ed wants to laugh at him.

“Well, Mr. Rackham? Any thoughts?” says Hornigold and Jack looks so frozen that the urge to laugh is gone. The solution is so simple really. They’d just fucking done it. All Jack has to do is just say it. But everyone is watching him and Jack is pale and sweating, tugging at his stupid cravat.

“Uh,” Jack says. “Uhh well…”

One by one Ed sees the flickering changes on the faces of the others; Hawke, Davenport, Toad, even Silver. Maybe they know what the solution is- but maybe they don’t want to say it. Maybe Flint is not as ignored as Ed thinks.

Hornigold sighs. “Any single solitary thought, Jack? Is anything alive in there?”

Jack flushes now playing with the ends of the untied cravat.

“Do…what Cap’n Flint…wants?”

“That is precisely-” Flint starts.

“No, stupid,” Ed says. God, it’s right under his nose. “We take some crew from each ship and vote on who goes.”

“Yeah, uh, excuse me, dickhead,” Jack says. “I’m more willin’ to listen to the man who has two big fuck off ships that can blow us out of the water.”

“You’re the dickhead, dickhead. And if that was all that mattered we wouldn’t be fucking voting on anything in the first place.”

“Oh…” Jack blinks. “Yeah, that makes--” and then he winces and Ed doesn’t realize why until he’s practically lying flat on the table ears ringing, a brilliant pain in his skull. Blood itches down the side of his face and he raises a stunned hand to touch it. What the fuck? Before Ed can even think of what’s happening, Flint’s hand knots in his hair and he’s once again hauled up by it, trying to get his feet under him even as he feels  the cool muzzle of a flintlock jammed under his chin, forcing his head up.

“We’ll hold a vote as that’s why we’re here,” says Flint. “But I want ye to remember, Ben, whose life I hold in my hands.”

“I don’t have favorites, James,” says Hornigold, sounding bored. “I can get a dozen cabin boys if I wanted. This one doesn’t matter.”

It hurts. It hurts but it doesn’t have to hurt. Because he gets it. He understands. Flint can only get his way if he can scare them but there’s nothing that Hornigold is actually afraid of. That’s Hornigold’s secret and why he’ll win this. That’s why he’s the best. Ed wants to show he doesn’t care but it’s hard to when he’s so stretched out and can’t move.

“Ye think I’m bluffing?” says Flint in a low growl. “I will send his brains across the table.”

“Then do it,” says Hornigold. “And let’s get on the with it. I don’t want to be here all night.” And then sharply: “Sentar-se ou morra.” And someone sucks in a sharp shaking breath, loud enough for it to be heard.  There is the click as Flint pulls back the hammer. Ed’s heart leaps against his ribs. Another surging down a swell feeling, but this one different, this one wild. His scalp hurts and his arms are shaking from holding himself up- he’s probably going to die and he’s fucking enjoying himself.

“Any last words, dog?” Flint says and Ed glances up over at him. Ed knows he’s grinning. Can fee it stretch his mouth and the air on his tongue. Grinning isn’t dancing, but he can’t stop and anyway what the fuck does it matter if he’s a dead man?

“Get fucked.”

Flint snarls, lips pulling back from his sharp white teeth and he looks more like a dog than Ed is. He wants to tell him ‘down’. He doesn’t but he wants to. He wants to laugh but he doesn’t do that either because if he does he’ll never stop. Silver sighs.

“It’s obvious the boy is a few masts short of a full sail, Cap’n, and  clearly not fearing the bite of the bullet nor the hand of the devil. But he’s still our guest and I’m not aiming to replace him with one of ours as Cap’n Hornigold was generous enough to do with us. And we’re already honoring Davey’s memory which another death so soon and the men will start thinking this whole voyage is cursed. So maybe find another way to teach him his place?”

All of Ed’s good mood disappeared. Fuck his fucking place. He’d rather get shot. Fortunately he doesn’t have much time to be annoyed at it as Flint’s first action is driving Ed’s skull against the fucking table. By the time he’s semi aware of what’s happening again, he has fallen against Bones and is vaguely pleased when Flint backhands him to the ground because then at least he doesn’t have smell the booze oozing off the first mate. Afterwards it’s just a matter of curling up in the sand because he is not dealing with fucking busted ribs again as Flint kicks and kicks and kicks.

“Come on, captain, he’s just a lad,” Hawke is saying distantly, like that even matters.

“Get him up, Bones,” Flint says. “Get him up!”

Bill Bones grunts as if confused, and Ed finds himself being held up in the man’s strong grip like he’s some sort of fucking prize fish. The table swims before his eyes, but everything is spinning.

“Make no mistake, ye pox ridden lot,” Flint growls. “I’m the captain. It all begins and ends with me. Ye disobey? This is what’ll happen to ye, or worse. We’ll take the Dorter and I’ll decide who goes on her, and if any of ye cares to speak against it, ye can ask the young pup right here why that’s a bad idea.”

Amateur, Ed thinks, but can’t get his mouth to move to say.

“Now throw him to the fish, Bones and let’s get on with it,” Flint says.

“A-aye,” Bones says as if he still doesn’t understand. Then Ed is tripping after his uneven walk, caught now and then on the sand before he’s finally thrown clumsily onto the ground and not even hard. The only problem is that now Feliciano’s shirt is dirty with sand and blood, and sea water, he realizes as the surf comes up to tickle his shoulder and then fall back again.

“Stay’n’ drown, rotter,” says Bones and then his blotted shadow moves away, humming to himself under his breath. Soon Ed is alone on the sand, staring up at the stars, until even they go dark.

xxxxx

He is dreaming. Dreaming of something sweet and soft and deep. Something with the lull and the hush of the ocean, wrapping around him, pulling him under, gently into the darkness. Moonlight pools above, wavering on the surface and getting fainter and fainter and fainter as he slips into the deep, the sweet taste of a lullaby in the shell of his ear; and something tickles softly. He takes a breath to laugh and sucks down sea water.

Ed wakes with a sputtering start, hacking and coughing and puking seawater, managing somehow not to swallow more in the process. It’s full dark now and the moon is only thinly growing, but there’s still light on the other side of the spine dark rocks that slips through some of the gaps and he can see a crab skitter away and pop itself into a hole.

“Fuck,” Ed mutters to himself, flopping onto his back and nearly getting a mouthful of water again. With a groan he sits up, wanting to bury his face in his hands but his face fucking hurts. His face fucking hurts and his arms hurt and shins hurt where Flint kicked them so he wouldn’t get at his fucking ribs. A headache throbs dully all through him growing by the second.

He wants rum. He wants food. He wants his cabin on the Ranger and his galley and his rigging. It’s going to be a long fucking time til he gets it, Ed knows, looking out on the empty sea, eyes burning with salt. Until then there’s just going to be more shit, more chores, more scrubbing his knuckles raw or standing around being bored. 

But maybe Flint won’t beat his ass again if he feels he’s shown the size of his dick to everyone. Not that it’ll matter, Ed thinks. Everyone just knows how small it is and how much he has to do to keep it. 

He wonders what will happen now and what they’d decided about the Dorter and who gets to go through the Devil’s Eye.

He can hear voices on the other side of the rocks where the table is, and further down the island he can see the men packing up the tenders, shoving each other and stumbling in the sand, drunk and giddy. 

Ed wants to be drunk and giddy too and wrestling with Jack or clinging to Long Bob like a limpet as the man works or watching Feliciano and Vance argue about who has the better singing voice. Then later maybe they’d sing and Ed always picks Feliciano but Vance isn’t bad either and his voice is deep from the barrel of his chest. Even Jack won’t say shit about that and Ed remembers lying on deck, head on Jack’s shoulder as they listened.

And then Jack turned into an asshole.

But maybe he just got too mature for Ed and Ed’s the one behind now because he really fucked that whole thing up again. Hopefully he hasn’t fucked up anything else. He won’t know though if he just sits here and they’ll probably leave without him if he does so he hauls himself up somehow and across the sand which sinks under his weight like the bitch of a thing it is. He goes to the rocks rather than around them, finding a gap that he can slip through with a good view of the table. He lets himself rest against the craggy surface of the rock and watches.

There are only his crew left here. The Executioner and Jack drinking at the table, Jack looking pissed off and sour about the eyes like he always looks these days. The Executioner has his blunderbuss out and laying against the wood, though is drinking too deeply and probably won’t use it. 

Probably.  

Feliciano is standing a short distance away, back to the table,  looking out at the water where some tenders are heading back to their ships. He seems annoyed at something by the way he’s gripping the hilt of his cutlass and when van Morgenstern pats his shoulder as if in sympathy, Feliciano bats his hand away hard and sharp.

“Bitch,” Jack mutters, seeming to have caught sight of that too. And then a little louder. “Bitch! Hey! I know you can hear me!”

But if he’s talking to Feliciano, he’s ignored and Jack slumps back again, shoulders hunching, sipping at his tankard.

“Foul tongues lead to foul ends,” says the Executioner, then drinks deeply himself, rum running around his mouth and down his chin. He’s going to be absolutely sloshed out of his gourd by the time he’s done. They’ll have to roll him into the tender to get him back to the ship. Ed wants to sneak up to them to bat the back of Jack’s head or steal his drink or say something funny…

But a single step makes his legs wobble dangerously and the world spin, so he slips as carefully as he can to sit in the sand instead. It’s nice in the sand. Steady in the sand. From here he can rest his head against a little bump in the rock watch Hornigold. His captain is standing with Silver out of the circle of lamp light and almost too far away to be heard.

 There is a captain, Ed thinks. And more of a fucking captain than Flint will ever be. He never once lost control. And there he is, standing all cool in the faint moonlight, the wind picking at the hem of his long coat and ruffling through his light hair. Hornigold even looks good standing beside Silver, and Ed has a feeling they’d be a good captain and mate for the half it day it takes for Hornigold to shoot Silver in the head for being too fucking clever.

“And it’s always like this.” Silver is saying. “I’d hardly believe you if I didn’t see it more than once with my own two eyes and heard about it more than I care to with my own two ears.  How long has it been?”

“Almost three years,” says Hornigold dryly.

“And you’ve survived it which is a surprise to itself.”

“You learn to ride the storm.”

They turn as if they’re coming back and Ed shifts further into the shadow of the rock so they won’t notice him and he can hear what they’re talking about. Silver sighs, taking a sip from the bottle he’s holding and shaking his head.

“Well it’s good and all that little pup isn’t to be on the Dorter.”

What? Why the fuck not? Ed wants to ask but clamps his mouth around the words. Silver might not be talking about him. He might be talking about Jack. But he’d never call Jack a pup. Bastard.

“We’d all get gray hairs and a half wondering what’s happening and I’ve enough with corralling these idiots into some semblance of a respectable crew. Flint’s a canny man, for all his temper. There’s a reason why he put Mr. Davenport on and your Mr. Rackham. And myself, the rat bastard.” Silver spits. “He can sink the Dorter or save it and be the hero of the day in both crews. All crews.”

“Not mine.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Well maybe… The Ranger would be pissed if Jack died and would be happy if he were saved. Because Jack is fun and he’s smart too, even if not in the moment sometimes, and he tries really hard at everything and can piss with no hands which is the most amazing thing Ed has ever seen frankly- but even if Flint carried Jack from the flames of the burning ship himself, he wouldn’t exactly be a hero. Maybe they might thank him or whatever, but there’s no way Flint is better than Hornigold.

“And it’s for this reason you want him to remain on the Walrus.”

“Aye, that and other things. The boy will remind all that I’m still around after all, though not in sight, and I’d enjoy him from a personal standpoint, him being a canker sore in Flint’s mouth.”

Well Ed’s going nowhere nearFlint’s mouth unless it’s to punch him in it.

“And in return?”

“Your boy will be as well looked after on the Dorter as he is on your ship, and you can count on that. Old John Silver doesn’t back on his word.”

Jack, Silver means, probably. Not that Ed wants to be Hornigold’s boy anyway. Stupid thing to want.

“Hm,” says Hornigold.

“But can that one survive without the Portuguese?”

“That one can survive with two sticks and a bottle of piss,” says Hornigold and Ed feels a surge of pride at that.

“That doesn’t surprise me a whit, but I wonder if ….” Silver’s attention is caught by something on the other side of the rocks. “God’s bullocks.” He hurries around them and Hornigold watches, head lifted, looking annoyed, hand that Ed can see pulling into a fist. Ed peers on the other side of the rocks but doesn’t see anything except sand and rising sea. There is no smudge of ship or tender on the horizon or even a cloud. Still Silver goes shin deep in the surf as if he’s looking for something.

“Duarte, Jack, Morgenstern,” Hornigold says, voice suddenly rigid. Ed heaves himself upward too, feeling like too much warmed over shit to be involved in trouble but not wanting to get left out of it either. Hornigold spots him then, seems taken aback and then his hand relaxes. “Prepare the tender, we’re shoving off.”

“Final fuckin’ ly,” Jack says.

“Captain,” Feliciano snaps, whirling around, looking more furious than Ed has ever seen him. “You said to wait for Flint to be a sight less, and so I have, but I will not prepare-“

“You will prepare,” says Hornigold. “As we have to leave shortly, and Mr. Teach here has to return to the Walrus”

“Quê…” Feliciano squints at Ed who would raise a hand but he’s not sure how much longer he can stay up.

“Yo,” he says.

“Ai, essa criança…,” Feliciano says, hand against his heart.

“I fuckin’ told you,” Jack says, rising from his chair. “I said he’d just pop up outta nowhere. He’s always poppin up outta nowhere! I can knock him harder than Flint did.”

Ed wants to say that Jack can try but he doesn’t want to fight off Jack trying so just grins and feels a little better instead.

“Stop smilin’, you dweeb! That wasn’t a compliment!”

“How the hell did you get over there, you little shit?” Silver calls from behind and Ed laughs a little and then regrets it and has to sink back against the rock again. Hornigold closes the distance to lean an arm against the rock, casting a darker shadow as he blocks out the lantern light.

“Did you hear it all?” Hornigold says as if he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. Ed nods. He he heard the important bits anyway. Probably.  Hornigold nods. “You’re to stay on the Walrus by yourself and behave Ed. Keep your head down. Do whatever is required of you. Let Flint think he’s won.”

“Aw, do I have to? Come on! All I do is pick up shit and watch him scratch his ass.” And if Feliciano won’t be there…and Silver won’t… maybe Flint won’t come after him but he’s going to have to deal with all the rest of those fuckheads. But then he realizes something. “I thought you were going to send Jack…” Because Jack has value. Jack is worth something. So does that mean Ed is too.

“Flint has lost his chance and I won’t waste potential on a moron.”

Oh… well…that’s fine. The fuck does he care? It’s all fine. Who the fuck cares about potential anyway?

Ed folds his arms and nudges a lump of sand with his toe.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters.

Hornigold seems to smile a little and rests a soft hand on Ed’s hair. The touch doesn’t help the headache and reminds Ed how much his scalp hurts but he feels like a stupid kid all flooded with warmth at that touch.  What a stupid thing. A man wouldn’t care and if anyone else had done it he’d have bitten their fingers off.

“Good boy,” Hornigold murmurs, before turning away and back to the table as if it doesn’t matter. Ed’s heart stings like an onion in his chest and his breath catches. He finds himself clutching at the shirt, still soaking wet from the sea, the water dribbling out over his clenched hand and down his wrist.  He watches his captain as the man steps into the lantern light which falls on his fair hair and slips over his broad shoulders. Ed has the stupid impulse to grab onto the back of his coat, like he used to do… used to do with Mother’s skirts when he was little at market and she would look down at him and smile like the sun and tell him to: ‘be a brave little boy’.

Except he’s not a fucking little boy. He’s a man. Almost. He’s getting there. And if he… if he can do this… then maybe… Then maybe something. Something he doesn’t know. Something goodwill happen. Something great. Something huge and perfect that…that will fit right in under his ribcage and…and make him feel…

…make him feel…

Something.

Anyway, even if he doesn’t feel anything, he should follow orders now, like Jack does. Ed watches as Hornigold lays a hand on Jack’s shoulder, leads him away. Maybe Hornigold will put a hand on his shoulder like that one day. Maybe they’ll stand side by side and Hornigold will say: You’ve got a lot of potential Mr. Teach.

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder out of nowhere and Ed jolts and would have elbowed the man in the throat if his head didn’t start immediately swimming with the action, needles of pain stinging behind his eyes.

“Well then, lad, back to the Walrus we go,” Silver says. Ed wants to tell him to wait as Hornigold moves and Ed catches sight of the slender form of Feliciano watching their captain with narrowed eyes. Feliciano won’t be on the Walrus anymore, which is shit, but he can at least say goodbye. Feliciano meets his gaze and Ed takes a breath to speak, but the man sighs and turns away in a movement, striding up the beach where the Ranger’s tenders are. As if Ed is already gone.

“Come on,” says Silver, sounding weirdly gentle, giving him another tug. “Or we’ll be caught in the tide.”

Ed nods and doesn’t have much choice but to stumble across the sand in the other direction under Silver’s heavy arm. It’s fine, he thinks, it’s fine. He’s a man now, and does what he’s told.

xxxxx

Only, God, why is doing as he is told so fucking boring. Ed smothers a sigh as he stands in his  usual fucking place in Flint’s cabin, holding the usual fucking tray, watching the usual fucking sun rise over the usual fucking water out of the usual fucking window as he’s been doing for three fucking days now. At least the water ends here, licking up the pale yellow-white beach of Scupper’s Island. The beach itself marches up into the dark shade of palms and scrub bush which slip up and up into a steep slope, the top of which disappears from sight from where Ed is standing. It’s less of an island really and more of a fucking mountain with clothes on.

They arrived last night, harbored in the deeper water as close to the shore as they dared, and it was a tricky voyage to approach the island while staying out of sight of the Dorter nestled in the island’s one good harbor, just beyond the wooded slopes here. The sea around  was littered with coral and sandbars and rocks and a larger one had scraped the Walrus’ port hull which had to be patched. The damage isn’t terrible, and Ed is pretty sure the patch would hold until they made their way back to Paradise, unless they were all blown out of the fucking water. Still it’s clear that the Walrus is just too fucking big for this approach.

The Siren struggled as well, though she sits even further back, as it was madness to try to get all three ships hemmed in close to the island, but it makes her more vulnerable to attack should the Dorter move unexpectedly.

The Ranger, though, being smaller and sleeker and cooler, danced as light as a dolphin, and was tucked into a small narrow inlet just out of sight from where he’s standing. She’s almost too big for her berth, but the inlet is deep enough to make ship to shore and back again easy, so if the raid goes tits up, the Ranger can take on the fleeing crew and sail like hell.

Ed tries not to think of how pretty It would be to be on her deck, looking up at the trees. Or how nice it would be in their cabin, now without fucking Davenport, just the four of them like it should be. Or how nice Greg’s morning oats and grog would taste, now probably with the fresh eggs from the Walrus’ hens that Ed had smuggled to van Morgenstern when he’d come to pick up Feliciano’s things the morning after the parley. Ed had longed to smuggle himself too, but knew that Hornigold would send him right back around again.

Anyway, he wants to learn to dance a little before he meets Feliciano again- and maybe steal Feliciano a new shirt somehow since the one he’d let Ed borrow was now stiff with sea water with rusty brown patches of blood. That’s probably what the man was so pissed off about, Ed thinks guiltily. That and even though he’d told Ed again and again about dancing and had even killed someone for him, Ed had fucked up at the parley- even if it was only to save Jack’s skin.

Maybe he should have spoken differently, or not said anything at all, or not told Flint to get fucked.

Why is dancing so goddamn hard?

Ed sighs and rolls his stiff neck.

“Stop sighing, boy, ye sound like a bloody gale,” Flint snaps. “And no fidgeting or I’ll have the hide stripped off ye.”

“Yes, sir,” Ed says in a monotone as he raises his shoulders and raises his head. It’s not as pretty as Feliciano might do but he’s working up to it.

“Don’t look so cocky at me,” says Flint. “Head down where it belongs.” Before Ed can do anything, Flint takes two long strides across the cabin and forces his head down, a wince of pain going along Ed’s neck and over his shoulders. “Like this, boy, like this. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Ed says through his teeth, somehow keeping the tray balanced so it doesn’t spill cold tea or Flint’s stupid cheese everywhere.

“What do we say?” says Flint. God, Ed hates this part the most. His jaw clenches around the words that already build like acid in his throat. Flint’s hand clenches in his hair and since Ed doesn’t want it torn out at the root mutters:

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t hear that.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Ed manages, louder but without shouting or snarling or kicking him in the shins. Flint lets him go with a sharp jerk.

“It is part of the duty to civilize your kind,” says Flint. “I take no pleasure in it.” Liar. “Now behave and I won’t feed ye to Neptune.”

The dog looks up as his name is called, tail thumping against the boards and Ed feels a little annoyed twist in his throat that he ignores, because he’s doing what he’s told so fuck everything else.

 He doesn’t even fucking care what Flint means by ‘your kind’. Because he can’t fucking care. Because he’s fucking dancing. And even if he wants to belt Flint across his stupid fucking face, Flint is a captain so he can’t. And he won’t. Because he’s fucking dancing.

Still, it’s a good thing then that Flint goes right back to pacing, hands behind his back, as he’s been doing all fucking morning. Neptune sighs with a whine, great head sinking into his paws and Ed almost feels sorry for the thing.

Flint has been like this for three days now, pacing, lost in his own thoughts or else bitching at Bones or Griff. Last night Griff had come out the cabin with a black eye and a split lip and Flint hadn’t even looked at Ed when he’d come to set out out Flint’s evening fucking tea, just stared out the window with his fist clenched so hard his knuckles looked like bones. 

  Sometimes Flint bitches at the crew too, but there’s no punishments ordered or willow wands that fall. The crew listen and seem respectful and Silver stands in front of them all with a mild expression like someone is telling him about a calm night on dog’s watch.

It’s interesting and Ed can’t  stop picking it apart in his mind. Flint is the captain because he’s the captain. He’s a dangerous man because he has two ships and strong cannons and crew. But like Silver had said, one man alone can’t stand up to forty. Silver could easily be captain, if he wanted. He could toss Flint and Bones in the sea and commandeer the ship and the men would listen to him. Ed would have thought a man that strong would be more well known, but not even Kupe had mentioned him.

So why does Flint have power at all? And how does he keep it?

“I told ye to stop looking at me, boy,” Flint snaps and Ed nearly rolls his eyes. Instead he drops his head and says:

“Sorry, sir.”

“And well ye should be,” Flint says. “I didn’t have to take ye back on. I could have left ye to drown in the surf, and I’ll give ye more than your captain has to offer and more hell when it comes to it too.

“No, sir.” He tries to act afraid of it

“However, boy, I’ll grant ye a small measure of clemency if ye tell me what your captain, your former captain, might think- What?” he snaps as a knock sounds on the door. Ed can hear it open behind him. A shaft of sunlight spills on the floor and Flint scowls.

“I told ye that I send for ye, Mr. Griff, not the other way around,” he growls. Ed half turns so he can look at the navigator who looks just like Ed has for the past few days, face all purpled and black, lip swollen, even a harsh bruise forming under his shirt. Griff looks uneasy for a moment and then turns to look over his shoulder at the shadow filling the doorway, cast by Silver-

The moment the man enters the room, the hairs on the back of Ed’s neck prickle like just before a thunderstorm. Something in the room shifts. He can see it in the way that Flint moves to fold his arms, that Silver stands so easily and looks so friendly, even feeding his parrot little bits of fruit like he doesn’t care. Griff stands to the side, arms also folded but tightly, like he’s worried of a strike, and even Neptune lifts his head, ears pricked.

Something is happening. Something is stirring. Ed bites back a grin and stands as still as he can so no one will notice he’s there.

“I’m afraid I asked him to come,” says Silver. “Giving the misunderstanding that’s occurred, and a misunderstanding it is, to be sure, for I know the captain that I sail under and that he is a man, like we all are men, flesh and blood and bone, and no stranger to mistakes, though far fewer than a humble sailor like myself would make.”

“Get to the point,” Flint grinds out. Silver smiles at him and lets the silence carry. Ed finds himself holding his breath. Neptune whines softly. The silence stretches to a dozen heartbeats. Two.

“The point of all this is, Cap’n, that I know it’s what caused you to lash out like you did last night at our Mr. Griff, and I’m sure you didn’t mean it as such, as even a calm man can lose to his temper in a storm. Especially since our Mr. Griff is the reason why we managed to weigh anchor so peacefully in the first place and a ready escape in the deck of the Ranger should we need it. I told him,  Mr. Griff, the captain knows how valuable you are, he did not mean to strike and will be sure to show gratitude both in apology and in terms of some coin to spend when we get dockside, more than was promised, for a strike on Mr. Griff puts him in poor place before the crew, and you in a poor place before the crew as well, especially before a time such as this. I know you to be an honorable man, Cap’n Flint, which is why so many are keen to serve under you. And you are also under a strain, no shame in that, with three ships and the likes of Hornigold testing his line, well, not a man can blame you for it.”

“I’m not afraid of Hornigold,” Flint says, glancing at Ed and Ed ducks his head so the man won’t see his smirk.

“To be sure, and it won’t be me whose saying you are, but he’s a hound that doesn’t take ready to heel.”

Flint jerks his chin at that, as if he’s just smelled something disgusting. His eyes narrow, his jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth, and his arms are folded across his chest. If Hornigold ever looked like that at someone, well, it meant it was already too late; but neither Griff nor Silver seem afraid.

But Flint is. Ed just barely swallows a laugh. Maybe not the shaking in his shoes and pissing himself kind of afraid, but afraid enough not to tell Silver to piss off. Not to make Silver suffer for making Flint apologize. A captain never fucking apologized.

But Flint is worried of what Silver would do. Of what he might do. Of one man against forty. Silver didn’t say anything. Didn’t imply anything. But the threat is just in…in Silver existing somehow. It’s the fear that something might happen maybe that keeps things balanced. The fear of the threat becoming reality. The fear of the maybe.

But…

“Oh, calling a dog of Hornigold to heel is no problem at all.” Flint says, scattering his thoughts. The man is looking at him, smile hard and sharp again as a sickle moon. Ed’s stomach drops to his feet even before Flint says: “Come.”

Fuck.

He has to. He knows that. Hornigold had given him one simple order. All he has to do is follow it.

Ed lets out a shaking breath through his nose and approaches, turns to face Silver and Griff. Griff just looks uncomfortable but the smile never leaves Silver’s face as if he finds this fucking funny. Ed doesn’t care. It’s just a dance. Just a fucking dance. So Flint will think he’s won. He doesn’t fucking care even as Neptune comes to stand at Flint’s other side, head up, tail wagging, like he’s making a point.

“Sit,” Flint says.

Ed’s face blisters with heat and his jaw is starting to ache from the press of his own teeth.

“Now, there’s no call for that,” says Silver.

“He’s mine now, not yours,” says Flint. “Sit.”

Ed would rather die. Ed would have rather gotten shot. He wants to punch Flint in the gut, or break his nose, or spit in his face. But Flint is not Davenport and Hornigold would never forgive that. So he sinks to the ground, cup clattering on the tray so badly it slips off and hits the deck, breaking in half with a sound that sends a bolt up Ed’s spine, as if he’s cracked in half too.

But it’s stupid. It’s just a dance. It’s just a fucking dance. He closes his eyes.Grits his teeth. Takes a deep quiet breath even as his insides burn and char.

“My humble apologies for the strike against ye, Mr. Griff,” says Flint. “And I’ll certainly make it up to ye in the way it counts as ye are the best navigator on this or any sea; and I hope ye will forgive my temper.  I’d forgotten just who has the upper hand.”

And then he puts a hand on Ed’s head, searing fire into his face and down his neck and even the bands on his arm seem to burn. He knows what Flint is going to say and tries not to hear it, but the words fall anyway, hard and sharp as glass.

“Good boy.” 

xxxxx

Ed sits on the beach, legs on sand, back resting against a palm tree as he primes one pistol after another. Tap the powder horn to get the right amount of black powder into the brass nozzle. Cock the pistol. Pour the powder down. Grease the barrel with some leftover fat from the galley. Shove down the lead ball with the ram rod. Slide the ram rod home and then half cock the pistol for firing later. Set it in the sand. Grab another.

One or the other of Flint’s crew comes and collects it, rarely the same person. The Walrus crew anyway. Soon the other two crews will join them and Ed will have more pistols to prime and swords to polish, but he tries not to think about that. Tries not to think about what they’ll see. Him sitting in the shade, puffy and bruised and beaten, wearing a fucking waistcoat.

It’s a worn gray with black buttons and not red, but it’s the same thing. It’s too big on him but Flint had said for now, with that smirk, and had said that he’d grow into it, with a wider smirk, and said he’d always wanted one and Ed hates him in the way of a dulled blade. It looks like it might be able to cut, but the edge is all blunted.

Ed sets the pistol to the side. He see out of the corner of his eye Black Dog approaching, his face cooked red from the sun. Ed doesn’t look at him, but picks up another pistol- this one seeming it only has one or two shots left in it before it blows itself apart.

“Well well well,” says Black Dog, coming to stand over him, kicking a spray of sand over Ed’s stupid striped pants. He does look up at the man then and his stupid leering face, daring him to say it. Black Dog crouches and grins at him.

“Lookit Cap’n Flint’s new peeeeeeehht!.”

Well, Ed assumes he’s going to say pet, but Black Dog really just shrieks as Ed stabs him in the foot with Feliciano’s dagger. It makes him feel a little better and he enjoys the thud of flesh and the pull of it against the knife.

“You little shit!” Black Dog howls, falling over on his ass and grabbing his bleeding foot. “You little shit I’ll-” He stops as Ed points the pistol at him. It’s not primed, but Black Dog might not know that and it might not even matter. Idiots get shot in the face all the time by pistols that look empty. Ed pulls back the hammer with his thumb liking the click it makes.

“Get what you came for and fuck off,” Ed says dully.

Black Dog fumbles to the other side of him stumbling and cursing, leaving spots of blood on the sand, then snatches one of the primed pistols and points it at Ed’s face.

“What if I shoot you now? What will you think of that?”

Ed shrugs, taps the powder into the brass nipple of the powder horn, tips the powder into the pistol and hears it slide to the back.

“I’ll really do it, I will. Your brains will be all over that tree.”

Ed greases the inside of the barrel, drops in the lead ball and tugs at the ram rod underneath the barrel until it comes free.

“Fucking rusted thing. This gun should be shot.”

“That’s it,” Black Dog says. “Say your prayers.” The hammer cocks.

“I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing Black Dog or by thunder turn your tender backside raw,” Silver says stomping up over to them over the sand, his parrot flapping for purchase. The ram rod comes out with a jerk and Ed shoves the lead shot down the pistol’s gullet.

“He stabbed my foot!” Black Dog says. “And he threatened me.”

“Sorry,” Ed says, pointing the now primed pistol at Black Dog’s other foot. “Did you want them to match?”

Black Dog dances back, falling again on his ass in the sand. The pistol he had goes off like a bark and scaring the birds from the trees.

“You sad sack of piss,” Silver snaps, slapping Black Dog upside the head with a sound almost as loud as the shot. “You were told to leave well enough alone! If anyone hears that we’ll be jiggered ten ways to Sunday.” Another slap. A third. Black Dog yelps and covers his head. “Get on with you!” Silver says. “You’re on cleaning until I say otherwise! Go on! Get!”

“I’m going, I’m going!” Black Dog snaps, throwing the pistol to the sand and stumbling off. Silver sighs and crouches beside him, but out of knife range unless Ed wants to work at it. He half cocks the primed pistol, sets it to the side, then works on cleaning Feliciano’s knife until it gleams and slides it home in the sheath.

“I’ve really got to ask you to stop doing that,” says Silver. “I know it’s tempting with these foul mouthed dogs who only see a young man, and a young man who is favored by the captain, which puts you at the bottom rung, so their natural inclination is to take a piece of you, but they mean no harm.”

“I do.” The horn is nearly empty, but there’s just enough to start on the last pistol and let the one that the idiot just fired cool a bit on the sand.

“I know you do, lad, And that was a hard thing done to you. But that’s three of my men gone limping.”

It wasn’t fucking done to him. He’d decided to do it. To sit at Flint’s feet like a fucking dog. Dance or no dance he’d done it to himself. He could almost see Feliciano’s disgust at the sight of it. Or Kupe’s. Who had told him to not lose sight of himself. The bands on his upper arm seem to have a different sensation as they brush against his shirt, as if they don’t want to be there, as if he doesn’t deserve them- and maybe he fucking doesn’t. He can’t be himself and heel like a dog. He can dance and be a fucking red waistcoat or he can not dance and- and ruin fucking everything, but either way the more he thinks about it the more he wants to retch.

He swallows instead, tips the powder in, lets it settle back, greases the barrel.

“Let me give you a word of advice,” Silver says.

“No.”

“Lad… Eddie… Edwarddon’t be stubborn, this may yet help.”

“I said no.” Ed rams the ball home. “I am fucking sick of hearing everyone’s fucking advice. Keep it to yourself.”

“Aye, I understand that but-“

Ed points the primed pistol at Silver’s face.

“Do you want me to blow your fucking face off?”

“Alright, alright.” Silver holds up his hands. “Consider me silenced on that front.”

He levers himself into the sand with a grunt and lets the bird sidle down his arm and nest in his cupped palms. Ed feels faintly jealous in a way he can’t name but it’s fucking stupid anyway. Everything is so fucking stupid. He lifts Black Dog’s discarded pistol from the sand and brushes it clean with his hand.

“Well at any rate,  ol Cap’n Flint is as pleased as a cat in cream,” Silver says and Ed’s face burns. He ducks his head and hunches his shoulders. To distract himself he shakes the powder horn but there’s not enough left, though he pretends there is. “And I’m sure your captain will be pleased as well.”

Silver’s voice is kind and Ed wants to crawl into a hole and die. He doesn’t want Hornigold to know about this. He doesn’t want any of the Ranger crew to know about this. But they will. They’ll see him called to heel like Flint’s stupid fucking dog and see him allow Flint to put his stupid fucking hand on his head. Feliciano will see it and Jack will see it and Vance and van Morgenstern, and Gilead Thorpe if Hornigold managed to get him down from the rigging, and Long Bob would see it and it would become a big stupid joke - And fucking Davenport would fucking see it too and then Ed really would be a fucking puppy.

“Your crew will be coming soon.”

“Fuck you.” Ed clutches his hands in the stupid waistcoat as his stomach gives a sour flip.

“And Flint will be looking for you to have you at his side.”

“Fuckyou.”

“And old Hornigold? Well, he won’t mind a whit.. Because at the end of the day captains care most and only for themselves and their own pissing matches, and more power to them for that’s their right and place.”

Fuck their right and place. 

“And ol Flint will do his best to break the both of you,” says Silver and Ed really is tempted to shoot him in the face now, or shoot someone, or stop existing as the cage around his heart grows tighter.

“But he hasn’t found you yet,” says Silver, in a low voice. Then points with his chin.  “And there’s a path just there, cutting its way through the trees. Eventually it’ll lead to the harbor and we’re all bound to pass by it. And we’ll be too distracted, says I, to care what Flint thinks of you. Though he’ll be sore to lose you.”

It’s a gift and a warning in one. Ed is not sure what to do with the tangled feeling of annoyance and gratitude and relief. He shouldn’t feel relieved. He shouldn’t feel anything. So he looks at Silver’s hands, not wanting to see the man’s face, or the man to see his own; and watches the bird nestle its head against his broad thumb.

“Is this a favor?” he has nothing to tell Silver. Nothing that Silver hasn’t already heard- though he has one left maybe, if it still counts.

“No. Just a friendly gesture, man to man,” Silver says. “You’re an interesting lad, Edward Teach, and you’ll grow into an interesting man, and when that day comes I think I’d rather be friends than enemies.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says again, but the flush on his face is hot but doesn’t sting in his blood. He rises, tucking Feliciano’s knife in his belt and dusting sand off his stupid striped trousers.

“So we’re friends then?” Silver says and Ed smirks a little.

“So long as you don’t piss me off.”

Silver laughs.

xxxxx

The laugh carries with him, bouying him a little, as he finds the path, just a narrow dirt track with scrub and ferns and trees on either side. It’s cool in here and sun dappled, and it doesn’t pull so far away inland that he loses sight of the sea which he can spot in flashes and sparks through the trees. Calm steals over him, soft like a breath.

 Then sinks down and down and down until his throat closes. After a while he has to stop, to lean against a tree, to sit at the base of it with his arms on his knees. He’s high up now, or higher than before and looking down through the wooded forest.  A few feet from him is a fat black boulder, sharp at the top, the Sinner’s Knucklebone, he thinks. Just beyond it, Ed  can see a tiny sliver of the the bay, glittering in the distance, and somewhere in there is the Dorter.

And Ed won’t be there.

He’ll just be with Flint. Flint’s dog. Dogs. Another waistcoat. Worse than a waistcoat. He can escape Flint showing off to Hornigold now, but what about after? And what if Hornigold changes his mind and wants Ed to stay with Flint for  awhile? What then? What if Hornigold wants him to just go with Flint? After all, it would show that he really didn’t care, that Ed isn’t anything valuable, that he doesn’t have potential. That he’s not stupid Jack or stupid Davenport, or anyone at fucking all.

He folds his arms and rests his cheek on them, sniffing and blinking stinging sweat from his eyes. He can’t help but see himself old, like the walnut man he’d seen once, the servant, following in his master’s footsteps, too numb to do anything else. A red waistcoat in the end.

At least Mother will be happy, he thinks, pressing a hand to his stomach to move the silk against his belly, though even that makes him feel a little ill. She won’t be happy that he’s a pirate and that he’s robbed and stabbed and shot at people and got people killed- or that- that other thing. But she’ll be happy that he knows his place. That he’s in it. Where he belongs.

He sighs roughly and swallows hard. The sun tips further down the sky.

Eventually he hears a stick break as if someone is coming, followed by the sound of footsteps. If it’s Silver  here to tell him something else, Ed really is going to stab himin the fucking foot. Someone clears their throat gently and Ed looks up and startles as he sees Feliciano standing there in the dappled shade. Ed squeaks and stumbles to get up, tripping over a root and falling hard on his side.

Feliciano breathes a laugh and Ed flushes, managing to get to his feet, only for the sleeve of the shirt to catch on a branch and tear.

“Ah…shit! Feliciano, sorry, I-! I’ve gone and- I’ve gone and ruined your - your fucking shirt.” Ed curses again, turning away and swallowing hard to fight back the lump and the burn of wet in his eyes. He wouldn’t. Fucking wouldn’t. Fucking would not.

“Roberto can sew it,” Feliciano says easily.

“But I’ve got blood on it too…” He sniffs hard, manages to fight everything back. Feliciano isn’t saying anything and when Ed risks a look back sees the man’s eyes are hard and his lips set, but he’s glaring at something else, something in the bay maybe but Ed can’t see anything. Finally Feliciano sighs, through his chest and shoulders and a faint smile touches the corners of his mouth.

“Life.” He shrugs. “I brought some drink, and food. Come share with me.”

“But… Your shirt…”

“The shirt is no worry, Ed,” Feliciano says, sounding a little annoyed. He sits gracefully against the tree and pats the spot beside him. “My stomach is empty for food and my throat longs for wine. Alas, rum is all there is. Venha.”

Ed venhas, wrapping his arms around his knees, watching  him take a bottle of rum and pull out the cork with his nice sharp teeth before handing it over.

“Thanks,” Ed mutters and takes a sip. It’s a little watered down, grog rather than rum, but closer to actual rum which meant Feliciano got it from somewhere special. Feliciano sets a tied linen between them and tugs it open. Inside is a whole boiled egg and two fresh biscuits with a tiny clay pot of jam. Ed stares.

“Holy fuck, did you kill Greg to get this?”

Feliciano laughs. “No. He wanted me to bring to you. That Cook insisted you should be fed well, he says.”

“Weirdo,” Ed says, plucking up the egg and breaking it in half and handing it out.

“So it is, but I think he misses you.” Feliciano takes the egg, fingers brushing warm against Ed’s as he does and Ed hunches his shoulders again.

“Fuck off,” he mutters, nibbling at the soft white outside, wanting to make it last.

“He does. The ship is in a rain cloud without you. Roberto will not stop sighing and even the gray old man frowns sadly into his tea.”

“Fuck off he doesn’t even drink tea.” All the Executioner drank was rum and whiskey and coffee so hot it could boil Satan’s ass or so he’d said one night, drunk off his mind and clinging to the foremast. Ed doesn’t believe it but the thought of the ship pulls him down again and he stares into the too sunny crumbly yolk. When will Ed get to see it again. Will he ever? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t deserve to.

He doesn’t even know if he deserves this fucking egg.

“Oh, the rain has returned,” says Feliciano. Ed huffs and rubs his thumb along the smooth side.

“I tried to dance,” Ed says, voice thick. “I did but… but … but I’m not good at it. I hate it. I don’t want to do it. If I have to…to keep doing it…” And he will, if he has to. He will… because he has to. “I’ll die.” And he means it. Because his insides will shrivel away to nothing. “I’ll die Flint’s goddamned dog.”

“Hm…” Feliciano leans closer it seems, though not close enough to touch and Ed, though he doesn’t deserve it, leans in a little too so their shoulders brush.  “Dancing… When I was small, food was hard. There was so little to be found. Unless you had honey on your tongue and then they remembered you were hungry- and they forgot your mother. When I was older, a dance made ah…bandoleiro — ay… road.. pirata… let you join rather than kill you even if your cheeks were still baby soft. Like yours.”

“Hey!” Ed wants to punch him in the arm a little, but only a little, and chomps on the egg instead. God, it tastes good. There’s even a pinch of salt on the outside and he closes his eyes, chewing slowly.

“Well soon they will be handsome as mine, so don’t trouble it,” Feliciano says. And they were. Handsome. Kind of. A little. Ed guesses.

“A dance kept me from the terrible eyes of strangers and soldiers, in running from angry fathers of beautiful women. Mas, o, que tragédia fugir de tal beleza!” Feliciano sighs and presses the back of his hand to his forehead. Ed wrinkles his nose.

“Why were you running from them for?”

“Because I am a pirata.”

“Oh.” That makes sense. Sort of.

“If they like you, the way is less hard. But… your…” Feliciano presses a hand to his chest. “Your…little flame…grows dim… because you cannot be you… “

His little flame feels nearly out.

“...and sometimes it will change so that is what you become.”

Great. Fucking perfect.

“But dancing is not you,” says Feliciano with a sigh. “And it doesn’t bring you any good. There is no point to dance just to be beaten by that… that… criatura patética.” His fist clenches against his leg. Ed flushes a little, wondering why he cares.

“It’s fine, that happens all the time.” He doesn’t like it and he’s sick to shit of it but…

“It doesn’t,” says Feliciano. “And it shouldn’t. You don’t deserve to go through life being beaten for another man’s ambition.”

Ed shrugs and nibbles at more of his egg. He doesn’t know about that. If anyone deserves to be beaten it’s probably him.

“But you approach life without fear,” says Feliciano, voice warm and his hand brushes briefly against Ed’s shoulder, warmer still. He shoves the entire rest of the egg in his mouth to stop any strange noises from coming out. “And I think I would like this also.”

What would Feliciano have to be afraid of? He’s not a child any more wanting food or running from road pirates. He is a road pirate. Well.. A pirate pirate. People run from him. Maybe fathers? For some reason? Ed doesn’t really understand. He also doesn’t understand why Feliciano thinks having no fear is a good thing. It doesn’t always feel like a good thing. Just a natural thing like having black hair or brown eyes. But the way the man says it makes it feel like it’s something great.

He ducks his head, feeling his cheeks pink more, glad his mouth is full of egg so he won’t say something stupid.  Silence falls then but it is soft and comfortable, like snoozing in the hammock or in the cabin which seemed long ago and far away. The sun dips golden through the trees and Ed wants to lean against Feliciano fully. Though if he does that he’ll sleep and there’s no time for sleeping now. Soon the crews will be on the move to capture the Dorter and Ed’s not going to be caught napping when it happens.

For now though…. Just like this…sitting quietly and watching the sky and the gently swaying trees, he feels… happy.  What a strange feeling that is.  The air feels lighter and his chest too as if it’s stopped raining.  If he slept he’d miss all this. Feliciano sips from the bottle of grog and hands it over. Ed takes a sip as well, then another secret longer one when Feliciano isn’t looking and sets the bottle aside. The biscuit and jam are still on the bit of linen, so he plucks up the biscuit and scoops up some jam with his finger to spread it over it. Feliciano takes his as well, gently breaking it apart with his fingertips and Ed can’t seem to look away for some reason.

“Of course we’ll have to find some way to move you from Flint,” Feliciano says which makes him blink.

“What? Why?”

Feliciano stares at him.

“Do you want to remain?”

“No…”

“No, nor do I want to sail on that ship. I do not like what he does, and I do not like what he wants. Did you choose this?” Feliciano plucks at the stupid waistcoat.

“No, of course fucking not,” Ed says, face stinging.

“No, of course fucking not,” Feliciano echoes. “He seeks to embarrass us. To make us seem small. It is because we are ten to one man and he is one to one man and he cannot conquer that. Saude,"Feliciano says, holding up his own biscuit now dripping with jam in between.

“S…Sa oo jee,” Ed replies and taps his biscuit against Feliciano’s. The bread is good and the jam is even better, a burst of sugar on his tongue even better than the grog, Sweeter still is the thought of leaving Flint, maybe even going on the Dorter but…

“How are we going to do that? Hornigold won’t like it.”

“That I do not know but-” His face darkens. “Our captain,” and he seems to spit the word. “Can–” 

“Who the devilare you?” 

Ed pauses, biscuit halfway to his mouth. A man has appeared from behind the Sinner’s Knucklebone. A British Navy man, with a smart blue jacket and a white woolen cap. One hand is on the buttons of his breeches as if he was either intending to piss or just finished, the other is holding a bottle.

The strange anger falls from Feliciano’s face like the sun appearing from behind clouds. A soft smile and warm gaze replaces it as he rises with an easy grace, holding out a hand and gesturing with slightly curled fingers.

“Take my hand,” he says in a warm honey voice. “And tell me your name.”

Ed is vaguely aware of jam running down his thumb and wrist. The Navy Man seems stunned too because he drops the bottle with a clunk on the ground and holds out his hand.

“E-Eric Danby.”

“Well then, Eric Danby.” Feliciano smiles, and then draws his cutlass with his opposite hand and pivots. A gash of red thrushes over the Navy Man’s neck. The man blinks and gurgles, reaching up with twitching fingers to touch it before falling to his knees. Another swift cut silences him completely.

Feliciano sighs and draws a cloth from his belt pouch to clean his blade.

“When you are done, help me hide him.”

Ed nods and makes it to a scrubby bush just in time to lose the egg and grog and jam in them. He gasps for a second then chugs back the rest of the grog to get the foul taste out of his mouth- though that might have been a bad idea because just looking at the man makes his lips tremble. Ed sets his shoulder and his jaw and with a nod at Feliciano, grabs the man’s shoulders and helps haul him into a patch of ferns. It leaves a red streak on the soil and grass and Ed can’t help but stare at it.

“It will be gone with the rain. Venha. We must see.”

Feliciano is walking to the knucklebone rock. Ed shakes his head and follows him, leaning a hand against the cool stone to peer around it. Feliciano does too, hovering above him, hand on his shoulder. There are no more Navy Men on the path, which wends and winds down to the beach. There are more stones on either side of the narrow path, skree piles and large boulders as if there was a landslide here long ago. The entrance to the beach is wide enough for maybe two or three people to get through unless they want to shove their way over the rock. 

 Past the clearing the beach fans out, packed with Navy Men and cook fires, and just beyond that, the Dorter sits snugly in the bay. 

She’s a lot smaller than everyone seems to think she was, larger than the Ranger, but only a little more than half the size of the Siren. Most of her crew are lounging about on the beach and with tents set up and fires going, it seems like they’d probably be there for a while.

 That makes sense, Ed supposes; if all they’re doing is sitting waiting for a ship to come so they can chase them, they must have a lot of time spent bored out of their skulls and wanting to be landbound for a while. By the look of the encampment and the slant of the sun, they didn’t look like they’d be moving back to the ship any time soon.

Feliciano clicks his tongue and tugs his shoulder.

“It is just so.” Feliciano sighs. “Our captain was worried of something like this. It is many men to get down one path and such a small opening; and the fight for who shall be sent first will take a long conversation and time we cannot risk. Ay. Why to be found by such stupidmen.”

Ed frowns. Hornigold isn’t stupid. It’s mostly just Flint. Still, he understands what Feliciano means. They can only send so many men ahead, and once the Navy Men see them, even just spotting them coming down the path they will open fire. The ground is too steep and rocky on either side to fight well. Maybe it’ll still work out. There’s more of them than there are of the Navy Men, but at least some in the crews are going to die.

And there’s no time to take the long way round either. The island is big enough so that it could take a long time just to get there and if the ships were discovered while they were away, that would be really fucking bad.

“So why not just trap them in the bay?” Ed asks. It’s narrow, but the Siren and the Ranger can get into position easily enough with the Walrus on the outside, just in case.

“We are here to capture it, not sink it. They may surrender or they may not- but we have already sunk so much time into this prize we must take it.”

“Oh right…” Ed sighs, resting his chin on the rock. “Half the fucking crew is on the beach anyway, Wouldn’t be anyone there to… surrender… Hey…”

If… everyone is on the beach then… it shouldn’t be too difficult to take a couple of tenders around that jetty of black rock. The Dorter is anchored far enough in the water that the Navy Men would have to row out to it. He can see their boats now on a long stretch of beach, belly up like whale bones. The tide is already starting to rise, making the journey longer and the moon is a thin silver in the sky, pale and cloudy, with low clouds on the horizon. It’ll be dark as hell tonight, but just light enough to see by.

“What is it? Feliciano says by his ear again, sending a shiver down his spine.

“I have an idea.”

It’s a big idea. A stupid idea. Wild and reckless. But Silver owes him a favor and if they can pull it off…. If they can pull it off then everyone will know that Hornigold is the best and that Ed is the best too. 

xxxxx

God, but the Dorter further from the fucking jetty than he thought. And the hike to get there hadn’t been fun either. Ed treads water in the chilly bay, the sunset blazing overhead. The Dorter bobs quietly five dozen lengths ahead. None of the Navy Men have put their tenders in the water to return to it and there aren’t any lights in the captain’s cabin or elsewhere on the ship. Ed has seen no one even in the rigging . She may not be an empty ship, but she is empty enough.

Feliciano had been against it. Not the capturing of the empty Dorter, or even calling in Silver’s favor to talk to Flint and Hornigold on their behalf since that’s easy.  No, Feliciano had been against Ed swimming out first because it was foolish and he was injured and things like that. Which yeah it was and yeah he was but that was three days ago, so he’s fine. Just- hungry as balls.

Anyway, how else is he supposed to sneak onto the Dorter? If he goes back with Feliciano, Flint will just try to show his dick again and Hornigold might tell him he can’t go. So this is the best way

. After all, he can’t be disobeying if Flint didn’t tell him not to do it.

 Only it is a long fucking haul.

 Ed raises his chin above water to take a breath and then surges onward. Five sets of twelve strokes. He’s fine. He can do this. The tide is coming in, too, slow and powerful, and thank fuck he isn’t fighting against it.

Even so, with every pull he feels like he’s going to die. He won’t die though. He refuses to. He’s going to get on that ship and kill anyone left aboard. Then he’s going to find all the cool stuff in the captain’s cabin and the mate’s cabin and the galley and when the crew arrive, he’s just going to peer over the railing all cool and not caring and just say: yo.

And everyone would be impressed except for Flint who would just be about pissing himself in anger and Captain Hornigold will be the most impressed of all and say: You’re worth more to me than you are with Flint. You’re going to stay on the Dorter.  And then maybe put a hand on his head again - no his shoulder, Ed decides with a little sick shiver. And even Jack will be like: You’re actually really cool I’m sorry for bein’ weird an’ shit. Which Ed would say he’s always weird and shit and Jack would punch him and Ed would punch him back-and it would be a fight, but a fight like normal.

Though first he has to fucking get there. Ed takes a ragged breath and plows on.

After what seems like forever he’s finally close enough to peer up the barnacle encrusted hull. Not too far from where he’s bobbing is a wooden ladder built into the side of the ship. It’s a little high from where he is, meant to be reached by someone standing in a tender, but if he can just get a good wave….

Ed treads water until he feels like his arms and legs go numb and is just about to pray to someone, anyone, that he’ll get lucky so he won’t die stupidly; when he does. The wave lifts him up, hard and high and he ends up smacking his shoulder into the ladder, gripping the very bottom rung with both hands. The wood is slippery and his arms are like rubber. Barnacles scrape at his legs which sting soon because they’re probably fucking bleeding.

Just a little more. At another little wave, Ed is able to kick his feet in the water to give him a boost and get up a few more rungs, then he’s hauling himself hand over hand, flecked with salt and blood, hollow stomached and one eye stinging with a stray fleck of sea water. Finally, finally,he makes it to the railing and hauls himself over the top. One leg over, then the other, and he’s standing on a pile of rope that probably shouldn’t have been left there, shivering as the water slides off him.

He looks up and sees the swabbie on the other side of the deck, staring over the railing. Ed flails, tripping over the rope and nearly going right back over the fucking railing. His heart beats loud and hot in his ears as he looks at the swabbie who he had last seen stitched in canvas and dropped over the side. Seen his throat opening with blood. Seen his staring eyes.

Wh…why the fuck… was…

No… no it’s not him. Ed breathes out softly, covering his mouth with his hand so it won’t be heard. It’s not him. It looks kind of like him, the same straw hair and rigid shoulders, but his hands which dangle over the side of the railing are longer and paler and one is missing a finger. Also he’s dressed like a Navy Man with a short blue coat and white trousers and his stockinged cap he holds in his hands.

Other than him the ship is silent. 

Quiet as death.

Which means that Ed can kill him easily and no one can hear him scream except maybe distantly from the beach. Or maybe he can stab the guy in the throat like Feliciano did and he won’t get a chance. He pulls Feliciano’s knife from the sheath and slowly approaches, wincing at every drop that rolls off him that hits the wood. The swabbie shifts and Ed freezes, but he only sighs and droops as if he’s sad about being left on the ship while all his mates get to fuck off on the beach.

Ed’s heart does the annoying onion sting again and he wishes it would stop. He has to kill the guy. If he doesn’t kill the swabbie the swabbie will tell his mates and then the Navy Men will come back to the ship and if the tenders from Ed’s side don’t show up in time, he’ll be well and truly fucked. Anyway. It’s just killing someone. Just stabbing them. Ed has done both before. And he can even wind the rope around the swabbie’s neck and pull and pull and pull until he stops moving.

But no. Not that. He won’t even give his hands the taste of it. Instead he’ll stab him. Like a man would stab him. Like Jack would stab him. Or Hornigold would have him stabbed. Quick and clean right through the neck. Ed raises the dagger, arm shaking because he’s fucking tired. All of him is fucking tired. The swabbie drops his head as if readying himself for it, the back of his tanned neck exposed, patched red here and there from the sun, and small diamond card tattoo hidden half under his collar, like a target.

Ed swallows. Raises the dagger higher. Quick. In and out. Like Feliciano would do. Just do it. He just has to.

A drop of water falls from the blade and hits the swabbie right in the neck. He shrieks and jolts and Ed dances back, trips back, barely keeps a trip on the dagger, jumping as the mop lands with a clatter on the deck.

The swabbie whirls, then jumps again, fumbling at his side and pulling out a small jack knife that could give Ed a good poke but not before Ed can plunge Feliciano’s dagger into his chest.

“Who the feck are ya?” the swabbie says, voice going high and Ed has to laugh in a high stringy way at hearing the boy’s accent, lilting just like Mad Eddie’s had. “Well?” the swabbie says, jabbing in his direction. “Answer me or I’ll put yer eye out. Who the feck are ya? Whatthe feck are ya? Angel? Devil?” A strange puzzled expression crosses the man’s face and he purses his lips, looking Ed up and down.

“Mermaid?”

Ed laughs again. “Do I look like a fucking mermaid?”

“Ya look like a drowned man.”

“Drowned men and mermaids are two different things, mate. I don’t even have scales or tits.” And everyone knew mermaid were women. That was why they were called maids after all. Not… not lads or whatever.

“Then what are ya?”

Ed considers. He can stab him without answering, of course, but… Maybe there’s a better way.

“Devil, definitely,” Ed says, because that’s easy, and feels good to say. A monstre . A demônio.Not anyone’s dog or anyone’s boy. He is something different. Something more. Something that everyone will be able to see one day. That no one will be able to look away from. 

 “Maybe an angel too. I can do both.” Why not? He flips the knife and catches it just before it lands on his foot. The swabbie snickers.

“Whatever the hell ya are, ya don’t belong here. Ya must be a native. Todd said they scrubbed them clean off the beach, but I always know better. Can’t scrub anyone off their land, not where their father’s bones lay.” He straightens. “Well ya can’t get revenge on me. I wasn’t here when it happened and Mam says I’ve got a good future in the King’s Service, my he fockin rot.” He spits. “And I won’t let the likes of you ruin it.”

Fuck all. Ed likes him. How can he kill someone so goddamned funny?

“I’m not a native either, mate. I’m a pirate.” He slides the knife away, then immediately regrets it as the swabbie yelps:

“Pirate?!” and runs toward him. Ed hauls himself out of the way, dropping the whole fucking knife sheath and all on the deck and sending it spinning with his heel. But it doesn’t seem to matter because the swabbie is just going to the other side of the ship to peer over, looking out over the bay and the jetty and the open sea.

The swabbie grunts and leans back.

“There’s no one out there, ya gobshite!” he levels a glare at Ed. “What are ya? Pirate of one?”

“Oh, no, they’re coming,” Ed says, and suddenly he gets another idea and he wonders… could he plant a maybe in this guy’s head too? What would that do? “Four ships, five hundred men, on the western shore.” He shrugs. “You’re fucked.”

“No one can get to the western shore, ya really want me to fall for that?”

“Well, you can believe me or not.” Ed shifts back to pick up the knife and place it in his belt. “Up to you.”

“If they’re all on the western shore, what are ya doin here.”

“Great place to watch the show,” Ed says. He paces to the railing, arms folded and leans his hip against it, looking at the camp. “That sand is going to be absolutely fucking red. Fire everywhere. Screaming. No one will know it’s coming until their skin is peeling off.”

“And how do I know yer tellin the truth?”

Ed shrugs. “Ask Eric Danby.” 

“Feck. Feck.” The swabbie comes to stand beside him, jackknife tucked away, face pale under his freckles, eyes a vivid green. “Which captain?” As if he’s testing the waters. As if seeing one last time it’s the truth. But Ed can already see the fear in his face.

He could say Hornigold is the captain, but- he wonders.

“James Flint.”

The swabbie’s eyes widen and Ed wouldn’t be surprised if his pale hair went white with the shock of it.

“When?”

“When the sun sets.” Ed looks into the sky. “Start swimming now and might be able to make it in time.”

With a curse, the swabbie launches himself over the side and hauls ass for the shore, one strong stroke in front of the other.

Ed is impressed. He hopes the swabbie survives.

  Ed sighs, watching the man’s dwindling shape. The tiredness is seeping into every muscle, every bones, and he’s hungry as fuck. But he can’t rest now. He has to make sure no one else is on the ship or there aren’t any nasty surprises. But that doesn’t mean he can’t stop by the galley.

 xxxxx

Ed wakes to the sound of sloshing water and scraping wood. He snorts and blinks at the red and gold scudded sunset. The stars have appeared like freckles in the night sky, though dim still and far away. He can see the moon clearer now through the lines of the aft mast…which seems… very tall for some reason. Or…not tall enough. Something is in his hand and he closes it experimentally only for whatever it is to give a little between his fingers. He looks down blearily to see a hunk of cheese that has a few bites taken out of it and on his lap the mealy skeleton of an apple. What?

There is another scrape of wood. A low muttered curse. The hairs on the back of Ed’s neck prickles and it comes to him all at once. Shit! He’s on the Dorter! What if the Navy Men are back? He crams the rest of the cheese  in his mouth and rolls off the pile of rope. He aches. Everything aches. He can barely get up. He pats around for Feliciano’s knife and finds it and also a flintlock and he stares at it until he remembers he stole it from one of the larger cabins. It was a big fancy thing that wouldn’t shoot very well, but who cares? Maybe it’s enough to shoot one of the Navy Men in the face so he can escape. Carefully he half claws his way to his feet, using the mast. The beach is on the move, men moving like swarming ants, preparing to fight and cutting out a path to the western shore.

There is a slop and a scrape and someone saying: “Are we sure?”

But that is from the port side, the sea facing side.

Oh shit have the tinders arrived? He chews quickly so he doesn’t show up with a mouthful of cheese. But he can’t chew fast enough so he swallows instead, but it’s too big a soggy block and he can’t breathe. There’s the scrape and ping of a grappling hook and then a splash as if it bounced off the railing and fell back into the water.

He’s running out of time. Ed pounds his chest until the cheese comes back up and spits it in a bucket, sucking in sweet breaths. There’s little time for that either, so he scrapes back his damp hair, ties it with a bit of twine fished from his belt and swaggers to the side as best he can when his legs feel like they’re going to give up on him at any moment.

Bracing his hands against the railing, he peers over the side and says:

“Yo.” Then frowns. “Aww, it’s just you guys.” And he’s not unhappy to see them, well, not some of them. There are four tenders bobbing there. One with Jack and Silver and Feliciano and Long Bob; the other with Bill Bones, Silver’s three idiots and Dirk, and weirdly Griff; the third with Davenport and the Toad and some others from the Siren; the fourth with some guys from the Walrus and one man from the Siren, squashed between them looking miserable.

Not a single captain among them. No one to impress. No one to care. The only one that was almost worth something is Bill Bones and he doesn’t really count for anything.

“Knew you’d show up,” Jack mutters. “Shitface.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says, watching him pull the grappling hook from the water. “There’s a ladder over there, gobshite.”

“Fuck you I knew that!”

Long Bob’s face brightens and he takes a deep breath and Feliciano leans forward to clap a hand over his mouth. Long Bob blinks, then seems to remember and waves at Ed instead. Ed grins and waves back.

“Come on. Up the ladder now while we still have time,” says Silver. “We’ll have to leave the tenders by. Is it all clear up there, Edward?”

“Yep. All clear.”

“Maybe everyone was runnin’ from your smell,” Jack says, grabbing onto the ladder and hauling himself up. Ed is more annoyed by him then the biceps flexing under his arms as he climbs and flicks him off.

“Fuck you. And you look stupid.” He ditched the coat but now he’swearing a waistcoat as if he doesn’t know what it means.

“Youlook stupid!’

“Ay, climb, seu bebê grande,” Feliciano snaps, reaching around to slap Jack on the ass. “Fight later.”

Ed steps back to give them plenty of room to get on, annoyed again as Jack stands on the deck, tall and broad shouldered and proud with only a few pimples left.

“I can’t believe it,” says Bill Bones when his feet hit the deck and he squints at Ed. “They told me but… How the hell did you do it? How…?”

“We can worry about the miracle later,” Silver says. “Stay out of the way or set to. The rest of you, lads, you know what to do. Let’s get out of here before whatever is going on on the beach boils into the sea.

“I told them Flint has a force of five hundred to the west,” Ed says with a grin. “Guess they believed me.”

“You told…” Silver stares at him. “How did you even manage…” and then he shakes his head. “Later. It’s a clever move to be sure, but it’ll only hold them for so long. Let’s move, lads.”

Ed manages to get to his feet, only to get his ribs crunched by Long Bob before the man sets him down and pats his head and moves to the capstan to help weigh anchor. Feliciano is right behind Long Bob and smiles, looking even warmer in the embers of sunlight. He gently takes Ed’s chin in his palm, lifting his face, and for a moment Ed forgets how to breathe.

“I’m glad you’re alive,demoniozinho.”

“M-me too,” Ed manages, and weirdly enough, it’s true. What a strange feeling that is.

“Good.” Feliciano pats his cheek a little, then lets him go.

“Where are we going?” Ed asks as soon as his words come back.

“We are to meet the others at the parley island. From there, a stronger plan, I hope.” Feliciano grips the rigging and pulls himself lightly onto the railing. Ed wants to go up into the rigging too but the sight and the thought of it makes him feel really fucking tired.

“Rest for now,” Feliciano says. “We can go so far at least without an extra pair of hands.”

“Yeah alright.”

Ed flops into a coil of rope, watching Feliciano move up the rigging light as a bird. Jack is up there as well and even Davenport has given up his fancy coat to work along the ratlines of the aft mast. It’s nice to sit back watching everyone work, knowing what they’re doing, where they belong, without much need for words or direction. Silver paces below, Griff is at the helm, Bill Bones assisting at the capstan and then up into the rigging as well. The only hiccup is when Job Anderson steps right into the bucket of spit up cheese, letting out an aggravated squawk; and Ed is too tired to laugh.

Soon the sails are unfurled and glorious, and soon full of a sweet wind as Silver gives the orders to tack in. Ed swears he can hear an outcry from the beach but it’s too hard to tell. Anyway, there’s nothing they can do about it, even if they rowed their arms off. The ship trembles like a live thing and then they are off! Free! Past the sweet curve of the island and the open sea.

Jack thumps down beside him, tying off a line, wind in his hair. He glares at Ed, like he usually fucking does, Then lifts his chin and a cold expression Ed does not like comes to his face. 

“It ain’t gonna work you know,” he says. 

“What isn’t?” Ed says, rising to his elbows, the searing heat already prickling underneath his ribs like smoldering straw. 

“You could get ten ships for Hornigold, or a hundred, but it ain’t gonna matter. He’s not gonna care because you. ain’t. worth. shit.” 

Ed’s fingers are in Jack’s collar before he knows it, dragging him down. Jack’s hand wraps in his hair, pulling it back hard and Ed glares. He doesn’t care. He fucking doesn’t. He will rip it out by the roots and cave Jack’s fucking skull in with his own.

“STARBOARD, HO!” Long Bob bellows, ear splinteringly loud. Ed automatically looks, and his heart lurches as coming up on them starboard, black hulled and white sailed, is the fucking Princess Anne. 

And they are right in her path.

Chapter Text

The Princess Anne bears down on them, the embers of sunset casting her white sails pink and gleaming on her polished wood. She is a full galleon, sleek and powerful; her figurehead is of a woman, great flowing hair curling up the sides like a mane, hand covering her breasts. A real mermaid, Ed thinks, a beautiful ship.

Even if they’re all supremely fucked.

Jack curses and shoves him back, sending him sprawling into the pile of ropes. In a moment Jack is back up the rigging, moving with liquid, terrified speed. There are other shouts of alarm along the rigging, like a tree full of disturbed birds. Ed waits on bated breath for the order, weariness vanishing as excitement stings through him.

There is nothing. No command. No bark. No sharp call.

Silver is looking toward the helm, ruddy face bleached of color like an old bone. Ed looks too, wondering if Bill Bones has died somehow, but no, he’s standing there, gripping Griff’s shoulder so that his knuckles are white.

“What are your bloody orders?” Griff snaps. “Find your voice, man!”

“Turn about,” Bones says then, louder. “Turn about!”

“What?” Ed doesn’t have time to be annoyed at the squeak, and then frantically as Silver opens his mouth. “Don’t turn us about are you out of your fucking mind?”

“I said turn about!” Bill Bones snarls, turning blazing eyes on him.

“We can’t turn about!” Ed snaps back. “We’re twenty on a ship crewed by twice that! We’re not going to have the fucking time! Let the current pull us out!”

“That’ll put us right in range of her cannon, Eddie-boy,” says Silver, his eyes darting back and forth between them. 

And that’s true.

 That’s true but-!

“Well, the Princess doesn’t know we stole this yet, do they? They sure as fuck will know if we turn now. And we’ll be fighting the tide.”

Bill Bones opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Sweat as big as grapes cluster on his forehead.

There’s no fucking time for this and Ed wishes he could fucking do something about it. Or better yet give the orders his fucking self.

“Straight ahead, Mr. Silver!” says Davenport, landing with a thump on the quarterdeck in a swirl of coat that is, admittedly, really fucking cool.

There is a snap of silence, all eyes turning to Silver who hesitates only a moment before shouting:

“You heard him! Straight ahead, men! Don’t let God or the Devil sway you! We’ve not lost yet! At signal any free hands down to lighten the load! Let’s get some speed on her!”

“I ain’t gettin’ my ass shot,” Jack says from the rigging. “Ed! Get the flag! Like Skull Fort! That’ll confuse the fuckers for a minute.”

“Oh, yeah!” Ed fairly trips across the deck to get up to the aft mast where the English flag is. It’s a really fucking good idea. Stealing and raising a Spanish flag was how they got close to the fort at all without getting their asses blasted all over the water. Maybe it’ll work now. At least for a moment.  Ed pulls the flag up as fast as he could, the rope rough in his palms, his arms hurting and rubbery even from that.

When it is up and secured, he fumbles out his spyglass from his shirt and peers at the other ship. The Navy Men are confused, or at least seem so: pointing at the ship, peering at the land. The Dorter is pulling further and further away, dancing over the waves. Then Ed sees a cannon nosing in the forward most port.

Fuck.

He looks around and is relieved to see Long Bob in shouting distance. He cups his hands around his mouth, takes a deep breath and calls:

“Long Bob! Incoming starboard aft!”

“INCOMING STARBOARD AFT!” Long Bob roars.

“Brace yourselves!” Silver yells.

Ed realizes at the last moment to duck behind the mast, just as there is a shuddering boom and the whistle of a cannon ball, the magnificent crash of wood. The aft mast shudders violently as the ball clips it before going wild and plunking out in the blue. Wood rains down behind him, but the mast is big and solid and well-built and doesn’t list or fall. His ears buzz and he has to shake his head to clear them, even as it sets his head to spinning.

“…Mr. Teach?” Silver is calling as if from faint away, the tail end of a question.

“WHAT’S SHE DOING, ED?” Long Bob says.

Oh yeah. Shit. He peers around the mast again. The Princess Anne is trying to slow, maybe stop, a look through the spyglass shows some debate happening on the deck. There’s a flicker of movement by the black rock jetty, and he peers through to see some of the Dorter men waving- and further back in the trees by the beach, the flash of pistol fire.

“Mr. Teach!” Silver says.

“Stopping or turning,” Ed calls up to Long Bob. Either way the Princess is much bigger than the Dorter and by the time she does either, they’ll be out of range. They seem to know that too because another cannon blast rings through the air, though the ball falls short of the ship by a length or so.

“SLOWING DOWN, BOSS!”

“Alright, boys! Clear for now! Let’s lighten the load!”

Ed laughs, throat feeling raw, as he watches the island sweep away. Another peek through the glass and he sees the Walrus and Siren crew spilling onto the beach, too far away now to be distinct. Except he can spot Aconi whirling away with his cutlass and Vance piledriving some poor fucker into the sand.  There’s not many Navy Men left on the beach to fight though. Maybe they’ve all gone west? Ed hopes the mermaid swabbie is with them.

He hears footsteps on the deck behind him and a shadow falls over him. Too late, Ed smells the sour stench of old liquor. Ed’s stomach dives. Too late he remembers Bill Bones.

He turns right into the man’s fucking fist. His skull bounces off the mast as solidly as a cannonball.

There are stars then sparks then nothing.

xxxxx

He doesn’t know where he is.

 It is soft.

There are voices.

His head is pounding. His mouth tastes like ash. His face feels like fire. He can hear rain pattering against the glass of a window and that reassures him somehow though the reason why slips through his fingers like flashing minnows in a pond.

The thought of fish makes his heart kick and for a second he wonders if he’s on the verge of fucking drowning again, only no, there are soft linens under his fingertips rather than sand and the air is warm and close. Almost too close. He’s sweating a little under his shirt.

The bed shifts beside him and he flinches a little, but someone says “shhh” and a cool rag is draped against his forehead, dampening the pounding too. Even so he can only open one eye, the other swollen shut because of course it fucking is. The room is taking a while to swim into focus.

It’s dim, that’s why. Only one lantern hangs on the opposite wall. It’s a cabin. There is a table and night dark windows, flickering lantern light just outside, and shadows of people in the room that refuse to focus.

Where is he? What happened? He blinks at the nearest shadow, trying to make sense of it. His vision is clearing but not fast enough and this… this reminds him…this reminds him of…

“Doctor John?” he says, though his voice comes out soft and slurred. The murmured conversation in the room stops and the shadow beside him chuckles.

“I will forgive you that.”

“Oh…” Feliciano… Ed tries to raise a hand to touch the rag on his head, but his fingers only twitch against the blankets.

“Will you have water?” says Feliciano.

“Rather have rum.” That’ll make the headache go away— until it wears off.

“Perhaps soon.”

A gentle hand on his shoulder and he’s pulled up a little, pillows -- more than one! -- fluffed up behind him. He blinks at the cup presented to him and manages to take it and hold onto it. The water is sweet and cool and slides easily down his throat, making his stomach gurgle, reminding him that it’s hungry.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Ed says.

“It is just brought from the island, I think,” say Feliciano.

“Damn good thing they were stocked. Would just be like this cursed voyage if we’re adrift with no provisions,” mutters a grumbling voice. Ed squints toward the figure, wants to shake his head but is pretty sure his brains will hammer against his skull and send him back out again. He sees a man. A familiar man. With a yellowing bruise around his eye and a puffy lip.

Map man, Ed thinks. Silver’s dog. What is his name?

“We’re hardly adrift.” That’s Davenport. He’s sitting against the far wall like a jackass, legs up and crossed on the table, head tilted back as he watches the light glint off a dagger he’s holding above his face. Ed hopes he puts his eye out. But then again, an eyepatch would make him even fucking cooler so maybe not.

“Well, I don’t like where we’re going,” the map man mutters. Gruff. No. Griff.

Griff and Davenport and…and Feliciano… in a strange cabin… on the Dorter? It must be. That’s why everything looks skewed. Ed’s stomach growls again and Feliciano takes the cup and gives him an apple. There’s not even a bruise on it and when he bites into it, it gives pleasantly under his teeth and the inside is firm, not mealy or rotten.

He notices as he chews that Feliciano is watching the door, fingers of his off hand tapping the hilt of his cutlass which he is wearing. Is he expecting trouble? If he is, Davenport and Griff aren’t. Davenport is being stupid with a dagger and Griff is deep into a bottle.

A knock sounds on the cabin door makes them all tense and Davenport grips the dagger, sliding his feet off the table. Slowly the door opens a crack.

“It is just me, alone with some grub for the boy if he’s awake,” says Silver. “May I come in without my face being blown off?”

No one even has a pistol. No, wait, Griff does, and he slowly lowers it beneath the table.

“You can come,” says Feliciano. “Alone.”

Silver slips in the door alone and closes it behind him. He’s holding a wooden tray and on it a bowl of something steaming, the smell of chicken and real noodles wafts through the air and Ed practically drools.

“Well so you are awake,” says Silver with a bland smile, coming over to the bed. The parrot is with him as always, hunched against his neck as if trying to protect itself from the rain. It clicks its beak and shuffles its little feet, but Ed really only cares about the tray that’s set carefully in his lap. There are real fucking vegetables in here too. Carrots and beets and little ghosts of celery. He feels like he might cry.

“Eat hearty, lad, but slowly so as to not bring it all up again. We’ll need you fit if we want to keep ourselves from the bottom of a rope,” Silver says, settling in a nearby chair and taking off his hat.

“It won’t come to that, surely,” says Davenport.

“It will,” says Griff. “If not by our own hands then the Leviathan when she gets hold of us.”

“Our own hands?” Something prickles along the back of Ed’s neck. “What’s going on? What happened?”

“Short answer, you,” says Silver, bringing the parrot from his neck to sit on his knee. “And don’t give me that poisonous look, Duarte. We both know it. Young Teach here is the cause of and solution to most of our problems.” Silver grins. “Never met a boy as can almost cause a mutiny in his sleep.”

Ed grins too, liking the sound of that. The first part anyway. The second is confusing.

“What did I do?” He then takes a sip of the soup and it’s not the best he’s ever tasted because no one can cook better than Greg but it’s pretty fucking fantastic. If it wasn’t hot enough to burn his tongue off he’d gulp it right down. He’s hungry enough that he takes a second spoonful, sucking up a fat yeasty noodle and savoring its taste before swallowing and saying. “What?”

Because everyone is staring at him. Even Feliciano.

“You do not remember?” Feliciano says.

“Uh…” Ed thinks. It’s hard to think even with water and food. His head is still aching and he still feels like he belly flopped off the yardarm. “Remind me?"

But there has to be stuff after that. He knows it. For instance he knows Long Bob and Jack and van Morgenstern are here even though he can’t remember seeing them come aboard. He also remembers being pissed at Jack, but he can’t remember why.

“You countermanded the Bill Bones’ orders,” says Silver. Did he? "And made him look like an idiot.”

“Oh, yeeah,” Ed says, remembering in a muddy sort of way.

“The man is already an idiot,” says Davenport as he cleans under his perfect nails with the point of a dagger. “Even without the puppy’s help.”

Ed is caught between wanting to like Davenport and wanting to stab him in the fucking foot. He can barely move without his head spinning, though, so the man is lucky- for now.

“So you say, Don, and so it may be true, but that doesn’t change that we’re in a hell of a situation, so wipe that smirk off your face if you please” says Silver. And surprisingly, Davenport does, laying the dagger instead on his lap and looking serious and even a bit worried. Silver looks at Ed then, and sighs, runs a hand over his broad face.

 “The truth is, right or wrong, Bones is even more against you than he was before, Edward, my lad,” Silver says. “And though my men were happy enough to use my voice as it serves them, they’re starting to think their pride is better served with Bones. It’s only that Mr. Davenport threw his lot in with you that keeps you all from being cast over the side as my men don’t give a rat’s left tit about Hornigold and his reach won’t extend this far anyway. That and you have Mr. Griff to thank for tossing in with you too as he’s the only one who has a chance of getting us safe to shore again.”

“Slim buggering chance,” mutters Griff.

“Any port in a storm, Mr. Griff,” says Silver. Then to Ed. “Do you understand me?”

Ed nods. He does. Mostly. The Walrus crew can’t really be trusted. And even though the Siren crew and his own mates together outnumber the Walrus crew, they need every hand they have to keep this tub moving.

“There’s a storm brewing, to be sure. But if we’re careful, we can avoid the storm altogether,” says Silver. “I don’t suppose it’s in you to apologize to our Mr. Bones and make amends.”

Ed swallows thickly as he thinks about it, suddenly cold under his skin.

No.

Not that shit.

Not again.

 Bones will be just as bad as Flint if not worse and the thought of being around him as he got drunker and drunker, eyes red rimmed, knuckles already bloodied. But he has to, doesn’t he? Because the Walrus crew would be stupid enough to fight them and it would make them happy to see Ed just a fucking dog again at the heels of their idiot mate.

“No,” says Feliciano, harsh enough to make Ed jolt a little. “No, that is not done. It is against the pride of the Ranger and it is against the pride of men. You call him a puppy, Don, but he is the one who spoke when no one else would and hurt for it.”

“Didn’t hurt that much,” Ed mutters, face burning, feeling both embarrassed and oddly pleased, like he’d taken a gulp of good, sweet rum. It’s even better when Davenport looks down at his feet and murmurs:

“Yes… I suppose…”

“True and all, it’s not fair, and I won’t stand by and say it was,” says Silver. “And I don’t want this either, you can believe I don’t, though Bones is not as hard a man as Flint and if good fortune is on our side then we’ll get through this voyage quickly, with praise at the end of it which might heal the sting.” Here, Silver’s face turned kind. “But it might have helped if young Teach hadn’t made so many enemies.”

“And who was that set the men against Ed at the first place so that himself might be São Judas. Hm?”

Oh yeah. Silver had done that, hadn’t he?

“Yes, well,” Silver says, ruddy face going even redder as he looks down at his feet and Ed’s gut tingles. Feliciano is good. Of course he’s fucking good because Hornigold wouldn’t accept anyone who wasn’t. But he’s even fucking better than Ed thought.

“Yes, well,” says Feliciano, in almost a sneer. “And more than against the pride of the Ranger, if one pride falls so the others will follow. Should Bones be given the pride of the Ranger? The Siren? The one who has set against him every step? He will drink it like wine and leave us all at the foot of the table.”
     “I can’t say as I’d argue with you, Mr. Duarte, but the storm is brewing no matter who is taking the blame,” Silver says.

That’s true too. Ed doesn’t want to be drunk like wine and he really just wants to sail free with the wind in his hair and the sun on his face, but maybe he can do that when they get back to the Ranger.

“It won’t be so bad…” Ed says. And it won’t be. Maybe the Walrus crew will be jackasses but he can still punch Jack when he needs to or hang around with Long Bob or Feliciano or fish with van Morgenstern.

“No,” says Feliciano. “Drink your soup. Your time is done. I will stop the storm. But you must all be with me. May I have you, Don?”

“Yes,” murmurs Davenport.

“May I have you Senhor Sebastian?”

“Aye,” says Griff and drinks deep from his bottle.

“Silver.” It is not a question, almost an order.

Ed’s stomach gives a complicated little wiggle and he ducks his head and drinks his soup.

“Might as well,” says Silver.

“Bem.”

No. Not bem. Ed wants Feliciano to ask him too. Then he can say yes and get a warm smile and maybe the man will even ruffle his hair.

“And, Ed,” says Feliciano and Ed nearly chokes, wanting to speak but his mouth is full of soup, which now burns in his throat and the back of his nose. Fortunately, Feliciano doesn’t seem to notice and his dark eyes are serious.

“You will have to dance for me, just once, as best you can. No matter what is said. No matter what is done. I will tell you what only to say and when, and you say only this. You will?”

“I will,” Ed rasps. And he will. He will do his best. Because Feliciano has him too, even if he didn’t ask.

“Grato,” says Feliciano, petting his cheek. “And thanks to you all. If we do this we may survive.”

xxxxx

In the end, Ed isn’t sure if he can dance, but only because he wants to puke- only he really doesn’t. Not afucking again. Thank fuck he doesn’t have to walk onto the deck on his own, but every step Long Bob takes makes his head spin, and it’s all he can do to cling to the Long Bob’s back like a barnacle, even with the man’s strong arms holding onto his legs.

It’s also still raining a little, misting anyway, and he’s freezing- and the sight of the small crew, standing midships, lantern light on their faces, makes it even colder. Everyone looks serious, their eyes bitter. Everyone has their weapons on them, cutlass or pistol or dagger or all three. Ed has nothing. Feliciano has his sword, but it’s not going to stop a fucking lead shot. The Walrus crew are standing by Bones who is standing nearest the cabin, arms folded, dark eyes glittering like glass shards under the shadowed brim of his hat.

Fuck.

Ed’s stomach tumbles uncertainly and he clutches his fingers against Long Bob’s collar, feeling the man’s hands against his legs damp with sweat. It’ll be fine, Ed thinks. It’ll be fucking fine. All he has to do is wait for Feliciano to call Bones a failure and then Ed will say what he was told to say and somehow it will all fucking work out.

     He feels a little better as Long Bob comes to stand between Jack and van Morgenstern. It feels a little like he’s finally back where he belongs, even if Bones is glaring at him.

“So here he is,” says Bones. “Hornigold’s little bitch. Not so much a good boy now, are you?” The Walrus men snicker and Ed’s fingers tighten, but he keeps his mouth shut, presses his teeth together to keep them from chattering as a chill goes through him.

“Who you’ve all decided to listen to for some godforsaken reason and do you know what you’ve done, boy? What you’ve brought on our heads?” And then when Ed says nothing adds: “Well?”

“No,” Ed mutters.

“You’ve sent us into the mouth of the Devil, boy,” says Bones. “This current will spit us right out at the Leviathan’s feet where she’ll be happy to blow us out of the water. And the Princess is not far behind.” He turns to the men.  “We’re absolutely fucked because of this little shit, when we could have and should have turned back to Flint.”

And gotten shot the shit out of, Ed thinks. And even if they didn’t get it broadsides, they hadn’t even expecting the Princess Anne. There’s no way in fuck Flint or Hawke or Hornigold would have expected her to show up. Well maybe Hornigold because he’s a fucking genius, but either way, the Walrus and the Siren would have been unprepared and while everyone could have piled onto the Ranger to sail like a bat out of hell, she sure as fuck couldn’t stand up to the Princess.

 Anyway, half of the raiding party was probably at the fucking beach anyway and if the Princess was on their tail, it meant it wasn’t blasting the shit out of the raiding party.

Ed chews on the words instead of saying them, though it’s stupid that no one else of the Walrus crew even realize what’s so blindingly fucking obvious.

“And Silver allowed this to happen,” says Bones. “But we all know whose side he’s on.” The man’s voice goes dark and the Walrus crew mutters. Dirk draws his blade then and cleans his nails with it but much more aggressively than Davenport had been, smirking at Ed as if Ed should be afraid. Ed ducks his chin against Long Bob’s fuzzy head so he won’t glare at the man. He’s determined to dance no matter what.

Though Feliciano can call Bones a failure any fucking time now.

“I’m on the side of us all surviving,” says Silver, hands braced on his belt. “Yes or no, I follow the voice of the man who didn’t hesitate when facing down death. If it is right or wrong, it’s not on me to say, it is for the captain to decide, and I’d rather follow a captain that knows his mind.”

Ed takes a breath and then realizes that Silver calling Bones an idiot doesn’t count so lets it out again. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Jack looking at him funny and decides to ignore it.

“Don’s better’n you anyway,” says Jack and Ed would kick him if he could. Firstly, because it’s not fair that he can say whatever he wants, and secondly Jack needs to read the fucking room and thirdly he needs to stop making doe eyes at fucking Davenport.

“One bitch listening to another doesn’t make him better, you shit rag,” says Bones which is a good insult Ed has to admit. “And we’re still caught between the devil’s ass and armpit. They’re both to blame. You’re all to blame. Everyone knows Silver wants the Siren to break away and if he has to get on his knees even to little Donny, he will.”

“That is your thought, so it is,” says Silver. “I work for the lives of the Walrus crew, I always have, I always will and they are dependent on their leaders knowing their own mind when danger comes knocking. But you’ve said your piece and won’t be spoken against, which I disagree with, but as a humble sailor, my thoughts are toward simpler matters. What is next, Captain Bones?”

And even though Silver had said ‘captain’ as matter-of-factly as he had said everything else, Bones suddenly looks terrified. But then he sneers and jabs a finger in Ed’s direction.

“Punishment!” he snaps. “Keelhaul the little bitch until he screams blood.”

Ed tries not to roll his eyes to that. Like he’s afraid of a little keelhauling. True he’s never been keelhauled or seen anybody been keelhauled, but how bad could it be?

“What? Why? Just cuz you’re a jackass?” Jack says and Ed kicks him in the side as best he can because Jack is ruining everything probably, even if Ed agrees. Jack glares and punches him back in the leg which hurts like fuck and if Ed wasn’t dancing he’d try to kick him the face next.

“He will not survive it,” says Feliciano with a sigh, taking off his sword and setting it to the side. Ed’s heart jumps. He didn’t know Feliciano was going to do that! The words Ed’s supposed to say gather behind his teeth and he keeps his lips around them because it’s not time, but he’s going to make it someone’s time if something happens to Feliciano. “I will take punishment for this.”

“What? No!” Ed says.

“No, me!” bellows Long Bob.

“Pft, don’t fukken look at me,” says van Morgenstern.

“That little shit deserves all the punishment he gets!” says Jack and Ed is torn between wanting to kick him again and grateful that he’s at least looking after Feliciano. Ed struggles to get off Long Bob’s back so he can do something, but the man is panicking and grips his calves so tightly it hurts, that and even the tiniest jerk makes the deck spin.

And Bones is grinning. Ed hates that grin. He wants to knock it right off of the man’s mouth.

“For in the end,” Feliciano continues as if he doesn’t hear them. “We all must take punishment for your failure.”

Bones smile disappears.

“What?”

Ed wonders which failure Feliciano means, then remembers suddenly it’s his turn.

“Flint told you to go straight and take the current if this happened, you dick fuck!” Ed snaps, his voice coming out unexpectedly squeaky and high, getting more than a few chuckles. Ed flushes and tries to ignore them.

“He did not,” says Bones.

“He did! I was there!  But you were on your fourth fucking bottle of the night.”

“You…you lie,” Bones says but already the Walrus crew are looking at him and each other, though Dirk is still glaring at them like he doesn’t buy it. 

“It’s true. Heard it myself,” says Griff.

“But why would he?” Bones looks taken aback. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Because he’s a fucking genius,” Ed says which feels like the biggest lie he’s ever told but the Walrus crew nod at this. Bones opens his mouth and shuts it again.

“Don’t listen to this chickadee,” says Dirk. “Why would Captain Flint send us into hell?”

“Captain Flint, well, he is a man of faith,” says Feliciano, spreading his hands. “And he picked us because he knew we could do this. Are you not the strongest fighter of your crew, Senhor Dirk?”

“Hell yes, but-”

“And is not Senhor Davenport the most clever under fire? And Jack quick of mind?”

“Quickest mind you’ll ever fuckin’ see!” Jack says. Dumbass.

“It is Senhor Sebastian who brought us to the rocky shore, and Senhor Silver that brings all to order and you Senhor Bones, who knows how to captain on the day to day. We are all here for a reason!” Feliciano spreads his hands and turns in a circle. “Because we have belief! We are brave men of the Walrus!”

A cheer from the Walrus crew.

“Of the Siren!”

A more restrained cheer from the Siren crew.

“Of the Ranger!”

Ed can’t manage to get much out of his mouth but it’s fine because Long Bob’s cheer seems to buzz the glass of the windows. Feliciano turns toward the Walrus crew again, hand over his heart.

“And we forgive, Senhor Bones, because all men have troubles. And we know that though those troubles lead to the bloody death of our lovely Davey, who was struck down without mercy or thought…” Feliciano’s voice trembles and he bows his head.

“Poor kid, poor kid,” Long Bob is saying, sniffing hugely as snot runs into his beard and Ed moves his hands to the man’s shoulders. Pew takes off his hat and even the Toad dabs at the corner of is eye.

“Davey…I ….” Bones swallows. “I didn’t…mean to…”

“He knows, and would forgive too,” says Feliciano, warmly, gently. “So let us forgive words said, and things done, and let us bring glory to our ships and our lost. What say you, brave men? Shall we go forward?”

“Yeah!” the men cheer, even the Siren crew getting into it.

“Shall we be defeated?”

“No!” And this time even Bones chimes in.

“Shouting isn’t going to stop us from getting sunk by one ship or the other!” Dirk snaps. We’re still heading for disaster!” Which is a good point…and the crew goes silent then, looking to Bones who clears his throat; takes off his hat, turns it around in his hands.

“Cap’n Flint say anything else, brat- er- Teach…? Anything I might have missed?”

Oh… Hm… Well it’s true they can’t really face the Leviathan. They could maybe trick the Leviathan for a little while, but not long enough to haul ass let alone fight it. But the Dorter couldn’t have sailed that far when Ed was out…and since the Princess is trailing them anyway then… Maybe

“Flint wants us to cut through the Devil’s Eye,” Ed says and everyone looks at him then, even Feliciano. Griff gropes around and takes a bottle from a nearby Siren who doesn’t even seem to notice it’s gone.

“Are you sure,” says Silver, giving him a pointed look.

“Well, yeah I’m fucking sure.” Because not only is the Devil’s Eye amazing but - “We’re close enough to reach it from here. We don’t even have to go all the way through. We just have to go through long enough to lose the Princess then go back to Blind Man’s Cove.” Easy. And! “Feliciano’s been there before. That’s why Flint sent him along.”

Feliciano’s eyes widen and his face seems to pale.

“Is that true?” says Bones.

“Ah… sim. Of course. Very true,” says Feliciano. “Though it was…a long ago, I will remember much.”

See? It’s fucking perfect. No one’s fucking dying. Ed doesn’t have to lick anyone’s fucking boots. He’s with his crew and van Morgenstern and they’re going through the most badass part of the sea he’s ever heard of.

This is going to be fucking fantastic.

Even if he’s the only one smiling.

xxxxx

Though the smile only lasts as long as it takes to get back to the room. Mostly because he’s too fucking tired to do much else but to cling to Long Bob’s shoulders. He’s relieved when the man lets him slide back onto the bed, even though the movement sets his head to swirling and he has to rest back against the wall. Silver comes in next bringing a lantern followed by Griff and Feliciano who closes the door behind him.

Long Bob frowns down at Ed, patting his head with a few fingers and though it’s not a very hard pat, it makes Ed wince.

“You look like shit, Ed,” says Long Bob, frowning down at him. “Doesn’t he look like shit? We should break someone’s face.”

“We did all that to avoid breaking faces, my lad,” says Silver, sounding tired himself. “And a good job it was too. Though I can’t say as we’re in a much better position than when we started.”

Griff snorts and gets out another bottle of dark rum which he pours in cups. It looks like good rum and Ed’s mouth waters for the taste of it. Even if there are only three cups he can always drink from the bottle.

“And how well do you know the Devil’s Eye, Mr. Duarte?” asks Silver. Ed realizes Feliciano hasn’t even moved from where he’d shut the door. He’s resting his head against it instead, on long fingered hand braced against the wood, his hair softly dented against it. It’s pretty but it makes a knot grip Ed’s throat.

“I don’t,” says Feliciano quietly. The knot tightens. Fuck.

Fuck.

“Wh… but you said…”

“Ay, I said we barely survived it. I said I don’t know how. I don’t know if even it’s the same place.” Feliciano cracks his knuckles against the door. It’s not loud, but Ed starts anyway, the hairs on the back of his neck raising. “I wish for once you could have been silent, Edward.”

Ed wants to sink into the bed. Wants to disappear into the darkness. He pulls the blankets up to his chin, his face blistering with the growing silence of the room. It’s broken only when Griff drinks one cup of rum, and then the other, and then proceeds to drain the bottle.

Silver clears his throat.

“Well… what is done is done,” he says.

“I can take it back,” Ed says.

“No.” Feliciano’s voice is tight and angry.

“It’s a bit too late for that, Eddie-boy,” says Silver with a touch of sympathy which crawls under Ed’s skin and he clenches his fingers in the blankets.

“No, it’s not! I’ll just say it was a trick or a lie or…”

“No, you are to sit and you are to rest and you are to keep quiet,” Feliciano snaps. Ed jerks back, both by his tone and the look in his eyes which seems to cut Ed through and through. It’s only a quick glance, though and the next moment Feliciano is rubbing the space between his eyes, murmuring:

“Eu preciso de uma bebida.”

Long Bob is sucking on his lower lip, looking like he wants to go to Feliciano, and Ed wishes he would. It would be nice for Feliciano to have someone he could count on that wasn’t a total fuck up.

“It’s not so bad as that,” says Silver into the quiet. “You’re a bit hard done by it, Mr. Duarte, and I won’t say as it’s otherwise, but I’m sure you remember more than you think. Let’s you and I talk about it.”  He puts a hand on Feliciano’s shoulder, and Feliciano sighs and nods, pushing once more back into the night. Silver takes one last look at them over his shoulder.

“And I’d take his words to heart, lad,” he says to Ed. “You’re smart as a blade, and no one will say any different, but try not to be so smart you cut everyone around you.”

 Silver shuts the door behind him.  The silence is even louder now save for Long Bob shifting from foot to foot and the sound of Griff drinking himself into a stupor and the slow steady roaring in Ed’s ears.

“Oh, you fucked up, Ed. You really did,” says Long Bob, but gently, and Ed hates him just a little. He pulls the covers over his head and mutters:

 “Go to hell.” Only quietly, so Long Bob won’t hear.

 It doesn’t make him feel much better.

xxxxx

Ed sighs and rests his chin on the crossbeam of the top gallant of the main royal mast. To the East the sky is a melon rind, the sun only just throwing a few yawning beams into the sky. There’s just enough to see by, though they’ll have to rely on instinct for a lot of it- Which normally wouldn’t be a problem except everyone is tired as fuck.

It’s been two days and the only reason things haven’t been as shit as they could be is because there’s no time to do anything. They wake up shit dog early and sleep shit dog late and every moment not spent in the rigging is spent trying not to pass out on deck and eat the food that Silver gives them. It’s good food, fresh from the island, but he is too shit tired to enjoy it.

The worst part is, he has what he had been hoping for. Things are…kind of back to normal. Instead of a lonely berth under the fo’c'sle protected by a patched bit of canvas, he has a cabin. Not the captain’s cabin, because he had to give that over to Bones, but one of the mate’s cabins that’s just as big as the rabbit’s. All of the Ranger crew make their berth there.

Except… Jack wasn’t there last night; and Long Bob is spending all his time on Dog’s Watch, only coming to sleep in the morning and Feliciano sleeps in a hammock rather than the bed, passing out the moment he flops into it. …and well there’s van Morgenstern, but he whistle-snores in a way that makes Ed want to smother him with a pillow.  There are no late night talks or jokes or Feliciano’s arm wrapped around his middle- and the man’s not really talking to him anyway but Ed hopes it’s just because everyone’s too damn tired.

It’s fine though, this isn’t supposed to be a fun adventure, but them running for their lives from the Princess Anne who is just a ghost in the distance, but never leaves the horizon. They’re lucky only in that the moon has only just started filling up, so that they can anchor in the pitch dark, so long as they douse all the lights.

Even better…or maybe worse? Griff thinks they might maybe possibly reach the Devil’s Eye by sundown and God have mercy on them if they do and have mercy on them if they don’t, he says. And it isn’t going to be fun at all, even if Ed wants it to be.

He sighs again and Jack on the opposite end of the crossbeam from him says:

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck off,” Ed says without heat because he doesn’t have any. Firstly because he’s too tired and secondly because he doesn’t deserve to and thirdly because it’s cold as balls out here.

He yawns as he watches the other crew get in place so they can set to. Beneath them Silver is pacing back and forth midships. He and Griff and Job Anderson who wrenched his ankle yesterday are the only ones on deck. Everyone else, including Bones, is up in the rigging getting ready.

Ed deserves to be on deck for the shit he pulled. He deserves to be on deck with a mop in his hands. He deserves to be a red waistcoat for everything he’s done. Even though he’s ditched the gray waistcoat for a white Navy Man shirt and a short blue Navy Man jacket that’s a bit big for him and still the same stupid stripey trousers, but also a bit of gold from a pretty necklace he found with an oval pendant which Jack had called girl ass shit- but Ed bets that he’s just mad that he didn’t find it first.

Maybe he’ll put the waistcoat back on when they finally have time to piss again- to show Feliciano he’s sorry- that he’s ready to stop being stupid.

A slight change in the wind blows the scent of oily flowers across his face and Ed wrinkles his nose, glancing over at Jack who is too busy staring behind them to notice, folds creasing his forehead like he’s an old man. He’s wearing the stupid coat again too that flaps and drags in the wind and his hair is bound up in a tiny ribbon, like he’s trying to be Hornigold or Davenport but forgot how to be Jack.

“Hey, jackass,” Ed says, just to speak.

“Shut up, moron, I’ve gotta concentrate.”

“On what,” Ed says. All they have to do is to let fall the top gallant at Silver’s word, then bolt up and do the same to the main royal, the main skysail and the moon’sl. Twenty hands on a four masted ship is a bit of a pain in the ass, he’ll admit, and it’s a lot of fucking climbing really fucking quick, but it’s not like they didn’t do this yesterday.

“On not getting my ass blasted open,” Jack says. “We coulda just stayed on the Ranger and done what was planned at the start, but no you had to open your big stupid mouth.”

“Fuck you,” Ed grumbles. “We would have been outgunned anyway, and if I had you wouldn’t have had your big stupid coat or your big stupid Davenport.”

“Don ain’t big, he’s normal sized. And cool… I mean, kinda….for a dude…you  know… And he’s smarter’n you. Dumbass.”

“He is not.” They’re about as smart as each other, though he still likes that he got one over on him.

“He is. You don’t see him throwin’ Felix to the wolves.”

“Shut up,” Ed mutters, face stinging. He can see Feliciano now slowly climbing to a lower spar on the foremast. His leg is probably hurting him more than usual these days and Ed is starting to regret that too. He should have just let himself get stabbed. “I didn’t mean to…” he mutters.

“Didn’t mean to.” Jack snorts. “That’s your problem. You know the only reason you get away with shit with Hornigold is because he likes your good ideas and can shit on you for the bad ones. But the real world ain’t like that. Here sure as fuck ain’t like that. And you can’t go through life with Daddy holdin’ your hand.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says through his teeth, gripping the sail under his hands. Hornigold isn’t- and he never wants Hornigold to hold his hand- but maybe Hornigold has been holding his hand all this time. Maybe Ed just hadn’t noticed. Maybe he is still a stupid kid after all.

“Stand by to let fall, lads!” Silver calls from below. “Man the topsail sheets and halliards!”

“Words do things, Ed,” says Jack, shifting his weight against the ratlines and rolling his shoulders. “Bout time you remembered that.”

xxxxx

It’s noon before Ed is able to make his wobbly way down from the rigging. A good wind shift to port had them all scrambling to tack into it and put even more distance between them and the Princess. He’d scrambled up and down, hauled taught and laid in.  His face is burnt and his hands are raw, his lips prickly and broken from the salt and the wind. But the Princess Anne is a misty dot on the horizon now. She’ll catch the wind too, probably, and come after them, but by then they’ll be even closer to the Devil’s Eye and…

And safety maybe…

Sort of.

He sets his feet on the deck and leans against the mizzenmast, wishing it were a bed, wishing he were back on the Ranger, that he’d never even mentioned the idea of the Dorter. He aches everywhere and around him the rest of the crew slip like slugs to the deck.

Jack flops down from the foremast, sprawling on the deck like a starfish, hands and legs spread. He’s gotten rid of the coat because the day is hot and he is soaked in sweat. Ed is preparing himself to go toward him, but Davenport comes to stand over him, hands on his hips, until toppling over in an exaggerated way almost directly onto him. Jack’s stomach moves in a laugh and Ed feels an odd twinge and looks away.

Only to see Feliciano, sitting on the stairs leading to the quarterdeck, gripping the railing in a tight fist as Long Bob massages his leg. He too is covered in sweat, but his face is gray and laced with pain. Stupid. Ed thinks, bonking his forehead lightly against the mast. Idiot. Feliciano shouldn’t even be here. He should be back at Paradise conning drinks or sunning himself near the prow of the Ranger, hands behind his head and smiling.

Ed will just have to make sure Feliciano gets back there, that’s all. But not by speaking. No. Ed’s never going to speak again, at least not about anything important. He’s just going to keep his mouth shut and behave and… 

He hears someone approaching on the other side and pushes away from the mast so he doesn’t get his head knocked into it. It’s a good thing too because Bones is striding up to him, tying back his hair, shirt almost completely gray from time spent up in the rigging.

“Teach, with me,” Bones says, his voice rough from salt and wind. Ed wants to say ‘fuck you’, but fortunately doesn’t and is too tired anyway. He braces himself, flinches only a little when Bones cuffs him on the back of his head hard enough to make his teeth click, and falls into step behind him, trying to keep his legs from wobbling all over the place.

They come upon Silver who is bandaging Dirk’s hand where he’d gotten rope burn across his right palm and Ed tries not to stare at the flakes of white skin or the raw redness of it.

“Get everyone who’s necessary to the state room,” says Bones. Silver raises and eyebrow and Dirk’s eyes narrow, flicking between the two of them.

“What’s going on?”

Bones taps Dirk upside the head with the flat of his hand, lighter than he’d smacked Ed, but hard enough to make the man wince.

“Now there’s no call for that,” says Silver, though he doesn’t seem very bothered.

“If you don’t control them, I will,” says Bones. “You’ll be told when you need to know, Mr. Dirk.”

“Yes, boss,” Dirk says and Ed doesn’t like that. Doesn’t trust it. It unsettles something deep in his gut. Bones doesn’t even acknowledge it, anyway, just continues on and up the steps though fortunately the other set that Feliciano is not on. Though Feliciano and Long Bob are watching him and glance at each other.

Ed looks away, heart stinging though he’s not sure why.

What Bones called the state room is pretty much the captain’s quarters, and it’s pretty huge, though not as big as Flint’s. It must have been a pretty interesting room at some point but now it’s a fucking mess. Papers and clothes are flung everywhere. The oil painting on the wall with a ship facing a storm has been stabbed with a cutlass which is still hanging there and the whole room reeks of booze. There are empty bottles lying by the bed, clustered on a shelf, rolling back and forth with the pitch and yaw of the ship.

Ed would breathe through his mouth but he doesn’t want to fucking taste it.

“You know what to do, boy,” says Bones, pointing to the table in the center of the room, where there is a bottle and a few cups. Of fucking course. “And keep your mouth shut until I ask. You’re here as the voice of Flint but nothing else.”

Fucker.

It’s like Bones is trying to be Flint the way he sits at the chair, chin up, jaw stern. His dark eyed gaze is resting on the bottle in Ed’s hand like he already wants to down it. Ed is tempted to throw it through the fucking window.  Ed almost gives into the temptation before the door swings open, making them both start.

“Oh my God,” Davenport says, staggering back into Jack, a hand over his mouth and nose.

“Holy shit,” Jack echoes, not even caring that he’s bumped into and Ed spots Jack’s long tan fingers against Davenport’s side, pressing the soft looking cloth of his big stupid coat.

“You’ve got a problem?” says Bones in a low, dangerous voice.

“…No,” Davenport says a beat too late. His gaze flicks to Ed and he startles again as if he hadn’t even noticed him being here, then sighs and takes up a chair at Bones’ right, flicking his coat out behind him and folding one leg over the other.

“The fuck you even doing here, Ed?” Jack says, taking a seat beside Davenport and glaring at him. “Never mind, I don’t wanna know, you just stop doin’ whatever it is you think you came in here to do.”

He hadn’t even fucking done anything! All he’d done was obeyed like he’s supposed to-

Except kind of not supposed to — because he’s not supposed to dance anymore?

Unless he is?

Except that it’s a bad thing?

Well, he’s shit at it anyway, which is why he’d like someone to fucking acknowledge that he’s trying.

Silver comes in the room, raising his eyebrows at Ed as if not at all surprised by this in that tired adult way that Hornigold gets sometimes, like Silver thinks Ed is stirring shit which he really fucking isn’t. And then Feliciano limps in after him, also cringing a bit at the smell. He looks at Ed then and heaves a long sigh.

“I didn’t say fucking anything,” Ed says, the words coming out ground through his teeth without him meaning to. Feliciano shakes his head and waves a hand before sitting at Bones’ left. Like Ed is being dismissed. And it hurts. And it’s not fair. And maybe he shouldn’t have said he hadn’t said anything and maybe he should quit speaking alto-fucking-gether.

“Well as we’re all here now, and I apologize for this,” Silver says, shutting the door behind him and locking them in with the stench. “I assume we’re going to have a chat about the Devil’s Eye.”

“Might as well seeing as we’re almost on it,” says Bones flatly and Feliciano pales.

Shit.

“Look whatever the little prick he told ya just now, don’t listen,” says Jack, flapping a hand at Ed. “He’s an idiot who don’t know nothin’.”

Fuck you, Ed wants to say.

“Of course he doesn’t, do you think I’m listening to a kid?” says Bones. “He’s just here in case captain said something.”

“Captain better fuckin’ not have,” says Jack, reaching out and slapping Ed on the thigh. Ed will let that go. He’s mature now. He’s behaving now. This is all fine.

“Best get started in any case,” Davenport says. Then snaps his fingers and points to his cup. “Boy.”

Ed closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath through his nose, though the smell makes him want to gag. He won’t kill Davenport. He will not hurt Davenport. He won’t even punch Davenport because Jack likes him.

“Er…” Davenport says. “I mean…if you would…please. I could use a drink.”

That surprises him a little and the bottle stops creaking under his hands.

“You don’t need to ask him,” says Jack. “That’s what he’s here for.”

“Pelo amor de deus, Jack,” Feliciano mutters. “Shut up.”

That makes the rest of the anger leave Ed in a rush to be filled in with a flood of something like shame. A dark feeling begins to shiver at the base of his skull and he tries to sweep it away as he pulls the loose cork from the bottle neck and begins to pour everyone’s drinks- starting with Bones and Davenport, skipping Jack completely and getting a snarled Hey! Before filling Feliciano’s cup and giving the rest to Silver who gives him an amused salute.

“Well,” says Bones after a long gulp, wiping the wine from his mouth with his sleeve. “Devil’s Eye. What do you know?”

“I do not remember much,” says Feliciano. “There were many storms and strange sounds. Beautiful creatures were in the sea and in the morning, the fog was a shroud. There were rocks as teeth and strange broken islands, one with bones on the shore of a monster of the deep.”

God, it sounds cool. It’s not cool. It’s serious. They’re being chased. They could founder or crack up on the rocks or a bunch of other things. Or get caught up in a storm or end up bleached bones on a rock with other bleached bones. Which also sounds fucking cool but it isn’t. It is not.

“Holy shit,” Jack says, breathed like a prayer and Ed says:

“Right?” Before he can stop himself. Feliciano’s mouth twitches into a smile but it’s gone as soon as it arrives.

“But that was a long ago time. Three or four years.”

“And that’s it,” Bones says. “That’s all you have.”

“It is so,” Feliciano takes a long drink.

“Though he may remember more when we’re on the sea itself,” says Silver. “Memory being what it is, faded one moment, returned the next at a sight or a sound. So we should be grateful for what we have, says I, little though it may be, and-”

“It is completely fucking useless,” says Bones, slamming his fist on the table and making everyone jolt. “What am I supposed to tell the men? Some sort of fairy tale? Some sort of maybe? You-” he jabs a finger at Ed. “Made it seem like he actually knew shit.”

Feliciano does know shit. Feliciano knows plenty of shit! Ed keeps his teeth clamped down so he doesn’t say anything and anyway, he doesn’t have to because Davenport scoffs and says:

“He seems to know more than you.” Only he doesn’t finish because Bones backhands him, sending him out of his chair and sprawling on the floor. Jack is on his feet in an instant and Ed grips the bottle instinctively. 

“Sit,” says Feliciano. It’s more like a snarl. Maybe the angriest Ed has ever seen him. Jack sits reluctantly but only after Davenport gets to his feet, touching his bruised cheek tenderly with his fingertips. The bottle creaks and Ed, very carefully, sets it on the table, keeping a palm flat against the mouth to stop it from sliding around with the swells.

“I am sick of backtalk,” says Bones. “And excuses. And now we’re trapped and it’s all your fault, you little fuck.”

Which, yes, no shit, everyone knew that.

“You should not have listened,” says Feliciano. “For he is a child that speaks much and listens little.”

Ed winces and looks down at the table. The anger is replaced with bilge water now and the strange dark feeling only grows. Jack doesn’t help when he adds:

“You got that right,” under his breath.

“But you did listen, and so gave the order, and now it is. We cannot turn so we must face things as they are.”

Bones looks as if he’s going to backhand Feliciano, or at least his fist clenches, but Silver steps in before anything can happen.

“Well, it’s not a pretty picture to be sure, but it’s a true one, and beating those with honest mouths doesn’t go far to providing a solution. What I see here is that we have a problem, but four brilliant minds to solve it. So instead of loosening teeth, why not put heads together?”

“Fine.” Bones folds his arms. “Tell me, brilliant brats.” He sneers. “What should we do.”
     Silence. Davenport is still touching his cheek as if in shock, head down, Jack is watching him concerned and Ed sees him bump Davenport’s foot under the table with his own, making Davenport smile a little.

“Well?” says Bones in a manner that’s more like a snarl. Davenport and Jack look at each other, then to Feliciano who looks pale and haunted again. Then they all look at him. All of them. Though Feliciano looks away quickly enough, burying his hand in his hair.

Ed decides he hates them.

All of them.

Except Feliciano.

So fucking much.

It’s a pure feeling, an honest feeling, like the calm in the center of the storm. And just like the calm, he can see all around him, the raging clouds and waves, the blue sky, the shining water. And he knows just what to do.

The answer is so fucking simple.

“Didn’t you tell me to get the maps, Mr. Bones? So we know what the fuck it is we’re looking at?” he says dully. Then to drive the point home adds. “That’s what Captain Flint would do.”

Feliciano gives him a sharp look which he ignores. Bones blinks, anger disappearing from his face.

“Oh…maps. Aye…yes I did. Thanks for reminding me. There are some over there, on that desk, I think…”

God, what a waste of space. Only better than fucking ballast. Ed goes to the table, clearing off more bottles, wrinkling his nose to see that one of the pristine maps is stained wine dark and frankly fucking illegible. He lets himself be absolutely fucking disgusted at it before wiping all expression from his face and turning back to the table.

He feels a bit better with all the maps spread out. Only one is completely damaged and the other two are only a little rough around the edges. Ed leans on the table to get a better look, then thinks better of it and sits on the table instead. If anyone wants to try slamming him into anything then they’re going to have a hell of a harder time.

The maps themselves are well detailed of the surrounding area, which means the Navy knows a fuck of a lot, including a worrying amount around Nassau, but even so, the Devil’s Eye is mostly blank. There are some ideas sketched here and there and the same route inked between two of them that’s missing from the third; and that portion of the Eye at least had missed most of the damage. Though there seems to be more beyond it that is covered in fucking wine.

Because of course it is.

“Fucking useless,” Bones mutters. “If we see that route so do the Navy bastards, and we’ll be shat out in front of the Leviathan anyway likely. And what would your Hornigold say to that?” he snarls at Jack.

“Well uh…”

“Or Hawke, I bet he’d have an idea.”

Davenport looks up from where he’s stroking the end of his low ponytail. He pales a bit, flicking the end over his shoulder, opens his mouth, and shuts it again with a look at Bones.

Is he afraid?

Why is he fucking afraid?

Is he a commander or isn’t he?

“Spit it out!” Bones barks and Davenport winces.

“Just say what’s on your mind, lad,” says Silver lightly. “No one is going to beat you for it. Even Cap’n Flint learned his lesson from that as Mr. Griff can tell you,” he adds, giving Bones a pointed look.

“Yeah, Don, come on, you got this,” Jack says, shaking the back of Davenport’s chair a bit and making him smile.

 It’s not fair that Davenport gets so gently nudged. It’s not fair and Ed knows it and he also knows why, so Kupe’s memory doesn’t have to tell him. He doesn’t give a shit. They just need to get on with it.

“I’m wondering…” Davenport clears his throat. “I’m wondering… If perhaps Mr. Duarte may know more than even he realizes… For example.” Davenport sounds stronger now, standing to brace his hands on the table. “Do you remember how long you were in the Devil’s Eye? Or the speed you were going?”

“It felt like an age,” says Feliciano, shaking his head. “I don’t know… but…ay… I think…the speed was…troubling- for the mate. The captain of Rosa was a hurried man, and the mate was a slow one. A turtle.” He waggles his hand in the air a bit like a turtle’s swaying back.

“How big was the Rosa?” Davenport asks.

“I… it seemed like the world. The biggest ship I had been on.”

“Helpful,” Bones says and really, there’s no point even being angry with him. It just wastes fucking time.

“We’ve seen the Rosa,” Ed says instead. “Wasn’t it as big as the Ranger?”

“A bit smaller,” Jack says. “But she sat heavy, I remember.”

“So with any luck, we’ll have better chance of navigating then the Princess, and more opportunities,” says Davenport. “We may have to pull sail, but if we deviate from the expected route, the Princess may founder in following us or even turn back.”

“Yeah, but we might founder if we hit a rock or some shit,” says Jack. “I don’t guess you remember anything to look out for.”

“No…” says Feliciano. “Nothing…nothing that helps.”

“Do you remember the angle of the sun when you went in? When you left?” asks Davenport.

“There were storms… Gray weather…”

“Hm,” Ed folds his arms as he peers over the maps.  The Devil’s Eye is just a small part of them of course, and the surrounding area is familiar. Very familiar. Like the back of his hand or the press of his clothes. There is Fish Hook, and Skull Fort, and that island chain which wakes a kind of strange dark fondness in him. They’d met the Rosa there, not far from Blind Man’s actually.

 Oh…wait…

“Hey where were you going anyway?” Ed asks slowly as the thought comes to him. “When you went into the Devil’s Eye. Do you remember?”

“To sea, I think, to avoid Leviatã.”

“And then what happened? Did you make it?”

“No…” Feliciano sits up, stands, hand braced on the table. “We turned back. Not back. But…” He traces an arc in the air. “They were speaking because they did not want to risk going against the wind. After… we had to return to the coast we left and lost sweet time. No one was pleased.”

“You mean around here?” Ed points to the island chain. “Where we found you?”

“Sim!” Feliciano nods. “But further back. Your attack was not until a month.”

“So they must have come up this way,” Ed says, tracing his finger along a route that lead into the Eye

“Or here,” Davenport adds, tracing another line that Ed hadn’t thought of. “Either way, we’ll have to cut across the Navy’s route to get into the Eye itself. We may be able to deviate off it, but even if the Princess feels safe enough to follow, they might not be able to sail as fast- or want to risk it. We might just make it.”

“And maybe we can wreck her,” says Jack, thoughtfully stroking the small but impressive pelt of hair he had just under his lower lip. “Find a shoal or a sandbar or even a rock we can stick a flag and maybe some of their clothes on, make it look like people are there, and scuttle her.”

“Not a bad idea,” Ed says. It’s a bit far in ahead, but he can see it working almost.

“Yeah? Think so?” Jack beams. Then clears his throat. “I mean…” He glances at Davenport who seems amused. “I know so! It’s a great idea. We should do it.”

“Well let’s see what the waters are like before we think of trickery,” says Silver. “One league at a time, as they say. As for this, I think it’s well enough to tell the men, don’t you, Mr. Bones.”

Ed blinks, having half forgotten he was there. Bones starts as if he wasn’t paying attention then nods.

“Yes… yeah… that’s - that’s great. I— yeah it’s perfect.”

Ed rolls his eyes

“Then let’s show ourselves back on deck,” says Silver, and goes to pull open the door.

“Yeah…” Bones stands, chair legs scraping across the floor. “Bring me another bottle, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jack laughs.

“Man, Hornigold would shit himself if he heard that! Maybe this place is good for ya, Eddie!”

Jack reaches as if to ruffle his hair but the look Ed gives him is enough to stop him before Ed has to bite his fingers off. Bones snorts a laugh himself, raising his head.

“That’s why Flint is the best and I’m just a step below,” he says. “And don’t forget it.” With that said, Bones leaves, swaggering and swaying out into the patchy sunlight.

“I can’t believe I have to go out looking like this,” Davenport is saying, touching his bruised cheek. “Everyone will see!”

“Aww, it’s fine, Don.” Jack loops an arm around his shoulders. “If anyone starts shit, we’ll just punch ‘em.”

“You always get right to the point,” Davenport says as they go out the door. Jack lets out a stupid laugh that reminds him of a donkey - and it’s…it’s really kind of… like seeing a kitten or a baby sea lion or something.

Ed feels again the strange longing pull for something, something he doesn’t know and can’t name and feels like he had felt it before, but doesn’t now and can’t remember. But it doesn’t matter. He’s too fucking busy anyway.

Silver yawns.

“Blow me down, when this is done with I’m putting myself to bed for a year and see if I don’t,” Silver says, cracking his back. “Good job, by the way, Mr. Duarte.” Silver winks. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Let us hope what is in me carries us through,” says Feliciano, seeming tired suddenly as if all the energy has left him

“Oh, I have a good feeling about this,” Silver says. And then knocks on the wooden doorway. And with that he leaves as well.  Feliciano is watching him now, but his face is serious and a little angry as if he doesn’t approve. Well he doesn’t have to approve. He can get fucked.

Ed doesn’t have time, and really they’ve just taken one tiny step into the Devil’s Eye. They need to think three or four or five steps ahead. He shifts to sit cross legged on the table, wrenching his hair behind him into a knot so he can have a clear view of the maps. None of them are consistent. Even the damaged one. But maybe they can combine them all together to get a better idea.

“Ed,” Feliciano says. “You do not need to do this.”

“Yeah, I do,” Ed says, returning his attention to the maps. “If you remember something tell me and I’ll say it’s Flint’s or Bone’s idea. It should work even if you’re wrong.” Though hopefully the maps can provide enough so Feliciano won’t be wrong, or they can tack around it somehow. He rubs his chin, staring at the maps, and the squiggles that he knows are words and wishes he could read.

“They will soon grow tired of it, if there are too many mistakes. Bones is not that much a fool. And if he is the crew is not. They will think it is your voice, which may cause someone to come for you, and we do not need another mutiny.” Feliciano sounds vaguely amused at the last. That’s true but it’s not a big deal.

“So let them come after me. I’ll tell Long Bob and van Morgenstern too.”

“No,” Feliciano says, his voice stern now. “It is mine.”

“It is not yours!” Ed snaps, ears stinging hot and knuckles too where he cracked them into the table, making Feliciano jump and him feel a little guilty, but so what. “I don’t give a shit if they come for me! I’m not going to cry just because of a little bruise! I’m going to get up and think of some other way! This is mine! I started it and I’m going to fucking end it and you just fucking stay out of it.”

Because he needs this to fucking work. He can’t have anyone interfering. Feliciano is still staring at him and Ed starts to feel worse by the second. He shouldn’t have yelled. Shouldn’t have been a dick. Shouldn’t have done a lot of things, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

“Can…can you tell Silver I need Griff, please?” Ed says, hearing his own voice sounding small. He hates to ask just when telling Feliciano to fuck off but… Griff would know better how to read the maps and see what he’s missing. And Ed can’t have people see him just ask Griff himself. And he can’t have people see him asking Silver either.

God, he can’t wait until he’s bigger and older and stronger so he doesn’t have to go through three fucking people to get what he needs done.

“I will,” says Feliciano quietly.  And then in a voice like a barely sheathed blade: “But you do not tell me who to protect.”

Maybe the blade isn’t sheathed at all because Ed feels it slip between his rib and right into his heart. He winces, glad Feliciano leaves before the maps begin to blur.

xxxxx

Fortunately, the blur is gone by the time they reach the Devil’s Eye, as well as the rest of the pesky feelings. There is nothing but a hollow under Ed’s ribs, or maybe as if his heart has been stuffed with wool. It’s a good feeling. A helpful feeling. He hopes it stays by the time he has time to talk to Long Bob or van Morgenstern, or when he has to speak to Feliciano again. Actually, he hopes it stays forever, because it’s really fucking convenient, honestly.

He yawns and leans against his fist as he peers into the water from the railing. Overhead, the sunset is burning, not spent yet, though soon twilight will settle across the sky. The Princess Anne has fallen back to wait on the horizon, because it’s absolutely fucking insane to go into these waters as the light falls- which makes it the best time to do it.

If they can get past the headwaters, it’ll be smoother sailing though. The water is so clear here, Ed can practically see the bottom, which means it’s worryingly close.  The waters around the ship are littered with snarls of rocks and reefs and every hand is clutching at rail or line, peering over and ahead, looking for signs of danger. Their world is silent as death save for the slopping of the water and the creaking lines and what sail they’ve let out- just enough to give the current a helping hand, just enough to creep.

It’s kind of shit though that everyone’s too afraid to piss, because really the Devil’s Eye is really fucking cool so far. The rocks and reefs are badass to look at, and there’s animals here too. Rays are swimming sleek and dappled in the Dorter’s shadow, and there are faint cries carrying over the water from a far off rock covered in black birds with white flashes across their chests or throats the color of fresh blood. He wishes he could watch them or throw them scraps of fish.

He can ignore them though, for the most part, to keep an eye on the water. The only thing that’s hard to ignore is the huge fuck off skull staring at them across the water. The biggest motherfucking skull Ed has ever seen. It’s really a  fuck off cliff, so big that it’s still mostly covered with the horizon. Two massive caves make up the eyes and a smaller but still huge cave is the nose and below clinging vines and moss that criss cross over the rock and make it look a little like jagged teeth.
He bets there’s treasure there, or monsters, or skeletons or shipwrecks or any number of cool things waiting to be discovered. Maybe if they survive this, he can tell Hornigold about it so they can visit it later.

But he can’t and won’t and he won’t even tell Hornigold about it so they can visit it later on if everyone survives. Not that they have much chance of it if Jack keeps staring at it like an asshole, mouth open, eyes wide. Ed kicks him in the shin.

“Ow, shit.”

“You’re supposed to be watching the water,” Ed says. Even if not for much longer. The capala, or chapel, Ed guesses, is just up ahead. Feliciano thinks that the waters will run deeper when they pass it and smoother, and that they can ride the current for a day and a half until they reach the pebbled beach and have to suck their dicks in again.

“Yeah, yeah. What are you daddy’s little pirate, now?” Jack says. “Or maybe Bones’ puppy.” Ed ignores him, even when Toad snorts a laugh right beside him. It would be so easy to punch Jack in the ribs or pull on Toad’s stupid little pigtail until he squeals or even spit on Jack’s too big stupid ass coat.

But he’s not going to do any of that. There’s no time for it for one thing and for another it’s going to pull everyone’s attention from not getting their ass scraped to shit.

“Two degrees port!” Long Bob bellows from the prow from where he is standing with Silver who has a foot on the bowsprit so he can peer into the water. They all hold their breath as the ship slowly shifts and then let it out when Long Bob says:

“Clear!”

“Hey, psst, didn’t you hear me?” Jack says, moving closer, nudging him. “I called you Daddy’s Little Pirate. Bones’ puppy.”

 “I’ll kill you later,” Ed says absently. They are a little too close to the rocks now. “Think we can slip by that?” He gestures to a cluster of jagged black rock, just ahead.

“Uh, lemme check.” Jack climbs up onto the railing, grabbing the rigging and leaning out as far as he can. He has to push up on his toes and Ed secures him by the ankle, just in case.

“Yeah, we should be good.”

“Commanders to the fore!” Long Bob calls, which startles Jack so badly that only Toad gripping the back of his stupid coat keeps him from taking a header into the water.

“Jesus God,” Jack yelps, clinging onto the rigging. Ed takes a breath to calm his own heart because he just got it flat and slaps the Jack in the calf.

“Be more careful, fuckstick,” Toad says in his croaky voice and Ed hates to have to agree with him. Jack hops back onto the deck, straightening his coat and patting Toad on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Mr. Toad. Good work.”

Ed stares. It’s like Jack thinks he’s Hornigold all of a sudden. As if Hornigold would ever really thank anyone for anything ever.

“It’s Tadpoole,” the Toad says, but Jack has already started toward the prow. Ed hops to keep in step with him, straightening his own Navy Man jacket, letting the cool weight of the pendant around his neck glint in the sunlight.

“Stop preening, you little shit. You’re just suckin’ up like always.”

Ed ignores him again because there’s no point.  Silver, Long Bob and weirdly, Dirk are waiting at the prow. The wind is still shifting with Dirk, Ed can feel it- It’s in the way Dirk is standing, the coldness of his eyes as he looks down at them. Even the pockmarks on his face seem to stand out in jagged edges. He’s watching them now as if they are fish and he is a shark.

Jack doesn’t even seem to notice Dirk, just moves right to the bowsprit grabbing onto a bolt line so he can hang onto it as he peers into the water. Long Bob slips to stand beside Jack, beaming hugely even for Long Bob and cracking his knuckles over and over like he does when he’s trying to keep a secret.

It’ll probably be a big secret too. A big amazing fuck off secret, but Ed won’t ask, because Long Bob will let it be known in his own time and Ed doesn’t want to take his moment.

Bones arrives shortly after, bringing Feliciano with him and Ed has to concentrate on keeping his balled up fists deep within the blue Navy Man coat. Feliciano looks pale and worried and Bone’s square hand is tight on his shoulder. Ed doesn’t care. He can’t care. He can’t afford to care. Maybe he’ll get to snap the bastards fingers like twigs later, he tells himself, comforts himself with that thought, tells his heart to stop wiggling.

Then he accidentally meets Feliciano’s gaze and his heart and cheeks sting so he has to look away, down along the line of the bowsprit. The swirl of conflicting emotion wash through him like cross waves, making him feel a little dizzy and a little sick.

Fuck off, he tells them. Fuck off. Fuck off!

“And here’s the other one,” Silver says as Davenport thumps down from the rigging, like always, but not quite as showy as before. Dirk gives a kind of a snarled chuckle.

“Our commanders,” he says. Spits the word. “Two drowned rats, a Spanish dog and a little brat.”

And a drunk, Ed wants to add, because Bones already has a bottle in his other hand. But aside from the Spanish dog part, Dirk isn’t wrong. Because of their stupid coats, both Davenport and Jack are drenched in sweat.

“Mr. Bones is the commander and captaining this ship at present, and I’ll thank you to remember that,” says Silver. “But we’re not a single crew as I’ve said more than once, Mr. Dirk, and so we must do things politically.”

“Cowardly,” Dirk says and spits over the railing. It wouldn’t be too hard to stab him in the spleen. Though if he does that, he’ll have to stab Bones too as Feliciano draws in a soft sharp breath at the press of the bastard’s fingers.

Ed’s definitely going to break those fingers off like twigs one day. Or maybe cut them off one by one and make Bones eat them. And enjoy it too.

The fucker.

“Now we’re almost at the chapel, as you can see,” says Silver, gesturing. And Ed does see. It’s really fucking cool just like everything else in this place, and like most things in this place, mostly made of a fuckoff big black rock. In this case though there are flowers growing over the face of it, blue and white and pink, ruffling with the breezes and looking weirdly delicate. The flowers grow in a rough circle just below the gentle rounded peak of the stone looking like stained glass.

“Beyond it we’re in clear sailing, so we think, but, our eagle eyed Mr. Robertson here caught sight of a cross current which may help speed us along.”

Long Bob grins then, showing all his teeth.

“Yeah! A current! I spotted it myself! Long Bob is the best!” Long Bob says, flexing.

“Long Bob is the best!” says Jack, flexing too, not that Ed could tell anything from the stupid big folds of the stupid big coat. They look at Ed as if he should flex too but he doesn’t feel like it.

“Roberto is very good,” says Feliciano, voice a little thin and winces again when Bones shakes him, making Jack frown and Long Bob drop his flex like he doesn’t care and Ed wants to punch Bones in the liver.

“Get on with it, Silver” Bones says, already slurring.

“The question is, should we take it? Or wait until the pebbled beach. You see-” he gestures with one of the maps that Griff had edited. “This area isn’t completely unmarked.”

“May I look?” says Davenport. Silver hands the map over and Davenport opens it up, holding it in front of himself like he’s the only jackass that needs to see it. Ed can’t even glimpse a single line from this angle, and even though he helped make the damn thing, he can’t remember it all. Grumbling, he ducks under Davenport’s arm to get a good look himself. The man freezes and looks down at him.

“Erm…hello…”

“Hey!” Jack snaps. “Where do you think you’re horning in on?”

God, does he have to be so annoying?

“I’m not horning in on anything, damnit,” Ed snaps. “I’m just looking at the map!”

“Well I am too!” Jack says, hopping off the bowsprit and crowding to Davenport’s other side.

“Maps are great,” says Long Bob behind them, breath ruffling Ed’s hair.
“They sure as fuck are,” Jack says. Then sniffs. “Where are we?”

Ed rolls his eyes and points.

“And…erm…where is the current?” Davenport asks, sounding a bit like wood about to splinter. He even squeaks when Long Bob pushes an arm between his and Ed’s to jab at a place not all that far away, which doesn’t give them much time to decide.

“Yeah the map’s marked beyond that, but not a whole hell of a lot,” Jack says. Which is true.

“Yes, I don’t like how it bottoms out into nothing. It may be we can’t get past a certain point or it’s too dangerous,” Davenport says. “It might be safer to take the main current to pebble beach.”  He hums. Ed is close enough to feel the vibration in his chest which is fucking weird. And that same oily flowery smell which meant that Jack had been hanging out with him the other day.

Not that any of that matters right now.

Even if it’s really fucking annoying.

“Hey, Felix,” Jack says, loud enough to make both him and Davenport wince. “Get over here!”

“It’s Feliciano,” Ed says.

“Felix is fine, he don’t care.”

“Feliciano,” Ed snaps.

“Mr. Duarte,” Davenport says. “Can you come take a look?”

“I can,” Feliciano says, moving from Bone’s grip which loosens the knot in Ed’s throat. “And name does not matter.”

“It really fucking does,” Ed mutters.

“Shh,” Feliciano says as he slips against Davenport’s other side, holding the end of the map with one hand. Ed does shh if only because he’s not sure he can speak when Feliciano’s other hand comes to rest loosely on his shoulder, long fingers drumming against his collarbone and bringing with him the smell of leather and sea.

He’s not sure why he wants to die but he kind of really fucking does. Everything in him curls up at once no matter how much he tells it to go away. There’s no time and place for weird feelings. Things are complicated enough without weird feelings.

“Pebble Beach is…” Davenport says, hand brushing against Ed’s back before falling limp. “Er…”

“Here,” Jack says, pointing. Ed eyes him suspiciously.

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Cuz that’s what it says, dumbass.”

Ed flushes. Stupid fucking words.

“Looking at this map,” says Davenport. “Can you point out where you turned before?”

“Ah, hmm.” Feliciano’s hand grows a bit heavier as he leans forward, only his thumb tapping now but catching the side of Ed’s neck. The curling continues and Ed is both annoyed and relieved when Feliciano lifts his hand from his shoulder and points. “Here? Or perhaps here. It is hard to say… I remember that… around the beginning, the captain was searching for a place called Pedra da Tentadora ah…the rock of the beautiful donzela that you want to sing to though you should not, but her eyes are very brown and wanting so it is difficult not to…”

“The fuck kind of name is that?” Jack says and Feliciano huffs. A nice name, Ed thinks, and is going to say but Feliciano continues.

“Captain believed we could have safe berth on the side away from it, and that it is close to the edge, there so we were looking for a way…. But I do not know if it is real.” He thumps his hand back onto Ed’s shoulder and gives him a small shake. “And I do not know if we found it. And I do not know what it seems like.” He pauses as if to let those words sink in, then sighs.

“So I am no help.” He sounds so regretful that Ed wants to say that Feliciano's plenty of help, or to lean back against him in comfort. But they are mad at each other and so he can’t, and maybe Feliciano wouldn’t want it so fuck him.

“So many little chickadees sitting on the nest,” Dirk says in a high mocking voice. “As representative crew of the Walrus--”

“Oh, are you now?” says Silver flatly.

“I am. And I deserve to see what you little birds are shitting yourselves over. You need a man to show you what’s what.”

Jackass. Ed wants to tell him to go get one then but keeps silent as Dirk marches over to them, peering down at the map which Davenport and Feliciano tip out for him to see. Ed is able to see over it now to see that Silver looks amused and Bones puzzled and half the crew peering at them.

“What the fuck are you all looking at?” Ed says just to get Silver’s attention and Silver’s head whips crew-ward so fast, Ed’s sure he heard his neck crunch.

“Eyes on the sea, you scurvy lot! Unless you want to see us scuttled!” And their heads turn back to the water obediently.

Dirk looks at the map with an expression growing more constipated by the second before he says:

“Where are we?”

“Fuck. Here!” Ed jabs at the map. “This current is here. Pebble Beach is here and maybe the Rosa turned here or here! If you’re going to come over waving your dick around at least try and keep up.”

Davenport chokes and Jack laughs and Long Bob’s answering laugh as his brain catches up is enough to make them all a little deaf. Dirk goes a mottled red like a sunbaked crab.
“You little shit,” he snarls. His hand swings wide. There is a crack as Feliciano’s palm meets Dirk’s wrist, stopping him midflight.

“Do not,” Feliciano says. Ed’s heart lurches and the complicated waves inside get even more complicated, crashing against his ribs. The anger is the easiest one to understand so he takes it.

“Damnit! Stop protecting me!” he snaps. Even if it is pretty badass. “You’re going to cause a mutiny!”

“We’re having a mutiny?” Jack says.

“No,” says Silver.

“I will do what I wish,” says Feliciano, voice cold. “And you will have to accept it.”

“No!”

“Yes.” 

“What if I punch him instead?” Long Bob says.

“No!” Ed says at the same time as Davenport who sounds panicked, while Dirk says:

“Try it.” And yanks his hand from Feliciano’s grip.

“Blood and thunder, lads, focus,” says Silver. “Where do we head?”
Ed turns his attention back to the map, Feliciano’s hand dropping to his shoulder again though with a tighter grip. The wind stirs across the deck as they stare and sweat drips from Dirk’s nose and splatters on the map. There are so many ways to go.

He doesn’t know even what to suggest. Pebble Beach? That turn won’t lead out to the Leviathan, but if it’s marked then the Princess will know it- but she might not be able to follow, but she may be able to cut them off if she comes around.

Turning where the Rosa may have turned might be okay, except that if they choose the wrong path there’s nothing beyond it, and they’d be really blind.

 There are a hundred choices and all of them seemed wrong, or maybe right.

“So what do we do, boss? It should be you deciding,” Dirk says, turning toward Bones who leers at them, swaying a bit on the spot.

“It should be, but I’ll let these kiddies see that it’s not so easy. All you little pricks with your little…minds. Can’t make a decision can you? Well you wanted to make it so you make it. Don’t ask for help from me.” He gulps back the rest of the bottle and throws it so it splinters on deck into a thousand shards. The sound of it makes Ed’s spine jerk up into his throat and he swallows hard, trying to fight down the tightness.

“I… I don’t know…” Davenport says. “How…how can you know…”

“What would Hawke do?” Dirk asks.

Davenport blows out a sort of laugh and shakes his head. “Try to think like Captain Flint. What about Hornigold…?”

“Good fuckin’ question,” Jack says. “I mean… I guess Hornigold would do somethin’ tricky but…”

“He would not,” says Feliciano. “He would pull us into the line of the enemy and hope to have an idea how to survive it.”

“Yeah…that tracks,” Jack says.

“Cap’n’s a great man,” says Long Bob. “Great man.”

“How the hell are you guys even alive?” says Dirk.

“Luck,” says Jack at the same time Feliciano says: “Mirlagles.” And Long Bob says:

“Ed.”

And then everyone is staring at him again.

Goddamnit.

And it needs to be soon because the light is falling fast and they’ll either have to make berth or risk the current by the watery moonlight. Ed thinks, looking at all their options.

“Ed is not so useful,” Feliciano says. “I remember now.” Liar. “I think… I think we should--”

“—take the current,” Ed says quickly, then decides. “This current here to this…whatever.” He points to what could be a rock or a small island. “It might be big enough to hide behind and if we make berth, the Princess can go past us in the morning. Because otherwise we’ll have to make berth here and hope she doesn’t get an early start or sail on in the dark.”

“Yes, but it’s still dangerous,” says Davenport. “We don’t know the area very well, and-”

“Grato,” Feliciano says, swiping the map with a suddenness that makes Ed start. With it he strides over to Bones and says:

“I remember. We will take this current. We will berth here. We can rest until the Princesa passes. It is so?”

“Hey!” Ed says starting over but Long Bob’s huge fist curls in his collar, keeping him back. Anyone else Ed would have kicked their teeth in but all he can do right now is reach back and pull at the man’s wrist. “Hey, it is not so! You can’t do that!”

Bones raises his eyes from the map to give Ed a bleary look.

“Yeah, I suppose. Unless the voice of Flint has something to say.”

“I-” What can he say? That this his idea? That it’s Flint’s? Who doesn’t even know this place?

“The voice of Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Rosa, who has sailed these waters asks why you listen to a child.” Feliciano whips the map from Bones’ loose hold. “I will tell Senhor Sebastian.”

“Feliciano! You- you fucker!” The words are out and don’t even feel good but Feliciano just waves at him over his shoulder like he doesn’t care and it’s not fair.

It’s not right!

 If Ed’s wrong then-

Then-!

“Alright you lubbers, we’re past now!” Silver bellows. “On your feet and prepare to turn port! Move!”

The men burst to action, scrambling up the rigging or preparing the lines. Long Bob is already hauling himself upward and Dirk jumps to Silver’s command so readily he’s already got a line in his hand before blinking at it stupidly. It would have been funny if Ed wasn’t—

Wasn’t something-

Something horrible and deep and churning and prickling, like anger but not.

“Did uh… somethin’ happen?” Jack asks.

“No time for that now, lads,” says Silver, looking sorry for him and Ed wants to punch him in his stupid fat nose. “Up the rigging with you. We’re almost out of time.”

“Fuck you,” Ed says. To Silver. To Jack. To Feliciano. The world. Himself. Every fucking body and every fucking thing. But he all he can do is to climb up into the rigging, seething the whole way.

xxxxx

Two days and three nights later, and Ed is still seething a little. He sits cross-legged in the bottom of the dinghy, the canvas stretched over the top blotting out the stars and keeping him in the dark heat with the light of a single squat stub of a candle. Spread out around him are maps, everything he could swipe from the captain’s quarters that wasn’t needed by Griff or Silver.

Most of them aren’t even fucking useful, and those he’s stowed behind him, but some of the older ones or maybe stolen ones or ragged ones have patchy bits of detail about the Devil’s Eye. And he’s using it to make his own stinking map. Only it’s hard and he doesn’t understand how to make the scales make sense or how far away anything is or what things mean. One map is full of squiggly writing like dying worms and Ed knows there is something magical behind them.

He can’t even ask Griff because then if it’s a good idea or even a passable idea or some fucking clue, Griff will tell Feliciano who will lie and tell Bones and the crew that he remembered something. He’d done that twice now aside from the fucking current idea- which had been both good and bad because they were able to make it through okay and hide okay and the Princess Anne had passed them by, maybe partly because they’d barely made it through and her ass was definitely too big to fit–

-But then they’d realized that they couldn’t turn back the way they came. There is no real way to turn around and the area ahead is basically unfucking charted and there’s probably nothing Feliciano recognizes-though he hasn’t said as much.

Some of the Walrus crew had been mad about it or worried about it, headed by Dirk who had his arms folded and was smirking as if he had won. Ed had wanted to say it was his idea and his fault but then Feliciano, like a dick, had apologized gracefully before Ed could- saying that it had been so long and he had wanted a time of rest for the brave men who crewed the Dorter and now they could have it. And Bill Bones had said: What do you expect from a Spanish dog? And everyone had laughed and Feliciano had laughed too like it didn’t matter.

But it fucking did.

And they’d slept deeply and woken up to sea lions playing in the surf and gulls overhead and a gray day, but Ed had woken up earlier even that to see fog rolling like a living thing over the deck and sea and night where everything was like a shroud and it was so intensely cool he couldn’t do anything but be fucking worried about anyone waking up and freaking out.

Then they’d spent all day today in a narrow channel, scattered with rocks and one judgmental pelican who kept hopping from rock to rock and eyeing them. The water was getting shallower and shallower and the men had began to grumble and worry and Feliciano had been tense and sweating and had made Long Bob and van Morgenstern stand at the other side of the ship to stop prowling around him like guard dogs.

And Ed from the moon’sl had spotted deeper water though they’d have to go over a shoal to get there that had looked deep enough under the water for them to pass through if they sacrificed another cannon. So he’d told Bones this to his face, making sure he’d said it as Flint would say, making sure others had heard it– and Feliciano had said:

“Oh the child can take credit for this one” except in his cool Feliciano way and Ed had been two seconds from telling him to fuck off and die when Feliciano had taken his face in both hands and bent down and pressed a kiss to his forehead and…

…and…

Ed rubs the spot absently then scowls to himself and hunches his shoulders. And it’s shit, that’s all. It’s just shit.

And yeah, maybe they’d gotten stuck on the shoal briefly and half the crew had flipped out and glared at Feliciano in a dark and ugly way, and Ed had felt something even more dark and ugly stirring in his gut that he knew he shouldn’t touch.

Only Silver’s yelling at the crew about minding the bloody tide had kept swords from coming out and when the tide had risen they’d floated free and now where anchored in water that went down down down into the deep deep blue where the anchor had maybe snagged a rock but nowhere close to the bottom.

Here there is nothing but sea and sky and the rocks they had left and smudges in the distance of more fucking rocks. And of course before he’d swiped the maps, he’d spotted the skull rock in the distance, big enough to be visible even from the uppermost spar of the aft mast and the moon was shining right through the right eye making it look alive and it was the coolest fucking thing he’d ever seen and he couldn’t enjoy it or point anyone to it because they’d think it was a fucking curse.

But that’s alright.

 He has a plan.

 First he is going to stay in here until he has a map figured out knows everything there is to know about the area. Then he’ll tie Feliciano up somehow and hide him somewhere. Then when everyone looks at Ed for a fucking idea, Feliciano won’t be able to speak over him, and when Ed fucks up, people can come after him.

Though he still has to tell van Morgenstern and Long Bob about this plan, only that can happen after he’s gotten Feliciano tucked away.

But first the map.

 He wipes the sweat from his forehead, feeling a cool smear of ink and ignores it as he stares at his scrap of paper and one of the older maps that has cool things like mermaids and sharks and ships and weird tentacally things on it. Someone has drawn a dick in the upper right corner. It’s kind of amazing, but he’s not here to be amazed. He’s here to work.

The candle gutters and Ed glares at it, demanding it not go out. It’s almost midnight. He doesn’t have time for it to go out. That means he’ll have to haul himself out of the dinghy to get a new one and meet someone annoying or see something cool that he can’t enjoy or get Feliciano in trouble for breathing wrong or whatever.

But it doesn’t seem to matter what he wants because the candle goes out anyway, leaving him in darkness. Ed sighs and thunks his head back against the seat of the dinghy. Then shifts and pillows his arms behind his head because the bench is hard as hell. Here like this can see a bit of night through the gap in the canvas which lets in a thread of cool air and he breathes it in, trying to blink the sand from his eyes.

The tired creeps up on him bit by bit, swirling around his blood, creeping into his bones. He won’t let it catch him. He doesn’t have time for it to catch him, but he can at least lay here a little while he works out the best way to tie Feliciano up without messing up his hair.

“Man, just look at the size of that fuckass thing.” Jack’s voice drifts through the night close by and Ed decides he doesn’t want to know what he’s talking about. It’s probably the big ass skull. Ed had already seen the big ass skull and it’s probably not even cooler than it was before.

 Probably.

Maybe.

He wonders if Jack would help capture Feliciano, then decides it’s not a good idea to ask him since Jack might enjoy it a little too much.

“Ain’t you gonna look at it?” Jack asks.

“I’ve seen it, Rackham,” says Davenport. “It’s just a skull.”

“Yeah…but… I mean…it’s a cool skull…”

It is a cool skull, Ed wants to say. A really fucking cool skull. Why is Jack sounding like it’s not a cool skull just cuz Davenport says it’s just a skull? And who ever heard of just a skull anyway? Skulls are badass!

There is a soft creak.

“I’m much more interested in another skull,” says Davenport. “Or maybe somethin’ just a little softer…” Only…his voice…his accent has changed. It’s kind of like Jack’s now if Jack had guzzled honey and decided to croon it. Or maybe purr is a better word.

“Uh…Here? Now? After everything?” Jack’s voice breaks on the last word and there’s another creak, more pronounced, the sounds of palms lightly smacking wood.

“I don’t know of any other time.”

“We’re kinda in a situation right now.”

“Are we?”

Jack clears his throat. And clears it again.

“You know…you can’t…you can’t just use that voice on me and get your way.”

“Can’t I?”

Ed lifts the bit of canvas to peer out and sees Jack sitting on the railing just a few steps down from the dinghy, holding onto the rigging for all he’s worth and leaning back while Davenport, hands braced against the railing, leans forward.

“Jack…” Davenport murmurs in the honeysweet voice. “Please, I just need a break from all this… You can help me, can’t you?”

 Jack swallows, nods, leans forward, head tilting, lips parting and then:

“Holy shit! Men can kiss?!” Ed says, feeling as if his hair is standing straight off his head. Jack squawks and flails and smacks Davenport in the nose even as Davenport stumbles back and away like he’s been burned.

It would have been funny- it would have been fucking hilarious- Ed might have busted a rib from laughing if not for that realization hitting him like a wave to the gut.

Men could kiss.

Holy shit.

He knew men and women could kiss because that’s fucking everywhere, and he knew women and women could kiss because that happened all the time in the Swan, but he never thought that man could kiss a man just like that!

Why doesn’t he see more of it then?

“You shitfaced dickfuck I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” Jack bellows from where he’s hanging on to the railing by his hands and bends of his knees. “Where the hell did you come from?”

“The dinghy,” Ed says because where the fuck does Jack think.

“Oh, my God,” Davenport is saying, voice muffled by his hands. “Oh my God, I hate you, I hate both of you.”

“Aw shit.” Jack hauls himself off the railing and approaches Davenport, hands out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. You okay, baby?”

“Baby?” Ed wrinkles his nose. “What the hell kind of nickname is baby?”

“Shut up, I said!” Jack snaps. Then to Davenport. “Let me see it, come on.”

“Why? You can’t do anything about it.”

God, he is a baby. Ed hops out of the dinghy, flipping the canvas back over it and trods across the deck.

“No, but can men really kiss or are you guys just being weird?” Ed says. Because Jack is a man but he’s not a man-man yet and Ed’s not sure what Davenport is other than annoying. Davenport looks down at him, the nearby lamp shining on his bright blue eyes.

“Go away, you freak of nature!” he says sounding panicked.

“Ignore him, he’s just a dumbass,” Jack says. “Let me see.”

Davenport sighs and drops his hands and Jack leans back, wincing. There’s blood everywhere, all down his face, all down his front, staining his white cravat.  Ed nods approvingly. It had been a pretty good wallop.

“Well?” Davenport’s gaze flicks between them both. “Is it broken?”

“Uh…” Jack says. Ed rolls his eyes.

“Come here, let me check,” Ed says. Davenport bends. Ed grabs his chin to keep him there and with the thumb of the other hand, pushes Davenport’s nose back into place with a fun crunch, saying:

“Nope.”

“OW! Shit! You little Fucker!” Davenport howls, nearly clutching his nose again but remembering not to and instead clenching his fists and stamping his foot on the deck. “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

“Yeah…well…” Jack rubs his opposite arm and shrugs. “You get used to it.”

“I can also get used to his face in the back end of a cannon! Damnit! If I get an ugly bump from this I’m going to skin you with a salad fork!”

“The fuck is a salad fork?” Ed says.

“The fuck is a salad?” Jack says. And then at Davenport’s look adds: “Sorry.”

“What the hell is going on out there!” Silver bellows from the galley.

“Jack and Don were smooching and Ed scared them shitless,” Long Bob calls back. Ed peers up and waves at him from where he’s standing on the lowest spar of the main mast. Long Bob waves back. There is a beat of silence.

“Well, that’s as may be,” says Silver. “But be teenagers a little more quietly if you please, some of us are trying to sleep.”

There’s the click of the door.

The silence seems to stretch on even further now. Ed absently picks a crusted booger from his nose as he watches Davenport stare off into the horizon and Jack stare at Davenport as if he’s afraid he’ll fall over.

“I’m going to kill everyone,” Davenport says faintly. “And then myself. It’s the only way.”

Now Ed feels bad. He scratches right calf with his left foot, looking down at the deck.

“Well… I mean who cares?” he mutters. “So what if people know.” Because that had to be what Davenport is worried about. “Fuck ‘em. Long Bob doesn’t care and if he gets on you just tell him to shut up about it and he will. And everyone else, you’re better then them so they can get fucked too.”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “You’re better’n everyone!”

Well, Ed wouldn’t go that far, because no one is better than Feliciano but if it helps he won’t argue with it. And it seems to because Davenport seems to soften around the mouth.

“And if they start shit, I can kick them in the balls,” Ed says.

To his surprise, Davenport smiles, a kind of strange, small, soft smile, which looks really badass with his face covered in blood like that. He looks like he could either pat you on the head or fuck you up.

“Let’s not start a mutiny.”

“Fucking mutiny,” Ed mutters. “I’m fine! I get my ass beat all the time!”

“He really does,” Jack says. “Tough lil shit.”

But he says it in a weird fond way so that Ed can only try to rub the burn from his cheeks without anyone knowing. Bastard.

“You can’t stop your crew from defending their mates, Jack.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t mates. It’s just Ed.”

“Exactly.” Jack gets it. Why can’t everyone else? Davenport makes a face.

“And then it’s just Mr. van Morgenstern or Mr. Robertson. Once things start they’re not easy to stop.”

Oh yeah….that’s true… But…

“It’s going to be Feliciano soon,” Ed says and then because he’s not sure what else to do, adds quietly: “I don’t think he knows where we are…” And he doesn’t think he’s sure either. They can maybe go back, maybe, but not fighting the current the whole way and he’s a little worried about the shoal.

“Yeah if Felix gets hurt everyone is gonna go apeshit,” Jack says.

“That is true.” Davenport sighs. “Do you have anything, Ed? Any ideas at all?”

Ed’s shoulders twitch, then he sighs and decides that Davenport calling him Ed is fine. They’ve been through enough.

“I’ve got some maps and shit, but that’s about all.” He pulls back the canvas from the dinghy, handing Davenport what he was working on and watches the man’s nose wrinkle.

“It isn’t much of a map.”

“Fuck you! I’ve never drawn one before!”

“This one’s got a dick on it,” Jack says, scooping up the cool one.

“Yeah, it’s pretty great.” Ed sighs. “It’s not really useful though.”

“Well it’s definitely imaginative,” says Davenport, leaning into Jack’s space. Jack looks down at him and slips an arm around his back and something in Ed stirs so he has to look away again, pulling out another map just to stare. Stupid fucking Jack and stupid fucking Davenport. He can feel the ghost of Feliciano’s fingers on his shoulder and wants to swat it away.

“Hey look,” Jack says, pointing. “You’re here. At this…bas…bast i own.”

Davenport looks and chuckles. “No, siren is just another word for mermaid. And Bastion- well here it probably means Rock. Siren’s Bastion. Mermaid’s Rock. You see?”

“Same thing” says Jack with a loopy grin. “Cuz you’re like a mer— well…I mean, guymaid… no, shit, uh mer…mate?”

“Shut up,” Davenport says but pleasantly and Jack does and looks happy about it. He’s nothing like a mermaid, Ed thinks. He doesn’t know what mermaids look like but probably not at all like stupid Davenport. Even if he is pretty enough maybe but mermaids and sirens have to sing. Even dumb Odysseus knew that.

Oh shit! Wait!

“Hey, Davenport, can we get to that rock? From here?”

“What? Well, yes I think so. Why?”

“I think…I think it might be the …” Fuck… what had all Feliciano said? “The …lady you want to…” No he doesn’t fucking want to say that. “That someone wants to smooch rock…”  It sounds even stupider now even though he tries to fix it. Jack and Davenport share a glance, then look at him and Davenport clears his throat.

“You think?” Davenport says politely and Ed wants to tell him to fuck off. God, why couldn’t he say it like Feliciano did?

“How can you tell?” says Jack.

“Because of stupid Odysseus! Doctor John told me- um…the sirens were singing and he wanted to hear them but going toward them meant you cracked up on the rock- so he was tied up so he could listen… It’s the same thing. The men wanted to smooch the ladies but couldn’t cuz it was bad.” Which gives him another idea. “Hey, I wonder if we could talk Feliciano into playing Odysseus for a while.” Because that would solve a lot of problems. Jack gives him a look.

“What,” he says. “The fuck.”

“We can tie him up and hide him so he won’t get in trouble if we’re wrong,” Ed says. They can feed him and everything and give him wine. It would be great.

 “And we might be wrong,” says Davenport. “And even if we’re not, there’s nothing beyond that rock on this map, see?” He slips away from Jack to show him and there is a lot of fucking blank space, Anything could be in it.

Ed rubs his arms at a sudden chill that prickles along the back of his deck and even the waves seem to kick up a little under them as if they’re nervous too.

A storm is coming.

Maybe too far off now for Long Bob to see it, but it’s coming; over the water and on the deck too.

Ed suddenly regrets saying anything. He can taste the electric tang in the air.

“Well we ain’t got any other ideas,” Jack says, planting a hand on Ed’s head in a way that’s both comforting and annoying. “Do we?”

“No…” Ed swallows.

“It’s Bill Bones that’s the trouble,” Davenport says. “He can’t fail so long as he can blame everything on Feliciano or take the credit if he succeeds.”

Jack snorts. “That sounds fuckin’ familiar.”

“Can we tie him up and stow him somewhere?” Ed asks, the wind prickling the sweat at his temples and pushing his hair bringing the sweet smell of the wide sea.

“We aren’t tying anyone up,” Davenport says sternly. “Even if I wouldn’t mind seeing it.” He touches his cheek absently where the bruise is only just starting to fade. “You know, Jack it would be easier if Bones weren’t here to be… himself. After all, you and I would be much better at this.”

“I would?” Jack says, straightening.

“Of course, shithead,” Ed mutters, smacking him in the stomach a bit with the back of his hand. “You’re pretty good when you’re not an idiot.”

“Damn right I am!” Jack grins, then drums his fingers on Ed’s head. “But what are we going to do about Bones?” Because they need to do something.

Silence then. Davenport is looking up, Jack is looking down, hands on his hips. Ed closes his eyes as the wind picks up. The ship pitches so that Ed has to shift a bit to keep his footing.

“We…” says Jack. “Should get him shitfaced. And keep him shitfaced. It wouldn’t even be hard.”

Oh…oh yeah… “That’s a really good idea…”

“Look at you using your head for once,” Davenport says in that honey thick accent, reaching over to pinch Jack’s cheek. “Bless your heart.” 

“Aw, shut it,” Jack says but he seems pleased.

“But someone should tell Mr. Duarte,” says Davenport.

“Here’s your chance now,” Jack says and Ed startles, turning, afraid Feliciano has heard them and is going to be hard and disapproving. But he is just crossing from the mate’s room at the stern to move up to the poop deck and put himself on watch.

Long Bob will join him soon enough, Ed supposes, but he is currently climbing further up, as if the coming storm has caught his attention too.

“I’ll go,” says Davenport. “After all, we are very much alike, and-”

“Wait,” Ed says, holding up a hand. Is that a shadow by the door?

Yes.

Dirk looms out into the moonlight, melting from shadow to the scudding moonlight that slips off the blade of his cutlass.

He’s going to be a problem too and more of a problem than Ed wants to deal with going forward and he slips up the stairs after Feliciano on cat feet.

“Damn,” Davenport murmurs.

“We really need to take care of him,” Jack says.

“Yeah…” And then he has an idea, part of one, stringing together in his mind like Marguerite’s shell beads. He still doesn’t have it all together, but… “Look I have a plan, but first, do this we’ve all got to work together, right?”

“Right,” says Davenport. Jack eyes him.

“What plan. And are we gonna get in shit?”

“Who cares if we get in shit!” It’s hard not to yell but somehow, he manages. “We’re not- Jack, you’re here for Hornigold. You’re not just a mate. You’re not just crew. If we don’t stand up now, then we won’t stand up. Bones is nothing. Bones is shit. Dirk is shit. And we don’t. have. time.”

“I agree,” says Davenport. “It’s now or never.”

“Alright, alright. What’s your plan?”

“I’ll tell you but…” Okay, no it has to be said. “If we’re going to do this, ditch the coats. You look like losers.”

xxxxx

And it’s not a good plan. It’s not even a great plan. Ed’s heart is in his throat and his hand is on Feliciano’s dagger, enjoying the familiar weight.

He’s half wondering if he should do it at all, but it’s too late to back out. Right now Davenport is waking the Toad and Jack is waking van Morgenstern, and it’s not a lot of people but still six against one. Maybe seven if they catch Long Bob’s attention.

It’ll either work or it’ll backfire, but regardless, something will change. The wind is blowing harder now, but Ed can hear Dirk’s voice.

“…think you’re so smart,” he is saying. “Think you’re better than us. Well you’re not. And here you are, all alone.” Dirk is standing in the middle of the deck, hand on the hilt of his cutlass, Feliciano with a hand on his own but his fingers are twitching and the other is gripping a line as if he wants to haul himself away.

“Little birdie, you can’t run,” says Dirk. “You can’t hide. I bet you have no idea where we are, do you?”

“I do,” Feliciano says.

“Cute. You lie. You lie and I’ll tell them so and you and your little crew will be fucked.”

Feliciano catches Ed then, looking briefly to him and then back to Dirk.

“No,” Feliciano says, voice stronger and Ed knows just who he’s talking to. But fuck that. It’s too late for no. This is too stupid and dangerous for no. It’s not right, it’s not good, and it hurts too much for no.

“Yes,” says Dirk. The moron. “And you can prance about with your little sword.” He sneers. “But if you come after me, again, and I’ll make sure they pay for it.”

“What do you want me to do so you leave.” It is another word meant for Ed and it makes him freeze. What if Feliciano hates him after this? What if he never wants to talk to him again? Maybe Ed should just…

Dirk snickers in an ugly way.

“I’ll tell you what I want, birdy-boy. Just be a little nice to me and I’ll be a little nice to you.”

Yep. No. Can’t do it. It’s time. Ed doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t like Dirk’s tone or the brief look on Feliciano’s face that he never wants to see again.

So he kicks the back of Dirk’s knee as hard as he can. Dirk yelps as he goes down. Ed grabs his thick hair in one hand wrenches his head back to tip the dagger just under his chin. He also plants a knee in the man’s spine to keep him better controlled.

“You little shit,” Dirk snarls, reaching up but Ed twitches so a drop of blood slides down the groove of the blade.

“Shut up,” Ed says.

Dirk does which is a dark feeling, a horrible feeling, sweet and bitter and lancing something inside him that’s letting the darkness seep in, curling at the base of his skull.

“Ay, Ed, what are you doing?” Feliciano sounds tired. “You need to stop.”

That snaps him out of it and the crashing feelings are back. He is mostly annoyed now, mixed with a strange sort of fear, and an odd sort of something else seeing Feliciano’s hair feathered by the storm wind. Mostly he just wants to bite something.

“Stop what? Saving your ass?” Ed says. “What were you just going to give him what he asked for? Or get the shit beaten out of you?” There’s the anger now, prickling along his spine, rolling through him like the drum of thunder. Rain begins to fall, soft at first, but soon it will be hard, needling, he welcomes that too, like the iron taste on his tongue.

“It is fine.”

“It is not fine! He will come after you and come after you! Then he’ll come after the others! Why should he stop? Who the fuck is going to stop him?!  Bones? No, he is going to crush you too. He’s going to make you dance until nothing is left! And I’m not going to let that happen to you!”

“Oh, Ed,” Feliciano says with a sigh.

Footsteps behind him, just over the wind and Feliciano raises his eyes, but looks puzzled rather than afraid.

“And I ain’t gonna let it happen to you either,” Jack says, coming around so that Dirk can get a good look at him. He does look pretty badass now, having ditched the coat, back to the wind and rain and his hair whipping across his neck.

“We’re Hornigold’s crew and fight for our own. Right?”

This Jack says to van Morgenstern who comes up to his side and stands there, impressive arms folded, the trails of his long mustache twisting and writhing in the wind like some living thing.

“Dat’s right. No one hurts onea our own on my watch.”

“Is it so?” Feliciano says, his own arms folded, a strange expression on his face that seems like a smile and Ed hopes to fuck that it is.

“Arrogant bastarffcuk!” Dirk says as Ed digs his knee in to the man’s back. It’s either that or bury the dagger in his throat, but they really do need all hands.

“It is so,” says Davenport coming up on the other side. He has ditched the coat too but gotten a shorter maroon coat with gold buttons somewhere and Ed wishes he saw it first. “And you are my ally.” He flicks his hair over his shoulder and puts his hands on his hips. “Anyway, it is against my pride as a man to see Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Ranger humble himself for nobodies. Hawke is much better than Bones will ever be. Not to mention this…cretin.”

“Yup,” Toad croaks from his other side.

Goddamnit, Ed likes Davenport now. He can’t not! That was impressive and smooth as fuck even if he doesn’t know what a cretin is. No wonder Feliciano was having such a great time with him at the parley.

“If it is so,” says Feliciano. “Then all Ranger and all Siren must be protected.” And he looks at Jack who squirms. “All.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.”

Ed doesn’t get it but he’s glad-

Dirk’s hand suddenly wraps around his wrist and Ed finds himself hauled over the man’s shoulder, landing hard on his back on the deck, pain lancing through the back of his skull.

And then there is a damp pistol pressed against his head.

“Cute,” Dirk says. “Real cute, chickadees. And now you’re all going to die. Starting with this little fucker right here.”

Dirk pulls back the hammer. 

A pistol roars the wind, making Ed flinch- and is shocked to find he’s not even bleeding. Not even hurt. Dirk is howling too, blood spurting from the other side of his shoulder and his own pistol falls from his fingers clonking right across Ed’s face and fortunately not going fucking off.

“ARE YOU OKAY, ED?” Long Bob calls from the yardarm. “CUZ WE GOT A BIG STORM COMIN’.”

“Ay. Are you okay?” Feliciano asks, which is hard to say one way or the other with Dirk over him and a pistol on his face. But then Jack kicks Dirk in the ribs, sending him onto his side and Toad hauls him up, putting his own blade to Dirk’s throat, arms much thicker, stance stronger and Ed can see, even with the pistol on his face, there’s no way Dirk is going to be able to break free of it without losing a fuckton of blood.

And that’s good.

Good. He…He did it. It’s done.

“Ed?” Feliciano moves the gun and pats his cheeks.

“I’m fine.” Ed says, sitting up, blinking past the wave of dizziness. Feliciano helps him sit up, arm steady against his back. Ed is about to thank him, but a swell lifts them up and drops them suddenly, putting his stomach in his throat in a way that makes him want to puke. He swallows it back as best he can.

It’s good now. He should enjoy it. Yeah, it’s a storm but they’ve weathered storms before and it’s finished. It’s solved. It’s fine.

“What should we do with him, Boss?” Toad says, looking to Davenport and Ed’s stomach crashes back down with a lurch.

Oh. Fuck. Right. Something…something has to be done. Davenport looks absolutely shit fucking terrified at the question, his eyes widening, mouth opening and then clicking shut even as the storm winds pick up and the lines creak as the ship begins to bob violently in the waves. They need to haul anchor before it’s snapped, to decide if they’re going to weather the storm or run along its outer edge to avoid it.

But none of that can happen until they decide to do with this fucker.

Toad realizes this too because he repeats: “Boss.” In a strained tone. Dirk leers like he’s won, even with blood running down his shoulder and neck.

“I…” Davenport clears his throat. “I’m not… I’m not sure. Jack?”

“Fuck if I know! I didn’t think this far!” Jack says. And everyone looks at Ed so it’s his fucking problem again.

Well, everyone but Feliciano who glances at him and then away to Dirk. Ed can feel his fingers grip in the back of his shirt as if he’s trying to decide what to do. Ed wishes he would. Wishes he would say something.

But that’s the fucking problem isn’t it? He hadn’t thought this through either. The fucking problem with Dirk is that they can’t just chuck him over the side and call it an accident. They need him.

And it’s going to look bad if he ends up missing, if he ends up dead, and only the Ranger and Siren crew know anything about it. And if they keep him, his mouth will run which could be bad.

Unless.

“I-” Feliciano starts. “I think-”

Ed shakes his head and stands, pushing against the man’s shoulder to get on his feet.

“Edward,” Feliciano snaps, he’s angry but Ed’s not. Not even afraid. He just feels a little sad for some weird reason. He tries to tell Feliciano that it’s got to be this way. That there’s no other way. And that it’s fine, really.

Feliciano presses his lips together and looks away. Ed paces to stand in front of Dirk, stumbling only a little.

“Come on then,” Dirk says. “If you’re not men enough to decide, let this child to it for you.” And he spits on Ed’s shoe.

Ed backhands him hard, snapping the man’s head to the side and it feels- fucking good. The solid feel of bone against his knuckles, the way Dirk’s whole body jerks, the line of blood that runs down his throat. The darkness floods in him then, giving him strength and he lets it.

“You’ll live,” Ed says and Dirk glowers at him, sneering.

“You sure about that?”

“Yep.” And Ed slaps him this time, open handed, the crack of skin against skin even better than a punch. He could do this all day. He gets it. He understands. It’s fucking amazing.

He grabs Dirk’s chin then, forcing the man’s head up, sinking his fingernails against the skin, looking into his eyes as the rain starts slashing down.

“Because what the fuck are you going to say, mate? That a fifteen-year-old hit you? That he brought you to your knees? That he is the one that decided?”

Because it is him. Because it can only be him. Dirk snarls something in the back of his throat that Ed doesn’t catch and doesn’t need to. He knows the answer.

“I mean, you could blame someone else, but who? Toad? Nah. He’s higher than you. You’re mates too right? Who would care. Jack? Everyone likes him and van Morgenstern and if you blame Feliciano well- he’s the only one who can get us out of here alive.”

Ed smiles, pinching the man’s cheeks together, feeling his teeth clench, hoping the skin bruises.

“Your boss is a drunk, your crew are wastes of space, and we are the only ones here who matter. So you can behave yourself or not, chickadee, but you’re only going to hurt yourself.” And he gives him another slap for good measure and just because he needs it.

But then the thunder cracks and he knows that soon everyone is going to be spilling on deck. As he pulls back he realizes everyone is looking at him now with a different expression, but there’s no time to worry about it.

“Come on,” Ed says, knotting his damp hair behind him. “Let’s get to fucking work.”

xxxxx

Two days later and Ed is sick to fucking death of maps. Maps, maps and more maps. That’s all he ever has. That’s all he’s ever looking at. At least he’s not alone since Griff is there as well, pouring over every single scrap of map they have, even the dick one- especially the dick one, trying to figure out a way to chart the Devil’s Eye.

They’re not quite at the Mermaid Rock yet, but they’ll reach it soon, give or take a few hours. Right now they are at a low lazy sail, making their way through a wide channel, littered on either side with motherfucking ghost ships. Or at least wrecked ships. Ships scuttled to shit. There are timbers and spars and masts leaping out of the water around them. Tattered sails. He even thought he saw a skeleton tucked up in the crook of spar and mast like an unfortunate Gilead Thorpe.

The crew are lined up one either side of the main deck or up in the rigging themselves, pointing out the carnage or laughing in raised voices. Even Bones is out there, up to the gills in liquor, laughing at something Job Anderson had said and smacking him on the back so hard he swallows the bit of dried apple he was chewing and starts to choke.

Ed watches a little amused as Pew and Black Dog scramble to save their mate  while Bones laughs- then catches sight of Feliciano watching him again and tucks his head to the maps.

His eyes burn. His legs are cramped. His neck is cramped. He wants to get out and see the wreckage too and it’s not fair that he doesn’t get to, but that’s the price.

“Look over Blue and Dicky,” says Griff, putting the final touch on the map called Blue before pushing both over. “And tell me if I’ve missed anything.”

“Yeah sure.” Ed rubs his neck and looks down at the maps, trying to compare the both of them even as his eyes start to blur. He almost missed the storm, even as he wishes he could stop thinking about it, the roll of the thunder, the lash of the rain, the feeling of Dirk’s jaw against his knuckles.

Feliciano probably hated him for that.

Everyone probably thought he was some freak to…to have…

It’s not like he wants to do it again but in the moment he had felt-

Alive.

Well he probably doesn’t deserve to feel fucking alive.

He deserves to feel dead.

He deserves to be dead.

Instead he got lucky. The storm hadn’t shit itself out until well past noon, and then everyone was bone tired and bruised to shit anyway. Even Long Bob had a bit of a shiner from where he’d gotten clocked by the boom.

Ed had been so tired he hadn’t even remembered going to the cabin, but it had been nice to wake up there sandwiched between Long Bob and…well van Morgenstern, who had been at least too tired to snore for once. And he’d gotten to watch Feliciano guarding the door, flipping the dagger so that the blade winked in the amber sun and not missing a catch even once.

Ed wishes he could be so cool.

He wishes a lot of things.

He wishes he could stop looking at fucking maps for one thing. He wishes he could be out on deck, hanging out with Jack and Davenport, or even with some of the other crew. He’d even help peel moldy potatoes with John Silver, though right now Dirk was doing that job, sullen and angry, but not sullen and angry enough which leaves a bad taste in Ed’s mouth and sets his teeth on edge.

“Edward, focus,” says Griff. “We need your mind.”

“I’m focusing, I’m focusing,” Ed mutters. He picks up a stick a charcoal for any corrections since it can be brushed off and sets to work again, looking between one map and the other- back and forth and back and forth, hearing a:

“Woah!” from the deck, lifting up like a wave. And a:

“Blow me down, look at the size of her,” from Silver. And he wants to know. He wants to see. But they need to survive this. They need to get out and back to where their crews are waiting. Then it’ll be good again. Fun again. He can just lay back and enjoy himself when it’s all over.

Anyway, the maps are mostly the same except for a couple of marks which Ed corrects with the charcoal, trying not to think about how the black stains his fingers or his sleeves or is now dusted down the front of his shirt.

“Finished,” he says, sitting back and taking a sip of the watered-down grog. Most of it had to go to Bones now because of the plan, though in the end that is a sort of short-lived plan because the crew will only take the grog watered down so much and without grog at all-

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

Hopefully they’ll get out of this before they have to worry too much.

“Damn,” says Griff with a sigh. “I was hoping I was wrong. Look at this, boy.” And he points to a route marked on the Blue map that circles along the Northwestern arc of the Devil’s Eye, where they’re heading, looping down and coming close to the route that they took to come into the Devil’s Eye before shooting off westward toward the mainland.

“Fuck,” Ed says with a sigh. It must be a Navy route. If the Princess is really fucking persistent, she can come around and snag them on the way out. She might not even have to spot them coming. All she would have to do is wait for them to turn West- and Southwest toward Nassau- which is what they’re going to since they have to pass Nassau to get to Blind Man’s.

They could keep going Northwest up the coast, but Ed’s not sure if they’ve the provisions for that or the temper and they can only keep Bones drunk for so long. And even if they could do all that, it’d be a bitch of a thing trying to find a friendly port for a stolen Navy ship.

But they might not have a choice.

“Aye,” says Griff. “Whose bone headed idea was this whole venture, I wonder. I’d like to strangle them.”

Ed wants to sink under the table, but doesn’t because once he hits the deck he doubts that he’ll want to get back up again. He’ll just stare at the underside of the table until sleep or death comes to claim him.

Only he doesn’t have time for either.

“Better tell the lads and get their insight,” says Griff. “And God help us all.”

He hasn’t been much help so far, Ed thinks. He finishes his grog, then takes up the blue map toward the prow.

“Hey, Ed!” Long Bob calls. “Come look at this!” And he laughs. And Ed really really really wants to, but he fucking can’t. Not yet. Because once again they are fucking fucked.

Though thankfully no one knows they’re fucking fucked, not even Dirk who is fucking smirking at him from where he’s peeling potatoes so Ed wants to kick him between the eyes. He doesn’t, though, and continues onto the fo’c’sle where Jack and Davenport are hanging out by the bowsprit.

Another thing that isn’t fair is how cool they’ve gotten in two days since they’ve ditched the stupid coats. True, Davenport’s nose is swollen so it looks like he got attacked by a couple swarms of bees, but the red jacket sits well on his shoulders and he’s added a sleek black belt and some rings and he’s had Silver cut his hair so that it’s stern and captainly in the front but pirate-y in the back in a style Davenport called a:

‘Mullé.’ Which sounds more French then Ed thinks it is, but it’s pretty cool.

Jack on the other hand has ditched any kind of coat at all, and instead has cut the sleeves and waist off his shirt, leaving his stomach and lower back exposed, probably to show off all the hair he’s got on his belly. His trousers are cut off too, fairly high above the knee. It’s pretty awesome, but given his legs and back are lobster red, he’s going to be whiny bitch about it tonight.

Jack had Silver crop his hair close save for the long thin braid down his nape he calls a rat-tail. Ed wonders what that would be in French.

Since they haven’t noticed him yet, Ed takes a swift peek behind him, noticing that the wrecks were all mostly at stern now. Ahead there are clusters of rocks or hills that look like fingers sticking out of the water, still hazy on the horizon. Ed bets they’ll be interesting, and he hopes he get to fucking see them. But neither the wrecks nor the finger mountains seem so cool that it would make the crew gasp-let alone get something out of Silver.

“Yo,” he says to get their attention and they both startle like he’d caught them doing something they shouldn’t. “What was everyone looking at? What was so big?”

Jack snickers and Davenport says:

“Oh it was a whale pod.” With a dismissive flick of the hand to port. Ed tries to peer around him to get a good look, hoping to spot at least a fluke, but Davenport steps into his field of vision, saying:

“What do you think?” He spreads his arms and does a little turn. “Much better, isn’t it?”

“I think you should be showin’ more skin,” says Jack.

“I’m not showing more skin! Animal!” Davenport says with a laugh, punching Jack in the arm.

“It looks–” Ed starts.

“Yanno, you could use an update too,” says Jack. “You look a little like…uh…”

“Little Boy Blue,” says Davenport.

“Yeah that.”

Ed hates them. There’s no point in arguing right now though so he just flattens the map to Davenport’s chest.

“Just look at the fucking map will you?”

“Yes, yes, fine.”

Ed moves around him then to watch hopefully for some whales, but there’s nothing. He wonders if they were big whales or smaller like dolphins. The bigger the whale the deeper the water, after all, and that might be an option.  He tugs at the edges of his jacket, thinking of taking it off, then changing his mind as Jack steps up beside him. He doesn’t want the asshole to think he cares after all.

“You weren’t so bad the other day, you know?” Jack says. “I think you really matured.”

“Yeah?” Ed can’t help but feel a kind of pride at that.

“Yeah.” He snickers. “And you really walloped the shit out of Dirk. That was hilarious.”

Ed makes himself grin.

“Hornigold is probably gonna give me this ship,” Jack says. “Since we claimed it first and all.”

Which yeah, he might, though they’d need help getting her back to Paradise so they can crew her, unless they right off nab some of the Walrus crew right out from under Flint’s nose and that is hilarious. Though he feels less like laughing since Jack follows that by resting an arm on Ed’s head and leaning against him.

“And, you know, maybe in a couplea years when you get some height on ya, you can come sail with me.”

Sailing with Jack without Hornigold? And Long Bob and Feliciano too probably. With their own ship. Their own crew.

God…

That would be fucking inc–

“As my quartermaster.”

Oh.

“What an honor,” says Davenport dryly as he joins them at Jack’s other side. “Really you shouldn’t spoil the boy.”

“It is,” says Jack. “Better’n being stuck on the Ranger when he could be with me. Besides which he can be like Silver, you know? Keepin’ the men in line and havin’ all the good ideas. Anyway.” Jack scoffs. “Ain’t like he’s gonna get a much better offer, lil shit.”

Which is probably fucking true too, Ed thinks, and he doesn’t even need the memory of Kupe to tell him so.

“With all of that, I wonder what it is your first mate is going to do?” says Davenport. Jack straightens and swallows, fiddling with a pretty impressive iron chain looped around his neck.

“I was…uh…kinda hopin’... you’d tell me…” Jack says.

There is a beat of silence which crawls under Ed’s skin. He’s caught between leaving and patting Jack’s back. Before he can do either though, Davenport clears his throat.

“Well, the map.” He presents it back. “I’ve looked.”

“And?” Ed says.

“And what?”

Oh fucking -

“What are we going to do about the Navy?”

“Shit! Where?!” Jack straightens, looking around.

God, why are they so stupid.

“Here!” Ed says, shaking the map open again to show them. “Taking this route and trying to cut us off.”

It’s right there in fucking black ink!

“Oh…” Davenport stares at it. “Well…What do you think, Jack?”

Jack runs a hand over his hair, sweating a bit.

“Uh… fuck can we turn back around?”

“I don’t think so. Not against the wind.”

“Can we scuttle her…? Maybe…?”

“I don’t…I don’t know… Should we try?”

They both look at Ed and he wants to scream. How the fuck should he know? Why is he the one who should always fucking know?

“That is a wonderful question!” Feliciano’s voice rings brightly behind them making them all jump and turn. He smiles at them, looking warm and pretty as if the past few days hadn’t happened at all. Ed’s heart trips over itself.

“But it is, in fact, a difficult question, so you two must have much to discuss.” Feliciano comes up up to them in two long strides and wraps an arm around Ed’s shoulders.

“So I will borrow him and let your quick minds work, hm?”

“Oh…” says Davenport. “Well that’s…” He clears his throat. “Ed would only be an asset.”

“It is so.” Feliciano’s warm smile melts into something completely different and he reaches forward to trail the tips of his fingers over Davenport’s jaw. “But I need to see him for a short time, Donovan, and you are wise enough to grant this, sim?”

“S-sim,” Davenport says, flushing across his swollen nose. Ed finds himself flushing too.

“Yeah, yeah, seem and all that,” Jack snaps, aiming a mock kick in their direction. “Now get lost! Us men will handle it!”

“And so…” says Feliciano, flurrying his fingers in a kind of bow. And he leads Ed off the fo’c’sle. Ed stumbles a bit, even though they aren’t going very fast, and it’s even worse when Feliciano’s arm slips around his shoulder then, his fingers a hairsbreadth from Ed’s collarbone.

“Silver,” Feliciano calls as they come to the main deck. “You should go up to those two strong young men and help them reach a decision”

Silver looks up amused from where he’s watching Dirk peel.

“Aye, aye,” he says with a smirk, as if he doesn’t really mean part of that. Ed notices Dirk glance in Bones’ direction and even though the man is currently heaving his guts out over the side, doesn’t trust things to stay that way.

“You should take Mr. Bones, too,” Ed adds. Silver snorts a breath like a laugh and salutes.

“What are you bastards doing?” Dirk growls.

“None of your business, so it isn’t,” says Silver. “If your captain chooses to tell you after, then that’s his own choosing, but you sit there and you do what you were told to.”

Dirk sneers but drops his head, the long skins of potato slipping around the knife in jagged stripes. Silver smirks at them again, something glittering in his eyes before he rounds his shoulders. Well, one shoulder as the bird is on the other, preening his hair over his ear with her beak.

“Alright, my love,” he says to the bird, stroking her chest. “Let’s fetch our beloved commander.”

Ed wonders if they’re really going to be able to decide anything.

“Hey, what did you need me for?” Ed asks as Feliciano leads him further across the main deck. “I need to go back up.”

“No.” It’s not stern but Ed still winces a little.

“But-”

“Ed…” Feliciano turns to face him, both hands on his shoulders. “If you always make the decisions, they will never learn for themselves. And if they really need you, they know where you are.”

“Yeah… I guess…” He still feels like he should be up there. That he deserves to be up there. This is his fault after all that they’re here to begin with. But it’s hard to say no to Feliciano when he looks like that. Instead he lets himself to be lead to the side where Long Bob is patching a sail.

“You missed it, Ed!” He beams. “There were whales!”

“Yeah! I heard,” Ed says, trying to grin back. “Can I borrow that?” He gestures to the extra needle behind Long Bob’s ear.

“Yeah, sure!”

“No.” Feliciano plucks it from Long Bob’s fingers and tucks it back behind his ear. “Keep it warm for me, hm?”

And Long Bob laughs which is nice but Ed can’t help be a little frustrated too.

“What do you want me to do then?”

“Venha.” Feliciano pats a cask. Ed venhas, annoyed that his legs still dangle.

 “We are all looking a little ragged and it is time you were less so,” Feliciano says. “May I?”

“Yes…?”

He’s not sure what Feliciano means until clever fingers tug at the knot in his hair and sends it tumbling free down his shoulders and across his neck. Then begin to comb through it, gently releasing the snarls.

Shit.

Fuck.

No. Bad idea. He’s starting to feel like Davenport or Eric Danby or the dead swabbie. But he can’t really tell Feliciano to stop because then he’ll have to tell him why so he tugs the end of the sail over his lap like he’s checking Long Bob’s work.

“You’ve got great stitches, mate.”

“Long Bob is the best,” Long Bob agrees.

“He is,” says Feliciano as if he doesn’t even notice anything strange going on. The teeth of a comb replace warm fingers and Ed is both relieved and disappointed.

“Ay, it is longer,” Feliciano murmurs. “And so dark.” He sounds pleased and Ed is glad suddenly to have long dark hair. “Do you know how you wish to wear it?”

“Hm.” He hadn’t thought about that. “Can you do a mullé? Like Don?” The name sounds weird in his mouth, but he guesses it might as well be Don since they’re practically crew and all.

“…My hands are not for this,” Feliciano says after a moment, which Ed guesses means no.

“What about a rat-tail like Jack?”

“No…”

Geeze, his hands aren’t for anything cool.

“What about bald?” says Long Bob.

“He will never compare, meu lindo.” Feliciano pats Long Bob’s fuzzy head.

Ed sits up a little straighter. Sure he isn’t as big as Long Bob or as muscly and he doesn’t have a big laugh or anything like that, but he can compare a little.

“And Ed deserves Ed’s look,” Feliciano says, ruffling his hair which is both good and horrible and sends tingles down his neck. Ed shifts on the cask, trying to think of what his look even is. He doesn’t even have a look really. Just a face and borrowed clothes and stupid stripey pants and holes in his shoes. He has the gold pendant though which is pretty cool but it’s not really his.

“I don’t know…”

“No trouble,” says Feliciano. “It will come. For now, let us begin at the start. Do you prefer back?”

Ed tries not to shiver at the sweep of the ends of his own hair against his neck as Feliciano gathers it into his hand and presses it loosely against the back of his head. 

“Or this?” And he lets go and the hair is sliding back over his neck again and into his collar. How the fuck does Feliciano expect him to think?

“Um….both?” he manages.

“And so? Hm. Let me think.” But while he thinks he begins to run the comb through again in long, gentle strokes. Ed shifts restlessly.

“What should I do?”

“You? Close your eyes and tell me what the wind is saying.”

Ed doesn’t expect the laugh there until he breathes it out.

“Sure.” And he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath through his nose. The wind isn’t saying a whole hell of a lot. It’s slipping against the side of his cheeks and ruffling at his collar and tugging gently at the luffing sails.

He listens to the sound of the sea too, slopping gently against the side of the hull and the sound of the men at work or chatting to one another or arguing over stupid shit like if Toad’s hair makes him taller than Black Dog, which yeah, hair counts and if Black Dog has something to say about it, Ed can stab his other foot.

The sound of not so happy raised voices makes him open an eye and he sees Jack and Davenport arguing on the fo’c’sle, Silver’s hands up like he’s trying to talk them down and Bones pulling away at his bottle. He can’t tell if they’re really angry or not.

“They were kissing the other night,” he says.

“I know this,” says Feliciano. Ed looks up at him. He looks nice like this with the sun in his hair but Ed’s too curious to be completely distracted.

“How do you know?”

“Me!” says Long Bob.

“Oh right.”

“It is so. Down, porfe.” Feliciano puts a hand on his head to push it and Ed obeys.

“They were smooching on Ranger too,” says Long Bob.

“Fuck off, really?” Ed can’t believe that! “Before or after I swam over?”

“Day before. It was great.” He laughs. Feliciano hums.

“Mm. I wonder, amor ou luxúria?”

“Uh…” Long Bob seems to think. “Both. But the second more.”

“Lu…lushoria?” Ed repeats. “Like, fighting?”

“Wanting to wrestle!” says Long Bob and Feliciano laughs and swats him on the ear.

“Do not bring yourself into this.”

“You want to wrestle Jack?” What? “Or Don?” No Don is too weird. What kind of name is Don? It sounds like it should be longer– but does he really deserve Donovan? Ed’s not sure about that.

“Feliciano,” says Long Bob.

“What?” Ed stares at the man. That makes even less sense.

“Shht!” Feliciano paps Long Bob on the bald head. Then: “Down, Ed.”

Ed obeys, though tries to keep an eye on the goings on at the prow. They’re simmering now, Jack’s arms folded, Davenport’s hands on his hips as Silver talks to them. They don’t look much like commanders now. No one really does and maybe that’s the problem.

“Jack wants me to be his quartermaster,” Ed says, just to test that out. Though saying it doesn’t make him feel much better.

“Is it what you want?” Feliciano asks.

“I mean… I dunno maybe… If he wasn’t an asshole all the time.”

Feliciano snorts and Ed agrees with that. Jack will probably be an asshole even more if he’s captain. When he’s captain. But maybe not all the time. And yeah it’ll be super annoying at first, but…what else is he going to do? It’s not like if he stays on the Ranger he’s going to be a gunner or a rigger or a bursar like Fadel. He’d probably end up a quartermaster anyway, and it would be more fun with someone who would let him drink more and who he could smack on the back of the head.

Besides… Besides if Jack was on the Dorter then…Ed wouldn’t get to see him as much and that doesn’t sit right with him.

“I like Jack,” says Long Bob.

“Yeah, I do too,” Ed says “So it can’t be so bad.”

“So you say.” Feliciano gives a final tug at his hair, then holds something in front of Ed’s face.

“Is it well?”

Ed blinks and leans back, unexpectedly bumping a little against Feliciano’s throat at the sudden sight of…himself, looking back at himself in the brass bound mirror with real fucking glass that’s not even cracked.

“Woah…” He looks…different. Paradise wasn’t that long ago, though it felt like forever, but it feels like he’s become or is becoming someone new. He has cheekbones for one thing, some of the softness gone from his jaw, and more whiskers, almost a whole fucking mustache- or at least the ghost of one. His hair has been pulled back and though some of it tumbles down against his collar, the rest is held a soft bun that Ed can’t help but reach back and touch.

His eyes are dark. So dark. And when Ed meets his own gaze in the mirror they seem cold. He’d rather look up at Feliciano who comes into the reflection over by his head, his other arm coming to rest across Ed’s shoulders for balance, Ed guesses, but the sight of him and the weight of it and the nearness of it all- the brush of Feliciano’s breath against his recently exposed neck makes Ed want to wrestle him too, though he’s still not sure entirely what that means.

“There is still the boy in you,” says Feliciano in a warm voice. “But see? The man is showing. Here,” he presses Ed’s jaw. “And here.” The slant of his cheekbones. “Very soon you will be tall and strong. You are already growing free from the clothes you came in.”

“Really?” Fuck…he…hadn’t really noticed but maybe his trousers are shorter and the shoes are smaller. Is he getting taller? He wants to get taller, sure, but he doesn’t feel ready for it yet. He’s used to this size. What is he going to do when he’s not this size anymore?

“And,” Feliciano says with a kind of sad smile. “You are already too big to stand in front.”  He sighs. “So I must move to stand behind…”

What? Ed knows his mind is fuzzy but that’s making even less sense than usual.

“Ahead fore,” says Long Bob and Feliciano straightens, the mirror falling away. Ed blinks as he sees the ship again and Silver coming toward them with the map in hand and the smile that he wears when he’s so annoyed he has to smile at something.

He’s so annoyed that when he approaches his parrot goes fluttering from his shoulder to perch on Long Bob’s head, leaving a tiny poop there, though Long Bob just smiles.  Silver shakes his head and sighs, folds his arms, smile turning down at one corner.

“They asked me to send you back up to take another look at the map.”

“I’ve been staring holes into it all fucking day,” Ed says. Behind on the prow, Ed and Davenport are talking by the bowsprit again and Bones is sleeping against the foremast, legs sprawled out on either side.

“They must have come to something,” says Feliciano. “It cannot all be…” Ed can feel him make a gesture with his hands but doesn’t catch it in time. Silver shrugs. Ed sighs and thumps his head back, mildly surprised to find Feliciano’s shoulder, but decides he’s too tired to lift it up again. Anyway, Feliciano rests a hand across his forehead so that’s nice.

“They’re bright young men, to be sure, but they are young men, untried by command at sea and their first time on their own two feet. If Mr. Bones could make a decision worth a grain of rice, then so would they have easier time with it because he could steer them round any reefs or shoals in their thinking. And as it is with the mixed crew and the situation being how it is, speaking both to the Princess at our stern and to the fact that our Don is more interested in the…look of captaining, not that he doesn’t have a bright mind; as bright as your Mr. Rackham though he’s ….” Silver hesitates: “...still learning the ropes.”

Feliciano snorts.

Silver’s right though, Ed thinks. But it’s not really Jack’s fault. He’s got a lot to try to live up to.

“And with our little friend causing trouble…” Silver lifts his chin up, gesturing a bit back over his shoulder where Dirk is watching. “...Talking to the others, planting doubts as you might say, thinking they’d be better on their own so long as they had certain valuable hostages…”

“Morons,” Ed mutters, closing his eyes. They’d have to kill all the Ranger crew to do it, and maybe all of the Siren crew, and then even if they had Feliciano he might not be able to tell them anything even if he could. Even if by some fucking miracle they managed to get Feliciano and the Siren on their side, they’d be short four which would make sailing the Dorter near as impossible.

“That’s as may be, and it didn’t help him being set to the other night, and it didn’t likely didn’t hurt much either.” Silver adds almost defensively and Feliciano clicks his tongue. “But it is what it is, and things are as they are, and someone has to set things to rights because by all accounts it should be Bill Bones, but we know as it won’t be- and as our little friend has set my own men against me, it can’t be me either.”

“And so this,” says Feliciano, sounding annoyed again.

“Unless you’ve got a better idea,” says Silver. “And if they keep turning back so as to check on our progress, it’s going to muddy the waters further.”

Fuck. Fine.

Ed brushes Feliciano’s hand away from his forehead and after a moment of resting, hauls himself off the cask onto his feet.

“Good luck, Ed,” says Long Bob.

“Thanks, mate.” He reaches out to tentatively pet the bird’s chest with his knuckle and it fluffs, tilting its head to the side and fixing Ed with a bright eye. Ed smiles the continues onward toward the prow again, ignoring the excited cries from the others in something else cool he’s missing.

“There will be nothing from it,” says Feliciano from behind him. Which at least he’s wrong about that. Yeah, this will be a fucking slog, and he’ll have to think of a way out of it and to solve the problem of Dirk and pulling all their asses out of the water while having to go through three or four people to do it-

And no one will thank him or care or know… But Hornigold will know. He’ll know and maybe he won’t do anything about it but- he’ll look at Ed and see that…that he’s more than a good boy. That he’s the fucking best.

But first they’ll have to fucking survive it so he’ll look at the map a-fucking-gain and see what’s what and come up with an idea or two and then deal with Dirk in a way that’s not going to come back and bite them all in the ass.

 Not that he’s got a fucking clue as to how he’s going to do any of it.

But he’s going to have to figure it out. It’s not like anyone else will.

And who knows. Maybe they’ll get lucky for once.

xxxxx

They are lucky, but they aren’t. A storm blowing right the fuck up out of nowhere had knocked them off course and made a few hour journey to Mermaid Rock turn to a day and a half. The foresail had torn right in half during it, knocking one of the Siren crew, Cadger or Badger or something, to the deck and shattering his arm.

And even though it hadn’t been one of the Walrus crew, Dirk had used that. He had said in a way everyone was meant to hear that this was what happened when captained by boys.

No, shit, Ed had wanted to say. He’d rather be captained who knew what the fuck they were doing too. No one like that around.

To make things worse there had been a strange eerie sound during the night, like a lonely ghost, that had freaked everyone out and no one had even so much set a fucking foot on deck til this morning- which is good because they hadn’t seen the glowing green water at Dog’s Watch that had lapped up the sides of the hull.

It had been as beautiful as it had been a little fucking terrifying.

 Ed had hauled some up in a bucket and waved his fingers in it making them glow too.

Then he’d freaked out himself a bit and scoured off his hands before chucking the whole bucket over the side. It was bad enough without anyone seeing him with glowing fucking fingers.

He was glad he had because the next day, no one had been happy to take the slower route, swerving between the islands that they came across to keep out of direct line of sight of anything coming West. Maybe it had been a shit idea, and it was definitely a tedious idea. The crew had grumbled more, booze was thinning out as well as everyone’s tempers and even the Siren crew had been getting annoyed.

Maybe someone had had a better idea. But no one had fucking said so, had they? Anyway, even if it had been slow and tedious they were lucky to have been able to hide themselves behind a huge outcropping of rock that Long Bob had named Monkey Fingers right before the Princess had fairly limped into the headwaters of the Devil’s Eye to make a berth there.

She’d been caught in the storm too and was a little roughed up by it. Ed had seen them through the spyglass just a few hours ago patching the hull. It wasn’t a great thing to do on the open ocean but they were probably too wary to haul her big ass into the shallower water.

They probably had a good captain too. A strong captain. A captain that was sober more than he was drunk and didn’t make someone else make all the decisions.

But…anyway, the good thing is, the Princess doesn’t know they’re here. The bad thing is they’re pretty much fucking trapped here until she shoves off and hopes she doesn’t leave at an angle to see them.

Another fortunate thing is that Bones had come out of his stupor long enough to tell everyone to piss off to a nearby island to gather supplies, he’d said, but really to cool off, Ed guesses. To get off ship. To stretch their legs.

Not that there is anything much to this island but sand and trees and rocks.

Still the Walrus crew had practically dove off the side to get the chance and he had a feeling that they were looking for more than just a chance to hit the beach.

Ed shifts his weight carefully on the pine branch he’s been sitting on the last two hours or so, watching the sun slowly bleed through the horizon, glinting off the sea and the clouds and the flicking off the fucking amazing waterfalls of Mermaid Rock like jewels.

Pew is directly below him. The man’s been pacing, digging in the sand, darting behind a rock at the sound of footsteps and then breathing again when whoever it is passed by. The man is observant. Stupid enough to bolt at the sound of a rock crashing through the underbrush and giving Ed enough time to scale the tree before he came back- but observant.

So long, Ed guesses, as he doesn’t have to look up.

After awhile Pew was joined by Black Dog and then later Job Anderson, and though Ed is close enough to hear what they’re saying, they’re not doing anything but grumbling and shushhing each other, ears perked like dogs.

Then, just as the sun is almost touching the rim of the horizon, a shadow falls across the beach. The Walrus men tense, hands on knives and pistols and Ed holds himself as still as he can even though he wants to lean forward to see.

As expected, Dirk arrives into the clearing…. shoulder to shoulder with van Morgenstern.

Ed nearly does sit up then, heart in his throat, hand on his dagger, but he waits instead of jumping down to save him, takes a long quiet breath and looks.

Van Morgenstern isn’t bound, but isn’t armed except for whatever might be in that small burlap sack he’s carrying- which might be big enough to contain a flintlock, but not easy to get to.

What is he even doing here?

“Hey, now, what are ye doin’ here?!” Pew spits. “We don’t want none of yer Ranger crew in these parts!”

“Shut up,” Dirk says and Job Anderson’s mouth closes with a click. “Thomas is a friend.” He grins. “A future crewmate.”

No, that’s bullshit. It has to be bullshit. Why would van Morgenstern be a friend of theirs?

“Why would he be a friend of ours?” Pew says, folding his arms. “I don’t believe a word of it!”

“I bet that damn Teach has something to do with it,” Black Dog snaps and Ed holds his breath as they all look around back and forth through the trees. Van Morgenstern goes white and shifts as if he’s going to leave but Dirk puts a hand on his shoulder and says:

“You stay right here. If you move, I’ll blow your brains out.”

Van Morgenstern nods and Ed watches as Dirk moves back to the beach, as if looking for Ed there. Ed stares into van Morgenstern’s, willing it to break into something else, some kind of sly expression or maybe even relief. But who would even send him out here? Not Jack. Maybe Silver, maybe.

Yeah, that had to be.

“All clear,” says Pew, coming back to the center.

“Here too,” Black Dog adds.

“Here’s…ow fine…” says Job Anderson, picking burrs off himself.

“God almighty we let you alone for two seconds!” Pew shakes his head.

“No one on the beach,” Dirk says, returning and then resting a hand on the nape of van Morgenstern’s neck. “And that’s good. Because old Tommy here is a friend of ours now. Tell us why.” He gives the man a little shake.

“Well-” van Morgenstern takes a breath, then looks around. “Are you sure Teach ain’t here?” This makes everyone spook again and look around themselves until Dirk thumps the back of van Morgenstern’s head says:

“No. And I’m not afraid of a baby,” he snaps. Fucker. Ed would show him a baby right to the spleen.

“If he was a baby? No problem. Hell, even if he was a guy like Jack or Bobby or some shit, dat I get, but he’s not nat’ral. I don’t even tink he’s human. Listen, I heard tings. I seen tings. Last night da lil fucker’s fingers were glowin’.”

Oh… shit. Well at least van Morgenstern was the only one who’d seen it but…now he wonders… He stares at his fingers in the dark. Is just that enough to scare the piss out of a grown man?

“You were dreaming,” Dirk says.

“Swear on my oma’s grave, dats what I saw. And and I asked Duarte, just jokin’ like, if Teach got dis ship by killin’ everyone aboard and Duarte just smiled. Smiled. Gave me da collywobbles.”

The other men shiver too except Dirk, though it’s hard to tell what he feels since Ed can’t see his face clearly. Which is probably a good thing because it’s only that and the knowledge that van Morgenstern is a filthy traitor that’s keeping him from laughing.

“If he’d killed everyone on the Dorter, there would be blood,” says Dirk. “And corpses.”

“I didn’t say he did. I’m sayin’ dat it wouldn’t surprise me if he did.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me either,” says Pew. “Not a bit.”

“He stabbed me in the fucking foot without even blinking,” says Black Dog.

“Did…Did Teach drive you from your captain?” says Job Anderson.

“What? Naw. He’s fine if he’s on your side. It’s just you can’t get anyhwere with Hornigold. You gotta be under his thumb to get any upward mobility, and dat plus like, he doesn’t know what he’s doin’ half the time and we ain’t got a doctor and only five percent of any loot we get? Forgeddabout it. It ain’t right.”

“Five percent?” Black Dog shakes his head. “That’s criminal.”

“Innit?”

“Silver makes sure we get ten percent at least,” says Pew and the dumbasses all nod. “And if we need a doctor and it can’t be fixed on the ship it comes out of the health fund.”

Van Morgenstern gasps.

“You guys get a health fund?”

“Aye,” says Pew. “And dental.”

“Seems… like Silver’s not sucha bad guy…” van Morgenstern says, looking at the burlap sack. Ed feels for him a little. It’s true that working under Hornigold isn’t the easiest, but that’s what happens when you work for the best. Who the hell gives a shit about health funds or dental? You’re either a healthy pirate or a dead one.

“Silver is the reason we’re in this mess,” says Dirk. “We’ll be much better off without him! And it’s too late now anyway after what you did.”
     And he snatches the sack from van Morgenstern and reaches in, snatching out a lumpy shape which suddenly shrieks in terror, wings flailing. Ed’s heart flips as he realizes it’s the fucking bird. He wants to leap down from the tree, to save it, to make it stop screeching. Dirk shoves it back in the sack but the screams are only muffled now.

Ed grips the branch to keep himself where he is. If Dirk knows he wants it, he’ll just use it against him, maybe even kill the thing and if does that then Ed really will stab him because he doesn’t want to be the one to give Silver his dead bird back.

“We don’t need him,” Dirk says. “Between the five of us we can get a hundred percent of the loot! But with this we can use him. Use his weakness against him. He’ll be on our side and do whatever we say.”

Ed doubts it. But then he doesn’t know. He can’t be sure. He himself might do the same thing for Feliciano but… for a bird?

“I think we need him a little,” says Black Dog.

“We don’t. And we don’t have to listen to boys tell us what to do! Or Silver! Or Flint! We can make our own way! With just my brain alone we can get out of this cursed Eye without the Princess even noticing us.”

Oh that’s just it.

“And how the fuck are you going to do that?”  

Pew’s scream nearly startles Ed right out the fucking tree.

“Oh shit! He’s here!” Black Dog yelps and shoves Job Anderson down as he bolts from the clearing out into the sand. Job Anderson stumbles after Pew who is diving, screaming into the forest.  Ed clings to the trunk, looking around. Who the fuck is here? What the fuck are they running from?

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it!” van Morgenstern is bellowing as he charges out into the sand himself, only just dodging Dirk’s reaching hand. “It was a trick! A game! Ha ha!”

Wait… Wait…are they running…from him?

Really?

Yeah they’re idiots but…

 What the fuck do they think he’s going to do?

“Cowards!” Dirk yells. “He’s just a boy!”

“Am I?” Ed says, feeling strangely giddy for the first time in fucking ever.

“A little shitfaced boy,” snarls Dirk. “And I’m not afraid of you!”

So not afraid he has his pistol out and is circling around, pointing at the trees. The sack lies forgotten and Ed hopes he can help it stay that way without anyone getting shot. He plucks off a pinecone as softly as he can and throws it deeper into the woods. Dirk jerks toward the sound but doesn’t shoot.

Damn.

“Come out and face me like a man!”

“I thought I was a boy,” Ed says, because it’s way too fucking easy. How does Dirk expect to win if he leaves openings big enough to sail the Princess through?

“You’re going to be offal when I’m through with you!” snaps Dirk. “And this? This isn’t over. You can’t stop this. You and your mates and Davenport and Bones and Silver can all go to hell. This is my time. Mine.”

“Okay but you still haven’t said how you were going to get out of it.” And Ed would really like to fucking know. He takes another pinecone and throws it in another direction. Dirk hisses between his teeth and his arm is shaking as he clutches his shoulder.

Ed bets it hurts.

Ed bets it burns.

He’d like to make it hurt more as the fucker deserves for what he said to Feliciano but not yet. Not now.

“You’d like to know, wouldn’t you? Well you won’t live to see it.”

“Yeah, I would and yeah, I will. Are you going to row back and hope the supplies last? Or are you going to turn back against the wind and try to make it back the way we came, where they can still head you off, by the way. Or try to make it through here without a map?”

“I don’t need a map, I have your little Spaniard.”

“He’s Portuguese, you fucker,” Ed snaps and is very tempted to throw a pinecone at his head. “And he barely knows the area. You heard him before. And just how the fuck do you think we got this far? Jack? Donovan?” No it still sounds weird and pukey in his mouth. “Bones?”

“I’ll… I’ll figure out a way,” Dirk says. “Once I get those bastards back on my side, and they will be. I’ll make it so they don’t want to be anywhere else.” There’s a threat in his words. Maybe he’ll succeed. Maybe the Walrus crew will turn against him.

But they don’t have time for a bloody mutiny.

They have an advantage with the Princess being as she is. Of her not expecting them to be there. Of tide and time and other things. But they’re going to lose it if they dick around for much longer.

And he’ll need Dirk, if not on his side, at least out of his fucking way.

Well, there’s one way to get this done, he knows. It’s not a way he’s going to fucking like but the only way he has so far.

“Or we can work together,” Ed says, hating it even as he says it. “I give you an idea, you take the credit.” Not that anyone worth a damn would believe that Dirk had come up with it, but that’s how it always goes so why the fuck should it change now.

“Why… would you do that?” Dirks hand lowers and he’s massaging his shoulder and for some reason it feels really fucking good to see.

“Because I want to get the fuck out of here.” And come back on the Ranger so he can actually fucking enjoy himself. “And I’m tired of bullshit.” Also if it’s a shit plan, Dirk will take the fall for it in the eyes of his idiots. Then again, if it’s a shit plan they’re all probably going to die and since he’s the only fucking one who can seem to fucking think it’s just going to have to be the best fucking plan he’s ever made, isn’t it?

“You pull this off with me and you won’t have to sail with Flint,” Ed says making it up as he goes, trying to pretend he’s like Feliciano or like a siren from the stories Doctor John used to tell, luring men to the rocks. “Everyone would see this is the man who got past a huge fuckoff war ship. They’d probably even give you a ship of your own.”

The flintlock is almost fully lowered now.

“So what is this plan?” Dirk says, voice smoother now, more confident, like he thinks he’s going to win this fucking conversation.

“I’ll tell you when I’m ready.” Ed plucks the third pinecone. He can see the stars now through the branches of the trees though the sun hasn’t fully set.

“And if I don’t go along with it?”

Ed turns to look down at the man, a blocky shadowy shape but just enough to make out.

“Then I can just kill you now.” And he slings the pinecone down, the thud of the hit and the blast of the flintlock filling him with a kind of satisfaction. Dirk may be able to reload but he’ll have to be able to see first.

“Ow! You little fucker,” Dirk snarls. “Fine. Fine. But it better be a good plan or I will skin you, I will skin your Spaniard, I will skin everyone you like and make you watch.”

Dirk can barely fucking skin a potato but the words make him sit up, legs dangling over the tree branch. Can Dirk do it? Probably not. But that he wants to do it makes Ed want to stab him.

“It will be,” Ed says. “But you had better not fuck me over, Dirk. You’d better not even think of it, you pockmarked faced bitch.” Now bitch was a nice word to say. He should try it more often. “Because I know where you sleep. I know where you eat and where you shit and where you piss. And if you cross me I will make you fucking regret it.”

There is a moment of silence where Dirk pulls in a sharp breath.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he says and Ed grins, feeling that hard dark edge rising in his throat and it’s fucking wonderful. What a fucking liar he is. Ed wants to call him out on it but doesn’t. Not yet anyway.

“Tomorrow night. Have something. Or the deal’s off.” And he spits on the ground and storms away.

Ed remains where he is, watching the sun set, the skies darken, the stars flicker to life, the moon rise. Only when he can see the ground and his neck is starting to ache does he get down from the tree, quietly, ears open for any sound. A peek on the beach shows no one around. Still he takes the sack that Dirk dropped and makes sure he’s well seated on the branch again before opening it.

The bird peeps, shuddering and Ed shushes it, reaching into stroke its small feathered head.

“You’re alright, mate. I’ve got you.” And then he leans back against the trunk and searches the stars, trying to find Ana-Nia though he won’t see her from this angle with the branches in the way. He sighs, feeling tired again and ready to sleep. But he can’t. Not yet.

“Now I just have to figure out everything fucking else.”

The bird peeps again, smoothing its head into his hand, then begins to pull at his sleeve with its beak.

“Hey, stop,” he laughs a little. “You’re going to tear it.” He moves his sleeve gently away from her, and catches a tiny speck of fading green glow. And then he thinks of the holes in the side of the ship and Jack’s need to scuttle her.

And smiles.

Chapter Text

Ed stands beside Dirk a few steps from the table back to the door. The captain’s cabin is close, stifling, reeking of booze more than usual. All the windows are shut and only a single lantern burns on the table.

Dirk is sweating, big fat drops going down his cheeks and chin, the palm of his hand, pressed like a warning against the back of Ed’s neck, is disgustingly damp and he wants to squirm away from it or elbow him in the ribs. But this is the fucking game, isn’t it? This is the fucking show.

Not that anyone’s buying it.

No one except maybe Bones who looks like he would buy the fucking moon if he could go to sleep. He’s sitting in the center as always, cheek on his fist, no bottle in his hand but mostly because it’s clunked to the floor at his side. Jack and Davenport are both watching Ed with their eyebrows raised. Sweat is sticking Jack’s shirt to him and even making Davenport’s mullé limp and unexciting.

The only one who doesn’t look fucking miserable is Feliciano who is leaning against the door, arms folded, looking stern. Ed’s not sure whether to be impressed or annoyed by his presence, and is not sure why he should be either. There’s also something else, that third strange feeling that’s been simmering in his gut, but he doesn’t really have time to think about any of it.

“So you’re gonna tell us your idea,” Jack says slowly as he doesn’t believe it. Dirk’s hand tightens against the back of Ed’s neck.

“Yes, it’s my idea,” says Dirk, giving Ed a short, rough shake. “Teach helped, barely. But this is something that I came up with, which I might have told you punks sooner, but you underestimated me.”

Jack lowers his chin a bit, asking Ed just what the fuck is going on. Ed replies in kind, tilting his own chin slightly to the left, telling Jack to just go along with it, something he hopes Feliciano sees as well. A soft huff of breath from the door tells him that Feliciano had, but isn’t happy about it, though Ed doesn’t get why fucking not.

“I suppose,” murmurs Davenport with a frown. Then Jack must have nudged him or something under the table because he raises his head and smiles. “Well, Mr. Dirk?”

Dirk hesitates. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Bones to give the order?”

Bones snorts in his sleep, heel of his hand near his cheekbone now and a strand of drool shines yellow in the lamplight as it slips from the corner of his mouth to pool on the table. Ed’s not sure now if keeping the man completely pissed all of the time was a good idea, but on the other hand, so far it’s better than the fucking alternative.

“We’ll wake him up when the time comes,” says Davenport and gestures that Dirk should go on.

“We uh…” Dirk clears his throat, shifts foot to foot. “We take half of the men to the island… some of them we paint with the glowing…shit. Lure in the Princess - the men of the Princess and blow them up and then… No wait before that we have to keep some on the ship- this ship- to put the lights on before…or…after...”

Ed sighs. Three times he’d told him the plan. Three fucking times. If Dirk had wanted to take credit for the damned plan so much, the least he could do was fucking remember it.

“Yeah, it sounds like a plan of yours,” Jack says, folding his arms and giving Ed a look asking him: what the fuck?

“It was the island first,” Ed says, not adding dumbass but the words are there behind his teeth— which soon click together as Dirk smacks the back of his head hard and he nearly bites his tongue.

“You speak when you’re spoken to, chickadee,” Dirk snarls. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Ed can distantly feel his nails cut against the palms of his hands. He wants to make Dirk afraid of him. He wants to make Dirk fucking terrified. He wants Dirk to piss himself at the sight of him or hide under the blankets. But he can’t. Not here. Not now. Not with everything so close to breaking when they needed every hand they had just to get out of this fucking place.

Ed takes a breath, then another and realizes with a kind of ugly start how quiet the room has gotten- the only sound being Bones’ snores, and the shuffle of Dirk’s shoes against the floor as he takes a step away. Jack and Davenport are watching Dirk, Jack’s brows lowered, a sneer around his nose, Davenport’s chin lifted and his blue eyes cold enough to chill the sweat at the back of Ed’s neck.

“So…I get it,” Jack says after a moment, carefully, as if holding something fragile. “Your idea, Dirk, fine. I’ll stand by it, Don’ll stand by it, you’ll get the crew that believes it to suck your tiny ass dick and everyone gets off happy. But let’s just have this understandin’.” Jack braces his hands against the table and rises, looking suddenly taller, the shadows on his face deeper as if he’s grown up in the space of seconds. “You ain’t shit . You ain’t a captain or a mate. You ain’t even Silver. So you keep your fuckin’ hands off my crew, we clear?”

Fuck. Ed feels his face sting, though he’s not sure why, and strange feelings crash and snag inside him like overlapping waves. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have time to get it. He almost wished Jack hadn’t said it but if he doesn’t have to worry about Dirk the dickhead getting in his way, then he’ll take it.

“You’re not my captain,” says Dirk, but less fucking certain than before.

“Your captain isn’t here,” says Davenport. “But I am. So accept your boon and stand down.”

“Yeah, I’ll stand down.” Dirk is smirking now with a hard twisted gleam of teeth. “But if you’re not careful, you might not find much of a crew to stand with you.”

“And so if we fall, you will fall first,” says Feliciano by the door. His voice is soft like the slide of a cutlass from a sheathe and the complicated currents in Ed’s chest turn and snag and he can feel something like an undertow trying to suck his ribs down making it oddly hard to fill his lungs in the sweat damp room.

It’s even worse when Dirk’s grin falls and cold anger replaces it. Ed instead tries to focus on Dirk’s anger, on that blade sharp knowledge that the man is going to get his own, that he is going to bide his time and find a way to stab them in the back. It makes things settle anyway. It clears his head.

“Fuckin’ politics,” Jack mutters, flumping back in the chair so the legs scrape against the floor. Bones jerks awake then, eyes bloodshot and bleary, then yawns and crosses his arms on the table to pillow his cheek on them and starts snoring once more. Davenport regards the man a moment like he’s maggoty bread, then flicks a strand of dark damp hair over his shoulder.

“What exactly is Mr. Dirk’s idea, Ed?”

“We blow up the Princess,” Ed says. “And that will help. Look…” And he gestures out the window where he can just see the gleam of the glowing things on the water, washing up the base of the Monkey Finger rocks. Jack snorts but doesn’t interrupt which is a fucking surprise in itself, so Ed goes on.

“We need the Princess distracted, so we send half the crew to the Mermaid Rock. We can get there without being seen so long as we move in the next couple hours. The crew makes a big scene, firing off pistols and shit, to get the Princess’ attention.  Then we put up lanterns on the Dorter to get the Princess’ attention here too- she won’t be able to get into cannon range without scuttling herself and won’t want to. And while she’s distracted in two spots, I’ll cover myself in the glowing shit and swim over to torch their gunpowder. She goes up. We go free. Easy.”

“No,” says Feliciano and Ed is annoyed all over again.

“The fuck do you mean ‘no’?” He thought this was done. Isn’t it done? Whatever bullshit Feliciano is playing at Ed has no idea what he’s thinking but now is not the time. He half wants to strangle him, but the thought of touching the smooth skin of his throat makes everything else go weird so he tries not to think of anything but how annoyed he is.

“I mean, no. That will not happen. I will go with you. We will row.”

“It’s fine,” Ed says. “I can swim that easy. I don’t need help.”

“But you have it.” Feliciano shrugs. “And it is so.” As if he’s saying it’s going to happen whether Ed likes it or not.

“Ain’t a bad idea,” says Jack. Ed glares at him. Of course he’d agree with Feliciano now .

“Well it ain’t!” Jack says. “You can paint the glowin’ shit on the dinghy too. Anyway, how are you plannin’ to light anythin’ when you’re soaked to the bone?”

Well that’s true. He’d need something to keep matches or the flint dry, but-

“You’ll need someone to watch your back anyway,” says Davenport.

“Yeah, but…”

 “And you might as well take gunpowder from the Dorter rather than searching for the Princess’ magazines. We’re on a bit of a time crunch.”

And it makes sense. It does. But Ed feels unsettled somehow. He doesn’t like it. Not one fucking bit.

“You should take Mr. Tadpoole with you too, he’s a strong rower,” says Davenport.

“But it’s going to be dangerous…” Ed mutters. Which is super fucking important somehow. He doesn’t want to put Feliciano in that position. What if something happens.

“Uh, yeah? No shit? This whole thing is kinda fuckin’ dangerous, if you haven’t noticed,” Jack says. Then snaps his fingers. “Oh shit. Don, hey, what do you think of this. What if we lure those fuckers to Mermaid Rock rather than just gettin’ their attention. We can dress up one of ours like one of theirs and pretend threaten to kill him or some shit.”

“That’s a good idea,” Davenport says. And it was. Goddamnit. But…

“What if I just take the Toad?” Ed says.

“No,” says Feliciano and now he really wants to… to kick him in the shin or something.

“It’s done, Ed. Focus,” says Jack.

No. He doesn’t want to fucking focus. He’s sick of fucking focusing. All he’s been doing is fucking focusing and he still has to focus after this because of the fucking bird he put in his fucking cabin so he could figure out what the fuck Silver is up to or has been up to.

And all of that is beside the single fucking point that …that it’s fucking dangerous blowing up the Princess Anne. Too fucking dangerous for more than one person except maybe the Toad.

He wants to tell Jack and Davenport this. He wants to shake them until they understand. Instead he has to listen to them develop the idea that he’d made. Of maybe darkening the crew on the island up and hiding them behind the rocks so that when the Navy Men come over they’ll get a surprise of a lifetime, or putting on all the lamps on the Dorter and having the remaining crew sing to let the Navy Men know they don’t care.

Now they’re full of fucking ideas, but not about what’s important.

But it’s fine.

It’s fucking fine.

He’ll take care of it on his own.

And, he thinks as he stares into the shadows behind Jack and Davenport’s head. He knows just how to do it.

xxxxx

But Silver has to be taken care of first.

And time is wearing thin.

Outside the window of the cabin he can see the moon on the horizon, barely risen and almost full, casting pale ripples on the water and brushing white across the tops of the fluffy clouds that lay low beside it. The undersides of the cloud are dark, and not just because of shadow, but the waiting solemn gray that meant a storm wasn’t far. The wind is starting to ripple the freckled surface of the water and it wouldn’t be too long before he felt the prickle of it over his skin. Maybe an hour, maybe two, they needed to get this shit over with.

But, as fucking always, he had to go five fucking steps out before he could even start heading in.

Ed sighs, knotting his hair behind his head and not in the cool way Feliciano showed him before.  Then rolls his neck from side to side, suddenly tired. The bird coos from its little nest of soft linen Ed had made for it before he’d gone to talk to Dirk.

 At least that pain in the ass thing was fucking done. Jack and Davenport had told the crew the plan while supporting the slopping Bones between them, giving Dirk most of the credit. And even though Dirk in the cabin had taken on the expression of a trapped rat, in front of the crew he had been proud, chest thrown out, head high, as if pleased.

And maybe he is. Not that he won’t be a fucking problem later on, but for now, at least, Ed didn’t have to worry about him.

He had had to worry about the Walrus crew practically jumping at the chance to go to help on the island, as well as van Morgenstern, but Long Bob had agreed to go watch Jack’s back.

So that only leaves Feliciano and Toad to worry about..

…and John fucking Silver.

And that’s his tread on the deck now, also thanks to Long Bob who agreed to tell Silver to meet him without telling anyone else or telling Silver why. Long Bob will probably tell Feliciano though later on and Feliciano will be pissed off, but that’s later’s problem.

For now, Ed moves to stand in front of the bed to block sight of the bird, arms folded, chin up, and starts out of his skin at the knock. He’d forgotten John Silver knocked. By why is he knocking? He has to know there’s no one else in the room but Ed. Everyone else is out on fucking deck, preparing.

“Um…” Ed says into the silence. “Come…in?” and then adds. “Alone.”

The door opens letting in a spill of moonlight and Silver not soon after, shutting the door behind him. The cabin is dim but even then Ed can see the man is angry, his own arms folded, a smile cutting across his face. It sends a prickle up Ed’s spine, as much a warning as a storm, and he fights the grin that’s just going to send the wrong signal, instead focusing on how annoyed he is at this jackass.

Did someone tell Silver about the bird, he wonders and how van Morgenstern had it?

Did someone lie about the bird and say Ed stole it? That would be the smart thing to do. And depending on what was said and how, Silver might even believe it.

“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Silver says.

“Do you care to tell me what’s going on?” The words aren’t as strong in his voice as they are in Silver’s. It’s just as bad as calling Davenport by his first name. Silver takes a breath and Ed decides he doesn’t really have time to fucking dance in the way Silver does either. “Did you give the bird to van Morgenstern or did he steal it himself?”

Silver’s breath leaves him in a gust and his expression…changes. He looks older now as he runs a hand over the side of his face before folding his arms again.

“So you were there, were you. Of course you bloody were.”

“Uh, yeah? Of course I fucking was.” And then because everything is starting to fall in place. Son of a bitch . “Van Morgenstern has been yours since…Paradise?”

“A bit before… but Aye…”

That’s concerning, but he’ll think about that later.

“Anyone else?”

“Happenstance Conner for a time, but you saw what happened there, and well deserved too I’ll admit. But it’s nothing personal, lad,” Silver holds up his hands. “It’s just the way of the buccaneer, you understand. You get what you can and you take all you can for the benefit of those who rely on you. After all I’ve men in my keep. Something I’d hoped you’d come to recognize.” Silver’s voice is soft now, gentle, catching just a little.

“You’re a good lad, and a smart one, brilliant even. You’ve got us out of this mess, I’d wager, and many will thank you for it if I’ve a voice to speak.” He sighs “But you don’t understand the way of the sea. That you hold close to what is yours and protect it at all costs, and when it is gone- well-sometimes there is only one end. There are some things that can’t be forgiven.” And Ed realizes as Silver’s talking he’s reaching for something at his side. Probably not a pistol because he’s not fucking stupid, but a knife maybe, which Ed does not have time for either.

Why is he even—?

Oh. Right.

Fucking hell.

“Oh take your fucking bird, it’s still alive,” Ed mutters. As if to answer, the bird gives a questioning little chirp.

“Blood and saints.” Silver’s voice does break now and he hurries toward the bed. Ed gives him space because he doesn’t want to deal with salt water in a knife wound and grabs the boot black to start getting ready. The moon is above the horizon now, not by much, but enough to piss him off.

“There you are, sweetheart,” Silver murmurs, cradling the bird between his palms. “It’s alright now, so it is. I’ve got you. And we won’t do that again with you, says I. You’ll stay by my side, hm?”

Which just annoys Ed more for some reason. He shifts into the moonlight himself so he can make sure the black is covering his skin without leaving any patches, though the sight of it getting darker and darker twists the strange tangling feelings even more. 

“It was…” Silver swallows. “It was Thomas that told me you had… that you had found out about his and I’s little deal, and so out of revenge you….” He trails off as if he can’t finish it, but he shouldn’t have put the stupid fucking bird at risk to begin with.

And anyway:

“I’m not that fucking stupid.”

Because Silver’s a good ally and a devious as fuck enemy and things would only go to shit for him if he killed it.

“No.” Silver sighs. “So you aren’t.”

“Though I really fucking should do it anyway, because this? All of this bullshit we’re in right now? Is all your fault.” Because it is. And because he gets it. And it’s really fucking irritating. “And don’t give me that shit about the way of the buccaneer. I don’t care about Happy or van Morgenstern. That’s fine. Whatever. They’ve fucked around and they’ve found out. But now we have to fucking deal with Dirk .” He gestures at the door, sending a splattering of boot black with it. Poisoning the room, he thinks with a queasy stir in his gut. Dirtying it. “And the Walrus crew because you had to come after me . Because everyone thinks I’m some poor stupid kid. Well I’m not.” Fuck. How is he going to…? “And grab that mirror over there.”

To his surprise, Silver does, without speaking, without arguing. For a second Ed is afraid the man is coming close to stab him, but Silver just comes to a stop in front of him, holding the mirror up with both hands, the bird preening itself on his shoulder.

 Ed stares at his black face and dark eyes and the shudder goes through him again but he swallows it back. Instead he picks up the bucket of the shining sea water and begins to spread the glowing shit across his forehead, hoping the boot black will make it stick.

He feels something shift at the sight of the shining stuff against the black. Something move and turn in him. A becoming of something like a cresting wave. He lets it wash over him, the ideas coming with it, the words, even as the blue half skull forms on his face. He looks different. He feels different. Like he can do anything or be anything.

“You can work with me, or not, John Silver.” Even his voice sounds different, lower and soft, as much a blade as anything. “But stay the fuck out of my way.”

“Aye, aye, cap’n,” says Silver as if it’s both a joke and not and Ed swallows the laugh because it’ll be too fucking loud. “Here…” He sets the mirror aside. “I was going to put these on your corpse.” And he gives Ed a small wooden watertight box that a peek shows it’s full of matches, and a rope with a grappling hook on the end. “The Princess is listing slightly to starboard, so I’d take that side if I were you, and their cannon ports should be open if they’re smart enough to expect trouble.”

“Uh…yeah, okay…” Ed says, trying to juggle the sudden influx of shit. The matches he tucks deep in his belt, the rope he wraps securely around his shoulder, but keeping it loose so he can swim.

“You’d best get a move on before your mate finds out…and try to keep him from stabbing me later, thank you kindly,” Silver says. Ed nods and heads toward the open window, setting himself on the sill. The drop isn’t a bad one, but he’ll have to be careful to make as little sound as possible.

“One last thing, Edward,” Silver says, the name alone catching his attention. The man smiles a little, looking tired as he brushes the bird’s chest with a finger. “Be careful.”

Ed grins, salutes, and jumps as straight as he can into the deep cold water.

xxxxx

The Princess Anne sits low in the water, the weird light shining around her keel. Ed watches her from where he is crouched on a shelf of rock not far below the water’s surface, rowing his arms a bit to keep the soft current from pushing him closer. He finds himself lookin up, up, up at her hull, washed, glowing at the waterline and then disappearing revealing the night black wood, the dripping line of the heavy anchor, the railing, the tall masts, sails tightly curled and if he shifts to float on his back, he could see the blaze of stars above them.

He wants to float on his back, swimming his hands through the glowing water and stare at the stars- It’s a feeling that seeps in his bones, pulling at them and his muscles and his chest which is sore from where it had been bashed against a rock earlier.

Though the Princess Anne is much closer than the Ranger had been to Paradise, or even the Dorter to the black jetty, the swim itself had been tedious. The currents are strange, the waters are strange, more than once he was sucked into an undertow that had scraped him against the bottom. Once he nearly drowned when the stupid pendant he wore got tangled in something that he’d only just managed to snap free. That it had been a finger bone had been super fucking cool at least.

It didn’t help either that the weight of the grappling hook made swimming harder and the more exhausting when the current pushed against him- but now he is here at last, or almost, kneeling on the small shelf of rock that the Princess was damned lucky to have missed—or maybe just barely he thinks, noticing a faint scrape of white at her keel, hard to see with all the glowing shit.

The moon is high now, though not at its peak and it probably won’t even get there with the wind skirting as it is and the clouds scudding across the sky. The storm will come soon. Big or small he can’t tell yet but he almost welcomes it. The Princess Anne sits low in the water, the weird light shining around her keel. Ed wades where he is, looking up, up, up at her hull, washed, glowing at the waterline and then disappearing revealing the night black wood, the dripping line of the heavy anchor, the railing, the tall masts, sails tightly curled and if he shifted to float on his back, he could see the blaze of stars above them. He wants to float on his back, swimming his hands through the glowing water and stare at the stars- It’s a feeling that seeps in his bones, pulling at them and his muscles and his chest which is sore from where it had been bashed against a rock earlier.

Though the Princess Anne is much closer than the Ranger had been to Paradise, or even the Dorter to the black jetty, the swim itself had been tedious. The currents were strange, the waters were strange, more than once he was sucked into an undertow that had scraped him against the bottom and nearly drowned when the stupid pendant he wore got tangled in something that he’d only just managed to snap free. That it had been a finger bone had been super fucking cool at least.

It didn’t help either that the weight of the grappling hook made swimming harder and the more exhausting when the current pushed against him- but now he is here at last, or almost, kneeling on a small shelf of rock that the Princess was damned lucky to have missed—or maybe just barely he thinks, noticing a faint scrape of white at her keel, hard to see with all the glowing shit.

The moon is high now, though not at its peak and it probably won’t even get there with the wind skirting as it is and the clouds scudding across the sky. The storm will come soon. Big or small he can’t tell yet but he almost welcomes it.

 Ed takes a moment to take a breath and close his eyes, the wind whipping his wet hair across his forehead and neck. From the rocky shores of Mermaid Island, he can hear the hoots and screams of the crew there, distant though carried by that wind. There had been a few cracking sounds of a flintlock, but not a fight, not yet- and he wonders if the Princess had set out a dinghy to investigate or rescue their ‘mate’.  Ed kind of wishes he were there with them to enjoy the show.

The Dorter is pretty cool too, though, Ed thinks as he opens his eyes, blinking away the stinging salt. He can just see her through the Monkey Fingers, and Silver or Davenport or both had the crew paint her to with the glowing stuff in patches, some on her keel, some on her mast, some glimmering on the sails. Witchfire danced at the very top of the masts, too, probably because of the storm, flickering and sparking, making the whole fucking thing seem haunted.

He wishes he could be there instead.

No, he wishes he could be on the Ranger. Screaming into the wind. Before all this shit happened. Back where everything was light and fun and danger didn’t matter because they could live through anything.

And they’ll fucking live through this too.

He just has to do it. Finish it.

All he needs to do is just go a little further.

Ed takes a deep breath and unhooks the grappling hook from the line, letting out a sigh of relief as it had been digging against his back ever since he’d found the finger bone. He slips off the shelf instead of stepping down, feeling only a little curtain of sand to push off of before the water drops away and cold wraps around his ankles. Something brushes his leg and though he’d really like to stick his face in the water and see it, there are other things to do.

Like not getting sucked under the keel for one.

Silver was right at least that the gunports on this side are open. Now he just has to figure out how to throw the grappling hook high enough with nothing to push against.

The first attempt doesn’t nearly get high enough and he has to avoid getting brained by it as the grappling hook comes back down. The second strikes against the hull with a clang, making him wince and duck lower in the water. When no alarmed voices or pale faces peer over the side, he makes a third attempt.

This hooks, sinking over the lip of the gunport which Ed has to now haul himself up to. After a moment to breathe, he does so, pulling himself up hand over hand, feet braced against the slippery hull. His foot skids when he’s halfway up and Ed bites back a curse as the sharp edge of a barnacle slices across his shin, followed by the burn of salt and the trickle of blood.

He keeps going though, climbing and climbing until at last he’s able to lift himself onto the ledge of the window, legs braced on either side of the cannon. He remains there a moment, covering his mouth with both hands to soften his ragged breathing, pressing his legs tight against the wood as the ship begins to rock and buck in the swells.

Thunder rumbles nearby, seeming to growl an echo in his bones, telling him to get a move on. Soon the crew of the Princess will have to deal with the storm too, to decide what to do, to remain here or risk the sea, to pull back their dinghy if they sent it. And the Dorter will have to move from the Monkey Fingers if she hasn’t already to avoid smashing herself against them, leaving Ed stranded which is fine, but maybe Jack too.

He has to go faster than this.

With a quiet curse Ed worms his way around the cannon to land on the floor, legs wobbling dangerously underneath him. With lead lined arms he hauls up the grappling line, just so no one will see it by chance and come looking for whoever it belonged too.

The end of the rope is gleaming with light, and peering out and down the hull Ed sees that there is a line of light coming up to the gunport. And a puddle full of glinting light at his feet. Oh…

Well…fuck him…

And his face too…he touches it absently. It’s dark as tits in the gunwale and hopefully dark as tits beyond it, but his face is going to shine like a fucking torch.

Fucking shit this might have been a really bad idea.

Thunder grumbles again, lightning flickering now.

“Alright, I’m going,” Ed whispers under his breath. He takes a moment to ruffle his hair around his face which might cover some the glow and then another precious moment to orient himself. He doesn’t know where the gunpowder room is exactly; but it can’t be far and perhaps it’s aft like it is on the Dorter.

He creeps to the door, seeing nothing but shadows in the slim gap underneath, with only the faintest light. He pushes open the door softly. Nothing, except the faint piping of a whistle in a pattern on the far away deck. The pattern means something, Ed knows, and maybe he can find out one day. For right now he creeps out of the gunwale as quietly as he can, spotting a lantern at the head of the stairwell and leaning up to blow it out, plunging everything into darkness except for the glimmer of light on the lower floor.

A quick glance behind him tells him the glowing shit really was a bad idea as he can see the ghostly imprints of his feet, though they’re dimmer further from the door at least and will maybe completely disappear so noe will know where he’s going.

Not that it will fucking matter by the time this ship is reduced to splinters, he tells himself. Down the stairs then carefully, hand on the wall. The rise and fall of the swells make it a little difficult and he has to go slowly so he doesn’t fall and bust his face open.

There are more lanterns down here, too, though not many and their flames are lowered. One door near the middle has two lanterns on either side and Ed figures this must be the gunpowder. Lanterns or any kind of light inside the gunpowder room would be absolutely insane. The slightest spark could set the whole thing off. So the light outside the door is the only light you have. Ed wipes his damp palm on his trousers, toes off his shoes to set them to the side and carefully opens the door.

The smell tells him he’s right even before his eyes adjust to the dimness. The room is packed to the fucking brim with gunpowder it seems. Some of them have the same markings as the ones on the Dorter, and others are different, making him wonder if the Princess managed to take some supplies from the beach. What does that mean, he wonders, with a kind of sick shiver. Was the raiding crew beaten back? Killed?

It could be but he doesn’t want to think about it and there’s no time to think about it since now he has a second problem. How is he going to blow the ass out of the room without blowing the ass out of himself as well? Maybe bringing the barrels from the Dorter would have been a better idea, but he still wouldn’t have.

The answer is simple. Dangerous as fuck. But simple.

First, he blows out all the lanterns but one, then grabs one of the lighter barrels and takes it from the room, staggering a little at the roll of the swell even more violent than before. The rain will start soon and then they’re all fucked.

 He twists out the cork in the center of the barrel with a jerk and then, crouching, carefully spreads a line of gunpowder close to the floor along the wall. Then holding his breath, spreads a parallel line beside it. It’s maybe too much, but he’s only going to have one shot at this so better get it fucking done right.  Soon the barrel is empty but before he can grab another a door closes above, and there are footsteps.

Cursing, Ed ducks into the shadows. The gunpowder room is on the other side of the stairs, the door twitching back and forth with the rise and fall of the ship and Ed curses himself again for not shutting the fucking thing.

“Oh, God what time is it? Why is it so dark? How could you just fall asleep?” a man says. The whistle pipes again and he curses. “That’s all hands. You don’t think it’s those bloody pirates do you?” His voice is pinched and frantic.

“You fell asleep first!” says the other voice. “And it’s probably the storm. We haven’t seen hide or hair of the Dorter and I’ll bet my boots they’re de-”

“Oh Christ, what’s that!” says the first voice. “It’s glowing!”

Ah, fuck.

“We’re cursed!” the first voice moans. “I knew it! We’re cursed. Turn three times and spit. Come on!”

“We’re not- Tch. We’re not cursed!” Though Ed hears the tap of their feet as they turn and the sound of the spit hitting wetly. “It’s just a phenomianal. You remember. God’s hand touching the world. Like Whelan said.”

“Aye…maybe… but… he’s not exactly what I’d call a learne’d man.”

“Well he survived the raid, so that should mean he has some dealings with the Almighty.” 

The ship rocks and Ed pressed back against the wall, clenching to his balls at the sudden scrape of the grappling hook against the wood, letting out a fine small shower of sparks. Somehow nothing catches and he has to hold his breath to stop the sigh of relief.

“What was that?” says the first man.

“A rat.”

“The Devil!” says the first man. “We’re cursed!”

“It’s not the devil! The devil would have cackled or the like.”

Cackle? It sounds like a bad idea… but Ed sort of wonders if he should risk it.

“Come on,” says the second man. “I’ll show you.”  And they creak closer to the head of the stairs.

Oh fuck no. They can’t come down. But how to keep them from doing it? He has only one idea that’s stupid as fuck, and he has to hope they don’t have flintlocks out and ready or they’ll all meet the devil- But there’s no help for it.

Ed takes a deep breath and then peers around the corner, hissing between his teeth, hoping to fuck his face is still glowing. The men scream bloody terror and Ed has to remember to duck out of sight again, clamping both hands over his mouth to keep from laughing. Already he can hear them pelting away and then stuttering to a stop.

Goddamnit.

“Where the hell have you two been? Don’t be sneakin’ off buggerin’ when we’re up to our tits out here!” a man says and Ed blinks. Hey! He knows that voice!

 So the swabbie guy did survive…

Ed is both relieved to hear him and annoyed at the same time. This guy is really starting to get up his ass. Anyway, even if he did survive the raid, he’s not going to survive for much longer, Ed thinks, looking at the lines of shifting gunpowder.

“The devil is here!” cries the first man.

“It’s no touch of God, Mr. Whelan!”

“Ye’ll get a touch o’ the cat if Mr. Bannerton gets on ya!”

The footsteps move away. The door closes. Ed thinks he hears more but then the gunpowder room door shuts with a bang, nearly sending him out of his own skin. He breathes as quietly as he can and waits.

Nothing happens.. and he can’t wait for much longer.

He hurries back to get rid of the first barrel and prop open the fucking door with a full barrel or two before grabbing a third and pulling out the cork. He lets the line of gunpowder scatter in the room before moving out of it and back up the stairs, one at a time, into the darkness, once more trying to keep his balance to as not to bust his face open in the dark.

Somehow he manages to reach the top of the stairs and pours some of the powder into his hand so he can leave a smaller trail behind him. Enough to catch, but not enough to trap him in the room with a sudden fucking fire. When the barrel is empty he sets it aside, and hand still clenched around powder, pushes into the gunwale.

The cannons seem somber against the thrashing waves outside and the moon is still able to shine through scudding cloud and flickering on the shining barrel of a flintlock that the swabbie is pointing at him.

Fair is fair, Ed thinks, but they’re both going to be fucked if he pulls the trigger.

“So, the devil is here,” says the swabbie. “I’m not afraid of ya, foul creature, whatever form ya take. By the name of the cross, ye’ll step forward. Slowly.”

Ed does, letting his hair hang down over his face, shuffling and swaying a bit with the ship, wondering how much he can freak the swabbie out to at least get the guy to not shoot him.

The moonlight flicks across him through the open gunport and the swabbie flinches, face draining of color, flintlock jerking upward and nearly taking Ed’s heart with it.

But there is no booming roar of pistol fire, no instant death. Ed can’t really be that terrifying, can he?

“B…Beatrice?” says the swabbie, voice harsh in his throat as if on the verge of crying out, which yes is fucking fine but.

“What the fuck, mate? What kind of name is Beatrice for the devil?”

The swabbie stares at him before saying:

“You-” He shakes the flintlock at him like a finger. “…pirate…mermaid boy!”

“Yeah, still not a mermaid. But, yo. How’s it going. Can you stop fucking shaking that thing at me?”

The swabbie approaches, dark and light spilling across his face with the racing clouds. He looks more of the devil than Ed does which is something he can’t help but appreciate.

“That’s me family ya have there, ya little thief! And ye’ll return them.”

Uh. “What?”

“There!” he points to his own neck with his finger, thank fuck, instead of the gun. Ed touches his neck and feels the smooth surface of the pendant. He could bargain with it, he guesses. He could hold it hostage or throw it out the window. He could even… and the idea flicks like a dangerous spark in his mind, see what the swabbie will do for it. Like if he would give Ed the pistol or a light or help blow up his own ship.

Ed could do it.

He could try it.

But one look at the pinched look in the swabbie’s face and Ed knows he can’t. He grips the pendant instead with his clean hand and rips it off. The thin chain breaks a little painfully against his neck and the swabbie tenses like he’s afraid Ed’s going to throw it overboard.

Not that different from Silver, really.

Like everyone expects him to be an asshole.

Which, yeah, he guesses he could have been. And hey actually, he has an idea.

“Think fast,” Ed says, tossing the pendant at him. As expected the swabbie flails for it with his dominant hand, nearly dropping the pistol and Ed makes a dive for it- but in a sudden move the swabbie gains control of it and Ed sees what’s going to happen and manages to twist himself to the side so the butt of the pistol smacks him in the cheek rather than the top of the head. He still sprawls across the deck though, landing on his back and breathing hard.

The swabbie comes to stand over him pressing a boot in the center of his chest to keep him down, right on the fucking bruise, and still Ed can’t really want him to blow up, even as the swabbie says:

“I’m left handed, ya little prick.”

It’s just…there’s something annoyingly soft about the swabbie’s face as he looks at the pendant in his palm. Ed watches him arrange it delicately in his palm so he can press his thumbnail against the side of it, wiggling back and forth until it opens. A soft curl of black hair falls against his skin which he strokes with his thumb, looking sad and far away.

“Your family?” Ed says, curious despite himself and the storm and the time that he’s seriously fucking running out of.

“Me daughter Anna-Marie,” says the swabbie, tapping the hair. “And Beatrice, me wife of nine months, seven days, six hours afore the lord took her home.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” Ed says, and he is, feeling a strange pull like a tide in his chest.

“As am I,” says the swabbie. “She didn’t want me to go to sea, but I did, for- any chance of a life, even if it would take a miracle for me to get much further than where I am- it was better than starvin’ to death- though she didn’t see it that way. Family came first for her and maybe she had the right of it and maybe no... But we had harsh words before she was laid up and last ones too.” He sighs.

Ed wonders suddenly if the swabbie was the one to lay her up, if he’d shouted to buzz the broken windows or left dark purpling bruises on her face or on her arms or if he’d taken his daughter and shaken her until her teeth rattled.

But as the swabbie smooths the hair back into the pendant and clicks it closed, Ed doubts it. His daughter is probably not a monster after all.

“Thank ya,” says the swabbie, softly. Then blinks and his face screws up  again. “The feck am I sayin’, thank ya? Your the one that stole it in the first place! Ya killed me crew! Stole me ship! Made everything an absolute bloody misery for me!”

Well yeah okay that’s true. Ed shrugs.

“Part of being a pirate, mate.”

“Well part of being in the King’s Navy, may he shite out a red hot poker, is that I’m ta make certain vermin like you have what’s comin’ to them!” The boot rises from his chest and Ed is expecting the kick to the ribs, rolling away and to his feet so it just glances off.

The swabbie is leveling the flintlock at him.

“But since ya did hand it over, even if for your own ends, I will grant ya one last request before I put ya out of my misery.”

Ed thinks. Then knows. And kind of hates it, but at the same time it’s going to be really fucking funny.

“Well…got a light?”

“Wh…” the swabbie blinks. “Aye, I do. But don’t move! Any sudden movements and I’ll blow yer head out yer arse.”

Ed watches on bated breath as the swabbie digs around in his short blue coat and brings out a box of matches and even lights one for him, just like that, the smell of burning sulfur like the smile of god.

Some god anyway.

“Thanks.” Ed takes the match and flicks it into the trail of gunpowder. Fire blazes up bright and fast, racing toward the door. A lot fucking faster than he’d expected really which… is lightly fucking concerning.

“The feck was that?!” The swabbie yelps. “What did ya do, ya fecking monster?” And he starts to run toward the gunpowder as if he’s going to stop it but he can’t. Ed scrambles toward the gunport, squirming around the cannon and watches with a wince as the swabbie flings open the door and stares:

“Jesus.” It comes out as a harsh whisper and Ed feels bad suddenly and more like a monster than ever before. But he also doesn’t have a whole lot of fucking time to feel bad about it.

“Better run,” Ed says, then as the swabbie turns to face him, shoves himself out the gunport. He sees a glimpse of the rising waves and snapping lighting of a swirling storm before he drops like a stone into the churning water-

And is sucked right under the fucking keel.

Ed fights the pull for a moment, then lets  the swirling twisting current carry him out and away. Only when when he can barely stand it anymore  does he kick for all he’s worth toward what he hopes is the surface, already thrashing and churning and so fucking far away.

His lungs are screaming, his chest aching for air, wanting to breathe. Dark dances in front of his eyes and it’s only a fucking miracle that he breaks through the skin of the water before instead of passing out.

 Ed sucks in a deep breath, sees he’s in the trough of a wave and holds it again as it crashes down on him, sending him back into the deep- and somehow churns up again, coughing and hacking. The Princess Anne is a dark bleak shape. He’s been tossed toward her prow, though further out. She is between him and Monkey Fingers now and if he’s not careful he’ll be swept out to sea with the storm.

Lightning flashes and thunder cracks.

And as if in answer, there’s another shuddering boom and blast of heat as the air is filled with flying wood, splinters raining down everywhere, picked up and carried by the wind, sent hurtling through the sky.

The shock of it carries him rolling and tumbling and helpless in the surging sea.

Just when he’s pretty sure he’s fucked, he spots a rock in a flash of lighting, the craggy tip of it just sticking out of the waves He strikes out for it, pushed back again and again but reaches it only when a wave smashes him up against it, knocking the air from his lungs. Somehow he manages to hold on, and then when he has his breath, remembers what he still has and slams the grappling hook into the rock as hard as he can, getting as good a grip as he can manage before wrapping the rope around himself and lashing himself to it.

Above him and around the storm screams and the winds howl and the Princess Anne begins to sink, fire still gouting within her despite the thrashing rain. He coughs as he’s slapped in the face with another wave and clings to the rock. He probably won’t survive this, he thinks, and as he watches the fire and thinks of the pendant and the soft lock of hair, he doesn’t think he deserves to.

xxxxx

He is dreaming of other things, faint scudding dreams like clouds before the moon, but most of them are soft. He is sitting with Mother, on her lap, smoothing his hands over her apron and she is resting her chin on his hair, her arms looped around his belly. 

‘One day you will do great things,’ she says, which is how he knows it’s a dream, because she never believed that for either of them. He wants to believe it though and wants her to mean it. Even when she reaches for the pendant hanging low against his belly and opens it. There’s a curl of hair  and a glowing skull looking back. 

Edward!  

Ed jerks awake, snorting seawater and choking it back out again. Fuck. The night is calm all around him, the sea is almost flat, mirroring the star choked sky overhead, the trail of the white road smudged with pink and blue. The moon is in the West, distant, a hard eye peering down 

The Princess is a black shape in the water, far away, and he has to blink a few times to figure out what the hell he’s looking at before he realizes it’s her masts. She’s listed almost completely over onto her side and is slowly sinking into the brine. 

Ed sneezes and rests his cheek against the cold wet rock. He hopes the swabbie made it out okay. At least there are plenty of islands around for the Navy Men to shelter at. There’s no sign of the Dorter and he wonders if she left without him. Probably. Hornigold would. But it’s no problem so long as she’s safe.

“EDWARD!” 

Ed jerks his head up at the sound of Long Bob’s voice booming over the water. Are they here? Are… are they actually looking for him? 

But…why?

It seems stupid and he wonders if he somehow imagined it…

Except to his left and a little behind he hears Jack yell: 

“Where are ya, you little fucker?!” 

Oh shit. They are looking for him. Ed turns to look over his shoulder and spots Jack and the Toad in the distance, in the very fucking distance. 

“Hey!” he calls out. Or croaks out, a bare whisper since his lungs feel like they’ve been shot through. Fuck. How the hell is he going to-? 

And then an idea. He gropes around in his belt until he finds the little wooden box that Silver had given him. The box is soaked as shit but when he manages to open the damn thing with shaking hands, the matches at least are dry. 

He breaks the first one on the tip of the rock, the second one doesn’t fare much better, but the third flares high and bright and he holds it as high as he can with his elbow propped on the rock. It burns to his fingers and he winces, letting it drop in the sea with a hiss and a sizzle and he strikes another one. 

Three matches in and he starts to worry. Five matches in he realizes it’s pretty hopeless. There are two left in the little box. He should probably save them just in case he has to sneakily blow anything up around the Navy Men- but now that his crew are here…

He strikes one last match, holding it as high as he can, bracing his tired arm with his other hand, the flame sweeps down, down, down until finally: 

“That better be you, shithead!” Jack calls, though his voice is even more distant than before. Ed’s not sure if the dumbass is even looking at him, but strikes the last match just to be sure. It burns down to his fingers and he drops it. The water splashes against the rock and his thoughts fuzz and fade. It’s fucking cold and he’s fighting sleep again. 

It won’t be so bad if he goes in to the deep. Into the dark. That’s where he belongs anyway.

And then hands grabbing his shoulders. Toad asking: 

“Is he dead?” 

“No,” Ed murmurs, surprised he can, surprised he has even a grain of energy left to give.

“No, but you should fuckin’ be, you son of a bitch,” Jack grumbles. “I’m gonna cut you free so don’t freak out and bite me, okay?” 

Ed can barely lift his head though clicks his teeth as Jack’s knife slips through the rope of the grappling hook, letting him float free. 

“Real funny,” Jack mutters. “Fuckin’ hilarious. Ha ha.” 

And then Ed is being hauled in by two sets of hands. It’s cold as balls here now up out of the water and his teeth click on their own.

“P-put me b-back i-in.” 

“Shut up, fuckstick,” Jack says. Then to Toad. “Thanks.” To Ed: “Sit up, shithead.” While pushing at his shoulder. Ed manages somehow and a blanket is wrapped snug around him and a bottle is pressed in his hands before he’s laid back against the seat again near Jack’s thigh. 

“Drink,” Jack says and grabs the oars. Then: “Let ‘em know.” 

The Toad whistles loud and shrill into the cold night hair. 

“GOT HIM!” Long Bob calls distantly. Fuck, how many people are out on the water anyway? 

“The fuck you guys come out here for?” 

“Drink your fuckin’ booze before I dump your ass back in the water,” Jack mutters and Ed does, carefully, since he doesn’t want to choke again. It’s rum.  Good rum. The best. It runs down his throat and through his veins. He sighs. 

“Everyone’s pissed at you, you know,” Jack says. “Well. Everyone that matters anyway. You gotta stop just goin’ off on your own and doin’ whatever the fuck it is you want.” 

“It fuckin’ worked, didn’t it?” Ed replies, too tired to even be much annoyed. 

“Well, yeah but- Yeah it did, but… maybe next time it fuckin’ won’t.” 

“Fuckin’ will,” Ed says and takes another sip. “They nearly pissed themselves.” 

“That ain’t the point! None of it is the fuckin’ point! Like, you ditched Felix first of all.”

“I didn’t ditch him!”

“We were supposed to leave together, kid,” says Toad from the back.

Ok… Well yeah he kinda did ditch him but…

“Yeah, and he’s spittin’ nails about it. Which, I don’t blame him cuz he keeps pullin’ your ass from the fire and you keep puttin’ it back in.”

“Mm.” Annoyance is warm at least and coupled with the rum makes it even warmer.

Yeah, Feliciano saved his ass but Ed’s never asked him too. He just does it. And it’s fine when Feliciano’s threatening to stab people or pulling Ed away for a moment of quiet when he feels like he’s drowning, but Feliciano keeps doing more and more and one day something bad is going to happen.

“And Hornigold practically ordered him to look after you cuz you won’t stop causin’ shit,” Jack is saying. “What do you think he’s gonna do if Felix shows up empty handed?”

Not a goddamned thing, Ed thinks, drinking deeper. And he doesn’t expect or want Hornigold to do anything anyway. Hornigold would be happier to have a competent swordsman and if Ed had gotten himself killed, then Hornigold would know it was Ed’s stupid fault.

Though he doesn’t want to say so. He likes Jack’s thought more than his own. He wants Jack’s thought to be real more than his own. He wants Hornigold to be worried about him or even miss him or- or think of him more than some dog to call and use.

But he’s nothing like that to Hornigold or anyone except maybe Feliciano who is just being weird about it. And he doesn’t want to be because it’s too much of  ap pain in the ass to have people concerned about him.

“Plus, we don’t have time to be lookin’ for your stupid drowned ass in the middle of the night,” Jack continues. “We coulda sailed without you, and shoulda, maybe- but, we need all hands and we’ll definitely need all hands when the Leviathan comes knocking and…I mean…” he sniffs and shifts in the seat, looking away. “Who am I gonna stir shit with when this is all over.” He clears his throat. “You’re gonna be my quartermaster after all.”

Ed is too bone tired to laugh and it’s good because maybe something in Jack would have become unmoored if he had. It’s…weirdly funny and warming that Jack will sort of miss him. And Ed would miss him too. He doesn’t have the heart or strength to tell him he won’t be quarter master so instead he just says:

“Yes, boss.” And bumps his forehead against Jack’s thigh. Jack straightens, proud, and because Ed knows the other boy is going to get really annoying about it really quick adds: “Did you catch anyone on Mermaid Rock?”

“Only two whole fuckin’ tenders,” Jack says. 

“He’s been wanting to tell people all night,” Toad puts in behind him.

“You shut up. Course I have. It was fuckin’ amazin’ and for once I didn’t have anyone butting in. So we went over….”

Ed listens to Jack go on about his adventure on Mermaid’s Rock. About the waterfalls and using the glowing shit on the men and on the shadows of rocks by the waterfalls to make it look like more of them. Of Long Bob scaring the piss out of the Navy Men by bellowing his lungs out so it echoed everywhere.

It sounds like fun and Ed wishes he’d been there. Jack can be pretty clever on his own without any help.

He doesn’t need Ed as quartermaster. He just needs to trust his own guts and not care what anyone thinks.  Ed will tell him that eventually but right now they come past a hedge of stone and he can see the Dorter. Her lights are on, the glowing shit faded to almost nothing. She’s not too far from the Monkey Fingers, but far enough not to have to worry them. Another tender is pulling toward her too and in it are Long Bob and Feliciano.

Ed tries not to sigh, warm limbs feeling as weary as the sea. He’ll have to talk to Feliciano too and that he doesn’t want to do. But that, at least, will have to wait.  He sighs against Jack’s leg, closing his eyes.

“Hey,” Jack says. “Are you listenin’?” And then. “You’re not dyin’ are ya?”

“I’m tired, dumbass,” Ed says. “But I’m listening. Go on.”

And after a moment, Jack does, his voice soothing like water lapping against the hull. It’s nice. It reminds him a little that as long as Jack is here, he’s never very far from home.

xxxxx

The next morning is a bright one, the air washed clean by the storm, the sea a jewel and the sky like blue silk. Ed can see it from where he’s laying in the cabin, slowly and deliciously waking up. The door is propped open to let in the breeze and Long Bob is sitting just outside of it, repairing some rope.

It’s a little weird not to be up at sunrise, scrambling up and down the masts. Or even tumbling out of the cabin to get breakfast, fighting with Jack along the way, though that hasn’t happened in fucking ages it feels like. He’ll take it though. Just this once.

Ed stretches and yawns, cracking his back, and then making a face. His hands are still stained a bit by the boot black that the sea water hasn’t managed to scour off, and it’s probably all over his fucking face too, but if anyone says anything about it he’ll just have Long Bob punch them in the face. The call of the sun and sea is impossible to ignore for long so he slips one foot out of bed then the other, flexing his toes against the sun warmed wood before pushing himself up.

Long Bob turns around as Ed comes to the door, face lighting up, mouth opening. Ed puts a finger to his lips and Long Bob lets out whatever he was going to say in a breath, grinning instead. Ed returns the smile and leans his arm on the man’s head as he gets back to work. The crew is cheerful too, it seems. Maybe because they’re out of the Devil’s Eye and before them there is nothing but the sea and the gleaming horizon.

The Walrus crew is playing cards with the Siren crew, including Dirk and van Morgenstern who Ed only has a faint itch to punch in the teeth. Griff is at the helm, as usual, but seems less like he’s going to wrench the wheel off with the tension in his shoulders, instead he’s even smoking the pipe smoke traveling back toward the cabin and making Ed want one of his own.

Jack and Davenport are by the prow, Jack saying something excitedly to Davenport who is laughing. Bones is there too, dozing nearby and Silver is ahead of the galley, talking to Feliciano who is holding a tray.

The tray turns Ed’s fucking stomach. He hates the sight of it. Hate how it brings the memory of soaking booze to his nose or Flint’s happy voice telling him to sit.

“Is he serving now?” Ed says, hearing the blade in his own voice. “Are they making him because I’m…”

“No, no, no.” Long Bob reaches around and pats his back. “It’s okay. He’s too pretty. Shhh.”

Ed presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything or go over and take the tray from Feliciano’s hands to break it over Bones’ head. He just has to hope Long Bob is right because Feliciano doesn’t look as happy as the rest of them, instead he looks thinner and worried. Silver glances over at them and gestures and then Feliciano looks too, catching Ed’s gaze.

Ed’s face flushes without his say so and he scrubs at his cheek with the heel of his hand, muttering: “Shit.”

Long Bob chuckles and Ed scowls.

“Shut it!” he grumbles, whapping him softly on the head. Then Feliciano is coming toward the aft cabins and Ed wants to go up the rigging or pretend he didn’t see and go join Jack and Davenport or even the fucking card game. But he needs to talk to Feliciano anyway, so turns back in and sits at the small table, tucking his hands behind his head as he stares out the porthole.

Though he can watch Feliciano out of the corner of his eye as the swordsman comes up the stairs and pats Long Bob’s head for luck. Ed takes a breath to pluck up his courage and looks at Feliciano directly as he enters. He looks too fucking serious and Ed feels a squirm of guilt knowing that’s his fault too.

“Venha,” Ed says and pats the chair beside him to try and get Feliciano to smile. The man does but it’s a ghost of a thing and melts away in a moment. He sets the tray in front of Ed. There is water and an orange and coffee and the mealy mushy thing that Silver likes to call a johnnycake but he’s never had a single fucking bite of Greg’s food and it shows.

“You could have died,” says Feliciano into the silence.

“Yeah.”

“And our captain would not even lose an hour of sleep.” Feliciano lifts his chin, brows set as if he’s angry, but mostly he just seems tired.

“No.” Ed shrugs and digs his fingernails into the skin of the orange for something to do and the sudden fresh smell makes his stomach gurgle so he peels it the rest of the way. “That’s pirates.”

Feliciano leans back, rubbing a hand over his face, then folding his arms and sighing. Ed feels like he’s disappointed him somehow, but what the fuck else is he supposed to say? It’s true. It’s life. The peel gone he splits the orange in half and hands over the other part to the man, wishing it wasn’t so small.

“Ay, Ed.” Feliciano takes it, holding it on his fingertips, the sun from the porthole hitting it and making it shine like a small jewel. “It does not have to be pirates. You could work with Kupe.” Dark eyes meet his own and he finds it hard to swallow even though hasn’t eaten anything yet. “He has offered his hand to Fadel and Aconi, and they may take it. They have been talking long and deep about it.”

That surprises him back into his skin, but the surprise only lasts a second, a sharp quick shock like stepping on a jelly- and like the jelly the shock turns to a kind of burning sensation, a wire in the cage of his chest that not even someone pissing on it would make it feel better.

Fadel and Aconi leaving. He sets his orange segments down one by one in the light so the soft ends touch. The hunger has gone back into its cave for now, but he likes the look of them. The Ranger would be empty without them, like a hole carved in the hull, or an empty hold. He will miss Aconi’s huge presence like a thundercloud or sitting with Fadel in the mast and talking of weather and fairytales or seeing him get annoyed by Jack.

At least they’d be together, that feels right. And they’d be with someone that gave a damn about them too, which feels better. So he will keep this secret to himself, as it has to be a secret since Hornigold wouldn’t let them go just like that. Should have made Aconi a fucking captain then, Ed thinks, nudging an orange slice with a fingertip.

“Good,” he says, tells himself.

“And Kupe has held me his hand as well.”

“Oh…” That’s fine, he thinks. It’s good. . “Fine.. Yeah, I mean that’s cool or whatever. I mean, who wouldn’t? Go do it.”

He presses his finger against the tender skin of the orange slice until it spurts sticky juice all over his palm and the table and the gross johnnycakes which don’t even have honey or cinnamon which is the best thing Ed’s ever tasted but Greg keeps it stored in his ass cheeks for all Ed knows because he’s never found it.

The point is, it’s good for Feliciano to work with Kupe and at least Kupe had never shot him or anything and they could be cool together and have …well kind of boring adventures really and smuggling and shit and Feliciano would piss off every tavern from here to Paradise, but it’s fine. It’s cool. It’s safe . Which is important.

“And he would hold his hand to you,” Feliciano says. Ed shrugs a shoulder.

“Yeah, I know.” Which is nice and all but… Feliciano leans forward then, gaze intense and Ed straightens, surprised and a little something else, suddenly self-conscious of his boot black fingers and tangled hair and orange juice all over his hand. He wonders if Feliciano would notice if he licked it off.

“So go.” Feliciano’s voice is low and urgent. “We can work together.” Ed blinks.

“No.”  What a weird thing to suggest. Kupe’s great and all of that but—

Feliciano slaps the table hard, making him jump.

“Caralho! Você é tão teimoso. Why?”

“Why would I?”

“Tell me! Give me the words to understand. It is more than you will get here.”

Maybe… but it’s like wanting rum and getting whiskey. They’re two great things but one isn’t the other.

It’s not even that true he’ll get more with Kupe than with Hornigold. Actually things will be pretty much fucking the same really. He’ll have to start all over again convincing people he knows shit. He’ll do stupid shit and get in trouble and everyone will be mad at him. Kupe will probably even hate him after a while because of that but…

“I mean…it’s boring, isn’t it?” He licks the orange’s juice from his palm and then pops the slice into his mouth. “It’s just smuggling and island hopping and shit. And pretending you’re nobody.”

That’s part of how Kupe gets away with it… and that’s… that’s also why he doesn’t want to do it. Can’t do it. That it’d be even worse than now because…

  “I don’t want to always live in someone else’s shadow.” Because he would. Even if he eventually got to where Kupe was, as good as Kupe is, he still needs Francis. He wants people to see him. Not Jack or Hornigold or Davenport or whoever else, but himself. He wants to stand in front for once.

“Ay.” Feliciano leans back, rubbing his forehead though he seems to be smiling and trying not to which, Ed doesn’t get at all.

“You should go though. It’d be less dangerous,” Ed says and shoves a johnnycake in his mouth before he takes it back.  

“Hm…Well that’s pirates.”

“But it fouldn't be for fou," Ed says around the johnnycake. What if fomefing happenf and fou die to fome fhit?" He shakes his head. "I can do thif on my own. Fou fhould go with Kupe.”

Feliciano’s look is so warm then that Ed has to look away, unsure of what it means or even what to do about it.

“Ah, but waters such as those could never contain Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Ranger. I am too beautiful.” He flicks his fingers in a cool gesture and leans the chair back on two legs, bracing his boot against the table which is so fucking cool. Cool and…that weird something else that is soft and fuzzed around the edges.

 Ed tries not to think about that, instead distracting himself by trying to copy it, foot on the table, chair leaned back. Ed chokes as it keeps leaning and only Feliciano’s hand on his ankle yanking him forward keeps him from cracking his head against the floor. Then it’s his hand whacking between Ed’s shoulder blades that stops him from dying on the johnnycake which is now all over the table.

To his surprise, though, Feliciano laughs, a soft sound bright and rich.

“Amaldiçoado por deus ou pelo diabo, meu pobre demônio,” he says, then kneels down to look up at him, wincing only a little. Ed would feel bad for that only Feliciano’s hand is on his leg which is a really bad place for it to be so he holds his breath and hopes nothing happens.

“I understand,” Feliciano says. “So you must understand. I must be a star, like you, I must sail and fight and take risks, hm? My heart must fly! My mind must soar! I will not be buried in those waters so do not leave me to them.”

Well, that does make sense, Ed doesn’t want Feliciano to die of boredom, but he can’t help but worry about it.

“If I am to be a star, and you are to be a star, we will only shine brightly if we do so together, hm? So when you have set your mind to a course, tell me first before you do, if there is time- so that I can prepare, or help, or get men or…” He waves a hand. “Keep snow from my hair.”

Well, he won’t mind shining brightly with Feliciano. Actually the idea is really fucking brilliant and glows in his chest like an orange slice in the sun, but…

“How is that going to help you?” Ed asks, the choking making his voice sound as rough as Toad’s.

“Because twin stars shine brighter than one. For now I stand behind, but when you are a man, we stand together.” Feliciano smiles and pats his cheek. “Do you promise?”

“I promise….”

“And so you must,” says Feliciano, face serious now. “For we will soon face the Leviatã, and I will not lose you to that because I cannot shine alone. Sim?”

“Sim,” Ed says though he’s sure Feliciano can outshine anyone.

“Bem.” Feliciano pats his cheek, then stands with a grunt, rubbing at his bad leg. “ Ay there are things I can no longer do.”

“I’m sorry…” Ed says because suddenly he is, but there’s nothing he can do to take it back or make it better. Feliciano shrugs.

“It is so. Now,venha. Let us go into the sun and you can tell me what happened.” 

It is not so, Ed wants to say, but stands and venhas anyway, feeling a little better and a little worse as Feliciano’s arm slips around his shoulders. It’s nice outside anyway, and warm and he can’t help but lift his head to the sun as they pass by Long Bob and go out onto the deck. 

The Walrus crew have huddled together, their heads bent, van Morgenstern with them. The sight of it knots tension up Ed’s spine. They probably won’t do anything now, because even they know everyone is needed but when they all face the Leviathan things are going to be a problem. And that van Morgenstern is still with them pisses him off too. 

And speaking of that fucker…

“Hey,” Ed murmurs to Feliciano after they pass. “I need to tell you something about…” and he gestures toward the huddle trying not to seem too obvious about it.

“A shipmate’s friends?” Feliciano shakes his head and flicks his fingers as if it’s nothing to worry about. “Silver has told us much.” 

“What has he told you?” Ed grumbles. He wants to trust Silver fully, he really does, but he knows he can’t. 

“We will speak of it later. For now we have discussed and will watch and see, Jack has decided.” 

“Fuck off! Jack made a plan? On his own?” 

“He has,” Feliciano says with a laugh. 

“Holy shit, I’m so proud!” He doesn’t think he’s ever been proud before! Not like this! But there it is in the center of his chest, warm and shocking.

“He is more than able,” says Feliciao, though doesn’t sound as proud. “But they are not your worry and there are more eyes than ours.” 

“But-!” 

“No.” Feliciano drops his hand lightly on Ed’s head and ruffles his hair. “For now this is not on your neck. Enjoy the sun! Enjoy the sea!” He sighs. “The burden will come soon enough.” 

Ed stares out of the horizon, the rocks of the Devil’s Eye only a smudge in the distance, if it’s even there at all. He knows Feliciano is right. Soon they’ll be against the Leviathan, but sooner than that, he’ll be back in the churning waters that’s the dick battle between Hornigold and Flint; not to mention whatever the fuck Dirk is plotting- which Silver may well get in on or be in on. 

It’s going to be a fucking mess. And maybe one he deserves, he thinks, remembering the swabbie and his family. But deserved or not, Feliciano is also right that there’s fuck all he can do about it at the moment and it’ll be fun to see what Jack comes up with. And maybe…it’ll be nice not to worry…just for a little while.

“Oh!” Feliciano says, patting his shoulder. “There were golfinhos dancing along the prow before you woke. Shall we see if they remain?” 

“Yeah.” Ed grins. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

But maybe things will work out after all, Ed thinks, stretching in the warm sunlight, head pillowed on the mound of burlap sacks that are stuffed with a fortune of sugar. Things on the Dorter have settled down since the Princess Anne and the last of the Devil’s Eye disappeared over the horizon. The sun has been out but not too hot, the nights have been clear and even if there’s a little prickle of anticipation about being two days out from Blind Man’s Cove, for the most part everyone is cheerful.

Of course, Ed thinks, the Marigold had helped. He can still see the haze of smoke on the thin of the horizon where her aft mast was probably still on fire. She was a merchant ship, low and fat in the water, like a juicy duck. Or maybe a goose since she had two cannon on either side of her and a small one nosing just under her prow, some of her crew grizzled old salt types armed with pistols and sabers.

 She expected trouble.

But not from a known Navy Man ship flying the colors of ‘Grreat Britain’, Ed mouths the words sarcastically as the captain had where he’d been tied up by the capstan, his little shoes drumming against the deck, his face absolutely fucking red. They would pay for this insolence! He had said. They were dogs! Excrement! Carried on with savages!

And then Dirk had put a boot upside his face, shutting him up and something really Ed has to thank him for.

 Not that he fucking will. 

Bastard had taken all of the guy’s rings for himself, even the big gold one with great green stone. Probably would only fit his stupid sausage fingers anyway. At least Ed had managed to get a few rings himself from some other guy who had practically flung them at his feet-well, Long Bob’s feet- as he begged for mercy.  

“God, did you hear what Don said to ‘em?” says Jack from where he is leaning beside him against the sugar sacks. “Did you hear?” Jack deepens his voice in a way that Davenport has never sounded: “’Cry not to your god, but the Leviathan, and tell her to meet us where we wait’” And he drops his voice to a gritty whisper. "'At Blind Man's Cove.'" 

Jack snickers and says in his normal voice: “Mate nearly shit himself. Bunch of stupid fuckers on that ship, no offense, Butternut,” he says to one of the grizzled salts who is passing by them, two casks of wine under his arm.

“None taken,” says Butternut in his low brassy voice, not even looking at them as he passes. Ed twists to watch him go, shifting just enough to lean against the sugar sacks without knocking them over. Butternut is a weird dude and Ed kind of likes him. He’s a wiry guy with jet black hair streaked with gray only in the center of his head, while the rest of it on either side is shaved down to stubble. He has a few tattoos crawling over his warm brown skin and he wears white shells around his ankle that clinks when he walks.

“You’re a great help, Mr. Butternut, to be sure,” says Silver from where he’s standing by the hold, monitoring the progress. “Like as not we’ll warm to you soon enough, and maybe sooner if you warm to us in kind. Where are you planning on sailing after this?”

“Whore,” says Jack, then whacks Ed on the arm. “Trade me, dipshit.”

Ed slumps back against the sugar sacks and takes another sip of the good rum before handing it over and taking the cigar Jack’s holding in turn. He prefers a pipe which is lighter and looks cooler and also easier to get his fingers around. Still the cigar has got a nice flavor and the plume he blows into the air looks pretty cool too.

“Who’s a whore?” Ed asks after a moment.

“Silver,” says Jack, taking a sip and thumping his head back. “He’s tried to get you, he’s tried to get Felix-”

“Feliciano.”

“He’s already got that sack of shit,” Jack says under his breath as van Morgenstern comes up to him, a tentative smile under his quivering mustache.

“Heya, mates, how’s it goin’?”

Jack says nothing, staring at him just like Hornigold would, face flat, eyes hooded and Ed is impressed. He tries that expression too but van Morgenstern isn’t even looking at him.

“Just fine,” Jack says after a moment and Ed blows out a ring of smoke.

“Good to hear,” says van Morgenstern, but Ed doesn’t miss how his eyes harden too as he moves past them to the hold. He still doesn’t know what Jack intends to do about it but wait and see. Wait and see fucking what? Ed wonders. Until van Morgenstern holding a flintlock against their heads?

But that won’t happen at least til they’re in sight of Blind Man’s anyway, because even Butternut doesn’t do much to help their speed. If anything he just makes them break even since Job Anderson busted his face against a crate of china cups and is now swathed in so many bandages all he can do is bob around the ship trying not to crash into anything or fall over the railing.

Anyway, he does agree with Jack about Silver being a whore, and maybe he is a whore, but-

“Nothing wrong with being a whore.”

“Well a slut then,” says Jack, waving his hand. “Point is, he sucks men in to give him stuff for free and then ditches ‘em. And not even in the fun way.”

“There’s a fun way to do that?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “I don’t see how you visit the Swan as much as you do and don’t know shit about shit. What the fuck do you and Polly do all the time?”

“Talk. Play cards. Um… I helped her with her corset once -oh and get a bath.” He’ll definitely need one after this, he thinks with a wince- and is not really looking forward to getting his hair scrubbed off. Jack snorts.

“Yeah, let me know when your balls drop.”

“Go fuck yourself. Trade me.” He hands Jack the cigar and takes the rum and chugs it down. “My balls are right where they should be,” he says when he has to come up for air.

“Yeah, I bet you ain’t never even smooched someone.”

“So? What difference does that make?” Ed mutters, feeling his face heat.

“You ain’t a man until you have, ain’t that right, Dirky-boy?” says Jack as the man passes with a couple of crates. He smirks at them, the pock marks seeming to dimple against his cheek.

“The only thing your lips have touched is Davenport’s ass,” says Dirk and Ed laughs. It’s just a short burst of sound that’s out before he knows it’s in and at Jack’s glare mutters a:

“Sorry.” And hands him back the rum. Then because he’s gotta know. “ Have you kissed Davenport’s ass?”

“No! Fuck no. We’ve just been doin’, you know, usual ship mate stuff. Haven’t even got- I mean- I only saw- and it was just-” Jack splutters, face going red as the captain of the Marigold’s. “Look the point is, Silver is a whore and if he thinks he can trust Butternut as far as he can throw him he’s the one gonna get shafted in the ass. No offense,” Jack adds as Butternut passes them the other way.

“None taken,” he says in the same flat tone. And it’s pretty true, Ed thinks, but he also doesn’t believe Silver is that stupid. After all the only reason the Marigold man is here is because he’d asked Davenport if he could sail with them and Davenport had told him to prove his loyalty, so he’d taken Pew’s flintlock and shot the Marigold’s captain in the head.

No one had fucking expected that and even the Marigold’s captain had looked surprised as his blood seeped into the deck. Butternut had shrugged and handed the pistol back and that was that. Ed’s not too worried about him though. He can only shoot one of them at a time and maybe they’ll be lucky and he’ll aim for Job Anderson who seems to be able to survive just about anything. Anyway, he’d seen how the man’s hands were trembling after which satisfied him a little.

“Think Felix can get him on our side?” Jack asks.

“Feliciano,” Ed says. “And, yeah, probably.” 

Though maybe not right now, as Feliciano is currently sitting before the fo’c’sle, balancing the ledger on his legs, drops of sweat on his forehead as he works with Griff to slowly mark in their loot. That Feliciano can do numbers is amazing but that he can actually read and write is pretty fucking astounding, though Griff has snapped at him more than once to stop bloody writing it in Portuguese and Feliciano looks like he’s about to stab him with the quill. 

“I have not counted that!” Feliciano’s voice rises now, swift and sharp as a blade. “If you touch it I will slice off your fingers and… and… e alimentar sua bunda com eles!”

Which Ed has no idea what it could mean but it’s probably fucking hilarious. He likes this side to Feliciano too. It’s really one of the best sides. Not that Feliciano has any bad ones. Butternut is smart though, just shrugs and lets go of the crate to fold his arms. 

“Maybe Butternut can stay on this ship with me,” Jack says and hands the cigar back before folding his arms behind his head and sighing skyward. Not much of the fucking cigar left but Ed sucks on the stub of it anyway.

“On this ship?”

“Yeah! Hornigold’ll probably give her to me. I’m ready now. I’m ready . I’ve proved it, haven’t I? Got this ship for us and all! I mean, Don helped a little but…it was mostly me that saved us.”

Ed rolls his eyes, but lets Jack have it. After all, what the fuck is he going to do with it? No one is going to acknowledge he did anything anyway except when they have to defend him, which he appreciates, but he wishes that it would happen just because, too. 

Maybe when he’s older.  

In his mind’s eye, Kupe gives him a dry look and Ed wishes he would fuck off.

“Yeah,” says Jack wistfully. “He can be my…rigger or whatever, and Don my first, and Bob my gunner, and you-” He looks at Ed and wrinkles his nose. “Actually you should probably be the rigger and I’ll make Butternut the quartermaster, because let’s be honest he ain’t gonna listen to a brat like you. Ain’t that right Butternut?” he says as the man passes close.

“That’s right,” says Butternut. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Ed mutters and it’s true. He doesn’t blame Butternut and he can’t even be too offended by Jack or being demoted from a fucking position he didn’t want anyway. But he can’t help but be a little irritated, because come the fuck on. He stubs out the rest of the cigar against the side of the bottle.

“So Davenport’s agreed to be first mate?” Ed says because he doesn’t fucking believe it. Jack looks away, rubbing the side of his cheek which has the faintest shuff of stubble against his palm. Ed’s own is still annoyingly silky smooth, which he knows without touching but is avoiding anyway because he still has that huge fucking bruise from the swabbie earlier. 

“He’s still thinkin’ about it, I guess. But he will cuz…” Jack shrugs and his face goes as red as his sunburned belly. “…I mean… you know…”

Ed doesn’t really know but he can guess and it makes him a little sad somehow. He wants to ask what Jack’s going to do when Davenport says no, but then the man himself is striding over to them, boots ringing across the deck. Jack curses and sets the bottle inside, tugs down his ragged shirt with a wince and folds his fingers against his upturned knee, before changing his mind and folding his arms, before changing his mind again and putting his hands behind his head and looking at Davenport down the length of his nose.

“Yo,” Jack says in a way that sounds gruff and pretty badass, Ed has to admit.

“Yo yourself,” Davenport says with a twitch of a smile. Then turns in place so his new red coat with the gold trim swirls with him. “What do you think?” And then before they can answer, adds: “It’s either that or the black one.” And he holds out another coat, solid black with even black buttons. “But that might be a little too…priest chique .”

Well Pew had pulled it off an old priest so that makes sense.

“You’d look great in anythin’,” says Jack and Davenport smiles.

“Thank you, but that’s not remotely helpful.”

“Red’s not bad,” says Ed. “Try the black.”

Davenport shrugs off the red coat and hands it to Jack who stands and receives it like he’s the first mate instead, then shrugs on the black coat. Ed rubs his chin in thought as Davenport turns. He has a small prickle of excitement as he realizes there’s a cluster of whiskers that hasn’t been there before, then tamps it down to focus.

“The black coat looks better.” Mostly because his eyes stand out ice blue. “But the red one moves better.”

“Yes,” says Davenport with a sigh. “That’s the problem.”

“Red hides blood,” says Butternut coming the other way.

“That is true.” Davenport rests his hands on his hips as he regards the other coat. “Unless of course it splashes on the gold.”

There’s the sound of a throat being cleared behind him and Ed twists to look to see Silver standing there wearing one of his annoyed smiles.

“If I could interrupt you gentlemen for a second,” he says. “It occurs to me that we’ve a fair amount of loot to stow in the belly of the beast, as it were, and it would help if all the young men aboard put their backs to it. Like for instance, hauling this sugar over instead of lying on it.”

“Well, I would,” says Davenport, flicking the ends of his hair over his shoulder. “But as acting captain, undertaking labor like that would only demoralize the men.”

“Yeah, what he said,” Jack says, folding his arms and letting the hem of the red coat brush the deck. “We gotta keep our men moralized.”

“Oh is that so?” says Silver in a pleasant way as if he’s imagining running their heads into the mast.

“Damn right it is.” Jack looks at Ed then and smirks in a way that says Ed’s not going to like what’s going to shoot out of his mouth next. “I volunteer Ed, bein’ as he’s under me and all.”

Ed could tell him to fuck off. Should tell him to fuck off. Wants to tell him with everything in him to fuck off. But he’s going to turn Jack down later on being quartermaster or rigger or what the fuck ever on his crew, so he’ll give him this.

“Yeah fine,” Ed says, getting up and stretching. “Was getting bored sitting there anyway.”

“That’s ‘yeah fine, boss’ to you,” says Jack and when Ed gives him a look, Jack’s grin only widens. Davenport and Silver are looking faintly amused and though Ed would love to kick Jack in the fucking knees, he tells himself it’s only this once and he’d started it anyway and maybe Jack is just fooling around and will understand what Ed is doing.

“Yes, boss,” says Ed as sarcastically as he can manage. Jack smirks and reaches out to pat his cheek.

“Good-”

“If you say ‘good boy’ I will bite off all your fingers and feed them to you,” Ed says, because he will without even fucking hesitating. Jack seems to pale even under his burn.

“--job. Good job, Ed. Countin’ on you.”

Grumbling, Ed throws a few sacks over his shoulder and heads towards the hold. Behind him Davenport is saying:

“I’ve got a few more coats in the cabin if you want to look through with me,” in his honey rough tone which makes Ed wonder if they’re going to be kissing again. Especially as Jack gives a goofy gulping laugh and says:

“Sure.”

Morons.

“Someone’s well trained,” says Silver falling into step beside Ed.

“Someone’s going to get stabbed in the fucking face,” Ed says. Not that he would stab Silver in the face because he does like him, but he might bruise him in it in a second.

“Now now, not you, Ed-lad. I meant our Mr. Rackham.”

“What kind of a fucking name is Rackham anyway,” Ed mutters.

“A name like any other, and not the worst as I’ve heard,” says Silver. “And I’ve a feeling he’ll do something with it if he doesn’t end up dying stupidly in a few days. And so the same could be said for us all.”

“We’ll be fine,” Ed says. Sure they’re facing the Leviathan which has run a bloody swath through all the pirating in the area and she is well-gunned and well-crewed and there’s probably a reason she makes everyone piss in their boots, but then, everyone is not them.

“That’s faith right there, to be sure, and well placed.”

“Whenever you say to be sure, I know there’s going  to be a pile of bullshit.” Ed drops the bags near the edge of the hold where Pew and Black Dog collect them. Toad is peering up at them from below, already drenched in sweat and Ed doesn’t fucking envy that. Though he feels a sharp pang that soon it will be someone like Toad down in the old of the Ranger when Fadel leaves, or a stranger anyway.

The thought makes him feel a little empty- but at least Jack will be there, kinda. And Feliciano too which is even better.

“Sugar,” he calls to Toad who nods and when he turns Silver is shaking his head but looking amused.

“You don’t have to be so harsh,” Silver says with a chuckle. “It’s true I have my own ways of speaking and of being heard, but at the end of the day I’m just looking out for the good of all. And the good of you mostly as I’ve grown fond of you,” Silver continues, following Ed back to the pile of sacks.

“Fond enough to help me with some of this shit?”  Ed says. Silver grins.

“Not so fond, and I have to keep an eye on the coming’s and goings and- Job, you put down that storm lantern right now before-” There’s a yelp and the tinkle of glass and Ed snorts a laugh as he loads up the third sack of sugar on top of the two already on his shoulder.

“Swear to God and heaven they’re not worth the price of their feed,” John Silver mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Yeah they are pretty shit, but probably as good as Flint can get given how he does things.

“Them aside, Ed-lad,” Silver says, falling into step beside him. “We’re friends you and I. Allies even. For it was I that gave you the matches that saved your life, I’m told and-”

“More sugar,” Ed says as he flops the bag near the hold.

“How many more bags are up there?” croaks Toad.

“About ten.”

“Ye hear that Black Dog?” cackles Pew. “We’re goin’ to be stinkin’ rich!”

Not after it’s divided among three crews, Ed thinks and Hornigold will suck up as much the share as he could and it’s his right to.

“As I was saying,” Silver says as Ed heads back for more. “Far be it from me to say that I was the one who helped rescue you from the deeps, but–”

“Just tell me what you want , mate” Ed mutters, picking up another bag. Sweat is already forming on the small of his back and dribbling cool from his temples.

He knows why Silver does it and he doesn’t hold it against him but God Ed wished he’d get to the point.

“It’s less of wanting and more of a question,”Silver says, following him back to the sacks. “What would you say the odds are of your captain taking in more crew, of a stronger minded variety. One who could take charge of others so to speak so he doesn’t have to worry about the lower orders.”

Ed snorts.

“You mean you.” And he’s not going to ask who the fuck Silver thinks the lower orders are because he knows he’s not going to like the answer

“Now I didn’t say as such,” Silver says, stooping to pick up some sacks of sugar which the bird peers at curiously. “All I’m saying is not all on the Walrus may want to remain, should we all survive this and am just seeking out other potential berths for them should the need arise. Not to mention Mr. Butternut will need somewhere to go.”

He nods to where the dark man is talking to Dirk, arms folded, nodding along to whatever he’s saying.

“And maybe if we can give him reason he can side with us instead of against us,” Silver adds in a lower pitch, leaning close.

“He doesn’t have to side with us, but if he sides against us he’s getting stabbed in the fucking face,” Ed says turning back toward the hold. He likes Butternut and doesn’t want to stab him in the face, but, he’s also tired of putting up with everyone’s bullshit.

Because who is going to be giving him the reason? Ed. Who is going to be doing all the work to convince the guy? Ed. Feliciano might be able to do it, maybe, but really Feliciano seems better at luring in people to kill them.

 It would be a whole hell of a lot easier to kill Butternut now and save themselves the mess.

“Are you sure, lad?” says Silver. “He can be a valuable asset and we need more on our side before we arrive at Blind Man’s Cove. Oh nothing will happen right away to be sure-”

Ed rolls his eyes and Silver’s smile gets tighter.

 “But our Mr. Dirk is not a man to be trifled with. So it’s best we get allies where we can.”

Which sounds great and all but Ed doesn’t need allies. Ed has allies. He has Feliciano and Long Bob and Jack a little sometimes, maybe Davenport. The only one that needs allies is John Silver.

And that is…interesting. Interesting in a way that prickles fingers up Ed’s spine. Silver needs him. Silver needs this. He could go back to Flint maybe, but Dirk and Silver’s core mates are turned against him and if Dirk is good enough, he can turn others.

Silver is absolutely fucked and knows it.

The thought gives Ed a certain thrill and he could give Silver a maybe. He could be the one in control. It makes him feel big. Strong. Adult.

So Ed decides not to answer as he carries the sugar to the hold, waiting for what Silver might say next, watching the man watching him out of the corner of his eye. The bird starts to fidget on Silver’s shoulder, as if it’s squirming for him.

Silver takes his arm, it’s a light touch but the sensation twitches along his muscles and it’s all he can do not to punch him.

“Think about it, lad. Edward,” Silver says in an almost whisper as they approach the hold. “I did save your life after all and more than once to my own detriment. Not saying you owe me, no, because I like you. But it’s good to keep friends close-especially when all you have are enemies.”

The words raise the fine hairs on the back of his neck and Ed fights a grin. Silver is a dangerous man, but he must be scared shitless to show his fangs like this.

The only question is what the fuck to do about it. Because as funny as it is, he knows it’s dangerous to keep Silver on the hook too much longer.

“Yeah, I’ll think about it,” Ed says and Silver’s responding smile is easy and confident.

“Good lad.” He lets Ed’s arm go and pats his back. “I knew I could count on you.” And he drops his armload of sugar by the hold and brushes past Ed on the way back to amidships, winking at him as he goes. Like they’re friends when they’re still barely fucking allies.

 Ed sighs, feeling the knot squeeze up high in his chest again. The aft cabin door shuts, drawing his attention and he sees Davenport emerging with the black coat, Jack not far behind, red from his face down to his sunburned belly. They are both grinning though, at each other with the wind in their hair- and when Davenport leans forward a little to press his lips briefly against Jack’s again, Ed’s heart jerks a little.

 He wonders what it would be like to just-

“Teach!” says Toad and something stings him on the foot. Ed realizes that the Toad has been calling his name and that Black Dog had just slapped his foot. Ed glares at the pink bald bastard until he pales and drops into the darkness of the hold before turning his attention to Toad.

“Yeah?”

“Are there any left?”

Ed looks over his shoulder at the pile, and the loot still beyond and sighs.

“Yeah…” Maybe by the time he’s finished with all that shit, he’ll have figured out what to tell John Silver.

xxxxx

Except by the time Ed’s done he can barely think of anything. The heat has only climbed in the thick pressing way that means it’s going to be rain later on, but at least no storm clouds. He’s gotten everything to the hold and then rearranged things in the hold under Toad’s supervision since he’s the only one light enough to climb over stuff- then it was up to set the sail so they can get a few more miles closer to Blind Man’s which now seems more stressful than the Devil’s Eye.

For now he strips off his sweat soaked shirt and uses it as a makeshift pillow as he flops out on deck, near where Feliciano has returned to working on the ledger.  He aches all over and would probably stab someone for a cup of water, but would rather die of thirst than move. But of course he can’t die because he’s the only one who can keep the potential storm of John Silver at bay and Ed wonders what it might be like to toss the man over the side and be done with it.

The slosh of the sea and the hesitant scratch of the quill is comforting in a way and Ed shifts his head to watch him. The wind feathers his dark hair but doesn’t do much for the sweat on his temple and cheek. Ed stretches to bump his knuckles against Feliciano’s calf and pretends to yawn, only a real jaw cracking one takes over and leaves him feeling more wiped than ever.

When he blinks the wet from his eyes he finds Feliciano looking down at him with a warm smile on his face.

“Olá, pequeno demônio,” he says. “Have you grown tired with your wicked ways?”

“Oh shut up,” Ed grumbles, turning onto his side to poke at Feliciano’s boots just because they’re there. He wants boots. Cool boots. “I didn’t do shit.” And then because he feels a little bad since Feliciano hadn’t done anything, draws his knees a little closer and mutters. “I’m tired.”

Feliciano is silent a moment before shutting the book with a thump.

“As am I. Words die when they are pinned so and I have killed enough today. Though it is well deserved for this tongue is like having rocks dropped on your head and not the beautiful flower of my own.” He sighs. “Eu não conseguia nem cortejar um cavalo com essa língua horrível.”

“I want to drop rocks on Silver’s head,” Ed mutters. “And Jack’s.”

“Rest,” says Feliciano. “And I will return.”

Ed doesn’t want him to return if only because he doesn’t want him to go. But Feliciano leaves anyway, boots thumping softly against the wood and Ed shifts on his back and closes his eyes. It’s not time to sleep, he thinks. It’s time to think. But the thoughts swirl away from him.

He is just about to slip off when he hears footsteps and the deck under him vibrating lightly. It’s not anyone with boots, but soft soled shoes like a gunner might wear only it’s not Long Bob and they haven’t said anything so it’s probably not the Walrus crew or Toad and probably not Griff. 

Whoever they are are looming over him now, a shadow over Ed’s eyes, and even though he didn’t hear any shells clinking, he kind of wonders…

“What do you want, Butternut?” Ed says. There is no change. No shift. And when he opens his eyes he sees that he’s right and the man looks a little surprised. He’s still wearing the shells too which means he can walk fucking quietly if he wants to which would ordinarily tighten the back of Ed’s neck in warning if he wasn’t ready to pass out.

“Dirk said to give you this.” And he holds out a scrap of paper between his short strong fingers. Ed reaches up and takes it, half prepared to get grabbed and gutted, but Butternut just lets him have it before shoving his hands in his pockets. Ed looks at the paper.  The only thing on it is a splotch of ink.

“Okay?”

“It’s a black spot,” says Butternut.

“Yeah, I can fucking see that. What’s it for?”

“It means he wants to kill you,” says Butternut patiently.

“No shit he wants to kill me. He’s been wanting to kill me for fucking ages.” Why the hell would-

Oh wait. Ed sighs and lets his hand flop on his stomach, one arm still tucked behind his head, as he looks up into Butternut’s face and- actually his really fucking impressive nostrils. Ed’s pretty sure you could see the man’s brain when he sneezed.

“You’re sure that Dirk is the one that gave you this.”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure. Octopus Face Dirk said to give this.” He flicks the paper. “To me.”

“Yes.”

“And it was Dirk and not some parrot loving asshole who told you to make friends with him so that I’d see it and then gave you the black spot to give to me to say that Dirk did it.”

“Uh…” Butternut stares. Swallows. Looks to the side and then quickly back. “It was Dirk.”

Bullshit it was Dirk.

“He says he will kill you in your sleep.”

Bullshit Dirk said anything like that.

“Thanks,” Ed says. “Fuck off.” And then because he really does kind of like Butternut adds: “Please.”

Butternut shrugs and fucks off, ankle shells chiming along the way. What a weird fuckin’ guy. Feliciano glances at him as he passes, eyebrows raised, and then continues his approach. He’s got the strap of a water skin flung over one arm, is holding bowl in one hand and a new cutlass in the other. Ed is too annoyed to be more than a little impressed with the sword, but his sandy throat practically begs for the water.

“What was that?” Feliciano asks handing Ed the water skin which he twists the cap off of and gulps down.  Felicano settles beside Ed on the deck, holding the bowl on his thigh and situating the cutlass across his lap. Ed shrugs and leans his head back on his arm, closing his eyes.

“You see Butternut?”

“Sim.”

“Where is he going? Galley or stern?”

“Galley I think.”

So it is Silver. Which makes things a little less annoying but only a little. Fuck, though, he’s really starting to- not hate Silver because he kind of likes him too, but whatever feeling it was when you both respected someone and wanted to strangle them until they stopped moving. He sighs, squinting through his eyelashes at the blue sky and the wheeling birds.

Might be nice to be a fucking bird.

Might be easier.

“Tell me,” says Feliciano, then shakes the bowl at him so something rattles. “Try.”

“Silver’s backed himself into a fucking corner and wants me to do something about it, that’s all,” Ed mutters, reaching blindly into the bowl and taking out a handful of gritty almonds. No. Almonds with sugar on them. “Holy shit did you beat him up to get these?” Sure they had a lot of sugar now but it’s not something they can just throw around.

“No.” Feliciano chuckles. “But he made them for you, he said, and kept me in the galley so he could finish.”

“Clever fucker.” Ed pops an almond into his mouth and crunches it between his teeth. God, it’s good. The sugar is almost too sweet but it’s such an expensive sweetness he doesn’t dare spit it out. Anyway he kind of likes it, not just the taste but just knowing he’s eating something fancy.

“And what did Silver ask you?” says Feliciano after a moment.

“He’s trying to find other berth for his crew” Ed rolls his eyes. “And wanted me to ask Hornigold about it. Like that will fucking work.” And even if it did work by some fucking miracle, Hornigold would only end up killing Silver in the end- and sooner rather than later, and while Ed doesn’t like Silver right now he doesn’t want him to die.

Yet.

“Ah well,” Feliciano flips his hand. “He can sail with the Siren and all is fine.”

“The Siren’s still under Flint though,” Ed says, taking a sip of water. Feliciano smirks at him and taps Ed’s nose with a finger. It’s strange because with anyone else he would have bitten their finger off, but with Feliciano he just kind of wants him to do it again.

“The Siren does not have to be. And Silver may bend it his way. May I?” He holds out his hand for the water skin and Ed hands it over, watching him drink from it, head tilted back, throat moving. When he’s finished he wipes his mouth with his sleeve and leans back against the wooden wall of the fo’c’sle. “And if Silver does not bend it his way, that is not our worry, if he believes he can, he will try. And I will speak to Don about this too so he may help.”

“But…” Ed frowns. “Silver asked me…”

“And so? He will not believe whatever you say because first you are young and second you are clever and he does not trust. Silver will trust Silver and if he can say he has tricked Don he will trust more. And even if you could tell him so he would trust, you do enough. Let me help you, Ed.”

The words seem to wrap around him, tangling up in his ribcage and Ed finds himself flushing. He shrugs and nods and looks away and eats an almond. It’s weird. So weird. The thought of Silver had been lying in his mind like a ballast and now that it’s gone he feels as if he’s floating to the surface. It’s such a strange hollow-boned feeling and he’s not sure if he doesn’t like it at all, or likes it a whole fuck of a lot.

“You will?” says Feliciano.

“I will,” Ed murmurs and Feliciano smiles and strokes a brief hand over Ed’s hair.

“Bem. Now rest.” He sighs. “There will be more concern soon enough.”

There is plenty of concern still fucking now, Ed thinks, with Dirk and Butternut and whatever else, but the wind is cool and a slight drizzle has started to fall which will turn into a heavy rain soon enough, but hopefully not before he wants to move. Eventually Long Bob slips down from the main mast where he was keeping watch and trods over. He is yawning and red eyed but still takes up a time to tie up a little bit of canvas over their heads to keep the rain off before squishing himself between the stairwell and Feliciano’s other side to snooze, head dropping on his shoulder.

It’s nice, Ed thinks, listening to the patter of the rain and watching it start to mist across the deck. The sun is still out and makes some of the rain a glimmering gold. It would be even better if Jack were here. It would be best if this were the Ranger. If it were he could watch Gilead Thorpe lifting his face to the rain and maybe Greg would come to join them, chatting to Cook that he held in his hand with twitching fingers. Or maybe even Aconi and Fadel-

Who won’t be there after this, probably.

And neither will Happy.

Happenstance Conner, Ed mouths the name.

Shot through the head.

And Jack probably won’t be there either.

“Hey,” Ed says, thumping his arm against Feliciano’s leg to get his attention and then just sort of…keeping it there.

“Hm?”

“Do you think that Hornigold will give Jack this ship?”

“I find it strange that our captain would give Jack a dinghy,” says Feliciano in a flat voice.

“Hey!” Ed thumps his leg again a little harder. “Jack’s not bad!”

“Shhh…” Feliciano gestures to Long Bob who has stopped snoring and Ed lowers his voice.

“Well he’s not.  He tries. He did really well on Mermaid Rock and…I mean… he’s still just figuring it out, you know?”

“Kind boy,” Feliciano says warmly and Ed scowls.

“Fuckin’ not.” He’s not kind! What the fuck is he supposed to do with kind? “It’s true!” He sets the bowl of sugared almonds aside to fold his arms. “Jack’s going to get this ship and Davenport will be his first and Long Bob will be his gunner and Butternut will be his quartermaster, I guess.” 

Ed rolls his eyes. He’s not sure where he’d put Butternut but not a quartermaster. “And I’ll be his…whatever…rigger…” God, even saying it brings the knot back. Then he realizes with an annoyed twist that Jack hadn’t mentioned a damn thing about Feliciano. “And you’ll be his swordsman and if he has anything to say about it I’ll punch him in the face.”

“And do you think this will be so?” It’s a gentle question with an obvious answer. Yes, it’s going to be so, Ed tells himself. Because he wants it - Well he doesn’t really want  it to be so. But… Jack would want it to be so but the more he thinks about it the less likely it is so .

“No…” Ed grumbles.

“No. If the captain decides on Dorter, he will keep it for himself and the Ranger to Jack and he is not going to let Jack have you. He knows-” Feliciano seems to change his mind  about whatever he had been going to say and smiles faintly. “You are enough trouble apart.” The smile soon fades and Ed pretends to ignore it as they stare out across the sun shower. Jack and Davenport have emerged from the cabin now and Jack is holding the black coat over Davenport’s head, but Davenport isn’t even looking at him.

"And I will speak to Don of that as well,” says Feliciano with a sigh. “Though it may be too late.”

Ed doesn’t fully understand, but he kind of does. He does enough anyway. He absently pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on them. Davenport isn’t going to be Jack’s first and he’ll probably sail away with the Siren if they all survive this and it doesn’t seem fair.

Feliciano’s hand rests hot on his bare back, the strange tangled net of emotions wrap around his ribs as he’s both sad for Jack and something else not sad at all, like the sun in the rain but very warm sun that he tries not to think about.

“But this is not your worry.”

That snaps him out of it. Those fucking words. He stands just to get away from that touch. The rain is on his bare shoulders now and sliding down his back but doesn’t do much to cool him down.

“It fucking is my worry.  I know you think that Jack is shit and maybe he is shit, but- but he's my-" his what? Ed doesn't know. but he can't stop worrying about him even when Jack pisses him off.. because he can see the end of it and no matter what Hornigold decides...Jack won't be the same and it hurts in a strange deep way. Feliciano gives him an unreadable look that’s both warm and sad at once and makes his heart trip over itself.

“He’s my mate,” Ed finishes lamely and raises his head, daring Feliciano to say otherwise. Not that he’ll do anything but be annoyed if he does, but the point still stands. But Feliciano just shakes his head.

“So it is,” he says and pats the deck. Ed reluctantly sits once more but facing him and absently rubbing the bands on his arm. “Then we will face Jack’s troubles together and see what can be done. But now we have to leave Jack to himself and think of this.” And he picks up the black spot where it had fallen to the deck.  “There are too many stirrings among these crews. Too many enemies. And the air is uneasy.”

“Yeah…” The rain won’t help matters much, even though it’s beautiful, it keeps people off deck and when they were off deck and out of sight, anything can be said or planned.

“Can we make it to Blind Man’s without?”

Ed considers. It’s possible they could hold out that long without the storm breaking. It’s possible that the sight of the familiar cove, the Walrus crew would bend to the Siren and Ranger to get them all to safety. But John Silver aside, he doesn’t trust Dirk’s loyalty anymore or his ambition— especially with Butternut only in his shadow.

He rubs his arms again at the sudden chill and Feliciano tugs at his ankle until he scoots in out of the rain and throws him his shirt. Ed tugs it on, the damp making the worn linen cling to his skin.

“Then we should do as the jaguar and watch for the enemy to move to strike” Feliciano holds up one finger. “And give them a reason to move.” Another finger. “And…” he holds up a third finger and wiggles it. “Give the others a chance to be allies instead, to last until their captain gathers them close.”

“That’s a good idea.” Because they can’t strike down all their enemies or they’d never fucking get to Blind Man’s, but as for the rest: “Not sure fucking how.”

“Ah well, that is why we are here so we may talk.  You are clever, and we have Roberto.” He gently pats the side of Long Bob’s head. “And Jack…is useful.” His expression looks strained and Ed appreciates him trying. “…and of course there is Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Ranger who has not been defeated even once, exceto pelos perigos do amor que levam todos a uma doce rendição.” He flicks a hand through his hair. “So we cannot fail.”

xxxxx

And they can’t fail, Ed thinks as he makes his way down the main mast, back to the buffeting wind. Because if they fail they’re fucking fucked. Feliciano’s plan is super fucking cool, he has to admit, but like one of his stories full of tricks and daring and tied up damsels….or whatever a man damsel would be.

They don’t have a lot of time to do it, though, since the approach to Blind Man’s would take every hand in the trickier waters. And they’re already a little behind. The sun is westering now, though there’s a few hours before it bleeds across the sky, and tonight is when it happens and hopefully, by some fucking miracle, works.

Though it would be a lot easier if Silver stopped being a whore and kept his dick out of everything. Ed sighs as his feet hit the deck, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers so that he hears them  crack. He had just spent the last hour or so repairing the bunt line on the moon’sl so they could actually furl it when the time came. No one else had had wanted to do it due to the sudden high wind.

It should have been Butternut’s job as he’s the newest, but he’s more of a guard than a sailor, as it turns out, and couldn’t tell a bunt line from a rat’s ass. So Silver had hmm’d and thought about who he should make to do it, who should be the sacrifice; while all the while casting looks at Ed as if to say: should I cause a mutiny? Or are we going to come up with a decision?

Fucker.

Ed doesn’t want to kill him but wouldn’t mind strangling him until his eyeballs bugged out— and he grasped at his throat with both hands gagging and— Ed shudders and pushes the thought from his mind. He gropes in his pocket until he finds the slightly damp paper of the black spot- then looks around.

Long Bob is already at work, chatting happily with Butternut, his voice carrying- while Dirk idles nearby,  repairing a broken pulley and watching, always watching.  And Toad is watching him and Black Dog is pulling the fibers off an old rope and watching the Toad.

Ed’s not really worried about Long Bob though. Everyone likes him except Dirk who is an idiot anyway. Feliciano is at the helm with Griff, going back over the log book with him even as Griff as his hands on the wheel and it’s obvious Feliciano is losing his temper about it again. He’s abandoned the cool new cutlass for his old one and Ed sort of wonders why.

He’ll worry about that later.

Jack and Davenport are still at the cabins, though this time in front of them, but who he’s really looking for at the moment… He turns about on deck, casually stretching one arm over his chest then the other, trying to appear he’s not looking for anyone, until he spots him.

Pew…swabbing the forward deck and looking bitchy about it. Van Morgenstern is nearby too, trawling the fishing net along the side in hopes for supper, and talking with Job Anderson  whose face is puffy beneath the bandages. There’s a chance that either of them will overhear, but maybe that’s a good thing. And anyway, it’s not as if Ed can pull Pew away without looking suspicious.

So he trods over, watching the man scrub, the wind catching his fly away hair that’s escaped from under the dirty bandanna, his thin bony knuckles red and raw clutched against the mop. His eyes are red and raw too, and bloodshot due to the wind and Ed feels a little bit bad for him.

But only a little bit.

“You missed a spot,” Ed says and Pew scowls at him.

“Ye should be doing this. Ye are the youngest here  and it’s your back that should be breakin’ not mine.” And then he seems to decide something and leers, showing broken teeth. “So you get to it.” He drops the mop at Ed’s feet and puts his knobbled hands on his hips. “Well? Pick it up, boy.”

No, Ed hates him. Ed kind of hopes he’ll be the one they’ll pounce, though he doubts Pew has the balls. He doesn’t want to pick the mop up either. He’d rather ram his fist into Pew’s stomach and shove him into the brine. And maybe Pew sees the look on his face because he takes half a step back, adams apple bobbing.

Ed picks up the mop, watching with interest as Pew startles, face going paler.

“Thank me?” Ed says, not a question and it’s bold and reckless and could upend everything they’re trying to do but he just fucking wants to hear it. So he keeps his eyes on Pew’s. Keeps that expression on his face- even if it just feels like not much of an expression at all, a shiver goes through Pew’s frame.

“Uh…er…thankee,” he mutters under his breath. Ed smiles, trying not to grin, though he wants to  and woop and show Jack just what he did knowing Jack would get a kick out of it. But that’s later. For right now he steps in closer as if remembering. He digs the black spot from his pocket in a closed fist and angles his body away from where van Morgenstern and now Job Anderson are watching- as if trying to hide some secret.

“Someone asked me to give this to you,” Ed says in a low voice. Pew hesitantly lifts his hand and Ed presses the paper into his damp palm. Then he leans the mop handle against Pew’s shoulder and pats his cheek. He wants to call him good boy. He wants to see if the bastard will heel. But he doesn’t and he won’t.

Not yet.

He gives Pew a moment to stare at the blackened piece of paper, then turns to go. 

“Who— who gave this to ye?” Pew says in a voice high and satisfyingly terrified. Ed stops to catch the man’s gaze over his shoulder.

“You know who,” he says, gesturing at Dirk, and then turns back toward the stern without stopping, even he hears Pew give out a little squeak and the mop clatters once more to the deck.

Ed smiles to himself and heads back to the stern, where Jack and Davenport are. Jack is sitting on the deck above, legs dangling through the gaps in the railing, forehead resting on the railing itself. In front of him, Davenport is clearly losing his mind a little. He’s pacing about in a dark green coat, five others have been laid out on the deck, like drying laundry. The black coat has been draped over the stair railing and the red one has been folded onto a barrel- and he’s just pacing, back and forth, turning in place, frowning, shaking his head.

Jack looks bored out of his mind and Ed doesn’t blame him.

“This has drama but it just doesn’t move right. It’s so stiff. Don’t you think it’s stiff?”

“I think it’s fine,” mutters Jack, though Davenport either ignores him or doesn’t hear him because he shucks off the coat and slips on another to resume pacing.

“Yo,” Ed says, slipping into place beside him and copying him, legs through the gaps, though he’s not tall enough to rest his chin on the railing, goddamnit, so he leans back on his hands instead and watches Davenport strut through the gaps in the bars.

“He’s been at this for an hour,” says Jack under his breath. “I feel like my eyeballs are gonna fall out and not in a good way.”

“There’s a good way for your eyeballs to fall out?”

Jack snorts but doesn’t answer.

Davenport turns again, swirling the coat behind him and then shaking his head to take it off and pick up the priest one again, frowning deeply at it.

“Why are you still watching him then.”

“Cuz he asked me to, that’s why. It’s a man thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

Well Ed doesn’t understand but he really doubts it’s a man thing.

“You’d do the same for Felix.”

Okay, now he does get it. He regards Davenport striding one way and then the other, swirling, twitching, pulling off, putting on.

“Yeah, but Feliciano is different.”

“Yeah? Fuckin’ how.”

“He’s better at this.”

“Fuck off,” Jack mutters, but doesn’t argue, because it’s fucking true. With Feliciano it would be like a dance. Davenport is just…going a little mental. Ed almost feels sorry for him.

“Just go and pick one!” Jack says and Davenport glares at him.

“I can’t just pick one! Hawke needs to see that I’m better than when I left! That’s the point!”

And he wrenches off the priest coat only to lay it delicately on the railing.

“Fuckin’ Hawke,” Jack mutters and Ed feels a little bad for Davenport. He hadn’t thought of looking better for Hornigold. It’s pretty much fucking impossible with the clothes he has here. All of his clothes are dirty and smudged now and his trousers are almost up to his knee, ragged at the hem, and his feet are dirty and bare. 

“Though it ain’t half a bad idea…” Jack mutters. Ed stares at him. 

“You want to look different for Hornigold?” 

“Yeah! Fuck off! Maybe!” Jack flushes and wraps his arms around his middle. “I’m thinkin’ about it. But first we gotta help Don.”

Who the fuck is we? Ed wants to say. But he does like Davenport now so he might as well, and that’s sort of part of the plan anyway so he just drums his feet idly against the wall of the lower deck. Soon Feliciano will give the signal and then Ed will say the words and the most badass part of this whole thing will be set in place. 

The only fucking thing that’s guaranteed to happen really.

“Do you think Don’ll say yes?” Jack says suddenly and low as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear him. Ed blinks.

“Say yes to what?”

“Bein’…first mate an’ all… cuz…” Jack is looking down at his hands now and then picks at the peeling skin of his burn. “Cuz I know I ain’t great and all, I mean I will be but… it’s gonna take some time.”

What the fuck is he supposed to say? No? Yes? Both answers are shit. Fuck, he and Feliciano should have planned this out too.

“I dunno, mate,” Ed says. “Who cares? I mean, what’s so great about Davenport anyway?”

“You can call him Don, you know.”

“Nah. Feels weird.”

“You’re fuckin’ weird,” Jack mutters, picking off a long strip of white skin that Ed watches with interest as it goes and goes until it breaks. “And… I dunno… he’s just…he’s smart for one thing. And a colony boy. And he may look fluffed up but he knows how to work hard. And he can down whiskey like no one’s business and… well there’s a lot  I don’t know about him still but…” Jack holds up the bit of skin and Ed watches it absently as it dangles in the wind until he lets it go and it’s taken by the breeze.

“We understand each other,” Jack says. Mutters. “Deep down… I know it… Like we’re kind of the same people.”

“Twin stars…” Ed murmurs without thinking and Jack looks at him.

 “Yeah that.”

No, not fucking that. That’s his word and Jack can’t have it! But before he can say it, Feliciano’s voice raises loud enough to be heard at least to midships and maybe even further with the wind.

“It is what it is! If you had ordinary words they would be used! If you want to know what they are, then look in the hold!”

It’s not the signal, but it’s close enough and Ed should probably do something before Griff gets stabbed, especially as the man replies:

“Look at them? I can barely read them, man. Did a chicken teach you your letters?”

“I’ll get this,” Ed says, slipping upright.

“Get what?” Jack asks.

“Hey,… Don,” Ed calls and wow no it still feels weird. Davenport stops mid-stride, squinting at him as if just remembering he was there. Or maybe he’s also weirded out by being called Don by him. It just doesn’t fucking sound right.

  “If you want a good opinion-“ Ed continues.

“Hey!” Jack snaps.

“You should ask Feliciano.”

“You’re right,” Davenport says, pulling off a coat the color of an old lemon. “I should have thought about it from the beginning.”

“Fuckin’ Felix,” Jack grumbles. “The fuck does he know.”

A lot, Ed wants to say, but holds it in because Davenport is talking to Feliciano now who is calmed down a little. Even his shoulders relax as they talk and it’s not close enough for Ed to really hear but he doesn’t need to.

Then Feliciano leans in close as a breath and speaks in Davenport’s ear- Jack’s shoulders go rigid and Ed can feel his do the same though he’s not sure why as he’s not mad exactly, and he’s not happy exactly, but a strange swirling third thing that makes him a little dizzy.

“Feliciano-” Ed clears his throat and tries again. “Feliciano knows a lot of things. He’s just better than Davenport.”

“Fuck you, he ain’t.”

“A better dresser and a better dancer and a better swordsman.”

“He ain’t! You take that back. Don’s the best swordsman there is! He woulda kicked Felix’s ass if you hadn’t got him trashed in Paradise.”

“Fuck you! He was being an asshole, and I didn’t hear you complaining then! You ran away with Long Bob!” Wait, shit no this isn’t the plan.

“Well you were the moron that started it all!”

“I was not!” Ed snaps. And he wasn’t. He doesn’t think. He can’t remember so he might have been. But that’s not the fucking point. “Feliciano is still better.”

“Is not.”

“Is so!”

“Is not and I can prove it.” Jack says getting to his feet and tromping down the steps, Ed follows after him both annoyed and relieved at how well this was working. Though it might have been easier to tell Jack instead of tricking him, Ed thinks, but there doesn’t seem to be any fucking time to think of anything lately.

“A storm on the horizon,” Feliciano says as they approach, a warm smile on his face. He and Davenport are still standing so close there’s barely a gap between them and the swirling feelings come up again so he has to shove them back down.

“You bet there is,” says Jack as if he doesn’t even notice. “Don, who is the better swordsman, you or Felix?”

Davenport and Feliciano look at one another and it’s like a current runs through the air. Ed wants to look up to see if there is a storm that’s gathered above them or if there’s witchfire glimmering above the masts.

“Well,” says Davenport, never dropping Feliciano’s gaze. “You are older than me after all, and younger is better.”

“By three months. But if I were bent and blind, you could not best me.”

“Shall we put that to a test then?” Davenport holds out his hand and then In his weird honey accent adds. “A gentlemen’s duel?”

“I am not a gentleman, but it is agreed.” Feliciano takes his hand which is also really interesting, tanned skin against pale.

“Sunset?” Davenport says.

“Sunset,” Feliciano replies.

“Perfect. I’ll pick the black coat then, or maybe the red, and we’ll need seconds.”

“Oh that’ll be me and Ed,” says Jack.

Wait, what? Davenport opens his mouth and then Feliciano raises his eyebrows so Davenport closes it again and smiles.

“Yes, well, I guess that’ll work for now. So long as you two clean yourselves up a little.”

“Clean ourselves up?” Jack frowns. “The fuck is wrong with us? Do we look like idiots or somethin’?”

xxxxx

“We do like idiots,” Jack says. Ed can only nod 

They really fucking do.

It is almost sunset and Ed is standing in the fading light that is streaking into the captain’s room, trying not to breathe through his nose. He doesn’t want to be here. It makes his skin crawl really, the sight of the bottles and the smell and the snoring of Bill Bones who is on the bed and absolutely fucking reeks. 

But it’s the only place that has a large enough mirror to see all of himself at once. So he stands shoulder to shoulder with Jack, crammed together so that they can see. Job Anderson is lingering behind them, sorting through the piles of clothes from the sea chest they’d gotten off the Marigold. Yes, Job Anderson is technically an enemy but he also knows how to sew if they need it and still has one good eye anyway.

Ed still has no clue what the second does, but how can he be anyone’s second looking like this? Though he’s only had this Navy Man shirt for a little over a week, it’s got holes and is torn at the shoulder and the cool short jacket is too short suddenly- not to mention the stupid ragged trousers. His whiskers are still patchy and dumb and there’s still stains of bootblack on his face. He can’t do this. He shouldn’t do this. He won’t. He’ll have Long Bob do it, or… or something.

Only he can’t because Long Bob has to keep an eye on things.

 Maybe he can fake his death so dramatically that’s all everyone can talk about for two days. Or maybe throw everyone overboard and have them all swim to Blind Man’s. Or maybe set off some explosions? Explosions are always cool right?

He’d pretty much do fucking anything but face Feliciano like this. It would be like a star shining next to a pile of shit.

Davenport is lucky, Ed thinks. Jack looks kind of cool even if his stomach and knees are still crab red. But he has an actual mustache, sort of, and hair on his chin and even a bunch on his belly. Ed doesn’t have a single fucking hair there and only like five on his chest- which is fine because he’s not going bare chested. He’ll look like a complete idiot then instead of mostly one. An uncooked chicken. A fucking child.

“Think we can swim away?” Jack says. “Blind Man’s can’t be that far, right?”

“Good plan,” Ed says. “Let’s go.”

But he doesn’t move and neither does Jack. Ed’s not sure if they even can. It’s not just a fight, after all, it’s a duel. A gentlemen’s duel. Ed has no idea what the fuck it means and he’s sure half the crew don’t know either, but they are getting excited for it which is the point.

They’ve furled the sails early and Black Dog and Chadwick? Or whatever with the splintered arm has gone down to the galley to help Silver prepare a fucking feast for the party after. There will be real meat  and good rum and fresher vegetables than they had in a fortnight and something sweet which Silver had promised with loads of sugar.

All according to plan.

It’ll be great.

It’ll be fantastic.

Even Bones is going to be woken up soon so he can enjoy it.

And even if it was just the four of them with no lives on the line, Ed wouldn’t miss the duel for the fucking world, to watch Davenport and Feliciano fight.

To feel that energy again.

But he can’t go looking like this.

He can’t have everyone looking at him like this. Not when he’s supposed to be doing whatever a second does.

“I’d rather die,” Ed says. He can watch it as a fucking ghost can’t he?

“If you do I’m comin’ with ya,” Jack says, tugging on his ragged shirt bottom and letting it go with a sigh. Outside there is a swell of laughter and a ragged cheer which means that someone is doing something cool or interesting and Ed is missing it because of the stupid shirt and the stupid trousers and the stupid coat.

Job Anderson coughs into his fist. Then coughs more than hacks up something which he swallows before saying in a gritty voice:

“Are you guys done with me or-?” 

“Not unless you can make us look less like idiots,” Jack says. “I mean, I’m pretty much fine— for me-  but- I gotta be impressive to Don too. I gotta fit his…aesthetic or whatever the fuck that means.” He shuffles, rolling his shoulders. “Don’t wanna embarrass him or nothin’ ”

“Well, like my Pa used to say before he fell off a fishing boat at low tide in eel infested waters: ‘You’re only ever going to be yourself. But for god’s sake try to be less of an embarrassment to everyone around you because you’re bringing everyone down you wartfaced version of a kidney stone.’ So just find a way to not be that.”

Even Jack goes pale at that and Ed feels like he wants to puke.

“Fuckin’ helpful,” Jack mutters. Then grips Ed’s shoulder and takes a deep breath. “But it’s fine. It’s fuckin’ fine. We got clothes thanks to Jucentius.”

“Jucentius?” Who the fuck is walking around with a name like that?

“Yeah. Tadpoole. The Toad.”

“You can say Jucentius but not Feliciano?”

“Jucentius is a normal name, shit-for-brains. Point is we got options. We just gotta figure out what to where. How to - how to be cool.”

“Well I’d at least put a real shirt on for one thing,” says Job Anderson. “So’s you can stop looking like a beggar.”

“Fuck you,” Jack says, but turns away from the mirror to go to the desk where Job Anderson had piled up the clothes. “Whatcha got?”

Job Anderson says something else that Ed doesn’t catch. He can barely hear over the sound of his own heart.

The panic is only growing a hard knot in the back of his throat as he looks at his own cold dark eyes in the mirror. Everyone calls him a monster or demon but he knows it’s not  true. Monsters and demons are cool. He’s not cool. He doesn’t even know what cool is! 

He’s going to swim. Or hide. Or drink himself stupid like Bones and hide.

“Long Bob can go in for me,” Ed says distantly even as the plan swims to life in his mind. He can somehow sneak into a tender and pack it full of shit and then sneak it over the side and then row. No one would miss him. No one would even know he was gone. Maybe things will even be better if he’s not there. Maybe he’s the real problem all along.

“No, he can’t,” Jack says. “Seconds have to fight to the death when their side loses and I ain’t fightin’ Long Bob.”

“I would take Long Bob,” says Job Anderson.

“Bob’d snap you like a twig,” Jack says. Then after a breath: “Watcha think?”

He thinks Jack has cleaned up well, that’s what he fucking thinks. He’s fucking cool. He’s ditched the shirt completely for the long black priest coat and even if his bare chest is pale white going to peeling red, it makes him look rugged. He’s added another belt to sit low across his hips which are strangely nice hips which is a weird fucking thought that Ed’s never going to think again, and dark trousers and boots.

He looks like a fuckin’ badass pirate is what he looks like.

And Ed looks… Ed looks like…

“You….okay, Ed? You look like you’re gonna fall over,” Jack says and Ed swallows.

“I am a beggar,” Ed says. “A dirty stinking beggar.”  Job Anderson snickers.

“I’ve seen beggar’s clean’rn you. Some dirt don’t rub off.”

Jack punches the man hard enough to send him back onto the desk, clothes skidding, bottles clattering to the floor. Ed is too startled to do anything but stare.

“Ow! My face!” Job Anderson wails. “What the hell was that for?”

“Your stinkin’ mouth,” says Jack. “Now get out.”

“But-”

“Out.” And in the mirror Ed sees Jack practically heft Job Anderson up by the collar and haul him to the door. Wait! Shit!

“Don’t!” Ed calls, voice rising in panic. “He’ll tell everyone what I said!”

And it would be worse and he would have to punch them and then they’d have to pounce on all their enemies which would be half the fucking ship and Feliciano will give him a look as if Ed has aged him a hundred years.

“Oh yeah. Good point.”

“Ha! Suck it up you filthy losers,” says Job Anderson. “We of the Walrus, hey what are you doing?”

“Tying you up, stupid,” Jack says and Ed watches him cinch a cloth belt tight around Job Anderson’s wrists.

“You won’t get away with this!” Job Anderson bellows. “Mr. Bones! Cap’n Bones !”

God, he’s loud. Ed grabs a coarse cloth handkerchief from off the table and stuffs it in Job’s Anderson’s mouth, the fact that he can’t speak anymore releasing the knot in his throat a little.

“Here.” Jack says, jerking his head at the trunk. “Help me with that.”

Job Anderson squeaks and shakes his head vigorously. Fortunately he folds up nicely without them having to break anything and Ed lets out a breath when the lid is closed.

Still-

“What if he’s right?”

“Shut up, dickhead. Look at me.”

Ed does, not sure what to expect and flinches when Jack reaches for him, somehow expecting a punch. It’s a slap upside the head instead but a light one, barely a tap.

“You ain’t a fuckin’ beggar, alright? You’re a man of Hornigold for one thing and for another my crewmate, and for a third the one who keeps pullin’ our dicks out of the fire. That rat ass ain’t big enough to even touch you let alone call you shit.”

Ed flushes, not knowing what to say. It’s weird. Too weird. He’s not sure if he likes it. What the fuck is he supposed to even do with it?

“And you ain’t gotta worry about what Felix-”

“Feliciano, goddamnit.”

“Goddamn yourself.” Jack sighs and rolls his eyes. “What… What Fe…Feelishano thinks. Cuz for one thing he’s been tryin’ to keep your dick out of the fire and for the second…you’re not… I mean… like me and Don are…” Jack’s ears go red. “Point is he won’t care.”

“But I fucking care!” Ed says. “I can’t go out looking like this!”

“Alright, so how do you wanna look?”

“Fuck if I know!”

Jack blows out a breath and leans back, looking at him up and down and then nods as if making a decision.

“Well…what…what parts of yourself do you like?”

“What?” What the fuck kind of question is that? Jack flushes.

“I said what parts of yourself do ya like? Don’t make this weird!”

It already is weird, Ed thinks. 

“Um…” Ed looks down. Fuck if he knows. It’s just a body and he’s not got enough of one. Oh but… “My arms?”

“Got it. That coat ain’t doin’ you any favors. And that shirt looks like it’s been through a storm or two. Get it off.” Ed takes off the short Navy Man jacket and shirt and then just for the hell of it, balls them off and tosses them, feeling oddly satisfied when it hits a pile of bottles with a clink of a button.

“Ain’t got extra in your size, short stuff,” says Jack. “No time to rig something together… so we’ll just have to work around it…Hm…” Jack swipes something from the top of the pile hands it out. “Try this.” Ed wrinkles his nose.

“Your old shirt? You don’t even want to fucking wear it!”

“Just try it, dipshit! And see what you think.”

“Fuck,” Ed mutters, pulling it on and buttoning what buttons are there. In the end he can’t really tell if he likes it or not. It’s not long enough on him either and leaves a bit of his belly exposed which probably looks weird.

“And put these on. They might be a little big on you.” Jack chucks a pair of trousers at him, thankfully ones that he hadn’t worn. They’re a dull mustardy yellow but the fabric is soft. He takes his stuff out of his belt, the compass, his money pouch which is sad with a single dubloon and- he hesitates when his fingers brush the silk, looking up at Jack who is getting impatient. Ed gets that because Bones’ snoring has gotten quieter and he might wake up at any moment and this will be annoying to explain. Also there’s a weird muffled banging that he wishes would stop but…

“I’ve seen you butt naked before, jackass,” Jack says. Which yeah he has but Ed’s always managed to hide the silk before. 

Not that he thinks Jack will take it or anything but out in the open it’s…

It’s just a silly piece of fabric so who cares. Still he holds his breath as he closes his fingers around it, holding it in his fist as he held the black spot and pulls it out. Some of the red is showing through in the circle of his thumb and forefinger. Jack tilts his head.

“The fuck is that?”

“Nothing! Fuck off!”

Jack shrugs and looks away.

“Yeah, fine, whatever, little weirdo.”

“Fuck you,” Ed mutters, and keeps it closed in his fist anyway as he pulls on the trousers and wraps the cloth belt back around to tie it tight before putting his stuff back in it. He gets a leather belt from the pile too and wraps it around twice before buckling it, feeling more secured.

“You done, you prissy shit?” Jack says and Ed wants to kick him in the shin but instead says.

“Shut up.” Because he’s not, and: “Yeah.”

“Good, now how do they… Huh…” Jack regards him, arms folded, nodding. “Not bad.”

“Huh…” Ed looks down at the trousers too. They actually fit. Are even a little short on him.

“Good. Lesse..you got your rings, those are cool. Now fix your hair like Felix— Feli…Felishi-fuck-iano did that one time, looked badass, and I ain’t sayin’ you have to keep it, just see what it looks like.”

“Yeah fine.” Ed pulls his hair out in the little bun, tying it tight with a length of cord, letting the rest of it spill over his shoulders.

“Good, now turn around and tell me if you like it.”

Ed turns around and is a little surprised.

“I look like I fucking drowned with this stupid shirt.”

Jack smacks his head again, a little harder this time.

“Do you fuckin’ like it or not.”

Well…he doesn’t hate it. It’s not as stupid as before and though he doesn’t like the ragged sleeves or hem or fucking sweatstains, he really likes his arms. They are not as big as Jack’s, not even near, but he can see the muscle in them- and the warm bands across his upper arm and the leer of the skull. He likes the rings and hates the color of the trousers but at least they’re not falling off him.

He likes his hair like this too still, it makes him feel wild and untamed. But…He sighs and presses a finger against the lingering smear of bootblack on his cheek.

“It’s pretty good,” Ed says. “I just wish I could get rid of this shit.” He scratches at a smudge.

“Well that’s your own fuckin fault… But we can figure out a good idea…”

That’s true, Ed thinks, liking the ‘we’ part. 

He fights the strange urge to lean against Jack and close his eyes, instead staying upright and thinking. And since they’re both here and it’s quiet, now is a good time to tell him the plan.

“I have something to tell you, too...” And then because he realizes he still doesn’t fuckin know- “What the hell is a second?” 

xxxxx

Sunset is streaking the sky by the time they are ready. Ed is waiting in his own cabin again, Jack having gone to the smaller one on the opposite side. Soon Silver will give the signal and Ed and Jack will leave their respective cabins and cross the ship on either side to the fo’c’sle where Feliciano and Davenport are waiting… and there hand them their weapons before stepping back.

Ed’s nerves are jangling in his gut. Though he was confident after they’d left the captian’s cabin, now he’s not so sure. Now it all feels stupid. But… at least some parts aren’t stupid, he thinks, rubbing his fingers over the bands, before letting them drop to the sheath of Feliciano’s cutlass. It feels heavy on his lap, the brown leather feels alive under his fingers, it’s almost a presence of its own and it stirs something in his gut.

He doesn’t know where the new cutlass went or what even Feliciano had wanted to do with it, but it feels good that this is Feliciano’s old cutlass. It feels good and right and pleasantly thick in his blood.

It’s just a duel and a play duel at that, but somehow being Feliciano’s second feels like the most important thing Ed’s ever done. And he’s going to do it right, he tells himself. No matter what anyone says or does, he won’t care. All the important people- all the best people are going to be on the fo’c’sle.

From the prow, the bell rings twice, jangling in Ed’s blood. He takes a breath and then another, then holds Feliciano’s cutlass against his hip as he pushes out into the slanting sunlight. Jack steps out from the other cabin and they nod to one another.

 Jack looks good, Ed thinks, as they walk down the parallel stairwells onto the main deck. Jack’s open coat lifts in the wind, exposing his stomach and chest and the glint of gold from the chain he’d found buried under the clothes. His head is up and proud.

Jack doesn’t look much like himself, but he looks more like himself than whatever Hornigold had him wear. The best part though is the charcoal rubbed around his eyes, like it’s rubbed around Ed’s and along the hollows of their cheeks, like skulls.

They’re different but the same, both proud men of Hornigold.

And one day, Ed decides, he will be like Jack. Dress like that. Not with the same clothes but dress like he means to, dress like he wants to, dress to tell people who the fuck he is. A scattering of wind brushes over the tattoos on his arm like a blessing and he raises his chin.

 The crew has turned to watch them approach. They are all gathered in front of and around the mizzenmast, some sitting on the lowest spar, legs dangling. And here it’s where it gets interesting- because there’s been a split. Dirk is standing to the port of the mizzen, with Butternut and van Morgenstern who seems to make his side clearer and clearer every hour. On the starboard of mizzen are Pew and Black Dog, the Toad and the Siren with the splintered arm.

Long Bob is plunked between them sitting crosslegged on the deck just in front of Bones who is on a cask, blinking in the light and propped up against the mast so he won’t fall over. He reeks even from here but at least he doesn’t have a rum bottle in his hand even if he seems to keep groping for one. Griff nods at him from where he’s leaning against the port railing.

 The only one who snickers is Dirk but he is nothing and easy to ignore. He’s just trying to draw attention anyway and even without looking directly at him, Ed can tell how rigid his shoulders are. The prey isn’t on the move yet, but is getting ready to bolt.

Ed refuses to look at him, and keeps his gaze on Feliciano who is standing on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle, the sunlight making his dark hair reddish, his hands on his hips. He looks amused. Happy. Ed doesn’t know whether Feliciano’s laughing at him or not, but at least he doesn’t look ashamed so that makes Ed feel better. Even more so when he and Jack mount the stairs to the upper deck in perfect unison and stop too at the same time, looking important.

Silver steps forward then from where he’s standing in the center, and he even he looks dressed up a bit, in a coat and all, a flintlock gleaming at his side, the bird proud and beady-eyed on his shoulder. He looks pleased and not in the sarcastic way or the angry way that makes his lips thin. Like he’s finally spotted the fat goose to eat and is going to enjoy it soon enough.

Whore, Ed thinks, but with a little fondness.

“Mr. Bones,” says Silver with a nod. “Shipmates.” He spreads his hands. “Welcome to the duel between two of the finest swordsman these seas have to offer.” The crew gives a ragged cheer and Bones winces which makes it difficult not to smirk. “Who be you presenting, Mr. Rackham?”

“Donovan Montague Davenport, first mate of the Siren,” says Jack which holy shit that is a lot of name for one person. Jack presents Davenport’s cutlass still in the sheath and Davenport draws it out with a flourish, light shining along the blade as he swirls, his long red coat swirling with him. The crew cheers and whistles as he salutes them even Long Bob clapping approvingly and Ed doesn’t blame him.

“And yourself, Mr. Teach?” says Silver and Ed’s throat suddenly feels thick. He can’t fuck it up but he can’t hesitate either so he takes a breath and says:

“Feliciano Gabriel Duarte, swordsman of the Ranger.” His voice comes out deeper than he thought. Feliciano smiles and grasps the grip of the cutlass before pulling it free from the sheath. The vibration of the blade sliding free makes every hair on the back of Ed’s neck raise. The crew cheers and whistles, Long Bob’s bellow vibrating the deck. Feliciano’s salute isn’t as flashy as Davenport’s, but there’s a liquid grace to it that makes Ed’s throat go dry.

“Alright, gentlemen,” says Silver when the noise has died down. “To first blood, a spot only and nothing vital. Savvy?”

“Of course,” says Davenport with a bow.

“It is so,” says Feliciano.

And Silver steps back to the bow spirit. Jack slips to the side and a heartbeat later, Ed realizes he should too. He sets himself with his back pressed against the fo’c’sle railing, gripping the sheath in one hand and the wood of the railing in the other.

Feliciano and Davenport turn to face one another, sweeping their swords low and to the side as if on their own salute before bringing them up again, but they don’t attack each other. Ed would have charged in, blade swinging, but instead of that, they slowly circle one another, boots whispering across the deck.

It doesn’t seem like it’s much of anything, but prickles tighten the back of Ed’s neck like the charge before a storm.

“Are you sure you’re up for this, old man?” says Davenport, slipping his cutlass almost lazily forward into Feliciano’s space. Feliciano taps it away and the faint chime of metal is still enough to make Ed start.

“It will only be sad to cut a small flame from the wick,” says Feliciano, then adds in a low voice. “But I am generous with tears.” He reaches up with his bare hand and touches Davenport’s cheek. “And if I had a knife, you would be dead.”

Davenport flushes then laughs and pushes the heel of his hand against Feliciano’s shoulder, sending him stumbling back. Then Davenport comes at him then in a rush, blade high than swooping down. Feliciano blocks it and now the sound of metal shrieks through the air, making Ed think of gunpowder and smoke.

 The crew is yelling as Davenport comes at Feliciano again and again, driving him back, hot and fast and furious, his coat swirling with every movement. It’s hard to see Feliciano’s face from where he is and Ed wants to encourage him or tell them to knock the fuck off but bites down on the words until he can taste copper on his tongue.

But they are close to the railing now and if Feliciano is trapped against it or goes over it-

Only before he’s driven too far, he slaps away Davenport’s sweeping downward stroke with the flat of the blade and Ed can see the opening right before Feliciano belts Davenport across the face with his fist, sending the other man staggering.

“Bitch,” Davenport says, rubbing his cheek. Feliciano smirks and paces around him so that the rest of the fo’c’sle is at his back.

“So it is. Perhaps when you grow,cachorrinho, you will learn not to show your face so openly.”

“I feel like I’m growing already.” The strange honey accent was back but this time rough around the edges even as Davenport grins. In a sweep of movement Davenport sheds his coat, letting it drop to the deck, which is admittedly fucking cool- the back of his shirt is already drenched in sweat.

“Let me show you what I’ve learned!” Davenport snarls and attacks again. The blades flash and sparks fly from the metal, but this time Ed can see Feliciano’s face and is relieved to find him looking faintly amused as he moves back, blocking or knocking aside every slash. 

The same move happens again, Ed can almost see Feliciano prepare for it, knocking the cutlass aside with the flat of his own, throwing a punch - though this time Davenport grabs his wrist and hauls him forward, the blade of his cutlass skimming over Felicinao’s waist.

“Fuck!” Ed yelps as visions of Happy’s victims flash through his mind, guts spilling onto the deck. But Feliciano doesn’t seem hurt  and as soon as Davenport lets go, Feliciano moves past him and swats him on the butt with the blade, making Davenport jump and laugh- a rough ragged thing.

“Bem, bem,” Feliciano says. “You have learned. Ay. And so you have taught my clothes!” He looks down at his middle, parting the gap of the cut leather and fabric with his fingers and Ed stretches his head forward to see. There seems to be some pink there and the crew holds its breath. John Silver comes to inspect and then shakes his head.

“Just a scratch, but a frog’s hair from a win I’d wager,” says Silver.

“Let the kid look himself!” says Dirk the dick. Davenport shakes his head, blowing sweat out of his eyes and doesn’t look like he wants to but the some of the crew, Siren and Walrus agree and so he looks too and shakes his head as well.

“It is just a scratch, and shut the hell up.” This to Dirk. “This isn’t any of your fuckin’ business.”

“Well and so,” says Feliciano as Davenport paces away again, wiping sweat from his mouth with the back of his hand. “We can let you have it as you seem a little tired.”

And it’s true. Davenport is drenched in sweat, breathing hard, and while Feliciano is sweating and breathing hard too, it’s not as much. Ed wonders if it’s because Davenport is doing most of the work with attacking and maybe Davenport realizes it too because he holds out his arms, cutlass to one side, hand to the other, chest exposed.

“I can go as long as you.” He tosses his sweat soaked hair from his eyes. “Come at me.”

Feliciano undoes his cuff buttons with his fucking teeth and then rolls up his sleeves.

“My pleasure.”

And Feliciano attacks. Ed has to move so he can see it better. He can’t really tell if Feliciano is better or not but his style is different. Davenport was more in speed and power, but here, he has to constantly move and shift to block or push away Feliciano’s blade. 

And Feliciano is a fast fucker too, the smile never quite leaving his face, his eyes gleaming; even as Davenport’s is pinched in concentration. This time it’s Davenport close to the port railing and then pressed against it, Feliciano baring down on him, Davenport’s own cutlass the only thing keeping him from getting him cut, even as he has to brace against it on the blunt side, the metal squeaking under the weight.

“Kick his ass, baby!” Jack says. “You got this!”

Baby?

What the hell kind of nickname is that?

Anyway Davenport doesn’t got this. He’s clearly losing.

Except Davenport grins and Ed’s stomach jerks as he plants a boot on Feliciano’s stomach and kicks, sending him stumbling back and nearly falling on his ass. Before he can even recover, Davenport is at him again, hard and fast, metal ringing and Ed finds himself yelling with the rest of the crew as the blades flash and shriek and they both look ready to fucking murder.

And then Feliciano’s leg goes.

Ed sees it just before the uphand strike and can hear his own cry as Feliciano drops unexpectedly to one knee and Davenport’s blade slashes down toward his throat. He has no time to block it, no time to do anything, fear flashes across his face and Ed feels his heart stop.

Time seems to slow to a single moment, a heartbeat, a measure-

Silence fills the air.

And then a roar of approval from the crew and Ed blinks, wiping the wet and gunk from his own sweat stung eyes to see a thin line of blood against the blade from Feliciano’s throat, but also a thin line of blood on his cutlass, that’s cut through the linen of Davenport’s shirt to slit at his stomach.

“A tie!” Silver roars, both hands in the air. “A tie and no one dead thank God’s hairy arse!”

Ed collapses where he is, and tries to remember how to breathe.

xxxxx 

It’s almost midnight and the party is still going. Lanterns blaze on the main deck and laughter and music fills the air. Ed watches through his hair as Black Dog and Long Bob swing each other round and round with linked arms to the music of Pew’s flute and Bill Bones of all people tapping out a rhythm on empty casks. Even Dirk is being less of a dick than usual, clapping for van Morgenstern who is dancing on the capstan.

Though maybe because it’s the only one he has left save for Butternut who has been drinking solidly all night and watching, watching, the light gleaming on his shell anklet.

Jack is half slumped against the main mast, laughing his ass off, arm crooked around Davenport’s shoulders who is laughing too. They both raise their bottles to something Silver says and chug them down, their faces growing bright red. Feliciano is talking to Griff and the Toad — Jucentius, Ed thinks and rolls his eyes, and seems to be having a good time- despite the bandage around his neck.

Ed ducks his head, pressing his forehead against his knees and leans against the railing of the aft port stairwell, out of the circle of lamplight and away from the noise. He has a bottle of rum too which tastes like shit and something called a rum cake that he’s never had before but also probably taste like shit. His stomach feels hollow but he can fucking starve. All he remembers is the look on Feliciano’s face and the way the blade had pressed against his throat, the line of blood- all because of his leg… all because of Ed.

Ed should have died that day. Should have been stabbed or shot or burned alive. Or maybe he should have thrown himself in the bay so there would be two bloated corpses for the shoremen to find and tell Mother about it. She probably would have been happier than knowing the truth, then guessing at it. He tucks his fingers in his belt absently to feel the edges of the silk. He doesn’t deserve that either. He should toss it overboard and then toss himself overboard so he doesn’t do any more damage.

Maybe he will. After all, why not? They are on their way back to Blind Man’s Cove. No one needs him. No one would miss him. Maybe he can tie ballast to his ankles so they won’t see his bloated corpse in passing and sink to the bottom of the deep blue. He moves from the silk to rub the bands on his arm, then drags his nails against them wondering if he deserves those either. The small streaks of pain don’t make him feel much better.

He hears stuttering footsteps against the deck and hunches further. There’s only one person it can be and he doesn’t want to talk to them right now. Only he knows he’s not getting a choice as Feliciano settles beside him, setting a hand on the step just behind so Ed can feel the warmth of it at his back. And because Ed’s tired and it’s been a long fucking day, his eyes and nose fill up. But it’s just tired bullshit not anything else.

“Go away,” Ed mutters with a sniff.

“No,” says Feliciano as if he doesn’t notice.

“You should. I nearly got you fucking killed.” He sniffs again. Damned nose.

“No, I did this. We’re lucky that Don is a good swordsman, hm?”

“Fuck you. I did it. If your leg hadn’t gone out you would have won…” And not nearly gotten your fucking throat cut, Ed thinks. “You should have stabbed me back on the Rosa.”

“Such faith you have that I could do so.” Feliciano’s voice is light, teasing and Ed wants to smack him on the leg. Then his thoughts leave him as Felicinao’s hand wraps around his shoulders and pulls him closer and the fingers of his other hand ruffles warm through Ed’s hair. “But the heart of Feliciano Gabriel Duarte de Rosa or Ranger is too large still to want to kill such a sweet menino .” And then both those arms wrap around his head and Ed squawks as he pulled to Feliciano’s chest.

“Oh meu pequeno demônio com uma cara de raiva tão fofa! Eu teria comido você como um rabanada!”

“Damnit! Let go!” Ed pushes away, bumping into the railing and glares at him, annoyed that his eyes are leaking. “This is serious!”

“Ah, well, you are forgiven.”

Ed blinks. “What?”

“You are forgiven. It is gone. Fsht. Put it from your mind. A man would easily sacrifice for such treasure.”

“What treasure?”

Feliciano smiles at him a moment before saying: “Stolen cake.” And he reaches around Ed to pull off a bit of rum cake and pop it in his mouth. It’s funny and Ed kind of wants to protect his plate in weird hopes that Feliciano will wrap his arms around him- which is stupid and dumb and he flushes and looks away. 

“Life is short, Feliciano murmurs. “And the sea is sweet and the wind she blows as gentle as a …a…” He clicks his tongue. “ Canção de ninar . A song your mamãe would sing to let you sleep...

“Lullabye…” Ed says, absently rubbing his arm again where the bands are, remembering the echo of that song though he’s forgotten most of the words. Maybe he can ask Kupe again one day …

“It is so. … And the treasure lies in this.” He pats Ed’s leg as if Ed’s supposed to understand and it’s pretty but… 

 “I don’t get it…”

“Then don’t get… just accept…” Feliciano touches his cheek, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. “And let go. Soon we will be with the Ranger again and there will be no time for anything. And tonight…well, I think that things are moving.” And he gestures to the deck. Van Morgenstern is still dancing but Butternut and Dirk are gone… and Pew too goddamnit.  Ed curses under his breath, wondering if he’d fucked it up somehow, wondering if Dirk really had given Ed the black spot and not Silver.

And it’s all fucking Silver’s fault, Ed thinks glaring at the man, he’s taken  Davenport from Jack’s side now, arm around his shoulders as they lean close as if to whisper and Jack glares after them, drinking deep from his bottle.

 But Feliciano is right. Jack isn’t his worry. Because he’s got a thousand other worries now. Silver is on their side now he suppose, maybe, who the fuck knows with him. Which all that does is to keep his ass out of things but doesn’t solve the problem of Dirk and his assholes-

Ed scowls as Butternut returns and gives a brief glance to van Morgenstern, still on the capstan and with a great fucking view of everything.

 Dirk isn’t stupid after all and he knows people and he can gather people and Ed wishes he knew how he’s doing it. But there’s no time to find out. There’s only time to pounce and scare the piss out of them long enough to get them to fucking Blind Man’s Cove where Ed doesn’t have to worry about any of this shit any more.

 He can bring back the Dorter and… Hornigold will be pleased kind of and there’s also Flint and then the Leviathan on the horizon which will need all three full crews of the Siren and the Walrus and the Ranger to work together which will be even more of a pain in the ass-

And, God, he just wants to go back, go home, back to the Ranger with his crew and Happy alive and Aconi and Fadel pleased to be there. He wants to bitch with Jack or pull pranks or even feel the familiar boards under his feet, and the familiar lines under his hands. But that’s all gone. And will be gone and he can’t get it back.

And there’s still so much to do.

“Do not wander so far,” says Feliciano. “Come back.”

“Huh?”  He blinks and he’s back in the darkness of the stairwell with the stars overhead and Feliciano’s presence beside him. Feliciano hands him the bottle of rum.

“Drink.”

Ed drinks. The liquor is cool on his tongue and warm through his blood.

“Eat.” Feliciano presents the plate and Ed takes a bit off the cake. It’s… “God that’s dry as shit. Sandpaper tastes better.” He chews it though and swallows it.

“Greg will feed us better,” says Feliciano with a chuckle. “And see our prey is restless.” He is leaning a little closer now. Pew has returned and keeps looking at Black Dog but Long Bob keeps pulling him into dances. But Butternut speaks to the Siren with the splintered arm that goes back with him toward the prow and the shadows.

“Did Long Bob find out anything about him?”

“That he is quiet,” says Feliciano. “And afraid. Silver speaks into his ear and so does Dirk, and he cannot seem to choose.”

“He’s going to have to die then,” Ed says. Which is sad because he does think Butternut is pretty cool but not cool enough for Ed to want to wake up with a knife in his spine, or the spine of one of his mates.

“I agree. But I did not say this for you to have this on your mind as well. Relax. Take the breeze. Listen to the song. Enjoy the stars.” Feliciano’s hand drapes warm on his opposite shoulder. “I see in you what our captain wants, hm? Who thinks always of the next step and the end. Who has nothing left to him but this. Don’t lose Edward to this. Your burden is not just yours and is not just now. The night is young and full of stars, the air is sweet and the sea sings. So for now when we are between one and the other, let the troubles rest and be happy.”

“Be happy…” He hasn’t really thought about it before, being happy. He doesn’t even know what happy is really…or what it means… He likes drinking and having fun with Jack how they used to, but he wonders if a part of that is gone now or will leave when Davenport does. He enjoys watching the sky and the sea and seeing cool shit but he doesn’t know if that’s happy, because doesn’t everyone?

He glances up at  Feliciano to ask but is caught by the look of him, crowned with stars that shine through the lines of the rigging. He feels like a feather drifting on the current. It’s warm and light and strange and he doesn’t know if it’s happiness, but it’s definitely hard to breathe. He wonders if it’s the same feeling that Jack has when he’s watching Davenport and all Ed can think is Jack saying:

‘You’d do it if it were Felix.’

And…and yeah…maybe he would…

So he takes Feliciano’s face in both hands and kisses him.

Hard.