Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

STEDE

On a beautiful day like this, a man should be taking in the springtime views, not curled abed in his captain’s cabin, clutching the wrinkled blankets to his chest. But that’s what Stede was doing because something was wrong with his heart. The lousy thing pattered too hard, too fast, too loud. And despite the sun shining brightly and warming the Revenge’s interior, Stede’s skin prickled with goosebumps.

Following Lucius’ suggestion, Stede indulged in some of the Madeira they had on board, though it wasn’t yet noon. The fragrant wine did little to settle his nerves. His pulse still thrummed incessantly as he threw on his robe, left his quarters, then paced the length of the deck, its newly waxed surface continuing to gleam even after the previous night’s raucous, post-matelotage festivities.

Was it the impending time alone with Ed that had him so nervous or the prospect of leaving the Revenge for a week? Surely, the crew could handle keeping the ship afloat for seven days without his supervision.

Staring up at the cloudless sky, Stede drew in a long breath. After everything he and Ed had gone through, their upcoming stay on Topsail Island would be much-needed rest and relaxation. So, why was his blasted heart thundering so fiercely against his breastbone?

“Keep those planks steady! Hold onto those ropes!”

Stede turned with a start. A crash sounded as several crates careened onto the deck. Ed soon came into view—silver hair tied back and tattooed arms shining—hoisting himself over the gunwale. 

“C’mon Buttons!” Ed was now peering over the side of the Revenge, the lovely rear view of him making Stede’s chest feel like it might burst. “Load up the rest of those boxes!”

Stede scurried to Ed’s side. “W-what’s the meaning of all this? I thought you and Buttons were simply going ashore for a few supplies?”

“Didn’t realize there was so much plunder available in Charleston.” Ed tugged hard on his end of the rope and another dozen crates tumbled over the gunwale. “Neat place. Got you things.”

Stede’s cheeks heated. “Oh Ed, you didn’t have to get me anything…” The very thought—Ed in picking out items he thought Stede would like… (did he buy them or steal them?) Well, it made Stede’s knees feel like jelly.

The rest of the crew began to gather, Lucius, in particular, smirking with a look somewhere between knowing and delight. The boy really ought to be praised every day of the rest of his life for how he’d handled himself following Ed’s return. Sure, it took Ed offering Lucius the opportunity to punch him in the face half a dozen times—an activity that Lucius relished regardless of the bruising it’d done to his knuckles—but after that was all over with, bygones had thoroughly become bygones.

Ed heaved up a particularly flat box, his eyes staying low even as Stede took the gift into his grip. These moments where the fierce pirate Blackbeard appeared almost shy had a way of making Stede’s insides melt into something like the citrus and minty syrup Roach had been making lately for their pancakes.

Stede opened the box.

“Oh, Ed…” His heart lifted warmly into his throat even as his anxiety continued wailing. Inside the box were pajamas of the most exquisite patterned fabric he’d ever seen—silken material of light green with a chaos of floral vines in various shades of rust and rose running parallel along the seams. Simply perfect. And to know Ed had picked them out while thinking of their upcoming week together… It was just the sweetest, most thoughtful thing the man could’ve done for him.

For no reason at all, Stede’s cold sweat returned and his hands went thoroughly numb.

Lucius gave him a quizzical look.

“I-I’m going to bring these into my quarters before they get dusty,” Stede pivoted on his heel.

Ed clenched Stede’s sleeve. “Got other things here,” he said, offering another box. “Wanna see ‘em?”

“I-I uh…” Now Stede’s chill was icy and painful. For some reason, his lungs weren’t pulling in enough air. “Sure, just uh…”

“Actually!” Lucius said brightly, turning to Ed and removing the man’s grip from Stede’s sleeve. “I need to talk to Captain Bonnet about the agenda for this week. You and Buttons should finish loading the rest of the cargo. Crew meeting in fifteen minutes!”

Lucius’ hand was hot against Stede’s back, as he ushered him into his cabin. Stede released a sigh of relief. This boy might very well be his savior.

#

“All right Captain, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

Lucius sat across from Stede, leaning earnestly forward with his palms clasped together.

On his side and returned to bed, Stede pulled the blankets all the way up to his chin. “You mean about my vacation with Captain Blackbeard? It’s all as we talked about. Buttons will take over as Captain, while Ed and I—”

“No, no, no,” Lucius said, rising to uncork the wine and pouring another glass, then taking a swig off the bottle for himself. “I’m talking about why Captain Blackbeard slept in your bathtub last night—on your matelotage night—and why you’ve been on the verge of a full-blown anxiety attack all morning.”

Stede gulped. How did Lucius know all that?

Lucius forced Stede up into a sitting position and thrust the wine glass into his hand, then resettled across from him. “You and Blackbeard haven’t actually slept together, have you?”

Stede attempted to summon his outrage. “That’s extremely personal information to be asking of one’s co-captains!”

Lucius rolled his eyes.

“Don’t give me that look! Do any other pirate crews demand these sorts of details of their captains’ romantic lives?”

Taking another long pull from the wine bottle, Lucius wagged his wooden finger at Stede. “Shall we list ALL of the MANY ways I and the rest of the crew have SUFFERED because of YOUR AND BLACKBEARD’S ROMANTIC LIVES?”

Oh dear.

“Or, maybe I should remind you that I ALMOST DIED because of YOU TWO and YOUR GODDAMN FEELINGS.”

Stede’s lips pressed sheepishly together. Lucius was making good points.

Angrily, the boy stood. “You know what? Actually, fine. Clearly, you don’t want my help.”

Panic rose in Stede’s chest as he watched Lucius head back toward deck.

“Wait! Wait! Wait Wait. Lucius!”

Lucius thrust open the door. “I’ll get Buttons—our soon to be Captain Buttons. Maybe he’ll have better advice for you.”

Dashing across the cabin, Stede went to Lucius, urging him back inside and giving him the most apologetic, puppy-eyes he could muster. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. And you’re right, Lucius. It’s all true. Captain Blackbeard and I haven’t slept together. You see, we thought we might save the occasion for when we’d be fully alone on Topsail Island… so it’d be a memorable evening.”

Lucius released a long exhale, his expression partly sympathetic and partly—perhaps rightfully—annoyed. “Would I be correct in saying you don’t have much experience in this then?”

Stede snatched the wine bottle from Lucius’ grasp, took a long gulp directly from its opening, then wiped his mouth. “For your information Lucius, I was married. I have two children. I’m forty-nine years old!”

Lucius wrinkled his nose. “Do you want my help or not?”

Oh God, Lucius could see right through him and perhaps he was being a dope. Dropping his shoulders, Stede went to his wine rack withdrew his finest bottle of Bordeaux and handed it to the boy along with a corkscrew. Lucius’ smile returned to his lips.

“Thank you for being patient with me,” Stede said. “Your instincts about this situation are correct. See, Ed probably has a lot of experience and I don’t. What if I disappoint him? What if it’s awkward? What if we realize we aren’t at all compatible?”

Lucius removed the cork from his own bottle, nodding slowly and seeming to give meaningful consideration to his concerns.

Together, they both took a long drink from their respective bottles. It was extremely pathetic how Stede needed—no, craved—any sort of advice from this fellow who was a good two decades younger than himself… one who was nearly killed by his lover, no less.

“Captain, look, you have to be honest with Blackbeard. That means telling him upfront what you want and don’t want. And if he has any issues with your honesty or makes you feel uncomfortable at any point, well, then that means he’s not good enough for you and you deserve someone better.”

That frosty, damp feeling returned to Stede’s chest. “What I want and don’t want…”

Lucius narrowed his eyes, his head tilting to such a degree that his ear was nearly on his shoulder. “You do have a general idea of what’s… on the menu, don’t you?”

“Oh!” Now Stede was excited. “There’s a menu?  Like a pirate menu! That’d make things so much easier. Can I see it?”

#

So, there wasn’t an actual menu.

Which was disappointing.

But Black Pete and Lucius were in possession of some very interesting literature and they were generous enough to take Stede into their cabin and let him look at it.

Donning his spectacles to inspect a particularly detailed illustration, Stede chewed his thumbnail. “Some of these seem to require a great deal of flexibility. Do you think it would be a good idea to do some stretching exercises for a week or so before attempting them?”

“Captain.” Lucius sighed heavily as he lay across Black Pete’s lap. “You may really be overthinking this.”

There were just so many to choose from. “Which of these is your favorite?”

Lucius’ face colored. “I am not telling you that.”

“Look at page fifteen,” Black Pete said.

Hurriedly, Stede flipped to the page in question. “Oh! Oh my…” He pulled the drawing into a sunbeam for a better look. “Well…indeed. I like the suggestion here of the different oils one could use. That’s very thoughtful of the author to consider those of us who don’t know much about these things.”

Suddenly, a loud brassy sound rang through the cabin.

“ASSEMBLE CREW!”

That was Buttons’ voice. Good for him for taking ownership of his new leadership role.

“ALL HANDS ON DECK!”

Lucius gave a pained smile. “Oh my God, this week is going to be such a disaster.”

Stede sent him scolding look. “Buttons will be a fine temporary captain.” Sure, the man was eccentric, but he’d been First Mate all this time. That had to account for something.

Black Pete stepped forward. “I can still take over if you want to make any final adjustments to the assigned roles.”

 “I think we should all endeavor to encourage Captain Buttons.” Stede drew up his shoulders. “Who knows? We may learn something new about how best to run this vessel from someone with a different perspective on things.”

#

Stepping onto the deck and quaking with the anticipation of seeing Ed again, Stede’s nose filled with a sour but not unpleasant odor. A large white circle had been drawn on the deck and each member of the crew stood awkwardly around it holding a candle. Stede toed the powdered circumference. Salt. How interesting. Buttons stood in the center dressed in a long, silken robe, the crisp of the white fabric contrasting jarringly with the man’s unwashed hair.

Delight pushed aside some of Stede’s nerves. “What a lovely new outfit, Buttons!” He gestured enthusiastically, hoping the rest of the crew would truly take notice. “Just look at that lovely beading…”

“WE NEED SILENCE!” In Buttons’ hands were two burning bundles of sage, the smoke lifting from them in elegant curves. “YE ALL FACE GREAT DANGER AHEAD! FER THIS IS THE TIME OF THE SOLAR ECLIPSE AND WE MUST SHEILD OURSELVES FROM THE BALEFUL RAYS.”

Baleful rays! Goodness. That sounded ominous.

“EACH ECLIPSE FORETELLS THE DEATH OF FATHERS, KINGS, LEADERS, AND SEA CAPTAINS!”

Yes, that did sound worrying. Stede glanced across the circle at Ed who was holding a candle just like the rest of the crew. He gave Stede a wink that sent sensations like hot lightning bolts all the way to Stede’s ankles. Even after these many weeks of being reunited, just the sight of Ed could still do that to Stede—make him dizzy with glee. All around Ed were the various crates and boxes that he’d brought aboard and that Stede hadn’t yet opened. It truly was rude to have disappeared back into his cabin instead of accepting Ed’s many gifts. Now, Stede’s anticipation bubbled again.

What would Ed think of page fifteen? Had he ever done page fifteen with anyone? With a grumble, Stede considered Calico Jack. That wretched man had certainly alluded to page fifteen and now Stede was thinking of Ed doing page fifteen with Calico Jack and that was not a pleasant mental image at all.

“YE ALL WILL STEP INTO THE PROTECTION OF THE CIRCLE.” Buttons placed the smoking sage bundles into the stone bowls at his feet, picked up a brass bell, and began to ring it, while everyone stepped forward.

“LISTEN VERY CAREFULLY,” Buttons said while continuing to ring. “YOU WILL”—clang clang clang—“THE TEA”—clang—“PURIFYING”—clang clang—“IT’S PROPERTIES FOR YE”—clang clang clang—“MUST NOT BE”—clang—“TO PRESERVE YOUR”—clang.

Stede squinted. What precisely was Button’s saying? It was impossible to understand with all that bell ringing going on. Suggesting that he momentarily stop the ringing and then repeat himself would surely undermine his authority and that wouldn’t be helpful at all. The crew needed to see that Stede trusted Buttons and now was not the time for questioning the man’s leadership style.

Feeling something at his elbow, Stede turned and found Wee John wearing several strings of gemstones and holding a platter full of steaming cups. That must’ve been the tea Buttons had been talking about.

“Thank you, Wee John.” Stede took the cup and sipped. “Lovely necklaces by the way.”

Wee John smiled. “It’s amethyst, for my crown chakra.”

“A pirate needs a strong crown chakra.”

As Wee John continued around the circle, giving everyone their tea, Stede gave up trying to understand what Buttons was shouting about. The flavor of the tea was unlike anything Stede had ever tasted before—astringent, earthy, with a fermented twinge to it. Perhaps it was an acquired taste. He drank more, holding his breath as he did. It really did burn the back of the throat in a way similar to pepper—an unpleasant, moldy pepper. These sorts of new flavor experiences must be accepted without judgment. After all, it’d taken him several tries before he got accustomed to Swede’s Nordic liquor and now he liked that particular beverage quite a bit.

Deciding not to hold his breath this time, Stede tried the tea again. There had to be something in this drink that was pleasant—perhaps the muddy quality reminded one of a jungle floor. He could nearly hear them—the fowl and creatures among the trees, singing, hollering. Screaming.

His lips were numb.

That was interesting.

Because now there were tingles all over his face while a grid of light and energy took up the expanse of his vision. It reminded him of Mary’s lighthouse painting—the geometry of illumination. How had he not realized before that her art depicted the dimensions that existed between light and time? That light and time were little pieces of eternity and that the world was a snake if you thought about it—a snake that consumes itself in an eternal cycle of procreation and destruction. Life and death. Stede had been afraid of death at one time in his life.

“Everyone’s going to die.” Stede said this calmly and only once he realized Buttons was no longer talking. “And when you think about that... that everyone alive right now is going to be dead at some point, you realize…” A bloom of relaxation further loosened his limbs. “Why do we even care about what people think of us or if they love us or if they hate us?” They were all going to be dead and someday even he and Ed would be too.

“Uh—what’s wrong with Captain?” Oluwande asked.

On the other side of the circle, Ed’s features hardened with apparent concern. Nearby, Lucius’ lips were so wide open a sparrow could have flown through them. Goodness, the snake of the universe had such an interesting movement to it—you could feel it all around, the vibration, the changing hues of the scales… the hiss that lived at the bottom of Stede’s belly.

Buttons turned to Stede at once. “DID YE DRINK THE TEA, CAP’N?”

Stede smiled, the feel of his jaw liquid and easy. “Oh yes, Buttons. The flavor is very unusual, but I haven’t fully formed an opinion on it yet. Also, your face is a galaxy.” It really was—an eternal constellation of souls into the appearance of a human form. And that’s all human forms really were—just appearances, thoughts. Fake things. “People don’t really exist. Not really. Isn’t that wonderful?” It struck Stede how, in reality, people were all just one. That the separation wasn’t real. Yes, Stede felt this. He knew this. “Life… you know… isn’t real. Not really. Nor are people.”

“YE WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO DRINK IT YET, CAP’N.”

Lucius was now covering his own galaxy face with his hand. “Captain Bonnet drank the whole thing. Look. His cup is empty.”

“I don’t understand,” Stede said, baffled by the spiderwebs of Buttons’ and Lucius’ words. “I wasn’t supposed to drink it?” He wasn’t alarmed, just confused. “Why did you give it to me then?”

Ed stormed forward, silver-streaked hair flowing out behind him, pale, billowy shirt tucked into his black leather pants. Light above. Dark below. The cycle—that’s what Ed was. Beautiful, yes—certainly now that all his face was visible—but all life was beautiful because they were all the snakes of creation and destruction—just part of the rhythm of things. No real endings. No separation.

“What’s gonna happen to him?” Ed’s voice was glorious fireworks. “Will it wear off? Is there a cure? Is he gonna be okay?”

“What are you all going on about?” Stede asked. “It’s just tea.”

“Captain.” Lucius was making green and red waves with his eyes. “Your pupils are seriously huge right now.”

Ed took hold of Stede’s shoulders. His hands were like lava clumps, but not unpleasant ones. “What’s wrong with his face? Buttons! Dammit! Do something!”

“IT’LL PROBABLY WEAR OFF IN TWO HOURS UNLESS HE HAS A PARTICULAR BAD REACTION.”

Stede reached for Ed, wanting to calm him, but still not feeling terribly concerned. His fingers found their way over the stubble of Ed’s jaw, each nerve ending in his hands at once mercy and severity. This was a realization he needed to hold on to and remember. That life was eternal and fake but also two things: the hard and the soft, the gentle and the sharp, the praise and the scold.

“CAP’N,” Buttons said, his face pearlescent and completely fractured. “MAYBE YE SHOULD TRY TO PUKE IT UP.”

Ed clenched him tighter, tiny entities in his fingers sinking into Stede’s biceps. Little fairies of pirate essence. “Do that!” Ed said. “Just stick your finger down your throat and puke it up.”

No.

Stede inhaled, drinking in the sea—all of it—the full awareness of the snake that was bigger than the sky. “I drank it when I was supposed to drink it and this is supposed to be happening right now. I’m learning things.”

“Oh…” Lucius’s expression changed. Now he was grinning broader than he’d ever grinned before. “Yeah fuck it, I think I’m gonna drink this tea.”

“NO!” Buttons spun around to face Lucius. “DON’T YE DRINK THE TEA.”

Ignoring the order, Lucius threw back his head, downing his whole cup in one go.

Over by the candles, Wee John waved two empty cups. “Feck, I just drank two of ‘em when Captain said that thing about the galaxy on Buttons’ face.”

Shrugging, Black Pete did the same.

“NO! ALL OF YE! STOP!” Buttons’ screamed. “NO MORE.”

“Too late,” Jim said, releasing a loud burp.

Frenchie and Roach were now going for their second helpings.

Knees beginning to buckle, Stede leaned into Ed’s hold. A whirring sound filled his head, which, also, wasn’t unpleasant. The thing to do would be to listen to the voice of the whir, the sound of the tea, the mother tea which was definitely a friend. “Ed, you’re so dear.”

A tender look softened Ed’s features. “Are you gonna be all right?”

“HE NEEDS TA PUKE IT UP,” Buttons shouted.

Unbothered by the loudness of Buttons’ voice and filled with a simmering euphoria, Stede closed his arms around Ed. The fragrance of his skin was sweet with an undertone of cinnamon. “Come inside with me, Ed.”

Those words did something to the man, the light all around him becoming pale pink, then purple.

“YE NEED TA BRING A BUCKET WITH YE,” Buttons said. “YE NEED TA GET HIM TO PUKE IT UP.”

Still keeping his gaze fully on Ed, Stede accepted Buttons’ bucket as he guided his lover into the shade of the cabin. The sea was filling more of Stede’s mouth. This was good. He’d give the sea to Ed. That’s what the man deserved—the sea, the mother tea, the wisdom of the great serpent.

#

There’d been such a change in Ed since their reunion those weeks ago after their many months apart. Perhaps he’d been tormented by the guilt of nearly killing Lucius, or maybe something happened at sea with Izzy that made Ed become more pensive, but after Stede and Ed found each other again that day on the beach and shared their reunion kiss, Ed’s demeanor had gone quiet and cautious. Sure, they’d kissed a few more times during their matelotage ceremony, then danced together during the festivities, but when they retired to Stede’s cabin last night, Ed had merely tucked Stede into bed, said a few words about the good time they’d have together on Topsail Island, and then took his blanket to the tub and curled up to spend the night by himself.

 Now, watching the refractions and webworks that danced about Ed’s shoulders, Stede set down the bucket and took the man’s large hand between his palms. “We don’t have to wait for Topsail Island. I think I’m ready now.”

Ed swallowed. The temperature of his palms rising. “Nah.” His lips were wet, his throat bobbing again. “Not yet.”

Disappointment pooled in Stede’s gut. “Why not?”

“You haven’t opened the rest of your presents yet. Need to do that first.”

That was a confusing response. Also, the sea was starting to feel too big for Stede’s mouth. His nose itched, but he couldn’t figure out how to lift his hand to scratch it. He needed to tilt forward, to lean into Ed’s billowy shirt and use that to take the itch out of his nose, but even leaning seemed impossible. “I think I could be a lot of fun right now. We should do it now. Now while I’m fun.”

Ed’s jaw twitched. “Yer not yourself. Saw a fellow once look the way you look. He’d eaten a part of a puffer fish. Ended up blue and stiff the next morning.”

The mother tea wouldn’t let Stede become blue and stiff. The mother tea was here to help—to get him through this first time. Focusing on the stirring and whirring in his head, Stede forced himself forward, his mouth clumsily finding Ed’s, the tip of his itchy nose happily meeting some of Ed’s stubble.

Everything went cottony. Ed’s hands were now clutching each side of Stede’s face, the texture of his palms dry and pleasant. It was a shame Stede hadn’t noticed that before—the firm, coarse feeling of Ed’s beautiful hands. Stede moved to fall deeper into Ed’s kiss, to give the sea fully to him, but the man’s lips were now two inches or two miles away. So much space. So much air. Ed was holding Stede’s face and keeping them apart.

“Not like this,” Ed said.

“You know I love you, you nut.”

That helpless, twinkling expression crossed Ed’s features once again. Had Stede said that aloud before? The love part?

“Stede,” Ed’s voice had gone deep, all the way to the ocean floor. “I’m terrified of how I feel about you.”

A knot of elation unbound beneath Stede’s sternum. How would he ever get used to hearing Ed say his name? “You should drink the tea, Ed. It makes one unafraid of anything.”

Ed pulled Stede to his chest and sunk his fingers into his hair, the sensation better than anything Stede had ever felt in his life. If just having Ed pet his hair like this felt so good, what would pages one through fourteen feel like?

“Don’t you get it, love?” Ed continued drawing his fingers along the part in Stede’s waves. “I’m not gonna mess it up this time. I’m gonna make sure both of us are all right through everything. From now into forever.”

The space was getting darker; perhaps the clouds had come in. “I know you’ve had tons of experience, Ed. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Ed pulled away and looked at him, a glassy sheen playing over his eyes. “You’re a big deal, Captain Bonnet.”

There wasn’t a knot that existed that was as thick and complicated as whatever was tightening just below Stede’s navel.

Standing, Ed helped Stede lay back against his mattress, the pillows forming a cloudlike enclosure all around.

“I’m gonna bring in your presents,” Ed said. “Just stay there and… and—

“—Contemplate the nature of reality?” Stede offered.

Ed clapped his hands. “Yes! Perfect!”

Moonbeams crashed over the world. “I really do love you, Ed.”

The dimples bracketing Ed’s mouth deepened. “I really do love you, Stede.”

Gratitude and tenderness filled Stede’s veins as though from some deep spring rising from the center of the earth. He could fall into this forever—the sight of Ed above him, head cocked sideways, eyes full of warmth. With all the sparkles and shimmers, he looked like an angel.

Two small tremors vibrated, nearly unheard in the distance. The hair on Stede’s arms lifted. The gulls had gone quiet.

Strange.

A high whistle pierced through the silence.

The boat tipped sideways. Fire filled Ed’s features as the sound of the explosion rocked through the cabin, embedding its vibration into the timber beams. It would’ve been terrifying if Stede could possibly be terrified.

“Holy hell!” Ed’s reached for his pistol.

Racing footfalls sounded. Oluwande burst through Stede’s door. Scrambling and stumbling, he struggled to stay upright as the ship rocked and swayed. “We’re under attack, Captains!”

Stede looked through the rainbow webworks from the frightened Oluwande and back to the horrified-looking Ed. He ought to be feeling afraid too. He ought to be feeling anything at all.

Stede probably needed to do something—head to the bridge and start making orders. The problem was that his limbs couldn’t move. The other problem was the snake of the universe was hungry, but maybe that was perfectly all right. Life wasn’t real and terror didn’t exist.

He opened his mouth to say something to this effect, but the dark sky streamed in… inking over his tongue and blocking up his throat. Stede’s heart began to hammer. He needed to breathe. That was important—not life, but air. Because without air there was pain. He wasn’t ready for pain. Not yet. Not the kind of pain that came from not breathing.

Panic fully set in. His lungs were frozen bricks. This was what suffocating felt like. Now he was clawing for oxygen but failing to move or even get even a molecule of it. The sun really was losing its light and now all his air was gone. Stede managed to get his soul to scream—an airless, terror-filled scream—as another explosion rocked through the decks.

Chapter Text

ED

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Not this. Not now.

Ed pulled Stede’s limp body off the mattress, the Revenge toppling sideways as another explosion rocked her hull. Cradling Stede in his arms—so silent and unmoving since he’d closed his eyes and made that declaration of love—Ed shot a hard look to Oluwande. “Tell everyone to grab every piece of furniture that can float and bring it up to the deck!”

Oluwande’s already frantic eyes widened even more. “Everyone is incapacitated.”

Ed gulped. “What do you mean?” In his arms, Stede’s wilted body felt alarmingly cold. “YOU MEAN THE WHOLE BLOODY CREW DRANK THAT TEA?”

“Everyone except Buttons… and me.”

Christ. “You need to hoist the white flag.” Ed’s throat now felt raw as his dread. “Do it now!”

Instead of leaping to action, Oluwande’s fearful expression melded into something indecipherable. “It’s Izzy and Hornigold. It’s their ship firing the cannons at us.”

Ice snaked through Ed’s veins as another blast sent the Revenge reeling. Izzy and Hornigold. Those gutless bastards. Sure, Ed had parted with Izzy on less-than-ideal terms, and he’d heard the man had gone to team up with Ed’s old employer, but he’d truly hoped Izzy would sail off into the sunset with that asshole Hornigold, and well… just accept that Ed had become a new person. Make peace with the change, as Stede would say.

Where did some people get the energy to be such miserable, vengeful assholes all the time?

“Grab every blasted white piece of fabric on this bloody ship and hoist it.” Even as Ed said those words, he could imagine his old self mortified at the very thought. “I wanna see twenty-seven white flags on that pole in the next two minutes.”

“A-aye, Captain.” But after a brief dash for the door, Oluwande paused. “By the way, w-who’s Captain right now?”

Yes, with Buttons newly appointed, there were now three of them. “All of us. You included. Everyone who can make decisions right now is Captain. And Oluwande—”

Tentatively, Oluwande’s eyes met his.

“Captain Oluwande, I know you’ll want to keep Jim safe. Find furniture that can float. Figure out some way to get them tucked into it. Then—and this is just my initial suggestion, I’m open to your feedback—I think we should get on the dinghy with Buttons and attempt to parlay with Izzy and Hornigold.”

Oluwande blinked at him. Maybe it was because Ed was speaking in a way that Oluwande hadn’t expected of the villainous pirate Blackbeard, or maybe it was because he needed to find his bearings as another impact jostled the already addled Revenge.

Jaw hardening, Oluwande gave Ed an uncharacteristically stern look. “You owe it to Lucius to make sure he doesn’t die during all of this. Hell, you owe it to the rest of us for that matter. You better save us, Blackbeard.”

That was a dagger straight to Ed’s heart, but it was a dagger he deserved. He’d never forgive himself for what he’d done to Lucius… for what he’d done to the entire crew of the Revenge. And he certainly didn’t deserve how readily they’d taken him in after Stede kissed the sense back into him.

Though they’d all now had a few weeks to see that Ed was no longer the devil who’d separated them from their beloveds and thrown their friend into the sea, they never got a full, decent apology from Ed. Truth be told, shame had filled Ed’s mouth and widened the walls of silence between him and the Revenge’s crew. He couldn’t even bring himself to go to Stede’s bed on their matelotage night. After all, how could Edward Teach ever deserve something that nice—a kind man who loved him despite the fact that he himself was a murderer?

 “I will do whatever it takes to save this crew,” Ed said, his conviction swelling even as guilt kept his heart tightly bound. “If I have to grovel at Izzy’s feet… if I have to let that man cut off my balls, I’ll do it if it means I can protect you.”

Nodding, Oluwande’s face remained stony—the expression of a man who understood that he and everyone he cared about would likely soon die. With that, he turned and clamored up the stairs.

 Ed tucked Stede’s helpless form closer. The poor fellow’s head bobbed as Ed carried him outside into the darkness. The eclipse had cast the whole sea into a dusky gloom and cannon smoke now marred the previously cloudless sky.

Laying Stede—his beloved Stede—onto an overturned bench packed with cushions, Ed’s arteries began the holler.

Stede’s lips… they were blue.

It had to be the eclipse… The cool twilight that now covered everything was just making Stede’s mouth appear blue. He was only asleep. Asleep and probably at peace, and soon Ed would let Izzy cut off his balls and then this whole wretched episode would be over with. He and Stede would then, finally have their happily ever after.

Placing his hand on Stede’s chest—just a tender gesture, not to check his pulse, because surely his pulse was fine—Ed’s knee struck something firm at Stede’s side. A leather-bound thing fell from his robe. It was a book. But unlike Stede’s usual books which were filled with lots of tiny letters, these pages were covered in detailed drawings of… well.

There was no time for Ed to contemplate the heat that filled his groin at the thought of Stede studying these pictures and thinking of these pages while preparing for a week alone with Ed because the twenty-seven white flags (shirts, rags, Buttons’ robe) were now fluttering above the main mast as another blasted cannon ball came crashing through the quarter-deck.

“Blackbeard, we have to go!” Oluwande had Jim thrown over his shoulder and was headed for the dinghy. Just beyond them, Buttons held a long staff tipped with a shiny, silver orb and kept thrusting it repeatedly at the eclipsed sun while shouting nonsense.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Ed raced toward Oluwande. “You can’t take Jim with us!”

“I can’t leave Jim here to get their head smashed in by a cannonball!”

“We’ve raised the white flags!”

“Izzy and Hornigold clearly don’t give a shit about your white flags! They just want to kill you and all of us and they have an unlimited amount of ammunition to do just that!”

Ed placed both his hands on Oluwande’s shoulders, unintentionally taking hold of Jim in the process. He understood in his bones Oluwande’s need. After all, that’s what he wanted to do with Stede—bring him onto the dinghy and away from the target of his enemy’s fury. But the paddle boat wouldn’t be any safer.

“We’re taking that dinghy straight to Izzy and Hornigold,” Ed said. “It’s our one hope to convince them to stop firing on the Revenge. But listen, there’s a 99.6% chance those bastards will kill us as we approach. That means if Jim’s with us, Jim dies too.”

Oluwande shook his head. “If we’re killed on the dinghy, then they’ll sink the Revenge next.”

“That’s why we tucked everyone into the floating furniture.”

Oluwande’s mouth tightened. “We’re probably gonna die out here, Blackbeard. And if we’re all gonna die, then I want Jim and I together when we die.”

The air left Ed’s lungs. Captain Oluwande was making far too many impactful statements for one afternoon. Ed’s fingers twitched with the need to return to Stede. To haul him aboard the dinghy—to have him close one more time and feel the loose waves of his hair and the gentle touch of his hands. But what about Lucius and the rest of the crew?

In the face of such doom, steel resolve did to Ed what it always did in such circumstances. It made him grip his knife and focus on the enemy ship. That’s where he needed to be—face to face with the men he hated.

“Hear, Goddess queen, diffusing silver light,” Buttons hurried up behind Ed and placed a string of silvery-white beads around his neck. “Bull-horn'd, and wand'ring thro' the gloom of Night.” Turning to Oluwande, he placed beads on him, then around Jim’s lolling head. “With stars surrounded, and with circuit wide. Night's torch extending, through the heav'ns you ride.”

The old Ed would’ve punched Buttons in the throat. If they all died here, that man’s blasted tea would be to blame. But there wasn’t any room in this new Ed for that kind of anger. Not anymore. His malice needed to be directed at the intentionally cruel—at Izzy and blasted Hornigold—the fuckers who would start blasting a small vessel with nothing of value aboard except for the people who meant everything to the old pirate they wanted to torture.

“Better get your teeth ready, Captain Buttons, for when this all goes to shit.”

 Starting his descent down the ladder, Ed took one last look across the shattered deck at the overturned bench where Stede lay, his lips slightly open, his blue robe draping across the yellow cushions. If Ed allowed himself another second to look, he knew his heart would rupture into a million pieces.

Farther away, Lucius and Black Pete were on a green chaise lounge, their figures limp as seaweed. Wee John lay across the big table. The others were loosely roped to various barrels. Oh fuck, they were all just exposed to everything, weren’t they?

“Come, blessed Goddess, prudent, starry, bright.” Buttons waved smoking sage bundles throughout the air. “Come, moony-lamp, with chaste and splendid light. Shine on these sacred rites with prosp'rous rays. And pleas'd accept thy suppliants' mystic praise.”

Ed’s eyes stung and he had to close them. And to think Ed had told Oluwande that he’d protect everyone. What a lie that had been. What a lie Ed’s whole life had been.

Once in the dinghy, Ed faced Oluwande. “If things get really bad, can you defend yourself?”

Oluwande held up Jim’s knife, clutching the handle with an unfamiliar grip.

Ed turned to Buttons. “And you?”

Buttons opened his mouth, showing he already had his teeth in.

So that’s what they had to work with. All right. Time to die.

#

Hornigold’s ship had thirty guns on it, but none of them fired on the dinghy as it made its approach. That fact failed to rally Ed’s hope. Knowing both Izzy and Hornigold, they’d be fully prepared for Ed once he stepped aboard.

As the paddle boat touched the side of the Ranger, Izzy leaned over the gunwale, sneering down at Ed and looking as punchable as ever.

“Our parlay is with you alone, Edward. Your men aren’t to come aboard.”

Well, maybe that was for the best. After all, there was little Oluwande and Buttons could do against Izzy, Hornigold, and the twenty or so men on their crew. “That’s fine, Izzy. And look.” Ed withdrew his weapons. “My knife and my gun.” He considered, for a moment, being a dick and launching that knife straight at Izzy’s nose, but quelled that inclination and limply tossed both weapons up onto the Ranger’s deck. “I’m unarmed now.”

Disgust contorted Izzy’s features. “You’re pathetic, you know.”

“I know,” Ed said, beginning his climb up the side of the Ranger. “And I’m all right with that.”

“Hey,” Oluwande whispered as he bobbed below on the dinghy. “What should Buttons and I be doing while you’re up there?”

Ed bit his cheek against the urge to holler ‘Use the chance to get the fuck outta here, ya dingbats.’ Instead, he said, “Dunno. Do captain shit.”

#

“So Stede Bonnet gives you a kiss on a beach and that’s all it takes for you to throw your life away, throw your self away?”

 Izzy Hands fit right in here on Hornigold’s vessel where grime covered everything and the air smelled rotten with rancid meat, ass, and hate. There was a cage chained to one of the masts with a pale, miserable seaman inside weakly clinging to the bars. Years ago, Ed had spent three weeks in a cage like that—surviving off nothing but maggot-filled horseflesh and his own piss. Hornigold thought treating Ed like a dog would get him to obey, but a kicked dog bites and Ed’s bite only got stronger.

Now Ed narrowed his eyes at the rest of the filth on this ship. It seemed even mutiny hadn’t taught Hornigold his lesson. Judging by the many gaunt and stricken bodies, the man was still back to his old ways with this new crew—plenty of cages, whips, and torture devices all around. 

“I brought you back to yourself the first time”—Hell, was Izzy still rambling?—“What’s it gonna take to get it to stick? Or have you gone so soft that any twat in an embroidered waistcoat will bring you to your knees?”

How had Ed endured ten years with this asshole? “Where’s Hornigold? I thought we were gonna parlay.”

“He’ll be here.”

“Why the wait? Was there a thirteen-year-old he needed to bash in the head with a crowbar?”

A small reverberation sounded just to Ed’s left. Instinctually, he thrust up his fist, deflecting a savage snake of iron that sent jabs of agony through his wrist and down into his elbow. Kicking his assailant to the ground and blindly grabbing hold of his face, Ed pinned the man with his knee and suppressed the instinct to break the nose that was now so happily within breaking distance.

Hornigold.

The man was clutching a length of chain and wore an expression of surprise at being toppled by the fellow he used to take such enjoyment in tormenting.

“Hello again,” Ed said. “You piece of shit.”

Hornigold flailed. “Israel Hands, where’s your weapon? Do something!”

Ed snapped his gaze back at Izzy. “Yeah, Izzy! I gave you my knife and gun. You should be defending your Captain. C’mon, man!”

Izzy looked confused enough to spit as he cocked Ed’s pistol and put it to Ed’s head.

“Finally,” Ed sighed. “Now Izzy, be a good First Mate and tell me to release your Captain. Then order me to get to my feet, and start taking off my pants.”

“S-start what?” Izzy asked, as Ed rocked back onto his heels and stood.

Hornigold remained on his elbows as Ed unbuckled his belt.

“Why the fuck are you taking off your pants?” Hornigold asked, rubbing the part of his chest that had been pinned under Ed’s knee.

Pulling free his belt and dropping it to the deck, Ed went to unfasten his buttons next. “Because I’m about to make your dreams come true, you assholes. Here’s what I’m offering: Spare the Revenge and her crew. Stop firing on her and let her crew sail away to safety. Do that and I’ll give you my balls to slice off. I’ll let you do whatever you to ‘em. I’m sure Izzy has plenty of ideas.”

Hornigold finally managed to lurch to his feet. Decades of assholery had certainly taken their toll on the man. There wasn’t an inch of his flesh that wasn’t marred by lumpy growths and some sort of putrid-smelling fungal infection. Worst of all were his teeth—most of them were gone and his gums now resembled the color of bad cheese.

He cackled, spewing from his open mouth a fragrance similar to cat piss and foot sweat. “We have a gun to your head and your precious little ship is defenseless against the Ranger.” Hornigold dipped closer, his voice dropping maliciously. “We’re gonna cut your balls off all right—thanks for that idea—and we’re also gonna play target practice with that toy boat of yours until she’s at the bottom of the Atlantic. If any of her crew survives, we’ll make breakfast bowls out of their skulls and turn their vertebrae into windchimes.”

Hornigold’s newfound creative flare was at least somewhat admirable. Used to be, the man would just lob off a man’s head, then shit in his neck hole.

Ed steadied his features. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you, Hornigold. My co-captain’s a witch. Once, he put a hex on Calico Jack and not five minutes later the man lost his guts to an English cannonball.”

Izzy hissed. “Focking Bonnet’s a witch now?”

“Not Stede,” Ed explained dryly. “I got three co-captains. You remember Buttons? The bird guy? He’ll hex the hell out of the Ranger if you don’t keep your word. And a hex during an eclipse?” Ed feigned a shiver. “You don’t want that, mate. You don’t want that at all.”

Hornigold threw back his head and laughed. “A hex. That’s a new one, Teach.” He tossed his chain to Izzy. “Bind him good. We’ll get to his balls soon enough, but there’s several other parts that’ll be fun to start with first.” He called over his shoulder. “Razorface, bring me the sledgehammer! And get all hands on deck! The crew’s been wantin’ entertainment… well, tell ‘em to get their asses to the breaking wheel if they wanna see a show.”

Getting drug over to the breaking wheel by the chain around his neck, Ed tried to remind himself that he knew this was coming and that he’d mentally prepared for the impending pain. Still, his lousy brain kept going to his last few moments with Stede—how the air in his cabin smelled like lavender soap and how soft Stede’s face had looked when he said ‘You know I love you, you nut.’

Letting himself be killed slowly, torturously would be Ed’s one hope for giving the Revenge’s crew enough time to recover from that blasted tea and, maybe, somehow, they could make their escape—on floating furniture, that dinghy, or Goddess knows what.

This would be the highlight of Hornigold’s life—the chance the show his crew the full extent of his sadistic fantasies by using Ed as his plaything. Ed would just have to stay conscious on that breaking wheel for as long as possible to keep Hornigold and his crew thoroughly amused.

“This is how it’s gonna end for you?” Izzy clamped Ed’s neck chain tight around one of the wheel’s spokes. “Not even fighting? Just heading to death like a defeated dog?”

 “Maybe we should make this a game, Izzy. You and Hornigold take bets on how many bones you’ll have to crack before I plead for mercy.”

With two hands on his sledgehammer, Hornigold took a lazy practice swing. “One bone at a time. I like that.”

Something in Izzy’s expression changed, a small twitch near his eye, but Ed couldn’t decipher the meaning.

“Tie each of those ankles tight on the wheel!” Hornigold ordered. “Arms next.”

Ed surrendered himself as Izzy and the other seamen to pulled his limbs taunt and secured his wrists, ankles, and neck to the wheel. His trousers were still partially unfastened and Ed wondered how long it’d take until they’d finally saw off his dick and balls. What would they end up doing with them? Feeding them to that man in the cage? Burning them? Putting them in a jar of vinegar and preserving them like pickles?

“What do you say, men?” Hornigold handed Izzy another hammer while facing the rest of the crew. “Shall we start with the arms or the legs? Holler if you want an arm!”

Likely starved for their first taste of democracy, the crew drummed their feet and cheered. “ARM! ARM! ARM!”

Seized by the men’s excitement, Hornigold gave them his widest grin. “And who’d like me to start with a leg?”

The volume of the crowd exploded—all stomping, clapping, and rattling what they could. “LEGGGGG! LEGGGG! LEGGGGG!”

Soon, Ed and the breaking wheel were laid flat across the deck.

“I’ll get the left one,” Hornigold said, raising his sledgehammer high above his head. “You get the right one, Izzy.”

Hornigold landed his blow to the middle of Ed’s shin. It was the sound that rattled Ed at first—the snap of the bone breaking, then the crunch as the splinters of shin bone gave way beneath the heft of iron. As Hornigold lifted his hammer again and aimed at Ed’s knee, Ed grit his teeth against the unexpected details of this variety of agony—the stretch of the unbroken skin across the jagged bone, the pull of the tendons into an angle they weren’t used to. Picturing the now backward bend of his leg, Ed sucked in a desperate breath, as if air would make the torment go away.

Izzy landed his own blow. Ed’s leg brace offered some protection, but the mallet made contact with Ed’s right shin nonetheless. It was a weaker blow than Hornigold’s, but it still snapped the bone straight through. Ed’s mind became nothing but heat, shards, and the piercing despair of limbs now bent backward. No more strolls along the shore with Stede. No chance of crouching beside him to hear his thoughts on some strange insect specimen. The torment would have to go on like this much longer—an hour or more if it would make any difference to the Revenge’s crew. If only the cheers weren’t so godawful loud. If only Izzy would stop looking him directly in the eye.

They were going for his knees next—to smash those kneecaps and force his knee joints in the wrong direction. Holy hell how his lungs ached. How the air had gone so thin. He couldn’t pass out. Not now. He had to stay awake through this all—so he could let them see his suffering straight through to the end.  

Chapter Text

STEDE

The thing about suffocating is that your body doesn’t cooperate.

Unhelpfully, Stede’s pulse thundered as the rest of him remained trapped in paralysis—desperate for air and aching for release. The more his heart beat, the more he needed to breathe but couldn’t. If only he could lift his arms and flail. Shouldn’t he be unconscious by now? Dead? What sort of Hell was this that kept him in this endless, agonized desperation? He’d give anything if he could just move.

“Surrender.”

Stede couldn’t tell whether the words came from the outside or from within his own head. The tone sounded like a woman’s voice and it only made his panic worse.

“Surrender…”

Surrender to what? To who? He just needed air. Just half a second to gasp.

“Surrender to death.”

Yes! Gleefully! Stede would gladly die. He just needed a gulp of breath—a moment of respite from this torture. Death would be wonderful, so why wasn’t it taking him?

“Stop fighting. Stop trying to breathe. Just die, Stede.”

Stede stilled—forced himself still which was a strange thing to manage given he was already unmoving.

Death.

So, this was it. No more Ed. No more Revenge. No hope of a future with the man he adored.

The world was gone and so was he. And the funny thing: it wasn’t even real to begin with. He’d grasped the concept earlier when he’d first felt the eternal serpent, but it made more sense now. Life, himself, was like that miniature ship he’d shown to Mary—just an idea.

He opened his eyes. They weren’t really his eyes, he understood this now. This view wasn’t anything. Just a tiny, tiny nothing.

Stede, his lived life—his perspective—was a single glance through his little spyglass… just one look. And now he could put that spyglass away if he wanted to and see everything else. Which was endless, indescribable—all that had ever been and ever would be. The result? Perfect equilibrium and understanding.

The soul of the universe.  

And because Stede—though dead and not real—existed always, eternally, as something like a spyglass that could be picked up and looked through, Stede saw before him two corridors.

These weren’t real, of course. These were Stede corridors.   

To the left was all green grass, wide open spaces, foliage and flowers. Sunlight and ocean filled the horizon which stretched into the infinite beyond. Whatever senses he had were now filled with the fragrance of the freshest, sweetest springtime loveliness he’d ever experienced—every gardenia, lavender bloom, and rosemary bush that’d ever existed returned to his awareness all at once.

He could be consumed by it. And it would be so easy, so effortless… but a tickle of hesitation gave him pause.

“That’s where you’ll find comfort,” the voice said.

Yes. That was obvious. And Stede’s feet had returned. They were bare and would enjoy walking across that green grass to the sand beyond and then the surf… Would Ed be there? That’s what the Stede body would like. To be in that warm, bright place with Ed.

But what was the reason for that other corridor?

It was damp, dark, and made of stone. Murky water filled the tunnel and whatever lay inside the depths remained unseeable to the Stede point of view.

Stede’s bare feet wouldn’t like to go through that cold water. His Stede flesh would protest at the fright and chill.

“That’s where you’ll be useful,” the voice said.

Stede’s brow tightened. Things shouldn’t be confusing inside the soul of the universe. He was the soul after all, but the Stede point of view was confused.

“Useful to what?” Stede asked, still thinking about Ed. “None of it is real. And even if it is, it’s just beginnings and endings, life and death, the snake of existence eating itself.”

“You’re curious, aren’t you?”

Stede peered into the cave. He absolutely was. That was the thing that’d always pulled him along in life—the hope for adventure.

“That means there’s something down there that you need to learn.”

Stede shook his head. “But I’m not real. So, what’s there to learn?”

“You may not be real, but wisdom is.”

It took Stede some time to digest the meaning of that. Still, a definite conclusion eluded him. At the beginning of all this, it’d felt so certain… so cathartic and obvious. Now, the abrasive edge of his reality inspired questions. “Who are you?”

“You’ll meet me in the cave.”

He chewed on his lip. He had lips again. “What if I don’t go into the cave? What if I go to the meadow?”

“You’ll be comfortable in the meadow, but you won’t learn anything.”

Would there be anything wrong with that? He’d had forty-nine years in the Stede point of view… Forty-nine years to be anxious and pained… and oh so lonely. Even these few moments of nothingness had been such a relief.

“You do want to learn,” she said. “I can tell.”

A vague discomfort tugged at him. “Which is real? The meadow, or the cave?”

“Both are as real as anything in the Stede point of view. But one is the known and one is the unknown.”

He found himself holding his breath. Stede could breathe now. That was something.

It would be so easy to go to the meadow. To go into the delight he’d imagined he’d have with Ed. To stay there. “If I go into the meadow, I’ll never know what’s in the cave?”

“Correct.”

Shifting his stance, he tried to make out the shapes in the depths, but not even a pinch of light penetrated the shadows. There wasn’t anything to smell, either. It was all just rough square stones, water, then blackness. Goodness, his feet were cold. How he wished he had shoes.

That was the Stede stuff. The more he was becoming Stede again, the farther away the rest of it felt—the soul of the universe.

“Oh hell.” The despair hardened in his stomach. “I’m going to forget this all, aren’t I? And then I’ll be back to being anxious and worried all the time.”

“You can try not to.” There was doubt in her voice. “You could try to remember this.”

Stede closed his teeth. A picture came into his mind—little points of view pursuing curiosity or whatever it was that pulled them toward this thing they didn’t know. He could try to remember, fight with all he had to remember, but then his body would fill in and his cells would have needs and it’d be hard to ignore all that fear, pain, and hope to focus on the indescribable once again.

Curiosity—such a strange sort of propulsion.

But there was something else that was part of the pull. It was warm despite the cold and made a sensation in his chest that felt soft and swollen. This was another Stede thing. A feeling that yearned.

Ed. How he wanted—needed—Ed.

The chill and pulse-flutter returned.

“You’re feeling afraid again,” the voice said.

“Yes.” He released a long breath. “That’s that main Stede thing. That fear. His body gets anxious when it doesn’t know what’s going to happen.” Describing it that way had an interesting effect. His pulse began to slow and the flesh he was in momentarily felt less like a burden.

Maybe that was it. The Stede point of view was a thing to take care of—a little creature that was curious and soft and acted strangely, but could show him a certain perspective… a specific, interesting facet of whatever this was… the universe’s soul.

The voice made a small throat-clearing sound. “It seems Stede’s decided what he wants to do.”

He nodded, realizing that yes, he had.

“Well then, I look forward to meeting Stede.”

Her words felt like a caress. Kindness from others had a way of doing that—making him feel like a neglected pet grateful for the rare morsel of affection. Maybe this had to do with getting back to Ed. The cave was awfully Ed-like after all with its darkness and rough edges, and, as Stede considered it, his desire to step forward only grew.

Yes, he was still scared, but that was all right because Stede’s body, with his nerves and his longings, made him that special little being that deserved gentleness. He was loveable… all of him, and whatever he’d learn in this cave was the thing he was meant to learn.

Feeling the water begin to swell around his ankles, Stede waded into the darkness.

#

As the blackness closed in, he felt his way onward, shivering, stumbling, and wishing his banyan wasn’t so soaked. Those body aches were returning as well. Middle age was a disappointing thing to return to after experiencing eternity.

“There you are,” a gruff voice said.

Spinning around, Stede’s elation surged. “Ed? Ed, is that you?”

Stede thrust out his hands, blindly palming the air and yearning to touch—his fervent need driving him on.

“Ed?” Why did everything have to be so blastedly dark? “Ed, where are you?”

“I’m here.”

Stede’s fingers landed on Ed’s billowy shirt, the heat of his chest the warmest thing in this place. Though the darkness remained, he could see Ed now—his silver hair falling past his shoulders, his dark soulful eyes, his precious, stubble-covered smile.

Stede released a shaky breath, his tender feelings nearly making him plummet to his knees. “Ed, I’m so glad. But what are you doing here?”

Silently, Ed closed his arms around him and Stede sunk into his embrace.

Stede’s feet were still too cold, his body too wet, and his joints were really starting to ache, but this was nice—Ed being here to hold him, giving him the comfort of his affection.

Breathing in the smell of him—it was really him—a shock of memory tightened in Stede’s gut. The tea. His clumsy attempt to get Ed to make love to him…

“Oh my…” Pulling away slightly, Stede felt the shame lance his gut. “I… I made such a fool of myself earlier. Heavens… and you were a true gentleman about it.”

A distant, slightly sad expression washed over Ed’s features. Stede tilted his head. It was all so odd. There wasn’t a bit of light in this cave, but he could see Ed. See him perfectly. What did that mean?

Wait.

The lightning blast of another memory crashed, sending Stede’s nerves alight. “The Revenge was under attack!” His breath caught in his throat. “W-what happened? Did you manage to fight them off? Did we escape? Are we all right?”

Ed’s eyes became glossy. He leaned forward and cupped Stede’s face in his hands.

Panic crept into Stede’s grasping fingers. “Ed, what are you doing here? How did you get here?” They were both odd questions given that Stede didn’t know where he was or how he got there either. “I-I need you to tell me.”

Ed’s lips parted gently, his thumb moving over Stede’s cheek. “I’ll always be here, you know. You can still talk to me and see me… and if you ever need comfort, I can come to you and—”

Stede grabbed hold of Ed’s shirt. It was exceptionally thin and soft from too much washing and too much wear. It was real. He was real. “You’re not making any sense, Ed. I’m becoming Stede again, and you’re already Ed and when I go back of course you’ll be there.”

A small hole in Ed’s flimsy fabric began to widen.

Despite the clench in Stede’s jaw, his voice went high. “We have a week arranged on Topsail Island. And after that week is done, we’ll have at least four more decades together.”

 Ed kept gazing down at him, so patiently, so gently. “There were endings, love.”

No.

Desperation pushed a lava-hot surge of agony through Stede’s limbs. No, no, no.

“And you know about that now,” Ed said, his voice a river of caramel. “You know about the beginnings and the endings.”

Stede’s eyes burned hotly. He wouldn’t let the tears fall. “But there wasn’t even a beginning!” He moved his grasp to Ed’s biceps, clutching and proving to himself that Ed was really here. “And that’s the rules. You have to have beginnings before there can be endings and there wasn’t a beginning yet! There wasn’t even time! And that’s…that’s just not right because there’s equilibrium that’s needed. That’s the universe. That’s how it works. There has to be fairness!”

Ed’s cheeks shone wet—streams forming through the grime that Stede hadn’t noticed on the man’s face before. “Nothing in my life has ever been fair, Stede, not even this.”

“Ed...” Weakness overwhelmed him and he sunk back in Ed’s arms again, the two of them using the wall as support, the trembling in Ed’s limbs now more than obvious.

“What you’re saying isn’t making sense,” Stede said firmly. “So that probably means it isn’t true.” He was telling this to himself as much as to his beloved. Logic—that was the thing that was missing in this wherever this was. “Things are confusing here, but there’s a reason you’re here. It’s because I’m supposed to learn something, and what I’m supposed to learn is definitely not that you’ve died.”

Tipping down, Ed kissed him—a delicate, lovely kiss. Like all the others, it rendered Stede helpless and awestruck. How had he managed to find a fellow such as Ed? And how was it that Ed felt such fondness for him? But after a moment, Stede’s concern bloomed again. This was a kiss that felt awfully, terribly like a farewell.

He broke free, angling his head and looking up at Ed with an expression that surely looked frantic. “We have the rest of this cave to walk through. And maybe we’re supposed to go through it and come out the other side and then we’ll realize”—Stede’s voice hitched—“we’ll realize that what you seem to be believing isn’t at all true...”

Defeat grayed Ed’s eyes. “I can’t go the rest of the way with you.”

Now Stede was mad. “You just said ‘I’ll always be here!’” Fury tore through him. “You said if I ever need comfort, you’d ‘come to me!’”

Ed’s throat made a small noise. It almost sounded like pain. “It’s just you got a long way to go and I can’t right now.”

For the first time, Stede noticed Ed’s legs and he cried out as though the mutilated limbs were his own. Through the mangle of torn leather pants, bleeding flesh peaked through. There were pale strips of sinew…fragments of bone. How was he standing?

Stede collapsed. Though he’d plummeted into water, Ed—somehow—remained dry. Horror blurred Stede’s vision and sent his panic ablaze. Ed’s legs were mashed to bits—the pieces of them barely hanging together.

Ed grunted an acknowledgment. “Shame. Really liked those pants.”

Stede rose, tore free from his robe, and began ripping out the bit of lining that were still dry. “We have to stop the bleeding. There’s major arteries in the legs. I’ll make a tourniquet. Then we’ll get you to someone who can help.”

Ed placed his hand gently on Stede’s shoulder, another wave of sadness crossing his features. There’s no way out of this, love. Not now.

A loud snap met Stede’s ear. Ed withdrew his touch.

“Oh,” Ed said, calmly turning his attention to his hand. His index finger was bent backward at an unnatural angle, the joint piercing through the top of his palm. “So, they’re doing the fingers now.” He sounded more matter-of-fact than alarmed. “One at a time it seems.”

Stede clutched his own chest, a shudder rocking through him.

Ed’s middle finger snapped next, the center joint giving way and a spray of blood misting Stede across his brow.

Stede lifted his knuckles to his mouth, fighting the urge to look away.

“Yeah…” Ed sighed. “I don’t think I want ya seein’ me this way. Once they start breaking the hand bones, the wrists, and the arms, that’s just gonna be… unpleasant. No one wants to stand around talking to a bloke with dislocated elbows.”

“Ed. Ed. Ed,” Stede clutched the man’s shoulders again. “I’ll do something. I’ll right this. Whatever is happening right now, it’s not real… it can’t be.”

With a piercing crack, Ed’s forearm snapped completely in half, the top part of his limb plummeting sideways as though it were the limb of a child’s stuffed toy.

Stede shrieked, his cry echoing throughout the blackness.

“I’ve kept you long enough,” Ed said, as though they’d just been casually chatting on the street while Stede was on his way to the market.

“DON’T YOU DARE GO.” Stede knew his fingers were likely digging into Ed’s flesh, but he didn’t care. “I’ll kill them. I’ll stop them. I’ll stop them, then kill them, and it will all end up fine. Listen Ed—”

The water had suddenly surged, the swell of it pushing up Stede’s legs, over his ribs and into his armpits. He kicked with his feet, realizing he could no longer feel the stone floor beneath them.

“You’re the one who has to go, mate.” Ed, somehow, managed to remain still while Stede fought the current. “If you stay here, that won’t be good. Not at all.”

The waves were really pummeling. Shutting his eyes against the sting of salt water, he clenched harder, unable to hold on.

“You were the best thing in my life.”

“Don’t say that!” Stede screamed. “Your life isn’t over!”

“Love, I’m sorry.”

And then Stede lost his grip.

Spitting out a mouth full of seawater, he clawed through the current, fighting to get back to the spot where Ed had been. Reaching with his hands once more, he flailed and mauled the ocean, beating it with his hands. Ed had to be there, but no.

He was gone.

And instead of a narrow, black cave, Stede now found himself in the sea—a vast expanse of nothing but water and bits of floating debris all around. Hopelessness overwhelmed.

He stopped fighting the swells and let his arms still as he bobbed, the desire for anything draining from his body along with his will to live.

What fucking lesson was Stede supposed to learn here? Why had he been such a fool and gone to the cave instead of the meadow? This all felt so real. This had to be real. Did that mean he was back in the world?

“Did you notice there’s light?” the voice asked. “You can see now.”

Stede had almost forgotten about the voice. He was supposed to meet her in the cave, wasn’t he? Since she was still here, did that mean Ed was all right somewhere? That his injuries hadn’t really happened?

“Stede.” Now the voice sounded slightly annoyed. “Look. Up.”

Above Stede’s head was the eclipsed sun. He had to tilt his neck at a painful angle to see it. That would explain why the sea looked as gloomy and miserable as his aching heart felt.

“No. Here.”

Then he saw it—one of the benches from the Revenge bobbing in the waves. It was upside down with a cluster of yellow cushions tucked into the underside as though someone had made a cozy little nest. Most shocking of all was the person lounging in the center of those cushions. She wore a voluminous, pleated gown of the reddest scarlet Stede had ever seen.

Stede felt his eyes pop wide. “Spanish Jackie?”

She glanced down at herself as though reeling with as much surprise as Stede that she was both there and dressed in such diaphanous, sultry chiffon. “Yes, I guess it is me, Genital Pirate. Get your ass up here, there’s sharks and shit.”

Stede swam toward her, not necessarily because he cared whether or not he got eaten by sharks, but because he was too numb and crestfallen to do anything other than obey orders.

Getting aboard the makeshift raft would require a bit of maneuvering. Jackie had to rock back toward one end while Stede grabbed hold of the other. When Stede struggled at his first attempt, Jackie leaned forward to help but then the corner of the raft smashed into Stede’s nose and the whole thing nearly capsized.

 “I’ll just stay back at this end,” Jackie said while Stede hugged the bobbing bench’s leg with both arms.

“Yes.” He rubbed his painful nose on the sleeve of his wet nightshirt. “We have to keep the balance. When I pull myself up, you have to stay at that end and be the counterbalance.” He paused for a moment, letting those words play around in his head. It was Jackie’s voice he’d heard both near the entrance to the cave and within the cave… he was certain of that now.

“That’s the face of thinking Stede,” Jackie said with a smile. “That’s a man doing geometry, algebra… the kinda math I gotta do to remember all my husbands’ birthdays.”

A pinch snagged at Stede’s brow while he tried not to think too hard about the word husbands. If this wasn’t really the Atlantic Ocean, why was he so cold and wet and still suffering the despair of losing Ed? If this wasn’t the real world, then, surely, this had to be some kind of hell.

“While you’re doing math down there, here’s something to ponder: why did the two fours skip lunch?”

Stede snapped his gaze back up to her, not having the foggiest clue what she was asking him.

“‘Cause they already eight,” she said.

Not feeling much in the mood for mathematics humor, Stede reached across to take a secure hold of the beam on the far side of the bench, trying to picture how he could give himself enough thrust to propel his body up and over without capsizing the thing again.

Balance.

Now his wheels were spinning. Counterbalance… Beginnings and endings, light and dark…

He looked up at Jackie. “Masculine and feminine…”

“You gonna get yourself up here or just dangle there like shark bait?”

Stede swung down into the water, hoping that would give himself the right amount of momentum. After a push, he hauled himself—stomach-first and soaking wet—flat across the cushion. “Fuck.”

And then the tears began to fall. They’d broken Ed. They’d bent his bones one at a time and, yes, it absolutely had to be real because he had felt the mist of blood across his face and heard the snap of that mangled finger.

He could feel Jackie staring down at him, so he buried his face in his arms.

“Why don’t people ever talk to circles?” she asked.

Stede rolled onto his back, studying her bafflingly glorious attire while he wallowed in misery. “I don’t know. Why don’t people ever talk to circles?”

“‘Cause there’s no point.” She paused a beat, waiting for his reaction. “There’s a little more geometry in that one. You kinda gotta think about it.”

He nodded, his insides blank and empty. “Oh. Yes. Oh yes. I see.”

“What should you do if you’re in a room that’s too cold?”

Stede squinted into the eclipse. “Head to the corner where it’s ninety degrees?”

She gave him finger guns. “Smart and cute. I like that in a man.”

He tugged at the drenched fabric of his nightshirt, pulling it loose from where it was clinging to his legs. “You’re… you’re not Jackie, are you.”

“About that…” From her bodice, Jackie withdrew a monocle and put it to her eye, peering down at Stede as though he were some sort of specimen. “Usually, you men imagine me as your mother, or your wife, your sister… why Spanish Jackie? You met her for like three minutes. What’s going on there?”

“Ah…” Stede shifted up onto his elbows, a stirring of understanding beginning to settle. “So, you’re a manifestation of some… universal feminine energy, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here?”

She held out her arms, palms up to the sky. “The Divine Feminine. The counterbalance to the Divine Masculine. I’m the thing the Stede point of view needs to learn more about.”

Despite the pangs in Stede’s chest and the knot stretching his throat, a sliver of lightness expanded somewhere near Stede’s belly. It fizzled before it had a chance to take flight. All right, so he was encountering the Divine Feminine… wonderful. But Ed was still gone and Stede wished to be gone as well.

Jackie cocked her head. “I guess Spanish Jackie makes sense… she’s divine. She’s feminine… but Stede. You met her for three total minutes.”

Stede considered this. “She was a very impressive woman.” It came out sounding more glum than politeness would warrant.

Jackie wrinkled her nose. “You don’t have very many women in your life.”

Stede nodded, realizing she was right. “Life on a pirate ship is sort of a sausage fest…” He corrected himself. “Except for Jim, that is. They aren’t… a sausage.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’s not on my ship.”

“You know what I mean.”

The question gave Stede pause. When he thought of his mother, what came to his mind was the woman his father spent all day criticizing and disparaging. His father had mocked her for her hairstyles, belittled for her decorating tastes… She probably had other things she would’ve liked to do with her life than be married to a man who made her feel bad about herself all the time.

A vague, hollow feeling made the pressure expand inside Stede’s ribs. It was likely hard to be nurturing and tender toward a child when it was a thing you were forced to be instead something you truly wished for. Stede certainly understood that. Given a choice in the matter, he wouldn’t have gotten married or had children either.

Jackie put away her monocle. “No nurturing father figure… no nurturing mother figure. Just Stede… the Genital Pirate who needs healing.”

Stede looked over to Jackie again, the ache in his heart growing once more. “It’s Ed that needs the healing now. Something awful has happened to him.”

“Not to overwhelm you, but this whole hemisphere needs healing since about 1,700 years ago.”

He sent her a confused look, not quite sure what she was getting at.

“Look, your little visit here has taught you some things about the eternal cycle of existence—that everything in reality is composed of opposites: light, dark; beginning, ending; masculine, feminine. The cycle from one state to the next is the eternal movement of the cosmos. And when you came here to experience the cosmos, you had that moment of perfect clarity—that the soul of the universe and its endless, perfect unity.”

A slight breath released from Stede’s chest. It was a nice feeling—the complete peace that came with seeing all of existence and eternity at the same time.

“But in the time in which Stede lives, there isn’t anything close to perfect unity and balance. Because so many men just like your father have been out there doing everything they can to eradicate a whole type of wisdom that’d been a part of humanity for millennia…”

This was all becoming a bit more serious than the math jokes. “You’re talking about the wisdom of the Divine Feminine, aren’t you?”

Jackie raised her hands to the sky, clearly glad he was catching on. “We used to be out here curing diseases with plants, foretelling the future with astronomy and geometry… we could even make storms and put those storms wherever we wanted them.” Then, more serious: “But dickheads like your dad came along and, well, a lot of terrible things happened… but a big, recent one was all the witch trial bullshit. That was just a fucking mess.”

Stede gave a beleaguered sigh. “Men…”

“Right?” Jackie fell back into the cushions, making the raft bobble. “I mean we’re out here inventing math, language, and chemistry… we’re talking to animals and doing some really trippy shit with the fabric of reality, then these assholes decide ‘let’s destroy this cool stuff, kill everyone who knows about it, and invent capitalism and colonialism instead.’”

Stede scowled. “Fucking bastards.”

“And out of all that nonsense, the little Stede’s and Ed’s of the world are born, and they aren’t gonna get any sort of balance or healing because any tiny spark of the good stuff gets squashed out by these dickheads, their fucked-up idea of masculinity, and the fucked-up society their bullshit built.”

“That’s the patriarchy there. Just a terrible mistake all around.”

Jackie picked at her nails. “But, of course, while the little Stedes and little Eds may not have a society to nurture them, they could try to heal each other…”

Overhead, a small orb of radiant yellow light peaked from behind the moon. A piece of the sun had become visible again.

“Any thoughts on that?” Jackie asked.

Stede pushed the wet curls off his forehead, a tiny bloom of awareness warming the space behind his neck. Back when he’d crossed the ocean to track down Ed, Stede had one objective in mind—to return that first kiss. After all, Ed had kissed him—the first sincere expression of love Stede had ever experienced—and though there’d been a bit of a delayed start, Stede became determined to give his love right back.

“Ed and I learned how to give our love to each other,” he said, turning to her. “Did we do it right? Was that our healing?”

“Giving!” Jackie sat up again, eyes wide with delight. “Giving is great! Love a giver. Certainly better than being a taker which is what the patriarchy’s all about. So good work there. But have you learned how to receive?”

Stede frowned, remembering the panic that erupted when Ed handed him the green pajamas.

“See, it’s the receiving that’s just as necessary as the giving. Receiving is how we take in all these blessings. It’s how we turn light into life.”

“Why do I have a problem with receiving?”

“Because of the bullshit. This is what I’m trying to tell you.”

The moon had made more progress in her transit across the sun and the sea was beginning to shine blue once again. Stede gazed out at the far horizon where he could nearly see the edge of the world that remained untouched by the celestial shadow.

He clicked his tongue, feeling strange about the return of the sunlight. “All my life I’d been taught that everything had a cost…” Stede mulled over his own words, thinking of his father who constantly scolded him for the luck of being born into a fortunate existence.

Accepting anything meant payment would eventually be required. Again, Stede was thinking about page fifteen. What if Ed ever wanted something of him that he couldn’t give? What if Ed had put so much effort into bringing Stede these things and then Stede turned out to be a disappointment? That’s all he ever was to his family… a disappointment.

Jackie was watching him think through this all. “Just as a little plant doesn’t have to do anything to deserve the sunlight, a little Stede doesn’t have to do anything to deserve Ed’s love.”

Over the sound of the swells, the gull calls could be heard. How long had they been silent? Stede spotted them high above, gliding, circling, diving for fish.

Stede jolted up with a start. Ed’s presents! He leapt to his feet, nearly toppling as the raft rocked and heaved. “Ed’s presents are probably around here somewhere! I mean look at all this debris!”

Jackie clapped her hands while scanning the water. “Yes! Let’s open some boxes and see what Ed got us!” She caught herself. “I mean got you.”

Stede crouched for an errant piece of floating timber, then used it as a paddle to drag the raft over to the first box-like shape he saw. With Jackie holding the back of his nightshirt, Stede reached out and brought the box onto the raft.

The wood was finely decorated with elegant floral carvings and accented with bronze hardware. He opened the lid and a pang of new longing stretched at Stede’s throat.

“It’s a tea set.” The words came out sounding choked. Fingering the gilt filigree and ornamentation, he noticed each piece featured scenes from mythology and, judging by the quality, it definitely looked like this set had been created specifically for aristocracy. “I think he stole this one.”

Stede made his way over to the other boxes, using his long plank to draw them near and hauling each one aboard the raft. There were playing cards, two fancy pistols, a knife, cozy slippers, richly patterned banyans, and—oh!—so many boxes of books.

That thick, rubbery knot of despair threatened to tear Stede’s throat wide apart as he opened the last box.

“It’s a flute,” he said, taking the instrument into his trembling hands.

Made of grenadilla, it reminded Stede of the flute he’d had as a boy. During the springtime, he used to love practicing in the garden, but then his father decided idle flute-playing was a pointless waste of time. He’d thrown Stede’s flute into the cesspit.

Several disobedient tears plummeted onto the polished wood. He’d forgotten that he’d told Ed that story. Now his hands tightened their grip around the body.

“Can you play?” Jackie asked.

“It’s been nearly forty years,” Stede said with a sigh.

Jackie folded her fingers. “I know that was phrased as a question, but it was actually meant to be a command. Play the flute.”

“W-what?”

She nodded earnestly, intensely. “Play the fucking flute, Stede.”

Sadness gave way to curiosity, and then a thrill danced up Stede’s spine. This was about him healing his Divine Feminine wisdom that’d once been squashed. Perhaps this flute had something to do with it? Holding the instrument at a distance, he inspected the mouthpiece, put his fingers to the holes. He remembered a particular finger position but had no recollection of what note it would make.

Jackie crossed her arms, looking at him with a bored, impatient stare.

He got the message.

Steeling himself and placing the instrument to his lips, he gently blew.

The initial airy rasp wasn’t correct or articulate, but it mirrored the terrible ache in Stede’s chest. He closed his eyes and drew in a deeper breath, feeling his lungs expand and fill. After that initial drink from the tea back when this all began, he’d felt like he could inhale the whole ocean. Maybe that’s what this had been preparing him for—the ability to take in the largest gulp of sea air he’d yet attempted so he could make music from his anguish.

The sound, clear and ringing, took him back to when he was eleven years old and sitting beneath the shade of those massive baobab trees. How his lips used to burn and his mind used to wander. The black-bellied sheep would sometimes amble over. They’d chew their cud and stare at him. If he played long enough, there’d be dozens of sheep gathered, lounging in the grass, flicking their tails.

It would be so easy to imagine Ed right there with him—leaning against one of those oversized tree trunks, petting a lamb, or just gazing out across the meadow.

The pangs in his chest forced Stede’s eyes open. Still, he remained playing, surprising himself with the tune that his fingers somehow remembered. He’d never realized before what a sad melody it was: a song like a lonely bird—one that couldn’t find her way home.

Keeping his lungs filled meant the taste of brine settled on the back of his tongue and the sharp tang managed to push up into his eyes. He kept them open even as the wind picked up, the air hitting his face with a newfound, strange insistence.

He was… moving. And there was something odd about the current. It wasn’t the usual rolling swells. Rather, it felt like the sea was a rug being pulled quickly backward.

Part of him wanted to gasp, to look around and witness what was happening to all the scattered debris, but he knew—through some fierce sensation deep in the pit of his stomach—he knew had to keep playing. He had to feel the brine in his tear ducts, the sour pain in his throat. He had to ache his way into a melody that could reweave the fabric of the world.

Jackie seemed to understand what Stede had in mind. She was waving her hands in the air, conducting his music, gesticulating with theatrical flair far too arbitrary for any professional maestro. With each grasp at her chest and flail of her limbs, she emulated the throes of Stede’s passion.

Gulls flew backward. They returned squirming fish into the sea. A far dolphin sucked the mist from the sky and brought it back beneath the waves.

And then the raft collided with something solid, the impact sending Stede reeling. The flute launched from his hands and Stede tumbled forward, landing face forward on the raft’s unpadded corner. His poor nose just couldn’t catch a break… or maybe it was aiming too enthusiastically toward breaks and that was the problem.

“Fucking inertia,” Jackie said, righting herself.

Hand to his throbbing face, Stede searched the cushions for his flute. No! Sweet heavens! It had just been in his grip and now it was… Oh, please don’t let it have gone into the water!

“Captain?”

Stede turned around and felt the heat drain from his face. “Lucius?”

The boy was clutching the side of a green chaise lounge. His eyes were distant, haunted. His complexion pale. Strangely, he was wearing all black which was very different than his usual attire. Odder still, he was kneeling in the water.

Kneeling.

And then Stede saw it: beneath them both and slightly obscured by the movement of the water: a broken mast, three submerged sails, and then, the vision that sent his heart alight—the deck of the Revenge.

Chapter Text

STEDE

Stede crawled off the raft, desperate to put his hands back on his ship. Wading through thigh-deep water, he noticed immediately how the Revenge was tilted beneath the waves, almost like she’d been straining to rise, but got tired.

Stede needed his flute. Where had the blasted thing gone?

“Captain…” Lucius shivered as he continued clutching the chaise. “Are we… are we in the world again?”

So Lucius had gone on the journey as well.

“Hard to say…” Stede said kindly. “Probably not. You’re dressed in different clothing than you were before.”

Still panting, Lucius pinched at his shirt. The poor boy’s ghastly, wilted posture made Stede think of kicked puppies and orphans at funerals. Oh, to hell with everything. He sloshed over to the fellow—fighting the swells that continued to push his legs in different directions—then hauled him from the chaise and wrapped him up into a hug, the feel of his damp, trembling figure beneath those layers of black clothing so very Lucius-like and so very alive.

“Lucius,” Stede said into his neck. “You went into the cave, didn’t you?”

The boy’s shivers began to subside. “There… there was this ballroom with about five hundred very gorgeous and very naked men. And then there was the cave… and I… I don’t know why…” His voice squeaked. “I didn’t go into the ballroom. I went into the cave.”

Stede patted him tenderly. It was quite impressive of Lucius to make that choice. After all, Stede had come so close to choosing the meadow. “Do you mind if I ask what you encountered there?”

Lucius swallowed. “I… I used to try really hard to convince myself I liked girls. And… now… now I know I really hurt someone… back then.” He wiped his mouth and gazed off into the horizon, his face guilt-stricken and seeming to see a memory that shamed him. “Hell. What’s the point of it all… all this pain?”

Stede kept his hands clamped on Lucius’ shoulders, not sure if what he was about to say was the answer, but feeling like it might be close: “Pain is movement.”

Lucius looked at him, his features so much older than how they’d been earlier that morning.

“Pain makes us want,” Stede said, finding his way through this new revelation. “And when we want, we can change things.”

Overhead, the gulls weren’t swooping forward or flying backward, they were hovering, wings unflapping. The air all around had gone still. Stede drew in a long breath and Lucius did the same. At their feet, the current had settled.

Stede didn’t know precisely what this new realization meant or what, specifically, Lucius needed to hear, but his heart felt overly full and blooming and he knew it was a sensation he had to hold on to.

“Where’s Pete?” Lucius asked, his hand going to his chest.

Stede had no good answer and now his fingers flexed, yearning for his flute. “We’re going to bring them back. We’ll make sure they all return.” If only he knew where that lousy instrument was.

Lucius scanned the silent ocean, his legs submerged below his knees, and his wide eyes full of despair. “I never want to be in the water again. After this is all over, the sea and I are permanently broken up.”

Each slow lap failed to reveal Stede’s flute. He hurried over to the cushions again, lifting each open box, checking the crevices, and upending the piled pillows. He spun to face Jackie. Maybe she’d seen the thing.

She was gone.

Of course she was—because Stede had Lucius now and both he and Lucius had learned something.

Stede stepped back from the raft, suddenly knowing what he had to do next.

Keeping his eyes lifted to the horizon, he crouched, feeling his fingers slip beneath the water, groaning a little as his middle-aged joints protested.

Smooth, cylindrical shapes met his touch. He knew they would. There had to be dozens of them—hundreds of them—just beneath the surface. Flutes. A whole ocean full. Invisible to the eye but available to receive. He took hold of two.

Knowing, somehow, that if he looked down, the instruments would disappear, Stede kept his head lifted as he turned to Lucius. The radiance of Stede’s heart continued expanding, filling the space inside his ribcage with a satisfying, yellow glow. It was all meant to happen this way. He just hoped the outcome was the one he urgently needed.

A thousand different thoughts seemed to be swimming behind Lucius’ eyes, but most of all was the deep concern writ across his features. How desperately he appeared to be working out something inside his head.

“Take this,” Stede said, handing him the flute. “Do you play?”

Vacantly, Lucius regarded the instrument. Stede could see both flutes now, fully materialized into solidity and identical to the one he had as a boy. 

“This may sound odd,” Stede said, slightly unnerved by how gloomy Lucius’ expression had gone, “but we’re supposed to play these flutes and put everything we have into our playing. That’s what’s going to bring the Revenge back up to the surface.”

Lucius’ already hunched shoulders drooped even further. Stede had never seen the usually-vibrant lad like this—as though the weight of profound depression might very well topple him.

“Lucius?” Stede asked.

He plummeted to his knees which meant the sea that he’d so ardently pledged to break up with now had him submerged to his chest.

Stede swept low, meeting him there in chest-deep water, taking his hand and making sure both their flutes didn’t float away. “I’m here, Lucius. What’s the matter?”

“I-I’m having a really hard time right now,” Lucius whispered.

Something about his slackened cheeks suggested that all too familiar emotion—guilt. Oh how Stede knew it well. “You’d like to tell her you’re sorry, don’t you?”

Lucius smiled uneasily. “She’s a million miles away and I don’t know how I’d ever find her again.”

Stede picked up Lucius’ hand and placed a flute into it. “Play for her.”

That had an effect on Lucius, though his heavy mood remained.

“Please,” Stede said, opting for a more gentle tactic than Jackie’s had been. “I’d like to hear you.”

It took a few minutes of Stede showing Lucius where to put his fingers and how to switch from one note to the next, but soon they were side-by-side chest-deep in the water with their flutes to their lips.

At first, their two sounds didn’t match up. Their notes kept fighting—failing to harmonize, then stammering to get the timing right. Despite the roughness, Stede just kept playing, hoping the two of them would eventually find their way. Once they did, it was a new melody entirely—one that seeped achingly into each of Stede’s veins and made the bottom of his feet vibrate with a completely foreign sensation. The tune had changed from the lonely, lost bird song that Stede had practiced as a boy to Lucius’ song—a gentle, yearning thing that strained across the Atlantic to shores Lucius had never spoken of. The slow glissando made Stede think of verdant hillsides, delicate hands, and petal-pink lips. Judging by the suffering in these notes, Lucius’ heart was full of profound sentiment for this girl he’d once wronged. Maybe that’s what all betrayal really was—hurting other people because you’re afraid of who you’re supposed to be.

As he found his way through Lucius’ melody, Stede cast a slow glance and found tears streaming down the poor fellow’s face. That thick glob of hopelessness that Stede had done such a good job of keeping down forced its way back up into his throat. Now each note was the crack of Ed’s breaking bones, the tear in his flesh, the snap of his tendons. It was one thing to say pain was movement, but another thing to ache from that caved-in sensation that could compel a morose pirate captain to scream in fury at the whole lousy planet.

Three booming creaks sounded, the noise slivering through Stede’s toes.

The water surrounding them became like a reverse whirlpool with many spiraling currents forcing their way through the woodwork and becoming white-capped and foamy. Lucius momentarily faltered, but Stede scooted closer, giving the boy an encouraging nudge until their melody rang high and sweet.

The ship began to rise.

Though Stede’s heartache remained, elation rallied him to his feet. The roar of the water and groan of the wood was like a dragon rising from hibernation. Even the gulls seemed to be celebrating with their backward caws and reversing swoops.

Needing to fight against the pull of the water, Stede linked arms with Lucius and hurried to the forecastle. Their melody wavered again during their brief attempt at one-handed fluting, but after some quick work wedging themselves against the timber, they resumed their playing as the ship levelled out, the shattered masts rose, and the sails lifted and stitched themselves back together.

Would there be cannonballs being sucked back into the enemy ship? Stede hunched low, preparing.

At his side, Lucius put down his flute, breathing deep and holding his head. “My fucking lips hurt…”

Smoky black plumes wafted over the bowsprit though the enemy ship remained out of sight.

“And believe me,” he continued. “I have plenty of experience with… blowing things.”

Lowering his own flute, Stede gave the boy a pat. “That’s all right because we did it. We raised the ship! We put her back together!”

Lucius rubbed his eyes. “Still got a few holes in her. And I’m gonna need to do some serious”—he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose—“journaling after this.”

 Stede kicked out his heels, catching his breath and looking at Lucius once again. What a sight this boy was—dressed in such a high-collared jacket, layers of black, and staring at the miraculously repaired mast with a heavy, repentant regard.

“This may sound strange,” Stede said, observing the many seagulls that were now hovering rather than reversing. “But I’m really glad I found you here. And that we shared this thing.”

Lucius’ lips tightened into an expression that wasn’t quite a smile. “Do you think we’ll remember this when we… wake up or whatever?”

The sharp tang of gunpowder filled Stede’s nose. “I think we may not remember, but we’ll know.”

Lucius ran a hand through his hair, looking away from Stede and out to the empty sea. “What now?”

“We rest our lips and then we keep playing,” Stede said. “We keep playing and playing some more until everything gets put back together.”

“But where is everyone else?” Lucius asked.

Stede squinted. Truthfully, he didn’t know. He’d thought raising the ship would make the whole crew appear. Strange how it was only Lucius at his side.

“C’mon,” Stede said, more seriously this time. “We have to get back to playing.”

Chapter Text

ED

It must’ve been the blood loss that made it so hard for Ed to stay conscious. He’d certainly endured broken bones many times before. Once, he’d even had a cannonball dropped on his bare foot and still managed to finish a raid despite his toes being mashed to bits. But now, as Hornigold brought down one blow after another, Ed drifted off, hearing and seeing things—unhelpful things—as soon as his eyes fell shut.   

The goal here was absolutely not to succumb to mental images of Stede in his nightshirt, alone, terrified, and soaked in ocean water. He didn’t need fictional conversations where he’d tell Stede what had happened and then give him a final farewell.

But the more Ed fought to stay awake, the louder that imaginary tune sounded. At first, he’d thought it was a bird, or some sick fuck on Hornigold’s crew whistling while watching Ed get his shins bashed in. But no. It was music—prettier than the kind you’d hear in a tavern.

What baffled Ed most was how that music soon became all he could hear.

There was just such… feeling behind it. And the soaring, flittering melody made the ache in Ed’s chest overpower the torment in his legs.

 Stede.

The feeling of the tune seemed so very Stede-like with its delicate intonations. This had to be the flute he’d given him. That meant Stede received it, somehow. Did that mean the Revenge and her crew were all right?

Ed forced his eyes open.

Greenery expanded into the horizon.

Ed blinked again, expecting to return to the grime of Hornigold’s ship, but no. The chants and jeers were gone, and now emerald grass bent beneath his feet. Trees filled with flaming red blossoms dotted the hillside as silence lingered throughout the skies. Ed wiggled his toes inside his boots, finding his limbs fully intact and his leather pants unmarred by rips or streams of his own blood. The melody continued, its longing notes filling Ed’s ribs with the kind of radiant warmth that reminded him so much of that day on the beach when the sun had been low and Stede’s hair had been golden.

He gazed up at the purple clouds. A single seagull soared overhead.

Panic lanced through Ed’s guts. No. He shouldn’t be here. He needed to be on Hornigold’s ship! He needed to be the distraction or else the crew would be firing their cannons and doing hell knows what to the survivors!

Powering forward on his very unbroken legs, Ed stormed to the top of the hill, desperate to get a get a handle on his surroundings—to see how far he was from the water.

Reaching the summit, his face stung by the wind that whipped his barely covered chin, Ed slowed.

There were two figures in the grass partially obscured by boulders and foliage. One sat. One stood. Both were clad in high-collared black garments, somewhat regal and very warrior-like.

Ed stepped closer, his hand going to his hip where his knife ought to have been. Blast. He’d given that lousy thing to Izzy.

No time for fear. Ed pushed a tree branch aside, then immediately paused dead in his tracks, reeling with a sensation like a cannonball to his chest.

Buttons and… Jim?

Buttons was the one seated, his legs crossed, his gaze facing forward. Jim stood at Buttons’ shoulder, twirling a knife and looking ready for action.

“WE NEED TO KNOW HOW MANY MEN ARE SURROUNDIN’ YE CAP’N,” Buttons said.

Ed looked over his shoulder, once to the left and once to the right. “Uh, no one?” He was incredibly confused.

Jim cocked their head. “He means on Hornigold’s ship. We’re preparing our attack. As you may have figured out, we’re in another…” They flailed their hands, appearing to struggle for an explanation. “What the fuck is this place called, again?”

“THA GRAVY BASKET, CAP’NS.”

“Yeah, so we’re in this gravy basket or whatever,” Jim explained. “Which you probably figured out when you went through that cave.”

Ed’s brow pinched. “What cave?”

Fuming, Jim spun to face Buttons. “He didn’t have to go through the cave either! Am I the only one who had to do the cave?”

 “The fuck is the cave?” Ed asked.

Jim cracked their jaw. “It’s this place where you see some shit and feel some shit and it’s probably all very useful for personal development, but I’m really fucking personally developed right now”—here Jim gave Ed a hard stare that conveyed an unspoken bitterness about a certain kidnapping—“and I really wish I coulda’ gone straight to the knife-throwing.”

Ed squinted, still confused.

“CAP’N BONNET AND LUCIUS WENT THROUGH THE CAVE,” Buttons said. “THEY’RE WHY YOU’RE HERE CAP’N. THEY FIXED THE SHIP AND NOW WE HAFTA FIX YOU.”

Ed’s bewilderment was not alleviated by any of these words, and now a million questions competed for control of his tongue. He decided on the only question that mattered. “Where’s Oluwande?”

Jim’s eyes became soft at the sound of Oluwande’s name. “Sabotaging Hornigold’s cannons. Doing captain shit.”

“Nice,” Ed said, wishing that’d been his idea.

As baffling as all this was, at least Ed had a mission: a ship to attack. “So, there’s about fifteen assholes around me on the Ranger, not including Izzy and Hornigold. That said, those two are pieces of shit and their crew hates their guts…”

Jim and Buttons shared a narrowing glance—quite a sight given that Buttons and Jim were probably the two most opposite people on the Revenge’s crew, but now readily conspiring together.

“Still,” Ed said, recalling everyone’s helplessness when he’d last laid eyes on them. “We’re not in good shape for an attack—just judging by what I saw before we left the ship. And we’re outnumbered.”

Slight smile flickering, Jim gave their knife another lazy twirl.

“And you only got one knife,” Ed added.

Buttons met Ed’s gaze. “YE GOT TA LISTEN TO THE FLUTE, CAP’N.”

“Yeah,” Jim said, as though what Buttons had said somehow made a lick of sense.

“YE GOT TO LET IT IN,” Buttons said.

Since there was no point in arguing, Ed turned his attention to the flute song. The haunting melody coiled like ribbon silk in his ears, pushing heat into his eyes. The million questions in Ed’s brain began to fall quiet, though Ed wasn’t sure why.

Slowly, Jim crouched—lowering themself into the grass like a hunter stalking prey. When they rose once again, they had about eight knives in each of their hands.

They smiled. “See? Listen to the flute, Blackbeard. You listen to the flute and then you reach into the grass.”

Now Ed really listened, savoring the small, breathy gasps between notes and the glorious discord between the two separate sounds. He hadn’t noticed that before—that there were two separate players—both of them encouraging him on, and one of them definitely Stede. Even just the sound of that man’s breathing could make Ed’s heart threaten to burst.  

Mirroring Jim’s crouch, Ed slunk low—taking it a bit more slowly due to his leg brace and old joints. When he reached into the grass, his fingertips met countless handles and blades. Every knife he would need was well within his reach.

Jim’s white teeth flashed. “See?”

Ed smiled readily. “I see.”

“I think we’re ready to do this,” Jim said.

Surging warmth cascaded through Ed’s veins. Months ago, he’d snatched Jim and marooned Oluwande… nearly killed Lucius. Now this misfit crew were working together to help save him.

“You shouldn’t be helping me,” Ed said. “Not now. Not after everything I did.”

Jim rolled their eyes.

“What?” Ed asked. “I kidnapped you.”

“Yeah, you kidnapped me, but if you die, Stede’s gonna be sad, then working for him is gonna suck ass. Also, we gotta fuck up Hornigold and his ship or else they’ll keep coming for us.”

Ed grunted, glad this was all happening for selfish reasons on Jim’s part. “So, we’re ghosts then? We’re doing a ghosty fuckery, that it?”

Wickedness darkened Jim’s features. “We’re gonna be Hornigold’s worst nightmares.”

#

The thing about ghosts, hexes, and the supernatural is that it’s all a bit chaotic—especially during something like a fuckery. There’s the time problem. See, time goes in all different directions when you’re not in the world. Which is doubly confusing for someone like Ed who was both in the world and not in the world. And so, while the Ed of the breaking wheel kept getting his shins smashed, the Ed of the gravy basket was sawing through his ropes, releasing Ed’s wrists then scrambling to release the caged prisoners. But whenever the Ed of the gravy basket would cast a glance at the Ed of the breaking wheel, he’d see he’d gone from having his shins smashed in to having them not-yet-smashed… which happened several times until the Buttons of the gravy basket managed to sink his metal teeth into Hornigold’s neck once and for all.

A geyser of blood shot skyward from Hornigold’s neck. It spewed with obscene gusto, raining down on Izzy who was already plummeting backward thanks to the knife pinned at his throat. Those gathered assholes who’d been cheering Ed’s mutilation were all struck silent.

The Ed of the breaking wheel, finding his wrist knots cut, forced himself up despite the blistering agony below his knee. “Told you, shitheads. Don’t fuck with a witch during an eclipse.”

Seamen scrambled in every direction, at least half a dozen diving overboard. Choking, Hornigold clutched his severed throat, blood drenching his fingers as he fell first to his knees, then flat on his face into a pool of bright scarlet.

Ed wrung the ache out of his wrists. They were only slightly blistered from the ropes.  He was back to being one person—the agony in his leg far too terrible to keep him half out of himself.

Barely remaining upright, Izzy stammered. “What the fuck are you, Edward?” He looked awed and too terrified to attempt to fight back against his invisible assailant.

Ed dully regarded the pathetic man’s open-mouthed spluttering. “Hornigold was a particular piece of shit. But Izzy, I don’t feel like seeing you die today.”

Somewhere in the ether, Jim groaned, annoyed.

“Put him in the cage,” Ed said. “Let his crew—whatever’s left of them—decide what they wanna do with him.”

Izzy shrieked as his body pitched backward, a fearsome thrust launching him into the cage. Jim—still invisible but nonetheless capable of fuckery—snatched the lock and key. In no time they had Izzy trapped like a dog.

Panting, Ed regarded the few remaining seamen who were crouched, petrified, in the shadows. “Your captain’s dead. His first mate is caged. The Ranger is your ship now.” Holy hell, Ed’s broken leg was making his vision turn white. “But let this be a warning—if you ever see the Revenge on the horizon, just sail the other way… get as far away as possible. Do not… and I repeat… do not ever fuck with the Revenge and her crew, because we will fuck you harder.”

Scatters of affirmative grunts sounded as light began to fill the sky.

Bright blue waters once again spread across Ed’s field of vision. Nearer, the Revenge waited silently in a sunbeam. She’d suffered some splintered timber and her sails were singed, but she remained afloat and, for that, Ed said a silent prayer of gratitude.

After tightening a piece of rope to stop his own bleeding, Ed hobbled over to the railing just as Buttons—the solid, smelly, filth-covered Buttons of the world—climbed onto the Ranger’s deck.

Ed actually fell into the man’s arms.

Hugging Buttons had certainly not been on Ed’s list of things he expected to happen that day, but when several of your bones get broken and then hitches in time put them back together again, and then you get smashed once more, and you’ve been bleeding from a compound fracture in your shin… well, it can make a fearsome pirate captain do odd things like plummet onto the chest of the Revenge’s strangest crewmember.

“ARE YE FULLY OUT OF THE GRAVY BASKET, CAP’N?” Buttons asked.

“Yeah,” Ed said gratefully. “I’m out of the gravy basket. What about you?”

“I’M ALWAYS IN THARE A WEE BIT. JUSTA KEEP AN EYE ON THINGS.”

Ah. That made sense.

Oluwande hurried aboard next, then helped Ed keep his mangled leg steady as he lowered himself into the dinghy. Jim was lying supine between the benches, looking up at the sky with a vague, wonderous expression.

Reaching over, Ed gently pinched their boot. “Thanks, Jim.”

Oluwande’s jaw clenched. “Now is a pretty shitty time for sarcasm.”

“Nah man.” Ed settled parallel to Jim with his leg propped up. “Jim handled Izzy for me.”

Oluwande’s eyes narrowed at Ed, utterly befuddled. “What exactly happened back there? Half Hornigold’s crew took to screaming and diving overboard.”

Ed grin silently.

“What?” Oluwande asked.

“I’ll explain later,” Jim rasped.

Now Oluwande’s eyebrows had gone all the way up in his hatband. Yes, this was all going to take some time to explain.

Ed gazed out over at the several seamen flapping and flailing in the swells. Hopefully, the remaining crew on the Ranger would lower a dinghy for them.

He sighed.

There’d been a time in his life when he would’ve carved the lungs out of every man who cheered while he bled. The old Ed would’ve hung each one of them by their earlobes as he gutted their chest cavities. Those bastards weren’t Ed’s concern anymore. The only thing that mattered now was getting the Revenge and her crew to a secluded atoll—somewhere with plenty of shade, fresh water, and safety.

Ed flopped back into the bottom of the boat and covered his face with the bit of rag Buttons had given him. He could still hear the ribbon-like melody of Stede’s flute and, as the boat bobbed in the swells, Ed breathed in the sour stink of the cloth and let himself cry.

He’d never actually done that before—wept because he was happy.

Chapter Text

STEDE

Before Stede opened his eyes, the sun warmed his face and voices met his ears.  

“…And that’s when they gave me the helm”—Black Pete’s words were slower, more drawled than usual—“and I steered the Revenge toward Cuba. You all kept telling me I should stay captain permanently.”

A rough, scraping sounded, followed by a slight jangle.

“Lucius,” it was Black Pete again, still groggy. “What are you doing?”

At last, Stede forced himself awake and his vision came into focus. He lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the sun and that’s when he found Lucius above him, not far from where Black Pete lay on the chaise—Wee John and Frenchie sprawled nearby. They were all on the main deck, the smell of canon fire still lingering in Stede’s nose. Lucius hovered behind a large trunk and crouched over it with his chin resting on his hands, facing Stede with a hard-to-decern expression.

Stede’s eyes snapped wide as his memories flooded back—Lucius, soaked and shivering, clutching the chaise, his trembling voice declaring the sea and I are permanently broken up.

He rose onto his elbows, his fuzz-filled mind struggling for some statement that might convince Lucius to stay, but all he could manage was a pained: “Lu-juss..”

“Oh no, I’m not leaving,” Lucius said matter-of-factly.

Stede released a sigh of relief.

“Rather, I have an idea, Captain, and I suspect you’ll appreciate it.” Lucius opened the trunk, tilting it slightly so Stede could see what was inside.

Glinting within the chest lay a jumble of silver, gemstone-encrusted chalices, ornate serving trays, and plenty of gold doubloons.

“Why’d you bring all that plunder up here?” Black Pete asked, crawling forward to get a better look.

Stede had the same question, but his tongue was now made of splinters and sawdust.

“Look,” Lucius said tapping the opulence and finding his words, “in a few hours, we’ll be near a port. We’ll find the usual port-stuff there… churches, taverns, brothels. So yeah, I think we should find a brothel and make sure this loot ends up in the hands of the ladies who work there.”

Dawning awareness made Stede draw in a breath.

Black Pete rocked back on his haunches. “Lucius, what are you talking about?”

Ignoring Pete’s question, Lucius continued. “We’re getting better at raids… so much so that we have a great deal of extra beyond what we need to survive. I think we can start giving a lot of it away.”

Stede wasn’t sure if his face had resumed cooperating with his brain, but he hoped he was at least smiling.

Mouth open, Black Pete looked aghast. “Pirates don’t give away their plunder!”

Turning, Lucius drew Black Pete close, giving him a kiss on the forehead. “I love you Pete, but you’re attitude is very ignorant right now. We’ll discuss this later.” He turned back to Stede. “What do you say?”

Stede nodded enthusiastically.

“Great.” Lucius clapped his hands to his knees and stood. “I’ll have Buttons chart a course for the new Carolina settlement.”

Still looking flummoxed, Black Pete rubbed his bald head. “Is it because you want to… steal from the rich and give to the whores?”

Gently, Lucius returned to Pete and took the man’s face lovingly into his hands. “Babe, no more talking.”

All around, the crew slowly roused themselves—Wee John lurching to his feet and rubbing his eyes, Swede holding his head in his hands, Frenchie staring vacantly off into the distance.

“Wherb Ed?” Stede asked, heart fluttering.

Oluwande came forward, twisting his hat in his hands. “Captain Blackbeard had an injury and is below deck with Roach, only Roach is still a bit out of it, so Jim is helping.”

Fighting the many yellow cushions that were conspiring to thwart his efforts, Stede scrambled—first to his knees, then to his elbows, then, at last, to his feet.

Lucius and Oluwande rushed to Stede’s pinwheeling arms.

“We’ll help you down there,” Lucius said, giving him a pat on the shoulder.

#

Jim and Roach were hunched over the table, their backs to Stede as he tottered down the steps.

“And what did your snake look like?” Roach asked, taking a cleaver from Jim and handing them a smaller knife.

“Black and white stripes,” Jim said, a wet noise sounding as they cut into something. “What about yours?”

“Same.” Roach dabbed at a darkened form with a towel. “But up close the scales were rainbows. Did you see the spiderwebs?”

“It was all spiderwebs.” Jim’s sawing made a worrisome crunching noise. “The whole palace was made of spiderwebs.”

Stede’s eyes took longer than usual to adjust to the darkness. Lucius and Oluwande must’ve sensed his eagerness. They hardened their grips on Stede’s elbows, ensuring he made his way slowly.

In the beam of cool sunlight, Ed’s arm—the one with the serpent tattoo—shifted.

Stede stumbled out of Lucius’ hold. “Ed?”

Ed’s face tipped lazily Stede’s way, a long strand of salt-and-pepper hair partially covering his eye. “‘Bout to lose fifteen pounds in less than thirty minutes.”

“More like twelve minutes,” Jim said, proudly lifting Ed’s severed leg off the table for them both to see. “Now we just hafta stitch you up.”

Plummeting to the bench and laying a palm on Ed’s cheek, Stede felt his chest cave in.

“I’ll be all right, mate.” Ed’s breath smelled astringent with a rum-like odor. “An artificial limb is pretty on-brand for a pirate. Maybe we can make it out of a table leg or a harpoon or something… Chance to get really creative with it.”

Stede pushed back that lock of Ed’s hair, concern and love welling inside him. He wanted to tell Ed that he’d received all his presents—that the flute was perfect and had saved the ship and the crew. He wanted to say something about the indescribable… but words weren’t working and perhaps they never did.

He kissed Ed lightly.

There would be other kisses, deeper kisses—maybe on Topsail Island, maybe somewhere in the Atlantic—but, for now, the wind filled their sails and the waves dashed freely. This was a beginning, and they had everything, time included, on their side.

THE END

Chapter Text

BUTTONS

After Cap’ns Bonnet and Blackbeard departed on the dinghy, Buttons joined the rest of the crew as they inserted the bars into the capstan and heaved into it, turning the trundlehead and lifting the anchor. Usually, the crew would grumble during this chore, but Frenchie was leading them in a rendition of Randy Dandy O, his guitar strumming with a knife-like precision he hadn’t previously used before in his playing.

“The anchor's on board an' the cable's all stored,

Timme rollickin' randy dandy O!”

The smell of the crew’s sweat heated Buttons’ nostrils and his own palms grew slippery with effort. But even with all that, he was still half in the gravy basket, his attention turned to the gull above his head. A flute played brightly, the grass all around whipping this way and that in time with the fluttering notes. There was more sand beneath his feet than before and the blades shone golden in the sunlight—dried grass, the stuff that grew from sand dunes and then stayed half-dead year-round.

This must be Topsail Island then.

A cottage stood far in the distance, white-painted timber adorning the sides and a picket fence all around. Cap’ns Bonnet and Blackbeard were probably in there—Cap’n Blackbeard on a bed with what remained of his leg all bandaged, Cap’n Bonnet with the jars of herbs Buttons had provided along with instructions. Blackbeard would survive the infection. Buttons knew this because, following the eclipse, the moon would be applying to benefics in a way that suggested themes of healing, romance, and—those things people seemed to like an awful lot—tender feelings.

Then, shortly after the equinox, the two Cap’ns would return to the Revenge, Blackbeard using a new wooden leg—one Cap’n Bonnet would’ve spent every waking hour crafting and painting. And Bonnet, with his hair curling past his chin and a yellow beard covering his jaw, would stay close to Blackbeard’s side always keeping his touch lingering near the man’s elbow, his waist. Buttons knew this as well, because… well… he was getting better at it—the specifics, the pictures.

He sniffed the air, wondering why he’d been brought here. The sea breeze smelled fragrant with the lemony perfume of unseen horsemint and the gulls were strangely quiet.

Distant slivers of a sensation like an itch prickled at the edges of Buttons’ awareness. After a moment, he identified the feeling. If he weren’t in the gravy basket, it would’ve been the feeling of alarm—not the sort of apprehension that accompanied the threat of an enemy ship or an oncoming storm, but the type of unease that was once so familiar to him when he was younger, back when he was a boy. It was the terror he used to feel about his inability to make his facial expressions look right or respond appropriately to people’s words.

It was the awareness that no matter how hard he tried to act like all the others, he knew he’d still end up being mocked.

For Buttons, the worst part about being the subject of other children’s cruelty wasn’t their kicks and punches, but rather the realization that no one—not the other children, not his siblings or neighbors, and certainly not his own parents—wanted him around.

No one likes a boy who sees things that aren’t there… Who can’t hold an ordinary conversation unless it’s about ghosts, ships, or sea creatures.

He thought he’d gotten rid of that old loneliness long ago when he learned the proper way to talk to the gulls, but now it was back in full force and Buttons didn’t know why.

Closing his teeth, Buttons reminded himself that he was in the gravy basket, not back on the cold shores of Anstruther. But why was he here on Topsail Island? What was the gravy trying to show him?

That flute. The music always had the answer.

Buttons shut his eyes and really listened to it. There was such dignity in the sound—how it was both birdlike, and also commanding. Commanding him to what? He struggled. There was something at the edges that remained difficult to understand.

Inhaling the air once more—now richer with the scent of wildflowers—Buttons lowered himself into the grass.

The melody slowed, became softer.

Buttons opened his eyes, and, though he’d gotten better at the specifics and the pictures, he hadn’t expected to see a person sitting across from him now. The sight caused him to draw in a slight gasp.

It was Lucius.

Dressed in all black, the boy was sitting cross-legged, a pile of picked wildflowers in his lap. His hands were lifted, palms up, and hovering above them was the flute, playing the music though it wasn’t touching human lips. A slight smile flickered at Lucius’ mouth.

“This means something, doesn’t it?” Lucius asked, his smile fading as his features slackened with an expression that resembled exhaustion. “That I can do this… that I can make music come out of this thing, but I’m not even touching it.”

Buttons cocked his head. “I RECKON IT MEANS A LOT THAT YAR ABLE TA BE HERE EVEN THOUGH YER ACTUALLY WORKIN’ THE CAPS’N WITH THE REST A THE CREW.”

Lucius wrinkled his nose. “You’re turning the capstan too, and you’re here.”

“I’M ALWAYS HERE.” Part of Buttons wanted to specify that what he meant by here was the gravy basket, not Topsail Island, but judging by Lucius’ nod, the boy knew what he meant.

Lucius met Buttons’ eyes. Usually, Buttons didn’t like direct eye contact—not from people at least—but this was different. This was the gravy basket, and, in a way, Lucius wasn’t people. Not anymore.

Orange and purple stains marred the wooden finger Lucius wore. It was still lifted, curved slightly with the rest of his hand. Breath spilled from Buttons’ mouth. He’d been the reason Lucius lost his finger and he hadn’t ever apologized for it. Was it too late to apologize now?

“I need your help, Buttons.”

Two dozen prickly sensations, like the spines of a puffer fish, erupted over Buttons’ skin. His torso went rigid but didn’t know why. Lucius was correct in saying that his ability to play the flute without touching it meant something. Maybe the boy had gained a new ability because he’d experienced death more than once and each time you go through it, you learn something more. But why was Buttons so weary about the fact that Lucius now sat before him, eyes glossy and clothes the color of a moonless sky? Why were Buttons’ muscles feeling primed for attack?

“Y-you do this a lot,” Lucius stammered. “You come here and then go back to the world. I’m realizing this now… How… How powerful you are.”

Buttons’ rigidity became icy and iron hard. This was some kind of panic, but surely Lucius wasn’t a threat.

Buttons used to have these panicked sensations often in childhood. Once, the other boys had started feigning interest in Buttons’ expertise on the classification of sea creatures and before Buttons got wise to their plot, he excitedly told them everything he’d ever learned about giant squid and their tentacles. But then he finally noticed their snickers and cackles… Their sarcastic tones…  

Humiliation—that strange mix of despair and fury over falling for their trap… Being the butt of their jokes.

That’s not what was happening now, though. Was it?

“I-I’m a different person now,” Lucius said, his voice still shaking. “There’s the guilt… and that’s just awful.” He shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing them. “But then there’s Pete… I’m not the Lucius Pete is expecting… not anymore. He’ll start thinking I’m too much. And honestly, I wouldn’t blame him. I’m too much for me right now… and I’m me feeling this way about me. I should be the most empathetic person there is about my present muchness.”

A trickle of relaxation loosened Buttons’ chest. He didn’t have any words of advice for Lucius, but there was something there in the boy’s phrasing that struck him. Muchness. Buttons could relate to having too much muchness.

Lucius lifted his face once more, the red around his eyes turning bright pink. “I’m sorry. I’m being a dramatic little bitch right now, aren’t I?”

Buttons swallowed, still not knowing what to say. He considered the instrument floating in the space between the both. “YER FLUTE’S STILL PLAYIN’.”

Lucius raised his hand and flicked the hovering instrument. The melody shifted slightly, but the music continued. The boy smiled sadly.

If Buttons were better at people, he and Lucius could talk about this. They could have a full conversation about the nature of too much muchness and maybe that would lead to something that could resemble friendship. He studied the piles of wildflowers gathered in Lucius’ lap. Purple coneflower, orange butterfly weed, yellow tickseeds, and white foam flower. What had he been planning with all that?

Lucius nudged Buttons foot with his knee. “Tell me an interesting fish fact.”

Buttons felt his cheeks tighten. “BONY FISH HAVE MORE THAN ONE SET OF NOSTRILS.”

Lucius genuinely looked awed. “Really?”

“AND BARNACLES ARE RELATED TO LOBSTERS.”

Lucius brightened. “I thought barnacles were a type of seaweed.”

“THARE CRUSTACEANS. LIKE CRABS.”

“I heard lobsters pee out of their faces,” Lucius said. “Is that true?”

Buttons nodded. Wherever the boy had gotten his lobster information was correct. “LOBSTERS HAVE PEE NOZZLES UNDER THARE EYES AND THEY PISS AT EACH OTHER TO COMMUNICATE.”

The boy leaned forward, his skin the color of bleached sand in the sunlight.  A slight scar made a purple mark along Lucius’ jaw that Buttons hadn’t noticed before.

“May I braid your hair?” Lucius asked. “I miss having someone around with long hair I can braid.”

Face heating, Buttons turned around while Lucius scooted closer and began dividing up the different sections with his fingers. Buttons’ specifics and pictures must’ve been working again, because he knew Lucius was going to weave those coneflowers and butterfly weeds into whatever braids he was making.

If Buttons listened closely, he could still hear the crank of the capstan and the chords of Frenchie’s guitar beneath the flute’s melody. His chest felt cracked open and sore, but not in a distressing way.

Was this it? Was this the feeling of friendship?

“YOU KNOW A BLUE WHALE’S TONGUE WEIGHS MORE THAN AN ELEPHANT,” Buttons said.

“Yes, I think I heard that somewhere.” Lucius’ fingers worked slowly to remove a tangle. “What do you think is the most dangerous thing in the sea?”

Buttons mulled over the question. “I’LL HAFTA THINK ABOUT THAT ONE. BUT YOU KNOW THE MOST INNER-RESTIN’ THING ABOUT CRABS?” He didn’t wait for Lucius to respond. “THEY HAVE TASTEBUDS ON THARE FEET.”

Chapter Text

Welcome to the Liminal Revenge Epilogues where the crew not only navigates the high seas, but also their relationship with material existence after awakening to the infinite and boundless nature of the universal consciousness.

Chapter Text

ED

There was nothing wrong with the bed. In fact, it was one of the better ones Ed had ever slept in. The blankets were nice, too—fancy satin embroidered things that Stede had found special for the cottage.

All of these accommodations were fine. It was just that Ed had spent three weeks inside and he was ready to claw holes in the walls with his bare hands.

To make matters worse he was taking all his restlessness out on Stede who hadn’t done anything other than bring him meals and apply those ointments. Luckily, Ed’s antsyness no longer manifested as anger or aggression—thank all the gods! Rather, Ed found himself just… annoying. Thinking too much. Asking too many questions.

So many questions.

And lately, those questions were about the tea.

Because Stede had been different since the eclipse. His hair was longer, lighter, wavier. It was almost down to his shoulders at this point—how had it grown so fast in just three weeks? And also Stede didn’t talk quite as much. Spent a lot more time smiling. Not that Ed was complaining. Ed would never complain about Stede.

But the tea.

What exactly was all of that about? What had happened to Stede those weeks ago?

“Does the tea give you sorcery?” Ed asked as Stede lifted the covers and slipped in beside him.

As usual, Ed’s lover demonstrated exceptional care in not disturbing the remains of his bandaged leg.

“Oh no, darling,” Stede said. “I wouldn’t describe it like that.”

 “You played a flute in your mind that I heard in my mind and that put me in a meadow where Jim and Buttons were. And Jim pulled knives from the ground and then a phantom version of myself broke through my ropes while phantom versions of Jim and Buttons took on Izzy and Hornigold! All because of the tea. How is that not sorcery?!”

“It’s more complicated than that…”

“MORE COMPLICATED?”

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

Ed turned his attention to a shadow on the other side of the bedroom window. Stede got up again and opened the interior shutters, the slight sea breeze blowing the curtains against the gentleman pirate’s nightshirt. Lately, Ed had been dropping hints that modest bedtime customs weren’t really necessary in this isolated cabin. After all, there was only the indigenous family that lived on the other side of the island and they didn’t wear much this time of year… Not that they’d be coming over in the middle of the night—their visits usually happened in the morning when Stede would bake them cakes and pies. Though the family was paid amply for the pirates’ use of this small section of their island, Stede had insisted on providing daily baked goods as well. He called it the light-skinned tax—his moral obligation as a descendant of colonizers. 

That evening’s visitor wasn’t there for cakes or pies, however. This little landlubber dashed in, a streak of black darting across the already darkened room and then disappearing into a spot underneath the green sitting chair that seemed to be her favorite.

“In five minutes she’s gonna want out again,” Ed said.

“I’ll leave the window open,” Stede replied.

An open window wouldn’t help with the modesty issue. Not that it was an issue. But it was something Ed was thinking about—how long it would be until he and Stede would spend the evening not talking, reading, or music-making, but on activities of a more carnal variety.

Sure, it made sense that Stede spent the first three weeks of Ed’s recuperation being especially delicate—cleaning and re-wrapping Ed’s wound, preparing the medicines, and helping with hygienic matters—but now that Ed had reduced his laudanum intake, the swelling had gone down, and Buttons’ concoctions had held off the infection… Well. Things couldn’t be terribly active. But there could certainly be things.

Stede slipped back under the covers, the heat of his body noticeable even through the fabric of his nightshirt. There was just something so nice about feeling the dip in the mattress at night and waking up in the morning with this man so close. Ed would hold Stede’s hand beneath the covers and sometimes Stede would nestle against Ed’s shoulder.

They’d kiss. Which was nice. And Ed could live for the next 3,000 years with those kisses.

He released a soft sigh. Edwasn’t really thinking about the tea anymore, but since he’d started the conversation, he might as well finish it.

“Why don’t you want to tell me about it?” he asked. “The tea?”

“I thought I did tell you about it,” Stede said, tucking close. “The tea healed my divine feminine, who appeared to me as Spanish Jackie. I can now receive the wisdom of the universe.” He draped his arm across Ed’s chest. “I can also receive your love without worrying at all.”

Ed noticed Stede was looking at him with that soft, open expression that was impossible to resist. The length of his body was also pressing pleasantly against Ed’s ribcage, his hip, and upper thigh. Had Stede somehow seen the wanton yearnings cascading through Ed’s brain? If so, why wasn’t he casting aside his nightshirt at that very moment?

Cupping Stede’s face, Ed kissed him. It was their usual sort of kiss—a light brushing of lips, smiling against each other’s mouth. Things would be safe that way. Of course if Stede wanted more, Ed would be happy to oblige… And, sure, Ed would like it if Stede indicated he wanted more… The blooming sensations between his legs was making that abundantly clear.

But he wasn’t about to start reaching under Stede’s nightshirt.

Because with Stede it was different than Calico Jack and all the others.

And Ed was different too.

He slid his thumb along Stede’s jaw. Maybe he should’ve been different back then as well. Sought out love that was more like this.

Separating from the kiss and regarding his lover, Ed studied the man’s face. He smelled like orange flowers and jasmine even now after a day of toiling in their neighbors’ garden and washing all their laundry.

Once the swelling in Ed’s leg subsided completely and Stede finished making that wooden prosthesis, Ed could join Stede on his stroll to the other side of the island and help him with those chores he’d been doing for that nice family. Stede would probably tell him not to. His chores were part of his debt as a colonizer and Ed wasn’t a colonizer…

Ed bit his lip, realizing Stede was watching him think his thoughts.

“Should I drink the tea?” Ed asked, his voice thick in his throat. It was mostly just a question to fill up the silence, but a small part of it was what he’d been considering.

“You should do whatever your heart tells you to do,” Stede said, cheek against his pillow, hand on Ed’s chest.

“You’re my heart. Tell me what to do.”

Stede smiled at that, lifting his fingers and pushing them through Ed’s hair, which wasn’t at all helpful in getting Ed’s pesky thoughts together.

Beneath the blanket, Ed’s remaining foot was flexing and unflexing and his lost leg was strangely hurting. Of course Ed knew his leg was gone, but he still felt his toes and he could even wiggle them. At times there’d zings of heat from his sole to his shin and his ankle would itch—the one that wasn’t there.

“I mean,” Ed said, trying to put words to something that was just out of his reach. “I should probably, maybe heal my divine feminine. Shouldn’t I?”

“Is drinking the tea the only way to do that?” Stede asked.

Ed felt his brow furrow. “How should I know?! You drank it. You’re the expert! Why do I get the feeling you don’t want me to drink it?”

“Because I don’t want you to drink it,” Stede said plainly.

“Why not?” Ed asked, glad he was actually getting somewhere with this man.

“When I drank the tea, I had to die and it was scary and painful, then I went into the cave and saw you in pain. And I know how I’d feel if I watched you drink it and knew what you were going through and that’s why my opinion on the matter isn’t relevant at all because it’s guided by my selfish wish to never again see you suffer ever again.”

Ed pressed his tongue into the roof of his mouth, mulling that over. What exactly was he after here and why was he having such a hard time talking about it? Was this jumble of thoughts really just rooted in Ed wanting sex and being too shy to talk about that?

In all of Ed’s 48 years, he’d never been shy about anything.

And if Stede had the wisdom of the universe, well, why wasn’t he making things any easier on Ed?

Still twisted to face Stede, Ed shifted, carefully moving his bandaged leg into a more comfortable position. His stomach was hurting and he realized he knew why.

Ed’s belly often ached when he thought about his father—that shapeless blob of disquiet that emerged from the ether whenever the present mirrored the past.

That man had always expected his wife to coddle him, to tell him encouraging things, and then listen patiently to all his rants and diatribes.

When Ed’s father was sober enough to talk, the man would carry on about how communication was so important in a family, but his version of communication never extended to acknowledging his wife and child’s unspoken discomfort—the hours they’d sit with their shoulders hunched and their eyes low, the awkward swallows, the reddening ears.

He was a dick that wanted to be heard and indulged without ever listening or caring about anyone but himself.

Ed opened his mouth to say something about that, but then closed his lips.

Words weren’t real things. Never were.

They probably didn’t matter.

He put his arms around Stede and held him close, feeling his warm weight and fluttering eyelashes against his jaw. Ed knew Stede liked this—the kissing, the cuddling.

And that was it. That was all that was important.

Ed imagined his mother holding his silent father and saying things like How can I help? Her whole life was devoted to placating.

She’d explained it was because he likes to feel like a man… but really Ed’s father was a lousy person who liked to feel important and the only way his mother could survive was to give him that… the fiction of his own importance.

Less words. More listening. This was how Ed would avoid becoming his father.

A pattering of paws padded across the wood floor. There was the distinctive sound of a pause, then a leap.

Ed smiled. “She’s off to another adventure.”

“Shall I close the window?” Stede asked.

“No, she’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

Chapter Text

PETE

Being a pirate with decades of experience in treacherous plots and daring adventures, Black Pete knew the importance of understanding the subtext and nuances of a mission. The many great pirate captains Pete worked under didn’t have patience for detailed explanations and needed men who could carry out a raid with instructions no more explicit than a grunt and a wave. That was where Pete shined.

In his glory days, Pete was so adept at efficiently pillaging on behalf of his captains that many of them weren’t even aware he was part of their crew.

An essentially invisible seaman could be the most sought-after seaman there was.

So, Pete found himself surprised by how out of sorts he was feeling about this current mission, especially given how much explaining Stede and Lucius had done prior to its implementation. Perhaps it was the purpose that eluded him. When your objective is robbery, the goal is clear… The objective in this case? It was the opposite of thievery—it was… baffling.

Following Lucius up to the three-story brick building at the end of the alley, the many pockets of Pete’s coat jangled and his stomach tightened into a knot.

Maybe he might’ve felt better about everything if Blackbeard had been the one to send him. After all, they had a special understanding and a very intimate connection.

A brush of softness swept against Pete’s knuckles. Lucius was taking Pete’s fingers into his grasp.

“Babe,” Lucius said, the newly acquired vagueness in his eyes giving him a slightly drunk but not unhappy appearance. “Alice is the one you’ll be going with. We’re pals and she and I talked through everything. Green door on the left. Empty everything in your pockets and help her get it safely stored away. Then, climb out her window and meet me in the little corridor there.”

“All right,” Pete said, understanding this part of the mission at least. He along with the other members of Stede’s crew were each to be taking what they’d stolen from the rich, then, pretending to be patrons of this house of ill-repute, hire the ladies for a few hours. But instead of engaging with their services, they were to give them every bit of gold they’d managed to carry in their pockets. This was all to be done stealthily. Lucius said it was important that the ladies be given the plunder individually and privately so they could decide on their own what to do with it while avoiding any meddling from their employer.

Still. Though Pete understood they were stealing from the rich and giving to the whores, he remained unclear as to just why this was so important to Lucius.

Seeming to read something in Pete’s expression, Lucius dipped forward, kissing Pete with a heated, open-mouthed intensity.

Lucius had been doing this a lot lately—offering these deep, passionate shows of affection, all of them given without any regard for the appropriateness of the setting or awareness of anyone who might be watching.

Not that Pete minded. In fact, he was very much not minding at the moment as Lucius was slipping one soothing hand behind his head, working his tongue pleasantly and inspiring a substantial amount of warmth in Pete’s groin. With Stede and Ed gone, there’d been so much more work to do on the ship and that meant less time for fooling around. Now fooling around was all Pete could think about.  

Sweetly, Lucius separated from the kiss, leaving Pete yearning.

“I got us a reservation at the inn across the street,” Lucius said, continuing to draw lingering touches down Pete’s biceps. “We won’t have to be back on the ship till later tomorrow. Help me do this?”

“You thought I wouldn’t?” Pete asked, his offended tone landing harder than he would’ve liked. “That I’d need enticement in order to perform a mission?”

Lucius’ smile dripped away but his pleasant expression remained. Pete had the feeling he was being placated and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Why couldn’t they just keep the loot for themselves, dip around the corner, then frig each other senseless? Get some ale afterward. Normal pirate stuff.

Pete reached for Lucius once more and found his hand grasping a pocket that had to have at least seventy-five doubloons in it. Enough to retire off of—if you were into that sort of thing.

“Lucius,” Pete said. “Don’t you think there’s something better we could be doing? With our money? With our time?”

Dreamily, Lucius draped his arms over Pete’s shoulders, held him close as he nuzzled Pete’s ear.

“This is all I wanna do,” Lucius said, pressing every inch of his body tightly against Pete. “Give them my money, give you my love. Today, tomorrow… until we’re 248 years old.”

Pete’s thoughts were quickly seeping out of his brain, replaced only with pictures of what he and Lucius would be doing together in that inn for the next day and a half. Still, even with one working brain cell left, Pete needed to clarify one point. “P-people don’t live to be 248 years old.”

Lucius parted from Pete, still leaving his fingertips draped around his neck. “I think maybe you and I can…”

Pete certainly liked the feel of these touches all over him, but these moments when Lucius would respond to perfectly reasonable factual statements with caresses, smiles, and absurdity instead of sensible words left Pete with a sourness in the pit of his stomach. He’d often thought of simply asking Lucius if he could just go back to being the way he used to be, but for some reason Pete never got the words out.

Once inside the bordello, Lucius drifted off down the hall after a girl in pink—one he greeted with an exceptionally chatty enthusiasm that stirred up a froth of unease in Pete’s gut. He knew he had no reason to be jealous—certainly not of a girl. But as Pete tromped down the opposite hall after a different woman—Alex? Elise? Alice?—he heard his own jaw click and he realized he’d been clenching it.

Once in the lady’s room, a layer of perspiration dampened Pete’s chest. His heart was racing. Which was odd. He’d killed and been nearly killed on over a thousand different occasions in his pirating life. So why were his nerves acting up here in a candle-lit bedroom swathed in pink draperies and velvet blankets?

The lady—a short woman of about twenty with golden brown skin and wavy black hair down to her waist—began to untie the laces of her corset.

Pete thrust up his hands, his panic now fully surging. “Whoa! No-no no! Clothes stay on.”

She gave him a confused look.

“I thought Lucius told you what was happening here.” Pete sucked in a breath, his pulse really hammering as he began to empty his pockets onto the side table. “We’re just giving you this loot and leaving you be!”

Cocking her head, she tossed her corset aside as she plopped onto the mattress. “And I’m just getting comfortable. Corsets are pokey.”

Pete released a breath, glad the white dress she was wearing would be staying on, but nonetheless hurrying to get the last of the coins, pendants, rings, and necklaces out of his various pockets and piled onto her table. “You’ll probably need to find a way to keep all this hidden. Tuck it in the mattress or something—somewhere no one will see it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re Lucius’ sweetheart, right?”

Pete nodded, then, realizing she wasn’t planning on making any sort of fast work of hiding this loot, reached for a scarf, then laid it over the glittering pile. The sooner he could get back to Lucius, the sooner they’d be making use of his inn reservation and his lover’s amorous mood.

“You’re different than I thought you would be,” she said.

Pete froze. Why would she have any thoughts on what he would be like? Had Lucius talked to her about him? “How did you think I’d be?”

“More like Lucius,” she said. “You know… Nice.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Of course I’m not nice. I’m a blood-thirsty pirate. I’ve killed a thousand men.” But as much as he was happy to make that point, discomfort lodged just under his ribcage. Since she and Lucius were pals, did that mean they talked about him? “And why are you even judging me right now?” His outrage was growing. “I’m giving you more gold than most people see in their entire lives. You should be thanking me.”

“Oh sorry! I didn’t mean to sound like I was judging. Just observing. I get that complaint sometimes… That I just say whatever I’m thinking. Leads to all sorts of problems.”

Pete’s gaze wavered between the girl on the bed and the stash on the table, his discomfort still remaining but prickling slightly with the edges of curiosity. Who was this young lady that Lucius referred to as a pal… this woman—Alex, Alice or whatever her name was—who remained so mellow—blasé even!—about the fact that there was now over a hundred doubloons worth of gold on her table? And wasn’t it dangerous for a whore to be so unguarded in her observations of men?

“Any thoughts on what you might end up doing with all your plunder?” Pete asked, mostly just to fill up the silence.

She beamed. “I’m definitely going to show up in a new town with a fancy outfit, a horse, and a carriage. Imagine the locals: ‘Who is this enigmatic stranger with her mysterious wealth’?” She danced her fingers in front of her, imagining the scene. “’Perhaps she’s a witch! Perhaps she’s murdered her husband! If only we could discover the truth!’”

Those prickles of Pete’s curiosity softened into something close to fondness. Which was an unusual sentiment for him. He’d actually never much had experience with women. They had daydreams? Imaginations? Who’d have thought!

“Any ideas on what town you might go to?” he asked.

She flopped back on her quilt, arms stretched wide. “Somewhere warm. Vera Crux?”

Pete could easily picture her in that sunny, New Spanish port city, settling in a house on the Campeachy Bay. Of course getting there would mean getting around Florida and crossing the Gulf of Mexico which Pete imagined as being a perilous journey for a young woman on her own who had a very unanxious attitude toward protecting her lavish funds.

“How would you get there?” Pete asked, immediately regretting the question. As much as she sparked his intrigue, his goal was to get back to Lucius, not make conversation with a woman he’d never see again.

She coiled a loose wave around her finger. “I’ll just need to find a friendly ship… A captain who won’t mind having me aboard and a crew who won’t cause me trouble.”

Pete sucked the spit from his tongue. See, this was why it was a mistake to start talking to her in the first place. Because if he were just a bit less guarded, he’d say something stupid like, ‘Well, there’s lots of pirating to do in the Gulf of Mexico. We could talk to our captains and help you sail to Vera Crux.’

Luckily, Pete had enough sense in his head to lift his shoulders and casually rock back on his heels. “Well, good luck with that! I gotta get back to Lucius now. Be sure to stow your gold safely.”  

She rolled onto her side, her cheek on her hand as Pete made for the window.

Like a persistent kitten, Pete’s affection crawled up his limbs and tugged at his heart once again.

He stopped. Turned back to her.

Whimsical expression, lazy smile. She reminded him of Lucius—not the old Lucius, but the new, vague, dreamy one. And though this new Lucius could be frustrating at times there was something delightful about him too. It wasn’t just the passion—which had been breathtaking lately—it something else. An indefinable thing. And that’s what Pete was seeing in this woman—he was fairly sure her name was Alice. She was the embodiment of a quality Lucius had now that Pete couldn’t quite pin down. If he were forced to give the essence a name, he’d have to just call it ‘the weird’.

She was the weird. And Lucius was too. And for the first time Pete was realizing the weird was actually pretty great.

But that didn’t mean he was going to offer her passage on the Revenge or talk to the crew about letting her aboard.

Pirates couldn’t just go around picking up random girls and taking them to Vera Crux.

“Well it was nice meeting you,” Pete said, doing his best to sound not unkind.

She gave him a thumbs up, and Pete didn’t know how he was supposed to respond to that.

Turning, he climbed out the window.

#

The corridor was empty and smelled vaguely of burnt hair. Where was Lucius? There were several other windows along the wall, curtains drawn. Lantern light burned brightly just two rooms down.

Laughter sounded. Lucius’ voice drifted through the colonnade.

Slowly, Pete let out a long breath through his nose. He wasn’t going to be irritated. Lucius deserved better than Pete’s irritation.

But if Pete were to be the least bit annoyed it would certainly be understandable because he soon found Lucius not hurrying to complete his mission, but on the other side of the window allowing himself to be adorned with those various gemstones and gilded necklaces while he lay back on the chaise, a red rose tucked behind his ear.

“Lucius?” Pete asked, climbing through the opening in the shutters.

The girl in pink glanced up, slightly startled.

“Fatima wanted to sketch me,” Lucius said. “You should see her art. It’s amazing.”

Seeming to realize that this stranger who’d just climbed into her room wasn’t at all dangerous, the girl—Fatima—gave Pete a hesitant smile. She had a sketchbook tucked under her arm and appeared to be even younger than Alice. That gave Pete a momentary heavy feeling that he had to quickly shake away.

“Didn’t you say we had reservations?” Pete asked.

Lucius’ face slackened. “Oh.” He glanced apologetically to Fatima. “Yes, I’m sorry. I suppose I can’t stay.”

Wearing a pensive expression, Lucius sat up and pulled the rose from his ear, spinning the stem between his fingers and studying it.

Disorientation wasn’t a feeling Pete was prone to experiencing—a pirate must always be orientated!—but Lucius’ dropped gaze and the whole scene before him did something funny to Pete’s knees. They wobbled beneath his hips, as if the solid ground were liquid, rocking and swaying.

From this angle, there was a rim of lantern light making a halo of gold around Lucius’ hair and Pete took the moment to cast a quick glance back to Fatima.

Her face went alight. She’d seen it too—the delicacy… the moment. The picture that could only be described as perfect.

“Wait.” Pete caught himself, confused at the tangle of emotions threading through his chest. He wasn’t an introspective man. This, Pete knew about himself. But he also knew he loved Lucius and right now he was beautiful.

And also the girl—the artist. She was so young. So very young.

And she deserved this.

Pete picked up a silk robe that lay on the floor. It would be a perfect addition to all those rubies and fine metals hanging from Lucius’ neck. “What if you put him in this? Might look better than that grubby shirt and trousers.”

Her eyes brightened as Pete brought the robe to Lucius who seized the garment, then tugged off his shirt.

It’d been weeks since Pete took the time to really look at the wounds that, though healing, remained dappled across Lucius’ arms and chest like the fading remnants of a previous life. There were several scabs still remaining along with a swath of purple that faded into yellow which stretched from his collarbone around to his ribs. Pete wondered what the girl thought of seeing all those injuries on a fellow with such a pleasant face and kind demeanor. Perhaps she was no stranger to those with lesions under their clothes.

Once changed into the silk, Lucius took Pete’s hand, giving him a kiss on his knuckles. Fatima released a little squee of joy.

“What if I draw you two together?” Fatima asked excitedly. “Would you have time for that?”

Keeping his fingers entwined with Lucius’, Pete drew his lips between his teeth. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to give an answer. Really, he should just say they only had ten minutes. That’d be a fair compromise.

In the corner of the room, a discarded leather glove lay near a pile of petticoats and silk stockings. It was a man’s glove—large and scuffed with fraying around the wrist. Pete’s faltering knees steadied themselves.

Fatima made a little noise in her throat. “I totally understand if you have to go.”

“No,” Pete said, his gaze still on the glove and his breath filling his lungs. “We don’t have to go. We have all the time in the world.”

Her teeth flashed white between plum-colored lips.

Notes from a nearby tavern carried into the room. Slow fiddle music filled the space like an incantation.

Feeling the lantern light warm against his chin, Pete lowered himself.

When the timing was right, after their posing session was over, Pete would ask Fatima what she wanted to do with her money. He’d mention Alice going to Vera Crux. He’d see if Fatima might be interested in going there as well. He’d then suggest the ladies take safe passage, free of charge, aboard the Revenge.

Ed and Stede would agree to it. Pete knew they would.

Being a pirate with decades of experience in treacherous plots and daring adventures, Black Pete knew the importance of understanding the subtext and nuances of a mission. Sometimes the instructions were minimal, the circumstances unclear. That’s why a good pirate must always rely on his instincts.

You just never know how the scenario might change.

Lucius looped his arm through his, and gladness spread from Pete’s heart to his toes. There were some missions that didn’t lead to immense caches of gold coin, dozens of kills, or treasure chests full of rare gems, but they were important nonetheless.

Some missions were about immortality. Some missions were about defying everything.

Chapter Text

OLUWANDE

The Revenge was definitely the least regimented ship Oluwande had ever been on. Though the lack of specific job titles meant tasks could be rotated and the crew could—theoretically—have experience in all aspects of the ship’s operation, it also meant that the most tedious chores got left by the wayside.

In his role as ‘fourth captain’ (that was what everyone was calling him these days) Oluwande made it his mission to address the barrel situation.

Most ships had a cooper on board. It was a highly skilled role that involved maintaining the barrels that held their water, ale, food, and gunpowder. Once the barrels were emptied, the cooper disassembled them for space and then reassembled them once more provisions were acquired.

The Revenge had no cooper. And the barrel situation was a nightmare.

Dented hoops. Moldy staves. If someone didn’t attend to all this, the crew of the Revenge would risk losing their water supply and having their flour spoiled.

Cooperage wasn’t exciting or glamorous work, but Oluwande didn’t need exciting or glamorous things. Keeping the crew alive was all that mattered. And once he got into the flow of things—prying off the hoops, reshaping them, cleaning and polishing the staves—there was something sort of peaceful about the work.

“Captain?” Jim appeared at the top of the stairs, silhouetted in a rectangle of white daylight. Lovely. Perfect.

“Please stop calling me captain. It’s weird.”

“Wee John is leading arts and crafts at noon. We’re making funny hats today. Captain.”

Oluwande smiled. Ever since Jim had developed an allergic reaction to whatever mold or spores were down in the storeroom, they’d been trying to make excuses for him to take a break from his coopering since they could no longer help out and that meant less time spent together. Oluwande’s affection swelled at all that sweetness from Jim—who would probably grumble at being called sweet—but the fact remained that there were seven barrels that needed reassembling and if they didn’t get made, there’d be nothing suitable for catching fresh water in time for the next rainstorm.

“C’mon. Make hats with us,” Jim said.

“Jim, I can’t. You all have fun though.”

They grumbled. “Maybe if I put a bandana around my face I won’t breathe in the spores and can help you.”

“No!” he said. “Don’t you remember how your face went all purple and you said your lungs felt like they were filled with molasses? You can’t come down here.”

“If someone else helps you, won’t that get you through this faster?”

Oluwande’s heart fluttered. Jim really did have a hard time staying away from him.

“Well…” He cocked his head. “Maybe. If there’s someone who isn’t busy…”

“They’re all making silly hats right now. They’re not busy.”

“And it has to be someone who isn’t going to cry when they get a splinter, or complain about how hot it is down here…”

Jim sucked in the side of their cheek. “Maybe Buttons…”

“Buttons needs to steer the ship.”

“Shit,” Jim said. “Too bad Pete’s ashore with Lucius.”

Oluwande gave a weak grin. He’d actually prefer toiling by himself rather than listening to Pete’s ridiculous tales. “I’ll be fine, Jim.”

“But I won’t.”

Those words sent a shiver of weakness through Oluwande’s limbs. He swayed for a moment then—fuck it—he charged up the steps, took Jim into his arms, and kissed them with all his might. Ever since the day of the eclipse, kissing Jim had a strange effect on Oluwande. Of course it was amazing and wonderful and broadened his chest with elation as it always did, but now his lungs filled with the flavors of sandalwood, orange blossom, and clove. When he closed his eyes, his senses were still stirred by the softness of Jim’s lips and the flex of their muscles, but now he could see things—forest floors covered in purple petals, pollen drifting upon a summer breeze, herds of deer making their way through a meadow.

Such delicate, very un-Jim-like imagery.

And that meant Oluwande was probably getting even softer than his usual self if kissing Jim made him think of flower petals and woodland creatures.

But it wasn’t just thoughts. He was there. He could feel the breeze, smell the nectar, and, if he listened closely, he could hear the bees and crickets.

Jim had told Oluwande all about what had happened after they drank the tea—how the breath left their body and their soul did as well… the pain of dying, and then the exuberant relief of being freed from one reality and knowing the wholeness of the universe—how it looked like a palace of spiderwebs made of all the colors and even those that didn’t really exist. Jim talked about the cave they had to walk through where they had to watch their father die twelve times. And then, afterward, the mountain lion who spoke with a woman’s voice, and then the gravy basket—the rolling hills where they could pull knives from the ground.

 It was a lot.

And it all made Oluwande curious and confused, but nonetheless glad that the eclipse had ended with Hornigold dead and everyone else more or less all right (except for Ed who lost his leg, but it seemed like as long as he had Stede, he’d gladly accept any amputation that came his way).

So as Oluwande was kissing Jim and seeing blossoms and forest animals, he was open to the prospect that this all had something to do with the gravy basket—whatever that was. But, of course, it wasn’t anything he planned to talk with Jim about. If he did, Jim would tell him more about how different things were for him now that he’d had the tea and the last thing Oluwande needed was to give more consideration to trying the tea himself and seeing what it would be like.

Curiosity was a fine thing to indulge in once and a while, but, as fourth captain, it was his responsibility to see to the safety of this crew. He wouldn’t dare put any of them at risk by experimenting with a beverage that would make him useless for a day and a half.

Jim parted from Oluwande’s kiss, holding his gaze with a strange intensity in their eyes.

Oluwande swallowed. Jim was reading something within him. What was it?

“It was deer this time, wasn’t it?” Jim asked.

The question made all the joints in Oluwande’s body go stiff. How did Jim know he’d been thinking of a deer? And what did Jim mean by this time? Did that mean Jim had known about where he’d gone during those previous kisses? Had they any hints of those lagoons, mountains, and majestic valleys Oluwande had lived in and felt for moments that could’ve easily been hours?

“Are you able to see my thoughts?” Oluwande asked.

Jim brought their palms together. They moved their mouth as if they were trying to find the words. “It’s not your thoughts… It’s the… language… the words of the moment but done in pictures.” They paused. “No, not pictures.”

“Not pictures,” Oluwande confirmed because it wasn’t just pictures. There were smells, sensations, tastes.

Jim gave a wide grin—a thing that usually made Oluwande’s belly flutter. And, well, yes his belly was fluttering but now he had a morsel of apprehension quickening his pulse.

Reaching forward, Jim clenched Oluwande’s elbows. “Let’s make funny hats!”

Oluwande suppressed the desire to swat Jim upside the head. “I don’t care about the hats. What’s happening when I kiss you?”

Jim raised a sly eyebrow. “Eeeevvvverything.”

“C’mon,” Oluwande said. “This is serious. I want to understand.”

Jim’s cheeky grin transformed. Finally, some sobriety. “What if I show you?”

See, this was the problem with asking too much about all of this. Jim would start telling him about what the tea could do, and then Oluwande’s curiosity would start up again and… No. He was going to be a responsible captain, not get himself wrapped up in this sort of distraction.

“I’m not going to drink the tea,” Oluwande said.

“And I don’t think you have to.” Jim cupped Oluwande’s cheeks which had the disconcerting effect of making him want to plummet to his knees. “I think three days should do it.”

“What are you talking about?” Oluwande asked. “You’re not gonna mess with my brain, are you?”

They danced their fingers before his eyes. “I’m gonna delve into the weirdness and see how far it’ll go. And then I’m gonna bring it to you.”

Oluwande had no idea what that meant and his stomach gurgled. Jim’s idea sounded vaguely like a fuckery.

“I’m scared,” he said.

Jim’s teeth flashed. “It’s not scary, it’s love.”

Oluwande shifted his weight from one foot to the other, still not able to form an inkling of what Jim could possibly have in mind, but nonetheless awestruck by their use of the word ‘love.’

Appearing to read his hesitancy, Jim kissed him again and Oluwande was back in sand dunes amongst jackrabbits and sunset clouds.

When Jim finished their kiss, Oluwande was left wobbly—which was mostly all right. There was nothing wrong with a few moments of bliss. Still, he wanted to know what the pictures and sensations were about. Jim needed three days to show him?

“Now forget I said anything!” Jim said with a wide sweep of their arms. “And just savor the weirdness when it encounters you!”

Now Oluwande really was scared.

“And, for you, Captain, I’m gonna make it cute.”

#

In the morning, Oluwande woke as he usually did—entangled with Jim and wishing the sun would stay low just a bit longer. It was such an indulgent thing to yearn for: more rest, more affection. So many of the neighbors and relatives Oluwande grew up with—folks who’d been great artists, thinkers, and teachers—were now suffering and dying at the hands of the white colonizers. It was supposed to be his mission in life to disrupt the trading routes, but here Oluwande was spending his hours beneath the Revenge’s decks making barrels and simply wanting to keep this ship’s crew safe and alive. Sure, they were still doing raids and all that loot was going to good use liberating the women in the brothels, but shouldn’t he be doing more? And if so, what could that more be?

Before he fully opened his eyes, the bare skin of his shoulder began to tickle. He crinkled his nose, feeling a prickling, crawly presence.

Oluwande touched his mouth and a butterfly crawled onto his hand. Blinking, he turned his shoulder. There was another butterfly there as well, crawling down the length of his bicep. They were both black and yellow swallowtails, their wings immense and their movements slow. They seemed not the least bit alarmed by Oluwande bringing them onto his fingers. Had he ever seen a butterfly at sea before?

“Jim,” Oluwande said, nudging his mate. “Did you make butterflies land on me?”

Rolling over, Jim stretched, regarded the two little insects on Oluwande’s fingers then winked and kissed his cheek.

Gently, Oluwande guided the butterflies onto one palm. “Well, you’ll have to figure out something for them to eat. If they die on this ship, I’ll feel really guilty about it.”

#

Down in the storeroom, while hammering the hoops around a newly constructed barrel, Oluwande felt a light tickling at his hairline. Slowly, he lifted his hand to his brow.

Yes. Another butterfly.

Keeping his finger beneath its legs, he let the creature crawl onto his knuckle. It was a mostly-black butterfly this time with blue and purple spots on its wings. A pretty little thing.

Jim. Oluwande’s heart gave a throb. Not many men could boast that their beloved could make butterflies cross the sea as evidence of their love.

His head continued prickling. The hell?

Setting down his hammer, Oluwande made his way up the steps.

“What’s happening with your head, man?” Frenchie asked when Oluwande stepped into the sunlight.

He drew in a long breath. “There’s a bunch of butterflies on my hat right now, aren’t there?”

Beside Frenchie, Wee John nodded. “It’s pretty. Like a crown or somethin’.”

“JIIIIIIIM!” Oluwande wasn’t mad, but… geeze. He had work to do.

Jim scurried over to the capstan and set a bowl of pinkish-orange liquid upon it. The two black and yellow butterflies from earlier that morning were already bobbing on slices of cork, sipping the juice with their needle-thin tongues

Oluwande sighed, glad the creatures at least had something to eat.

“Unless you have some magic way to get them to fly back to wherever they came from, we’ll have to return to port so our little stowaways can”—Oluwande fluttered his hands—“do whatever butterflies do.”

“But we have pet butterflies now!” Jim said, fully enchanted expression brightening their face.

“I like butterflies,” Swede said.

As carefully as he could, Oluwande removed his butterfly-covered hat and placed it next to the bowl.

“Babe,” Oluwande said, turning to Jim and taking hold of them by their shoulders. “It’s a very nice little gesture you’ve done. I get it now. Thank you.”

He gave them a gentle kiss on the forehead.

A wry smile remained on Jim’s face. “What do you get, exactly?”

Oluwande opened his mouth to respond with something about the depth of Jim’s love, but then he closed it again, confusion brewing once more. This all started because he wanted to know what was precisely happening when he kissed Jim—why there were waterfalls and woodland creatures appearing all around. That part of things hadn’t really been explained.

Jim patted Oluwande on the elbow. “Two more days. That should do it.”

“Please no more butterflies. These poor things are probably exhausted.”

A gust of lazy wind drifted up from the Revenge’s stern. It was a warm breeze—could almost be described as affectionate.

“The butterflies will be fine, Captain.”

Was Oluwande appeased? If Jim said the creatures would be all right, then they would have to be, wouldn’t they? “It’s still so weird when you call me Captain.”

Jim lifted their chin. “This is why it’s time for you to embrace the weird.”

#

The next day Buttons spotted a lone merchant ship. It was off the main sea lane—likely headed to the southern part of the Province of Carolina to pick up a haul of indigo.

Oluwande put his eye to the spyglass and his suspicions were confirmed—blue smears over the ship’s railing and blue handprints on her sails. Definitely, an indigo hauler likely stocked with plenty of funds to pay for the dye bricks they were en route to purchase.

Oluwande wrinkled his nose. Indigo production was a horrible thing. He’d heard all about it from a woman who’d managed to escape—one the Revenge had assisted on her way back to her family. Enslaved people were forced to toil all day amongst the flies and mosquitos while stirring the fermenting goop that smelled worse than an over-filled latrine on a summer day. The stink was so bad the processing sites were often miles from the plantation houses. That was how the colonizers operated—they got to live in huge mansions and enjoy the comfort of fresh-smelling air, while those who built their profits labored unpaid in hellish conditions.

“WHAT’LL IT BE CAP’N?” Buttons asked.

Lowering the spyglass, Oluwande turned to him, taking no glee in what he was about to say next.

“Let’s fuck those assholes.”

#

Even with four members of their crew ashore, the Revenge easily overpowered the British merchant ship and seized their stash of funds. With the men all disarmed and bound at the wrists and ankles, there was the question of what to do with the new hostages. These weren’t slavers, but they profited off the exploitation people nonetheless and if they were allowed to carry on their way, they’d just continue their trade.

Crouching to peer at the cluster of men who were now squatted on the Revenge’s deck, Oluwande rubbed his jaw.

Jim stepped to his side while Buttons made ferocious chomping noises at a pink-skinned bearded man.

“What’s your plan, Captain?” Jim asked.

Oluwande had an idea. And maybe it was Jim’s fault that he had this idea. But it enchanted him slightly—which was an odd feeling to have in the presence of these terrible white men.

“What if we had them drink the tea?” Oluwande asked.

Jim turned to him. Buttons took out his metal teeth, expression blank—shocked? They both probably thought he’d gone goofy, but, still, Oluwande needed to know what they thought.

“Objections?” Oluwande asked. “Counterpoints? Opinions? Frankly, I’m curious, but I also think… Just maybe… It might inspire them to change their ways?”

Broad smile brightening Jim’s face, they faced the bound men. “You fuckers are lucky. We could’ve killed you, but now you’re gonna go on a spiritual journey.”

#

Buttons insisted that if the hostages were to have the full experience with the tea, then the ceremony was required. Everyone convened in the jam room, the hostages placed in the center of the space while Frenchie, Wee John, and Roach beat out a rhythm on the drums.

With the ceremony ready to begin, Oluwande returned to the helm. He could hear the drum beat below the deck and could even smell the incense Buttons had begun to light. The captured ship had been anchored off the Revenge’s starboard side, her sails lowered. She was a nice-looking ship, except for the blue smears. They could sell her in the Republic of Pirates and fetch a good price. Maybe Oluwande could offer a discount if her new owner signed a contract requiring her to only be used for the disruption of trading routes. Maybe it’d just be smarter to offer her at an exceptionally low price to anyone who wasn’t white.

Oluwande squinted into the clouds, a thickness forming in his throat but he couldn’t put his finger on exactly why. Maybe it was envy. Did he wish he had what the rest of the crew had—the freedom to just live one day at a time without mulling over the impact of all the available choices?

Footsteps sounded on the deck behind him. Jim’s feet—he could tell by the rhythm—but he didn’t turn. The clouds had gone pink though it was too early for sunset—it had to be. A hint of lightness began to elevate Oluwande’s shoulders and his breath began to slow. There were pictures in the clouds. Waterfalls. Mountains. Curling vines and complicated forests.

“You’re getting stronger,” Oluwande said. “Aren’t you, Jim?”

“It’s not strength,” Jim said, coming up behind Oluwande and enclosing him with their arms. This still took some getting used to—Jim using their arms for hugging instead of knife-wielding. “I’m not sure if I can put the right words to what it is… Acceptance. That’s close, but…not all the way there. Receptance?” They shook their head. “We’re all instruments, you know? That’s as best as I can describe it… but, no. Still not the right words.”

“That’s why you need to show me with butterflies and cloud pictures?” Oluwande asked. “Because the right words for it all don’t exist?”

Jim rested their chin on Oluwande’s shoulder. “I think the words existed at some point… Some point a long time ago. We’ve lost them though…”

An exhale, slow and rollicking whispered from Oluwande’s throat. There was something there in that statement. So much had been lost. And maybe because he was giving these white men tea instead of making them walk the plank, he was complicit in more being lost.

“There’s a choice you make, isn’t there?” Oluwande asked. Maybe he’d heard it from Jim, maybe from the others. “You drink the tea. You die. Then you have to choose between going toward something comforting and going into the cave. And you’re supposed to choose the cave.”

“You’re supposed to choose the cave,” Jim said. “It’s where the hard stuff is.”

Oluwande shifted his teeth. “And you can sort of tell who chose the cave and who didn’t, can’t you?”

Jim slipped around to Oluwande’s front, meeting his eyes, their expression not terribly serious but definitely full of knowing. “You can tell.”

Oluwande swallowed. Yes. He could. Lucius had definitely gone into the cave. Pete hadn’t. Those were the two who were the most obvious. Lucius had changed after all—become more earnest in a way that was difficult to describe—but Pete hadn’t.

Perhaps Oluwande ought to pay more attention to the others and figure out who had gone into the cave and who hadn’t… Maybe it didn’t matter.

Now he’d formed his plan. “We’ll figure out which of the British men went into the cave. Those who didn’t, we’ll drop them off at various points along the Florida Straits. A hundred miles apart. Not marooning. Not quite. Just isolation. If they make an effort, they’ll make themselves amenable and useful to the indigenous folks they encounter. If they don’t make an effort, well… I think nature will do what she needs to do.”

Jim nodded subtly. “And the ones who go through the cave?”

“There won’t be very many, will there?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

Oluwande drew his fingers through Jim’s hair. “We’ll figure that out when the time comes.”

#

By morning, the hostages were still drowsy but were talking amongst themselves—about the rainbows, the spiderwebs, and the great big snake. Oluwande asked them questions about what they’d seen. It was a strange little performance he felt himself giving. Part of himself was genuinely interested in hearing what they’d seen and experienced, but another part of himself feigned an extra degree of friendliness. He needed them to be perfectly honest—to feel like Oluwande’s questioning was unmarred by judgment.

In the end, it turned out to be a young fellow of twenty-three who’d gone into the cave. He was the only one. Oluwande could tell by the lad’s weary expression, the way he kept his hands tucked into his sleeves when he talked. When the boy—his name was Francis—explained what he’d seen, he spoke of black rocks, water, and scenes from his life in an orphanage where he and his mates were scolded for having the wrong emotions.

Oluwande took the boy aside and helped him make a sleeping area in Stede’s auxiliary wardrobe.

“Where’s the plantation you all were headed to?” Oluwande asked. “Do you think you remember enough to take us there?”

Francis looked up, all velvety dark eyes and black curls. “You’re gonna raid the indigo?”

Oluwande shook his head. “We’re gonna destroy the indigo.”

The boy looked confused.

“We’re gonna destroy the indigo and the whole lousy plantation too.” He squatted onto his heels. “And if any of those folks who’ve been making that indigo—the ones who weren’t getting paid, that is—want a brand-new sailing ship, I’m gonna give it to them.”

Mouth opening, Francis nodded like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders. Yes, this kid would be useful.

#

Back on the main deck, the butterflies were still clustered around the bowl of pink juice. More had gathered on the Revenge’s sails. There were still several barrels that needed cleaning and rebuilding, but that could wait a little longer. For now, Oluwande peered in the direction of the Carolina province. Ahead would be mayhem and mosquitos, but there’d also be so many more friends. He could teach them to sail. The world needed more pirates. More disruption. More freedom.

Jim was still below decks, but Oluwande knew they’d come up soon. The sky was getting brighter and the breeze smelled like citrus.

Chapter Text

WEE JOHN

Wee John’s mother once told him that out of all of her thirteen children, Wee John was the least trouble. He never made any noise. Didn’t need anything. And instead of complaining of hunger, spent most of the day fast asleep.

He’d been about five years old when she first praised his unburdensome nature and it made a profound impact. He was proud of himself. He didn’t have any special skills or talents that could be useful to his family, but he was thrilled with his ability to not be a bother.

And so, when he was ten and a schoolteacher broke Wee John’s hand (Wee John had given the incorrect answer to a question and earned a caning across his knuckles), Wee John kept his red and swollen limb hidden at the dinner table, and tried as best as he could to get by with his left hand. It went on like that for four days until one of his siblings accidentally bumped into him while he was heading out the door. Wee John had plummeted to his knees, the tears finally cascading like rivers down his cheeks.

There wasn’t much to be done for a broken hand of course. His mother wrapped it in rags soaked with vinegar and, at school, the other children teased him for the way he smelled—like pickles, they’d said.

Wee John just kept his head down and mouth silent, of course. And when the teacher punished him for his messy handwriting, Wee John didn’t say what he yearned to say—You broke my writing hand, you child-abusing piece of shit—instead, he allowed his backside to be paddled while the other children laughed.

Making a fuss wasn’t going to change anything. His mother—with her twelve other children and her sewing work—had more important worries and didn’t need her youngest son causing a ruckus at school.

When Wee John’s older brother got sick and could no longer continue blacksmithing, Wee John got a job aboard a sailing vessel. The plan was to send money back home. Keep his family’s pantry well stocked.

The habit of silent compliance had been a well-trod path at that point—one that seemed impossible to divert from. He endured the taunts from his shipmates who used bullying him as their primary means of building morale amongst each other. He didn’t fight back when the men poured molasses in his hair or pissed on his bedsheets.

It went on for years like that. Decades. At some point, legitimate merchant ships became pirate ships. New captains. Same crews. The usual hazing.

Wee John excelled when it came to raids—all that bottled-up fury was finally allowed its release. He could bust down doors, wield a mallet, light things on fire. He once even managed to drive a sword through a British sailor’s skull.

The bullying began to dissipate after that. Wee John learned how to punch his crewmates in the stomach if they gave him any trouble, and, as the years went on, he embraced the power of sarcasm and menace.

After a lifetime of stoicism, the ability to defend himself should’ve felt like a relief, but it left Wee John just as empty and helpless as the years of silence. Within Wee John there were tangles, hues, and nuances of his being that not another soul knew about—not even his mother who only ever saw his unbothersome side.

When Wee John came aboard the Revenge, needles of a strange, new lightness began to unwind in his chest. Captain Bonnet wanted everyone to talk about their feelings. The musician, Frenchie, started lingering at his side during meals and throughout their arts and crafts sessions.

In his 47 years of life, Wee John had never had a friend before, and now he and Frenchie were room people—sharing meals and making costumes together. As their closeness blossomed, he started imagining how things would look in the future: being pals well into their sixties, always relying on each other.

But since the eclipse, things had changed. Frenchie would spend hours upon hours looking at the clouds and strumming his lute. When Wee John would try to talk to him, Frenchie would just turn his words into lyrics.

“How’s it going, Frenchie?” Wee John would ask.

Strum. Strum. “How.” Strum. “How-how-how. How’s it goin’. How’s it goin’ Frenchie?” It went on like that. “How-how-how.”

Sure, it was a pleasant enough tune. The melody fine, the lyrics… What they were. But it’d been several days at least since they had an actual conversation.

Something was shifting and it made Wee John’s stomach feel like there was a bear inside it clawing to get out. He found himself going to the head and just sitting there with tears in his eyes. It was such a strange, stupid thing to get upset about. Frenchie wasn’t being mean to him. Wasn’t even ignoring him really.

He was just different.   

And there wasn’t anything wrong, really. With being different.

But Wee John wanted things back like how they were before. Which was such a childish thing to wish for. Yet as much as he tried to tell himself he didn’t need anyone’s company, the pangs of loneliness mutilated his heart nonetheless.

Why this aching despair? Why now? For most of his life his one redeeming feature had been the fact that he never needed anything from anyone. That he kept to himself.

Stepping out of the head and gazing past the bow toward the horizon, Wee John wiped the last of those persistent tears with the heel of his hand. He couldn’t believe he was crying over this. Over Frenchie playing his lute. Over nothing, really.

Back in his room, Wee John found the yards of fabric Stede had given him over the past several months. He took the piles of satin, silk, and brocades along with some scissors and brought them up to the main deck.

He’d make tassels. Captain Bonnet could always use more tassels.

Wee John flattened out the fabric and began cutting a narrow strip out of a piece of green velvet. Focus was the key here—a good tassel was made from especially thin strips, no wobbles or irregularity. The heave and pitch of the ship made straight lines difficult, but Wee John concentrated as best he could all while ignoring that persistent pinch of heat that bloomed just behind his eyes.

The rhythmic clap of the slicing blades transformed into a rustle. Wee John moved the scissors forward. Another rustle. The hell?

He lifted the fabric and found them—sheets of paper. And then, tucked underneath more folds: the notebook he used to keep. It’d been months since he’d last looked at it.

Once, Stede had asked the crew if any among them could read and write. Wee John let Lucius have the honor of being the Revenge’s sole literate crew member. After all, if there were more than one reader among them, the rest of their shipmates might feel bad.

But, yes. Wee John could read and write.

And upon these sheets of paper and within this notebook, there were his observations. A few sentences here and there.

If he were being perfectly honest with himself, he’d use the correct language to describe these jottings—they were… well… they were jokes.

Straightening a bit, Wee John looked around—just to make sure no one was going to peer over his shoulder.

He read one of the early passages:

What’s the difference between Captain Blackbeard on a bicycle and Captain Bonnet on a tricycle?

He wrinkled his nose, already knowing what he’d find written just a bit further down the page:

Attire.

See, this was why he stopped writing these silly thoughts as they came into his head. They weren’t any good, and it’d be embarrassing if anyone ever found them.

He flipped to one of the loose sheets tucked into the back of the binding.

As he read the scrawling sentences, a confused swirl of emotions reddened his face and quickened his pulse.

Did you hear what happened after Captain Blackbeard took over the Revenge? Wee John had once written—this he’d jotted down after they’d recovered Lucius and he told them what had happened with Ed. Well, Izzy approached Blackbeard and asked if anything unusual had happened on deck.

“Lucius fell into the sea,” Blackbeard had said.

Izzy clapped his hand to his mouth, shocked.

“Is he all right?” Izzy asked.

Blackbeard only shrugged. “He must be. Stopped calling for help hours ago.”

Wee John snorted, forced his grin back into a frown, and then covered his eyes. This wasn’t funny. It wasn’t even close to being funny.

And if Lucius ever read that joke, what would he think? Sure, the young fellow had a sense of humor, but… Geeze… Finding out Wee John was writing jokes about his death? That was unforgivable.

Wasn’t it?

Wee John flipped to the middle of the notebook.

I used to have depression, Wee John’s handwriting read. But after a lot of hard work, grit, and determination to keep going, I now have anxiety and depression.

He rubbed his mouth. Yes, there were quite a few of these in here—the more personal stuff.

Sorry for all the jokes about depression, you guys. I agree, they’re not funny, lazy, and quite frankly rather problematic.

…Just like me.

Wee John sucked in a breath through his teeth. Maybe it was the ‘you guys,’ he’d written in there. That was what he’d once daydreamed of doing—gathering the crew around and telling his jokes.

He imagined everyone laughing. Laughing with him, not at him.

What that might feel like—to make other people happy.

#

That evening, in his and Frenchie’s room, a new joke wormed its way into Wee John’s mind. If he could tell it right, it might be really good—he’d just have to get the proper rhythm, put the emphasis on the correct words.

He rolled over, cleared his throat.

“You awake, Frenchie?”

Over on the other mattress, Frenchie stirred. “Yeah man, I kinda don’t really sleep anymore.”

Wow. That was alarming and potentially unhealthy. “Uh. So. Earlier today I was talking to Roach…”

“Yeah?”

It felt good to have Frenchie finally responding to him. Maybe this was what Wee John needed to do—talk to his room person in the middle of the night. “You know, Roach went ashore yesterday to get supplies. Well, he told me something funny… about Blackbeard.”

“Yeah? What’s that man?”

Wee John swallowed; the joke would work best if it stayed conversational. “There was this priest Roach ran into. And he was telling him all about how the dread pirate Blackbeard had actually come into confession.”

Frenchie bolted up. “Whoa, really?’

Wee John nodded enthusiastically, delighted that Frenchie was buying into it. “Yeah. This priest said Blackbeard sat down in his booth, and was like ‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I’ve come into an unholy union with Captain Stede Bonnet—the Gentleman Pirate.’”

“Holy shit.”

Wee John shifted, scooting up and facing Frenchie. “And the priest was like, ‘Tell me your sins.’ And Blackbeard says, ‘For the last few weeks, Stede Bonnet and I have made passionate love in every way humanly imaginable. I’ve never had sex this good before. Never in my entire life. We don’t eat. We don’t sleep. We just make passionate love at all hours of the day. This is why I’ve come to confess.’”

Frenchie was holding his breath.

“And so, the priest goes, ‘How long has it been since your last confession?’ And Blackbeard says, ‘I’ve never been to confession.’ And the priest is like, ‘Wait. You’re a middle-aged man. A bloodthirsty pirate! You’ve never been to confession! Why now?’ And Blackbeard’s like, ‘Well, I’m not Catholic. I’m, like, Jewish, sort of?’ So the priest is all, ‘Well, then why are you telling me this?’”

Frenchie was leaning close at this point, his lips pressed together.

Wee John drew his shoulders up, silently praying this punchline would land. “‘Because,’ Blackbeard says, ‘I’m telling everyone.’”

A high, shrieking noise exploded from Frenchie’s throat. He was covering his face. Stomping his feet. Wailing. Cackling!

“Holy shit man.” Frenchie wiped his eyes. “Did you just come up with that yourself?”

Wee John bobbed his head. “I’ve sort of been writing these jokes down. Not really telling anyone about ‘em.” The way he’d said that sounded so meek, cautious. “Glad you like it.”

Tears were still streaming down Frenchie’s cheeks. His face was red, and his laughter vibrated the timber.

This was the most satisfied Wee John had ever felt in his entire life.

There was a knock on the door and Oluwande peeked in. “Hey guys, everything all right in here?”

 Frenchie pointed at Wee John. “Tell him, Wee John. Tell him what you just told me.”

#

In the morning, the clouds were shaped like jackrabbits and Frenchie was working on a song about toast. Wee John had his notebook out and was writing a joke he planned to share with Lucius once he was back from vacation. It was a bit dark, but he had a feeling Lucius would appreciate it:

Why doesn’t Lucius Spriggs ever take a bath? Wee John had written, his scrawl messy as he hurried for the punchline.

Cause he’ll just wash ashore later.

Chapter Text

IZZY

Everything hurt. Especially the inside stuff.

It’d been six days since the Ranger’s crew dumped Izzy near port. He’d swum his way to shore, the salt water stinging his wounds and his prosthesis impeding his efforts. Izzy knew every island and atoll in the Atlantic and recognized the beach of Santa Apolonia Island immediately. The gunmaker there told him he could get doctored at Madame Bouvet de Lozier’s place and that’s where Izzy had been since the eclipse—abed in a brothel, fever and melancholia turning him in on himself.

In his previous decades, Izzy had hardened his soul against emotional turmoil, shaking off any slivers of depression by focusing on the ship and the work that needed doing.

But now Izzy had no ship. No captain to serve. He didn’t even have his clothes since Madame Bouvet de Lozier had taken them somewhere to dry and that was nearly a week ago. He’d been too bashful—there in his borrowed nightshirt beneath frilly pastel bedcovers—to ask where she’d taken them.

Stillness was a compounding thing.

He’d really only intended to be there an hour. The plan had been to acquire the necessary medicines, then search for his next employer. But then his wooden leg was gone—Madame Bouvet de Lozier said she’d taken it to get padded so he wouldn’t keep suffering those blisters—and despite Izzy’s insistence that he didn’t need padding and hadn’t the money to pay for such luxuries, the limb was now gone and that meant Izzy was stuck on this mattress, dependent on a strange lady for his care, hygiene, and feeding.

Which was probably why his melancholia was only getting worse. If he could get up and make himself useful, he could ignore the growing heaviness that made each ache so agonized. But now his lungs felt like they weighed more than the entire ocean and the space behind his eyes stung like he’d gotten saltwater permanently stuck in his brain.

Going to sleep didn’t help. When he did, he saw Ed’s shin as it’d looked when the mallet slammed into it. The sight of that shattered bone, the angle of Ed’s foot going the wrong direction. In Izzy’s fantasies it was all much more real than it had been in life.

The opaque ether that was Izzy’s mind was now constantly replaying alternative versions—moments where Izzy put his weapon down and stared into Hornigold’s eyes, visions where he wielded the mallet not against Ed, but against the old captain whose breath smelled like sulfur and whose skin resembled decaying lizards.

Izzy needed to get out of this brothel.

Surely there had to be men’s clothes around—some he could find and slip into. If he mustered up the willpower, he could even demand that Madame Bouvet de Lozier bring back his prosthesis so he could start looking for a job.

Pulling back the covers, Izzy reached for the crutches she’d given him. Yes, the prospect of making his way down the hall and into the view of this establishment’s customers while wearing nothing but a long, ruffled night shirt mortified him, but needs must and—dammit—if he didn’t get on his way, there’d be no escape from this quicksand of overwhelming despair.

With the crutches tucked into his armpits, Izzy lifted himself up, the wound in his shoulder stinging angrily, but that could be ignored. Scents of warm sugar, cinnamon, and hot fruit met his nose. His stomach rumbled.

If the lady offered him any more food, he would refuse. Yes, all the rolls, stews, and produce platters had been the most delicious things he’d ever tasted in his life, but he’d already spent everything he had in his pockets and he wouldn’t let himself get further into her debt.

There was a knock at the door. Madame Bouvet de Lozier’s knock.

That now-familiar mix of numbness and terror washed over him. She was coming to give him more things—compliments on his progress, sugary food, warm beverages, soft bedding. Sure, a normal person would receive this all graciously and maybe even feel good about it. But Izzy wasn’t normal—he’d made peace with that long ago. Yes, he’d previously eaten her baked goods, drank her cider, and lay beneath her quilts, but it all made him feel like he ought to vomit from shame.

The thing about Madame Bouvet de Lozier was that she likely thought she was tending to a perfectly normal, injured man. And the fact that Izzy hadn’t managed to tell her that he was a shameful excuse for a human—a pathetic fool. A dope. A failure. A wretch.

Well, that was deceitful, wasn’t it?

In fact, his father’s words had been getting louder in his head over the past few weeks—you’re an idiot Israel Hands. Someday they’ll all call you Israel the Ignorant.

“Mr. Hands?” Bouvet de Lozier stepped through the door and pushed up her glasses.

The sight of her had begun to cause a great deal of disquiet within Izzy’s chest. She had a rich umber complexion with copper undertones, her curly black hair cut short and confined by a plaid scarf. Orange trousers enclosed her long legs and a purple waistcoat cinched her torso. She wore men’s clothes, yes, but not the masculine kind. Far from it. She was dressed like a dandy. A dandy! But she was a woman and the fact that she insisted on so loudly and preposterously donning herself in clothes that somehow managed to be neither fully male nor fully female made Izzy uncomfortable in a way that was difficult to describe.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said. “Gave me a letter for you to have.”

Swallowing, Izzy didn’t take the folded paper from Madame Bouvet de Lozier grasp. Not because he necessarily objected to receiving a letter, but because he needed both hands to keep himself upright on his crutches. “Do they want to see me or do they want me to read the letter?”

“Both, I think.”

Izzy’s heart gave a heave. If it were Edward, the man would just storm through the door unannounced. If it were any of the Ranger’s crew, there’d be no letter. None of them could read or write. The Revenge’s crew on the other hand… No. None of them would bother with tracking him down. And if they did, surely it’d be because they wanted to see another one of his limbs get removed.

“Did they give a name?” Izzy asked, still not moving and feeling a bit guilty for not possessing a third hand.

“Said his name was Captain Stede Bonnet-Teach.”

Izzy sat back down, letting the crutches plummet to the floor with a clatter.

“He mentioned you might be displeased to hear it was him. That’s probably why he insisted on me bringing you this letter.” She stepped closer, the page pinched in her fingers and her nails chewed down to the quick.

Izzy hadn’t noticed that before—that Bouvet de Lozier’s nails were rough as splintered tree bark.

He took the paper but didn’t yet open it. “Did he have any weapons on him?”

“Not that I saw. I’ll pat him down before I bring him in here.” She wrinkled her nose. “If you want him that is.”

The practicality of this conversation unwound something in Izzy’s chest. “I need clothes. And my leg.”

“The leg’s still with the upholsterer. And your leathers are getting mended.”

“I don’t mind torn things.”

“They’re all the way across town.”

“Shit.”

“I’m a bit bigger than you are, but I have a shirt and trousers that’ll work,” she said.

Jesus fucking Christ. She was going to put him in her own clothes. “No colors. I don’t wear anything with colors.”

She jerked her head back as though she’d been slapped, but then smiled. Crossed her arms. “I have just the thing.”

The paper felt hot in Izzy’s hands. He looked down at it—just a bit of inky scrawl visible in the corner. What the fuck was Bonnet doing coming to see him?

“Thank you,” he said. “For everything, Madame Bouvet de Lozier. I’m sorry for the way I am.”

“You don’t have to apologize, Mr. Hands.” Her voice was far too kind. “It seems like you’ve been through a lot.”

He looked up at her, whatever words he intended to say catching in his throat.

The light from the window revealed strands of gray in her curls. Some of her eyebrow hairs were white too—three, maybe five.

“I’ll be back with the clothes,” she said.

His lungs felt airless, watery. “Thank you.”

And then she gone, closing the door softly as she left.

The fact that she’d probably pass Bonnet on her way to fetch the clothing was a thing Izzy didn’t let himself think too much about. And he wasn’t going to let himself consider the uneasy trembling of his limbs. It was probably just the remnants of sickness and cold.

It had nothing to do with Madame Bouvet de Lozier.

Madame meant married, didn’t it?

Either way, it didn’t matter. He certainly wasn’t going to be bothering with a woman—and most definitely not the proprietor of a brothel.

Izzy’s vision swam as he took in the words. Jesus. What the fuck did Bonnet have to say in this fucking novel-length correspondence?

Dear Mister Israel Hands,  

I’m sure you’re surprised to hear from me, but I don’t wish you to be alarmed or cross that I’ve tracked you down. First and foremost, I’ve come to deliver your severance package on behalf of your captain. Ed tells me you may not know what a severance package is, so let me explain. It’s a substantial amount of money to help you as you transition to a new employer. I think the quantity of doubloons we’ve put together for you will leave you satisfied.

The other reason I wanted to find you is to tell you that I know things were difficult between you and Ed when you last encountered each other, but Ed is doing all right. He lost his leg. So there’s that. You and he now have something quite significant in common. A pirate’s life and all.

So yes, the amputated leg is certainly a thing… No easy way to put it. But the long story short is that he’s fine. He will be fine. I’ll take care of him. We’re happy.

I know you’re probably going through a lot, emotionally. And I can’t speak for Ed, but as someone who’s made regrettable choices in the past, I can confidently say that guilt doesn’t do anyone any good. Feeling bad about things doesn’t help either. I’m not angry, and I don’t think you should be angry at yourself.

I forgive you, Izzy. I wish you well. And I’d like to talk to you, pleasantly, if you’re up for it.

If you’re not up for it, I’ll happily leave you the doubloons, but you’ll have to let me know how you’d like to receive them.

Maybe draw me a treasure map and I’ll bury them in a place where you can find them when you’re ready?

I’ll await your response for how to proceed.

Yours kindly,  

Captain Stede Bonnet-Teach of the Revenge

P.S. – Seven members of the Revenge’s crew say they forgive you as well. I know it’s not a unanimous opinion, but it is a majority and that’s something!

Izzy’s throat filled with glue and teardrops moistened the paper. Dammit. He had no reason to be as choked and sniffly as he was. It was a letter from a fool. The biggest idiot on the high seas.

And Edward.

Well, there wasn’t really any Edward in that letter. Izzy had already known weeks ago that Blackbeard was gone and Edward had chosen the ponce.

So there was no sense in having any emotion about this. None at all.

Certainly not now.

Setting the letter on the table, Izzy slipped back under the covers and curled on his side. The pillow was getting wet from his tears and he wiped his nose on that infernal ruffled sleeve. He wanted to close his eyes for just a moment before Bouvet de Lozier came in again, but he knew he’d see Ed’s broken leg in the darkness and that simply wouldn’t do.

Just outside his window, a yellow-throated warbler whistled. Izzy rolled onto his back, staring up at the intricate molding in the ceiling and feeling the wetness stream into his ears.

What would that ignoramus Stede Bonnet like more: personally seeing Israel Hands in this current, pathetic state or getting him to draw a treasure map?

Izzy absolutely wasn’t going to draw a treasure map, so it seemed the decision had been made for him. There was no refusing any of this. He needed the money.

#

The clothes Bouvet de Lozier brought for Izzy were purple. Purple.

She didn’t seem to think they were purple, though. In fact, when she proudly presented them, she had a huge smile on her face as she said, “See! Black!”

“Thank you, Madame Bouvet de Lozier,” Izzy said, his cheeks growing hot and his fingers drifting over the undeniably dark purple fabric.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“When are you going to start calling me Louise?”

He looked up, startled by the shift in the conversation. “Wouldn’t that be disrespectful to your… husband?”

She winced. “The Madame doesn’t mean I’m married.”

A string of tightness moved around Izzy’s stomach and he couldn’t tell whether it was tightening or loosening.

“And either way,” she placed her hand on her belly, a place it often lingered. “I’d like you to call me Louise.”

“You aren’t married?” Izzy didn’t know why he felt the sudden need to ask for confirmation and hoped it didn’t come across as rude.

“No, Mr. Hands.” She turned. “I’ll leave you to change.”

“You can call me Izzy, Louise.”

She turned back to him. Smiled.

That’s what sunshine looked like—the kind of sun that appeared after a storm.

“Good luck, Izzy.”

Izzy felt the corners of his mouth tug. He didn’t deserve luck or well wishes, but lightness filled his chest nonetheless. Fuck, he was going to wear purple clothes to meet Stede Focking Bonnet.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

#

Bonnet immediately complimented Izzy on the ‘lovely shade of violet.’

Because of course he did.

He came in with a cherry pie on a silver platter and a jangling burlap sack slung over his shoulder. That had to be the doubloons—carried out in the open for the whole world to see.

Bonnet’s clothes were more rugged than Izzy had seen him in previously. He wore a loose open shirt that looked unwashed and his knees were stained as though he’d been kneeling in the dirt.

If only Izzy had managed to hobble over to the table in the corner so he’d have more dignity and space during this awkward reunion. As it was, he sat on the edge of the mattress in his lovely shade of violet as Bonnet towered over him with his stupid blond coils, beaded necklaces, and gemstone adorned fingers.

“Bring that chair over and sit down.” Izzy tried to make the order as curt and unfriendly as possible. If this conversation ended up being the least bit pleasant, it would be entirely against his will.

After sitting, Bonnet made him try the pie and Izzy scolded him for lugging the doubloons about as though they were nothing more than a sack of oranges.

Izzy then ignored Bonnet’s repeated inquiries about how his wounds were healing. Izzy redirected the conversation by showing him the various places pockets could be sewed into Bonnet’s clothing so the gold coins could be stowed secretly and not easily snatched.

“Edward should’ve told you this,” Izzy said, using his own boot to illustrate how to tuck doubloons into the sole.

“Ed doesn’t know I’m here,” Bonnet said in a tone that sounded small.

Which brought Izzy back to the main question that’d been on his mind since he’d taken hold of that infernal letter. “Why are you here?”

“To give you your severance package,” he said plainly.

Izzy narrowed his eyes. Bonnet had to comprehend how ridiculous that sounded.

“Also…” Bonnet began pulling some jars from another little purse he was carrying. “Louise has a condition shared by my wife.” He began speaking fast. “I didn’t know at the time that she had it, but I do now. And all these should help—black cohosh, ginger, valerian. Brew them into a nice tea for her and add some lemon.” More glass containers rolled onto the mattress as Bonnet scooted closer. “These other herbs should help with your injuries. Marshmallow, marigold, slippery elm. I’ll show you how to—”

“I don’t have any business making tea for Madame Bouvet de Lozier!”

He’d said that louder than intended and Bonnet went silent.

Izzy had other things to say. Questions. What condition? How did Bonnet know so much about Madame Bouvet de Lozier? And what business did a man like Izzy have being privy to knowledge of a strange woman’s conditions?

“Why not?” Bonnet asked.

“What?”

“Why isn’t it your business to make tea for Louise?”

Izzy cleared his throat of the tightness that’d seized it. “Certainly the other ladies in this house can help her with that.”

Bonnet cocked his head. “There’s no one else here. Not anymore. Haven’t you noticed? How quiet it is…”

The spit dried from Izzy’s tongue. This was indeed a quiet brothel. Not that Izzy had been to very many—usually he’d find other ways to pass the time whenever his crew came ashore—but didn’t brothels usually have a lot of music and rowdiness and patrons stomping up and down the halls?

This house had none of that. Just the occasional cautious knock from Ma—Louise asking if he’d like some banana bread.

“We gave each of the ladies enough money to retire off of,” Bonnet said. “Including Louise, but she likes this house and wanted to stay here. Perfect timing that you showed up to keep her company. With her health the way it is, she could use a companion.”

“Her health?” What was the matter with her health? Sure, he’d noticed that mannerism she had where she’d occasionally touch her stomach area, and then there’d be times where she’d bring him food the apologize for needing to rush off, but she didn’t seem unhealthy. Did she?

“Yes,” Bonnet said sympathetically as though reading Izzy’s thoughts. “It would be better if she’d get more rest, especially during her flair-ups. If you could start taking over her cooking and laundry, that’d be useful.”

Izzy’s mind was a daze and he shut his mouth to keep from speaking before his brain could catch up. What were he and Bonnet even talking about? The prospect of Izzy actually staying here and being Louise’s companion? It was absurd. He’d known the woman for less than a week! Bigger than that were all the other questions…

“Do you, somehow, know Louise?” Izzy asked.

Bonnet held up his hands in a vague, floaty gesture. “All people sort of know each other. Don’t they? In a way?” He was gazing in the direction of the window, his eyes sort of twinkling. “We all share the same pains, the same longings… That’s”—he brought his fingers together meaningfully—“humanity.” He paused, appearing to reconsider the scene before him—the curtains? The wall sconces? What the fuck was he looking at? “But in terms of the material realm, I met Louise last week when the Revenge started handing over our gold to her co-workers.”

Izzy had questions about that gold and why it’d been given to the ladies of this brothel, but now he found himself more baffled by the timing of all this. “Did you find this place because of me? Because you were tracking me?”

Bonnet’s arms shot upwards, flailing with preposterous excitement. “That’s the thing! It was all a synchronicity! YOU. HER. The brothel. It all happened at the same time!”

“At the same time?”

“That’s how the universe works!” He was nearly leaping out of his chair. “The universe provides. Don’t you see?”

Confused, but too tired to ask more questions, Izzy simply nodded.

Despite himself, he glanced to the door as though Louise were in that direction, though he had no reason to think that she was. There were no footsteps. No creaks. But every nerve ending in Izzy’s body seemed to be expecting her.

“Yes. She could use that tea right about now,” Bonnet said.

Izzy peered at him, jaw going tight. What the hell was this man playing at? Was he pretending to be some kind of medium?

“I know things now,” Bonnet added, his enthusiasm unmissable. “About situations. About people. It’s hard to explain, but why don’t you and I go to the kitchen and make some of this helpful tea for her?”

If Bonnet knew things now about situations and people, then he had to know that Izzy’s heart was doing all manner of funny things, and his mind was commanding him to open his lips and demand answers. But for some reason—exhaustion, most likely—Izzy only bent over to pick up his crutches and he actually allowed Bonnet to take his elbow as they made their way through the door.

In the kitchen, while Bonnet chattered on about the various ways each herb could be grown in a small garden, Izzy searched for the pots and put the water to boil, only losing his balance twice. Luckily Bonnet caught him both times, his hold firm but quick enough so that Izzy didn’t have too many moments to think about the awkwardness.

 The crutches made for difficulty when it came to delivering and serving the tea, but they soon found a trolley cart, upon which they added the uneaten portions of pie. Bonnet then offered to push it into Louise’s room. Once Izzy was seated, he poured the woman her tea and dropped in her requested quantity of sugar and lemon juice. It was a pleasant scene—with Louise tucked into her sky-blue bedding, and Izzy feeling like he was doing something useful.

Pie and the special tea were later followed by a dish of potatoes and stewed vegetables. Bonnet’s creation. Izzy asked Louise about her plans for the house. He listened as she told him how she wanted to paint it all different shades of pink and yellow-green. She talked about the dogs she wanted to get.

Before Bonnet returned to the Revenge, he went across town and retrieved Izzy’s prosthesis for him.

Which was helpful.

As the days passed, Louise spent more time in bed and Izzy taught himself how to bake bread, fry sweet potatoes, and make soup from the garden’s vegetables. His leathers made the laundry work cumbersome, so he opted to make things easier by wearing Louise’s things—becoming particularly fond of a yellow patterned blouse and white breeches combination made of an exceptionally soft material. Yes, he had to roll up the cuffs and sleeves because they were too long for his arms and legs, but the feeling of loose, billowy linen satisfied him.

One evening when a duo of robbers attempted to burglarize the place, Izzy broke the various bones on both their faces and gave each a stab wound that would likely cause them permanent trouble down the line.

He and Louise began their search for a mongrel dog the next day—something large and cuddly, but with an intimidating bark. The girl they found near the swamps was black with brown paws and the size of a small ox. They brought her home and named her Martha.

On a rainy December day, Louise bent down and kissed Izzy while he was reaching for the blankets that’d been drying above the hearth. She cupped his face as she did, and it was the softest, gentlest thing he’d ever felt in his life. She apologized for it at once, and Izzy said it was fine.

He started writing letters to her after that. Paragraphs that described the depths of his love. It was a lot easier that way—slipping his love under her door, leaving it beside the tea and the pastries he’d gotten better at making. Feelings on paper were more real than the ones in his heart.

Izzy got used to dressing in other colors besides yellow—pale oranges, greens, soft shades of lavender. When his room needed repainting, he chose white and gold.

After two years of living with Louise, she finally slipped her own written letter under his door one night. It said: ‘You know, you’re perfect for me.’

He smiled at that. It was what he’d been trying so hard to say in all those long, rambling paragraphs, but she’d conveyed it in six simple words.

Funny how it takes another person to figure out how you feel.

Chapter Text

Roach

Lucius kept saying that his room was always open. Available. To whoever wanted to use it. The nice thing about Lucius’ new quarters wasn’t just the ornate linens Stede and Ed had bought for him, nor all the paintings, wall sconces, and pillows. The little trays for eating in bed were a nice touch, though they still weren’t the primary draw. The best part of Lucius’ room was the fact that, for some reason, it always stayed about five degrees cooler than the rest of the ship.

After laboring all day in the kitchen, Roach found himself looking forward to escaping the boiling pots and bubbling confections to enjoy those evenings of reprieve where he’d settle back on the cool rug and savor the sensation of everything being comfortable.

The problem was… and it wasn’t really a problem. But, well, it was a thing that made Roach get up and leave the coolness even though he really could’ve used forty-five more minutes of it.

See, Pete would come in. And that was fine. And Pete would throw himself on the bed and start devouring Lucius. Which was also fine. And lovely.

But, well. No amorous couple wanted the ship’s cook around when the atmosphere took an affectionate turn.

Though Roach would often sigh wistfully as he scurried away to give Lucius and Pete their alone time, his resentment would nevertheless start congealing like the skin atop a tomato-based soup. Yes, he understood the reasoning behind Lucius getting his own room and opulent furnishings—why he didn’t have to do any work anymore.

When your captain’s boyfriend-now-husband nearly kills you, you’re entitled to certain perks.

But Roach was nearly killed too. And so were Oluwande, Buttons, Swede, Wee John, and Pete.

And, true, maybe they hadn’t been hit over the head and caged twice… but still.

Instead of going out to his hammock—which would mean returning to the heat and humidity—Roach would sometimes stay on the floor in the hallway outside Lucius’ door.

That evening he just needed seven more minutes. He’d give himself just that.

But then, five minutes into his respite, the door shushed open again.

And Roach was too drowsy to move fast enough.

Iron-hard heaviness whacked across Roach’s shin. There was a scream. He flung up his arms, but then something snapped when a Lucius-sized weight landed hard and flat upon him.

“Oh god! Oh god!” Lucius screamed, lifting up his hands.

They were bleeding—dripping blood. And that’s when Roach noticed the fireblast of agony piercing below his knee and then the explosion of pain throughout his arm. Lucius had been carrying a large glass tray which was now in pieces. Roach didn’t know which specific parts of himself had been stabbed, sliced, and severed by the shards because there was blood everywhere and also so much pain. He was pretty sure bones were broken, especially the ones in his wrist and shin.

“Fuck!” Roach cried.

“PETE!” Lucius screamed. He was likely suffering a broken or severed something-or-other. “HELP!”

Though Pete arrived quickly with his ‘Babes’ and ‘I got yous,’ Lucius’ lover wouldn’t be any use here.

“FRENCHIE!” Roach hollered. “FRENCHIE!”

A clamor of footsteps pattered down the stairs. It was Jim with towels and bandages. And that made sense. Since the eclipse, Jim had become especially good at anticipating things. But Frenchie. Roach needed Frenchie.

“FRENCHIIIIIIE!”

#

A busted left wrist, a broken right thumb, a fractured shin, and about fifteen cuts and puncture wounds were the extent of Roach’s injuries. When he finally woke, he found Lucius standing over him at the foot of the bed, his arm in a sling, bandages all over his fingers—the expression on his face like a dog that’d been kicked.

“Thank god you’re awake. Shit, I’m so sorry, Roach.”

Eyes snapping wide, Roach shifted up onto his elbows. He must’ve been given something to knock him out and numb the pain. That agony of cracked bones was quickly returning in full force. “I’m in your bed?”

“You look really comfortable. Stay.”

Wooziness beginning to fade, Roach found red satin all around, the fabric cool and smooth around his legs. How had Roach ended up here and where was Frenchie? He should be here.

Then, a more pressing concern erupted in Roach’s mind. “I have to make breakfast!”

“Yeah that’s not going to happen, buddy.”

Roach hauled himself up.

“Roach.” Lucius pushed him back down, wincing as he did. “We’ll figure out how to feed ourselves, just stay here and get better. Buttons is getting more of that stinky stuff that takes the pain away.”

“I need Frenchie.”

“Why?”

“I just do.”

Lucius furrowed his brow.

Roach’s insistence on seeing Frenchie probably looked strange to the scribe who’d been occupied with Stede’s part of the gravy basket during the eclipse. But if Lucius had wandered toward the rocky atoll where Roach, Frenchie, and Swede had climbed from their sea caves, the scribe would understand just how useful Frenchie could be.

“Just get him,” Roach said. “Get Frenchie and his lute.”

Narrowing his eyes, Lucius nodded then paused, awareness seeming to dawn. “The music…”

Roach nodded. Lucius had mentioned Stede’s flute playing in the gravy basket, so he had to have an inkling of what Roach needed.

“Oh.” The boy’s eyes enlarged. “You’re gonna fuck with time just so you can fix your arm and keep breakfast on schedule?”

Roach kept his gaze steady, sensing the doubt in Lucius’ voice. Maybe the scribe didn’t comprehend the full power of the gravy basket. He was just a white boy from London after all.

“You know,” Lucius lowered himself to the mattress, “most normal people would relish six weeks of forced recouperation and not, like, try to dismantle the fabric of the universe just to get back to work.”

What the scribe didn’t understand was that though it could be uncomfortably hot in the kitchen and work there often involved more than a few painful chopping accidents, cooking, for Roach, was a thing so meaningful that it was hard to fully describe. He knew he was different. Odd. Most people liked the usual things—kissing, dancing, fucking. Few knew the incredible satisfaction of cutting, searing, and igniting! Six weeks without putting his knife through some onions? Forty or so days without cleaving into some carrots? Those were the horrors that passed through Roach’s mind hours ago when he’d felt his wrist snap under Lucius’ weight.

But it all could be righted with Frenchie’s lute. After all, it’d been Frenchie’s lute in the gravy basket that'd erased Roach’s seven years of shoulder pain. It’d been Frenchie’s lute that made Swede’s teeth grow back in. And upon those wave-worn sea sacks, Frenchie had music’d away the ringing in his own ears that’d been afflicting him since getting so dehydrated during the marooning.

Lucius cocked his head. “But if we could all just music our way back in time and fix all the things we don’t like, then surely Stede would’ve re-grown Ed’s leg, right?” Lucius asked.

Clearly Lucius hadn’t had enough of an in-depth conversation with Stede and Ed about how many legs had been regrown during the eclipse.

Now the scribe inspected something in Roach’s patient expression that seemed to be making him lean forward, step close. “Wait…. Roach, what the fuck do you and Frenchie know how to do?”

The corners of Roach’s mouth pinched into a smile.

#

Frenchie had been sleeping. Because of course he’d been sleeping. Through the Lucius-Roach collision and through Buttons’ setting of their broken bones, Frenchie had been napping, snoring, and dreaming. And that was the thing about life after the eclipse and all the knowledge, power, and whatever-it-was was that Frenchie, Roach, and so many others shared—it wasn’t really all that efficient. The power. It was good. It was useful. But it wasn’t focused. The edges of the goodness were never really defined.  

Wisdom, after all, required sleep, laziness, and a whole lot of absent-minded nonsense.

And so, absent-mindedly and nonsensically, Frenchie eventually floundered down into Lucius’ room cradling the lute. He soon began playing a song about soap, toothpicks, and unripe bananas.

Which was just what Roach had been hoping for.

Now the cook’s fingertips were beginning to feel like they’d been rubbed by sandpaper.

Exactly as he expected.

#

They were on a shoreline fringed with palms. White sand. Water the color of robins’ eggs. Lucius staggered over a clump of seagrass, swayed a little, and then sat down. It was actually rather satisfying—the sight of the ship’s scribe at a loss for words.

As Roach limped over to a sun-warmed boulder—fuck his shin hurt—Frenchie’s song morphed into something a bit more lively and jaunty. The lyrics spoke of lampshades, clothes hangers, and octopuses.

Swinging around to take in the scenery and then remembering his sling, Lucius rubbed his arm. “A-are you two more powerful than Buttons? Is that it?”

Roach didn’t have a good answer there. The more he talked about things with the rest of the crew, the more he realized everyone experienced the eclipse differently.

Lucius was stammering now. “‘C-cause I’ve been able to dip in here from time to time, but you… you Frenchie can actually bring people here?”

Frenchie shrugged while continuing to strum. “Dunno, mate. Mostly, it’s just been Jim and Roach. Now you’re here. That’s cool.”

The way Lucius’ eyes had gone bigger than dinner plates pleased Roach immensely. He wiggled his thumb. It still pinched a bit, but he’d give it time.

Roach stood. The knee was feeling better at least. “Lucius, check your arm.”

Lips falling open, Lucius unknotted his sling.

Frenchie was probably getting better at this all because the swelling was gone and Lucius easily bent and straightened it without pain.

“Holy fuck,” Lucius said, the awe in his voice unmistakable.

Roach grinned. Holy fuck indeed.

Further down the coastline, a number of green parrots screeched and flapped their wings. The clouds above them were shaped like fat question marks. Roach caught Lucius’ eye again and noticed a flavor like cardamom lingering in the air. From now on the world would be even more different, but he wasn’t entirely sure how.  

#

Back in Lucius’ room where the candles had burnt down to their plates, Frenchie’s melody continued as Roach sauntered along the scarlet rug, removed his bandage, then pushed his thumb this way and that. He stood. The shin was all better. That’d be handy information for Ed to have.

But still the wrist. It felt wobbly inside the bandage.

Across from him, Lucius shucked the sling aside, swinging his healed arm and cackling. “Good job guys. We just broke the universe.”

But Roach’s wrist was also broke. When he tried to bend it, the thing felt like it was made of daggers instead of bones.

“Shit,” Roach said, turning to face Frenchie when he realized the song had already ended.

The musician was curled in a fetal position at the end of Lucius’ mattress, his knees tucked near his lute and his hands used as a pillow.

Gently, Roach lifted the instrument and placed it out of the way on a little side table, his wrist still wailing.

This was probably some sort of sign—the wrist was supposed to stay broken. Which was hugely disappointing. Especially since he’d been so eager to start hacking away at their newest barrels of produce.

Lucius glided near, his glance locked on Roach’s bandaged limb. “I kinda have a feeling that whatever Frenchie’s powers are, he’s not gonna be able to regrow Ed’s leg. Not being pessimistic here, just sort of stating the vibe I get.”

Nodding, Roach cradled his still-afflicted limb. “And to think I was really looking forward to maiming some potatoes this morning. Suppose I could still do that with one hand.”

Lucius fluffed some pillows, then gestured for him to sit.

“My leg’s fine now. I don’t need bed rest.”

Saying nothing, Lucius continued pointing to the bed, his expression serious, until Roach found himself intimidated enough to crawl beneath the covers and settle back against the pillows.

So it seemed Lucius was going to be the enforcer of fate’s intentions.

For the next several days, Lucius and Pete brought Roach breakfast in bed. They steamed the potatoes whole and always placed a knife on the tray so Roach could at least take some enjoyment in stabbing something.

In the evenings, when the heat and humidity started making sleeping difficult, Lucius brought a flute below decks and practiced playing it in the hallway. Roach hadn’t known that about Lucius before—that he had musical interests.

It took four days for Roach to realize the whole ship had gotten cooler. When his wrist had healed enough to allow him to return to some of his kitchen duties, he noticed the kitchen stayed cool as well. Not even six steaming pots could make him wish for open windows.

At lunch he found Lucius in the crow’s nest, playing a tune that reminded him of dolphins.

“So,” Roach began. “You can change the temperature.”

The scribe lowered his instrument and grinned. “We can change the temperature. And the weather too.”

Why hadn’t Roach thought about that before? “I bet there’s a whole lot we can do that we haven’t even thought of yet.”

Lucius nudged him with his elbow. They’d never had that sort of rapport before—shipmates who sat together, nudged each other, and shared secrets. “I’m glad your wrist stayed broken, though.”

Roach smiled, thinking about where he’d be sleeping that night—the new room Stede had set up for him which had a feather mattress, an open window and a breeze that reminded him of the early springtime. “Me too.”

Chapter Text

LUCIUS

“Babe, is anything the matter?”

Lucius was still in bed when Pete asked that question. And being in bed wouldn’t have been all that odd if it hadn’t already been four o’clock in the afternoon. In Lucius’ defense, he’d gotten up for lunch. So what if he brought the bread loaf beneath the covers and dropped crumbs in the blankets? Physical activity and nutrient acquisition were accomplished.

He was fine.

And that’s what he told Pete.

“I’m fine,” he repeated, tucking his sketchbook more firmly beneath the pillow and hoping Pete hadn’t seen the corner sticking out.  

Pete narrowed his eyes. “So it’s a drawing day, then?”

“Yes. Exactly.” Thank goodness Pete had picked up on Lucius’ way of explaining things.

Before leaving, Pete asked the usual questions—'Want me to bring you anything?’ ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to get Stede?’

And then, in response to Lucius’ murmurs of ‘No’ and ‘It’s all right,’ Pete was finally gone.

Lucius curled his toes beneath the quilts, cracking his foot knuckles in the process.

All right.

Though he was fine—fine in that nothing immediate harmed his physical health—he knew he wasn’t being normal, and the amount of not-normal he was being had left his lover anxious and confused. Which Lucius intended to remedy right away. Because Pete was important. So important. In fact, it’d been Pete’s importance that likely started this downward spiral in the first place.

Lucius turned over, feeling something hot and acid-like crawling up his throat. His stomach was in knots and he almost wished he could tell himself there was no reason for it to be in knots, but he fully knew their origin. It was nonsensical… pathetic even.

It’d started the previous evening when the moon was almost full and the sea looked like a wrinkled blanket. Pete had come across Lucius staring at the reflections in the waves and he asked what was on Lucius’ mind.

Lucius made the mistake of responding with the truth. “Your birthday is coming up and I”—this, for some reason inspired a furious amount of trembling in Lucius’ limbs—“I don’t know what to get you.”

“Babe, I don’t need anything.”

But that wasn’t at all helpful because Pete absolutely deserved everything.

And then, seeming to read the strain that must’ve been noticeable in his face, Pete stepped forward. “Maybe give me your favorite drawing. Whatever it is, that would be perfect. I’ll treasure it forever.”

Very good, Lucius had thought, and he wanted to kiss Pete a thousand times. Now he had something. He could find the right picture—his favorite one.

But that evening as he stayed in his quarters and looked through his sketchbook while Pete and the rest of the crew were splicing rigging or tying line, Lucius felt his nails pierce into his palms. He was clenching his right fist, the rest of his body slipping backward. Though the candles stayed burning and the blankets stayed warm, his flesh screamed as though it’d been submerged in frigid ocean water. He shut his eyes, closing his teeth against the sudden urge to scream.

It'd been months since he had one of these episodes. Usually, they’d come when something—a sudden rocking of the ship, an unexpected noise—would startle him. But here Lucius was, perfectly comfortable and, until moments ago, unstartled. Now he was wanting to tear through the mattress and burrow as deep as possible into the feathers.

He was supposed to be past this. He was a powerful being after all—could change weather patterns and cross the thresholds between the material and immaterial realms—so why was he having blasted panic attacks about things he’d thoroughly healed from?

Turning the pages without really looking at them, he told himself to untighten his jaw, unclench his right fight. Breezing past all those penises and profiles wasn’t going to help Lucius find his favorite sketch. He had to really study each of them.

 Near the middle, a half-page rendering showed the captain climbing up the ladder, his coat wing-like and unfurled, his shoe nearly falling off. Lucius had captured the initial motion in a five-second gesture, but then he developed the drawing later—refining the detail in the folds, putting a serious downward curve to Stede’s frown. That’s what he liked especially about this piece—the expression and earnestness juxtaposed next to the whimsical swirl of the fabric.

But would Pete appreciate all that as well? Would he think it strange that Lucius wanted to give him a picture of Stede as a birthday present?

You wanted my favorite drawing, well this is it.

And then everything would be awkward because Pete would be disappointed, and Lucius would notice that disappointment and feel awful.

In the end, after the sun had set and Lucius opened the curtains to let the moonlight stream in, he settled on the right picture. It was the dick page. A full page of dicks in various poses and positioned at various angles. Some of those dicks belonged to the crew. Some of them were just fictional dicks. Dicks from the imaginary realm.

Pete would like it. He’d laugh. He’d ask Lucius to tell him which dicks belonged to who.

If Lucius wanted to, he could probably give the Stede picture to Ed. Ed would notice the dark stroke of Stede’s mouth, the falling-off shoe, and the way the swing of the coat made him look like he was flying. Maybe there wasn’t anything wrong with giving his favorite drawing to someone who wasn’t Pete.

Once the decision was made, quicksand pulled at Lucius’ arms and legs. He lay in bed, his chest feeling like it weighed four hundred tons.

So this would be a full-fledged depression episode then. Fuck.

And over what? A drawing? A birthday?

How had such a simple thing turned into such an insurmountable burden and why was Lucius allowing it to ruin Pete’s big day?

Lucius opened his lips because oxygen was now thicker than sea mud and with all the clay in his throat his lungs were threatening to end him. Warm liquid dripped into his ears. Goddammit, now he was crying.

Slowly, the door creaked open and all Lucius saw at first was Pete’s backside. He was crouched over, pulling something in, but not all the way—just enough to wedge the door open.

“Hey,” Pete spun around. “I got something for us. Is it all right if I bring it in here?”

“It’s your birthday, not mine.”

“Half of us is me. It’s a present, and I’m putting it in our room so that means it's yours too, and I need your permission to bring it here.”

See, this was how Lucius was ruining everything for everyone—his not-normalness was forcing Pete to speak in run-on sentences.

Lucius rose up onto his elbows, finally seeing what Pete was bringing in. “Is that Stede’s little piano?”

“Can I bring it in?”

Lucius nodded, still not knowing what Pete would possibly want with such an instrument. A large, space-occupying one at that.

Then, before Lucius could ask, Pete pulled over a bench, sat in front of the keys, and began to play.

For the next ten minutes, a lively, twinkling melody filled the room. Pete hadn’t any sheet music in front of him. He wasn’t really even staring at the placement of his hands. His eyes just sort of remained in the middle distance. Lucius had never seen that expression on Pete’s face before—like he was pulling something from memory.

The music made the wallpaper into waterfalls. The windows became packed with clusters of stars. Even the color in the room shifted—from scarlets and burgundies to something more golden.

After a little while, Lucius got out of bed and joined Pete, sitting beside him on the bench and feeling all his guts turn from lead into liquid.

When Pete finally stopped playing, Lucius folded against him.

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Lucius said, his words quieter than he would’ve liked.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Lucius wasn’t going to raise his eyebrows at that. Not again.

He inhaled deeply, noticing that Pete’s skin smelled like something between coconut and barley.

Tomorrow morning Lucius would give Pete the Stede drawing. He’d tell him why it was his favorite and point out the shoe, the mouth, the fabric. Whatever Pete’s reaction would be, Lucius would just have to deal with it, but it did feel good—the prospect of doing a little showing and telling.

After Pete flexed his fingers, he started playing again and Lucius realized he hadn’t asked why Stede had given him his piano—what that conversation had been like. That’s something else they could talk about tomorrow, but for now, Lucius just leaned against Pete’s warm shoulder and listened to him play.

Chapter Text

SWEDE

You probably don’t remember me, and how could I blame you?

Back then I wasn’t a pirate, didn’t lose my teeth to scurvy nor regrow them in the nether realm.

In those days I was neither smart nor beautiful. Some called me dim.

I cried often.

Sometimes I still cry—because everything’s so lovely.

Everyone’s so lovely.

And their loveliness could destroy empires.

This is the plan, but they don’t know it.

And when the world is over, history will remember them—the breathtaking ones.

The ones who inspire the clutching of things.

The ones who become the subjects of great paintings.

You have a kingdom, but we are eternal.