Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When they return to the beach, the skiff is gone as are the men they left behind to guard it. Only the bodies of their dead crew mates await them at the shoreline. Silver lets his gaze sweep up and down the river. There is no sign of Rackham’s ship. No mast piercing the low hanging fog on the water.

“Mr. Silver, where are they?” Gunn asks, his voice going thin with panic.

Before his mind can catch up with his body, Silver instinctively turns to Flint to strategise their next steps. But when his eyes fall on Flint’s slumped form, he remembers that this is not what they are anymore. Hands and Morgan are both still holding onto Flint, gripping his bound arms tightly. More fresh blood adorns his worn face. But Hands is also sporting a bloodied nose and the skin around Morgan’s left eye is already swelling and purpling. It took all four of them to overpower Flint and bind his hands and feet.

Silver quickly looks away before Flint catches his momentary lapse and turns to the water once more, looking there for answers instead. But the island holds onto its secrets and only allows a limited view of their surroundings. With the exception of the small beach they find themselves on, the river is lined with high peaks and steep banks. It curves out of sight on both ends, carving deeply through the island as if determined to cut it to pieces. To confirm that Rackham truly left them, they will have to climb one of the hills near the coast for a better view. But deep down, beyond the lies Silver tells himself, he knows it to be true. What better way for Rackham to endear himself to the Guthrie woman than to get rid of Captain Flint and Long John Silver in one single swoop? What better way to give the appearance of ending piracy than removing its two most notorious agents? He is still contemplating how to frame their current situation without sending his men into a panic, when Flint’s voice cuts through the tense silence.

“They're gone,” he declares, voice as sure as if he is announcing their next course. “Whatever little deal you made with Rackham, he has gone back on it.”

Trust Flint to be difficult even in this. The small note of vindication in his tone makes Silver bristle in irritation. He slowly turns and regards Flint coolly.

“Even if we assume he has, Madi knows where we are. If I fail to return in a sensible length of time, she is going to come looking for us.”

“And you are certain of this? After what you have done?”

Underneath the anger, Flint’s eyes are still bleeding with hurt. Silver hardens himself against the sight, all too aware how quickly the situation could spiral out of his control. He can’t let Flint demoralise his men. The sorry lot that’s left.

“She will come,” he says with more confidence than he feels. “And I have serious doubts that Rackham gives up on his treasure so easily.”

“Rackham will never see his treasure again, either way.”

Silver swallows a scathing reply and focuses on the business at hand. To their left, the beach ends in a forest after a couple of paces. But to their right it curves into a wide arc, cushioning the riverfront.

“We are going to set up camp over there,” he says, pointing at a large dead tree trunk on the other end of the beach. Next to it towers an immense tree, the last arm of the forest reaching for the shore. “That way we have a good view of the landing site and some cover. Gunn, check that barrel on this end. If it’s intact, bring it over. Then go fetch firewood.”

He turns to Hands and Morgan.

“Secure him by the tree and come back here.”

“Why can’t we just slit his throat and be done with it?” Hands gripes.

It’s an argument they have had more than once today and Silver is tired of repeating himself. Tired of it all. He simply gives Hands a look and the man huffs angrily but complies, dragging Flint with him. Flint doesn’t resist. Small mercies.

As soon as his men have left the immediate vicinity, Silver takes a steadying breath. The low thrum of panic that accompanied him since they set out with Flint this morning to retrieve the cache, that grew more insistent when Flint stopped walking and confronted him, that almost paralysed him when they wrestled Flint to the ground, threatens to overwhelm him now. Silver refuses to allow it. This can’t have been for nothing. He takes another breath and concentrates on how the air fills and leaves his lungs. It has a strong, earthy smell but there is already a hint of rotting sweetness, heralding what’s to come if they don’t bury the dead soon. He shakes off the dread and makes himself move to the man lying closest to him. Bending down, he searches the body for anything useful that might help them survive and tries not to think about how easy it is to fall back into old habits. Bundling a dagger, a belt and a cup into a bit of cloth, he moves onto the next body.

The thumping sound of footsteps in the sand and the low hum of someone cursing announces the return of Hands and Morgan. Silver only lifts his head from where he is bent over another body and continues to pat it down. Morgan’s face pales as he watches Silver with wide eyes.

With a sigh Silver pushes himself up with his crutch.

“Drag the bodies to that end of the beach. But search them beforehand. Look for anything that could help us.”

Hands immediately sets to work. For him, it’s not the first time he searches a body that has been washed up on shore. Nor the first time he has dragged one along the beach. But Morgan still stands frozen before him, eyes darting around uneasily.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Morgan mutters. Then, louder, “What are we to do with them?”

“We will bury them. But not today. And I don’t know about you but I’d rather not spend the night on this beach sleeping among our dead crew. Now go and help Hands. We don’t have that many hours of light left.”

Reluctantly, Morgan begins to move. Silver observes him for a moment longer, watches as he crouches down with a pained expression to roll a man on his back and begin to search his clothes. Satisfied that his orders are being followed, Silver continues his own gruesome business.

The sun has already set by the time Silver ties a knot into the cloth that holds the things he salvaged from the beach. He takes his time, reluctant to shorten the distance to their designated sleeping place. The fog hovering above the water has grown more and more dense, completely swallowing the opposing riverbank. The world has shrunk to a small strip of beach, its borders guarded by a wall of mist and a shadowy forest.

Gunn has yet to return. Silver had handed him a bucket and a mostly intact bottle from his findings and sent him to fetch some water. On the other end of the beach, Hands and Morgan are still struggling with the pile of dead bodies that was once their crew. That leaves Silver alone to face Flint at their makeshift camp, which is something he’d rather avoid after the day he‘s had. But there is no point in delaying this further. His leg aches terribly and an uncomfortable dampness creeps out of the forest in the dwindling light. So he hauls his bundle towards the large fallen tree that Flint is bound to.

When only a few steps separate Silver from him, he sees that Flint has tipped his head back against the trunk, eyes closed. But he doesn’t fool Silver for a second. There is no doubt that Flint is awake. Even men far less vigilant than Flint could not have slept through the ruckus he has made dragging his findings towards the tree. At a short distance from Flint, Silver notices the pile of wood Gunn must have prepared. He sets down his bundle next to it and starts to build a fire.

As if pulled like moths to the flame, one by one his men return and settle around the burning logs. They share the water Gunn fetched for them. He even managed to find a few sea grapes which in no way passes as dinner but it’s better than nothing. Food is something Silver will think about tomorrow. Tonight his mind does not want to engage in anything more challenging than finding the best position to sleep.

As his men prepare for the night, settling closer to the fire, Silver grabs a cup of water and walks over to Flint. He sits outside their small circle of light, alone in the dark. Silver can’t make out the expression on his face and a part of him is glad for it. Only two pinpricks reflecting the orange light from the fire reveal to him that Flint is awake and watching him approach. Long moments pass before Flint reaches up with his bound hands to accept the cup that Silver offers him.

“I have been considering cutting your bonds, seeing the situation we find ourselves in. It might be a foolish notion but I’d like to think you would be able to focus on what’s important right now, which is our survival, and put all else aside.”

Flint doesn’t react to his words and Silver continues on, trying to conceal how unnerved he is by having to navigate this strange new dynamic between them.

“But my men fear you are going to slit their throats in their sleep and I’m not sure they are wrong.”

When Flint still doesn’t answer, not even to deny these claims, a sliver of irritation burrows under Silver’s skin.

“And I can't blame them, can I? You never acted in anyone's best interest. Least of all your own.”

“Is that what you’re telling yourself? That you’ve acted in everyone’s best interest?”

Silver is so surprised by Flint’s raspy answer, having given up on getting a reaction out of him, that it takes a moment for the words to sink in. When they do, he turns without another word and heads back to his men.

Curling closer to the fire, Silver tries to sleep.

Chapter Text

The next morning finds Silver blinking sleep out of his eyes and wondering where the hell he is. The earth is steaming around him, morning dew ascending to join the low hanging fog above. It should be peaceful, lying cottoned in white mist, but all Silver feels is a growing sense of unease. Then everything comes rushing back and Silver instantly misses the few moments of respite.

He slowly stretches his aching joints. The dampness on this god forsaken island somehow manages to be more unforgiving to his ailments than the wet winds at sea. At least he can already make out the vague shapes of the hills surrounding them, so there is hope the fog will lift soon.

He rolls onto his back and raises his head lightly. His eyes traverse over his body to the tip of his boot, over the part of himself that’s missing until they settle on Flint in the distance. He is still asleep, head tilted to the side. There is something eerily vulnerable in the exposed arc of his neck despite the dried rivulets of blood adorning it. It unsettles Silver. Flint should not be allowed to look so human.

A strange sadness wells up in him at the sight, seeping into him as unwelcome and persistent as the fog around them. It’s only sinking in now that he has forfeited access to a mind that had enthralled him like no other. Until that late afternoon, under the canopy of trees, Flint was still willing to set aside what had transpired between them the previous days. Trying to mend their burning bridges and lure Silver back to his side as if it was the most important battle of his life. And maybe it had been. But the moment he learned how far Silver was willing to go for a life of peace with Madi, he shut himself off. The loss of that intimacy suddenly leaves Silver feeling bereft.

He lays his head back down in the sand and forces his thoughts into a different direction, reorienting towards the reason he gave up all of this: Madi. There lies no comfort there either, though. Doubt and fear cloud his thoughts of her, poisoned by Flint’s words that she won’t forgive him. That she won’t even come for him. For a moment he feels too weighted down by despair to move.

His stomach has no such woes and growls loudly. Right. Food. He sits up and finds himself at the end of a disapproving glare from Hands. Who undoubtedly witnessed Silver’s short bout of sentimentality. Silver schools his features into something resembling blankness.

“Care to do some fishing today?”

Hands just growls at him.

“I imagine that there’s more fish in the bay than usual. We best make use of that.” He gazes at Hands significantly. “Do what needs to be done.”

A look of silent understanding passes between them. Out of all his remaining men, Hands is the least likely to be queasy about doing what’s necessary for their survival. The last ten years of his isolated existence in Wreck Bay are a testament to that. And if that means using the remains of their crew as bait, so be it.

Hands huffs but gets up and searches their pile of loot to build something resembling a fishing rod. When Gunn and Morgan rouse from their uneasy slumber Silver sends Gunn in search of fruit and Morgan to look for a place where they can bury their men.

The low bustle of activity in their small camp has woken Flint as well. His eyes snap open and he lifts his head in one fluid motion. Not that Silver has been watching. His awareness of Flint and his moods at all times was once crucial for his own survival. Then for the crew’s. It comes to him instinctually at this point, like taking a breath or always scanning his surroundings for possible exits. But Flint roundly ignores him and the men, as if their current predicament does not pertain to him at all. With a decisive huff, Silver leaves Flint to his brooding and focuses on the day ahead.

**

They take turns digging the hole. Morgan had managed to find a patch of soil not too far from the beach where the earth is loose and free of rocks and large boulders. Well, at least as far as they can see. Given the rocky mountainside making up most of the surface of the island, Silver expects them to hit stone soon. But a shallow grave is better than none. And far preferable to sleeping in full view of a rotting pile of corpses. The smell gets harder to ignore with each passing hour. A small part of Silver registers with some disappointment that it hadn’t lured in any predator larger than the seagulls circling above. That means their diet will be limited to what the river and bay give them. At least they don’t have to worry about being devoured by wild beasts in their sleep.

Hands stabs the shovel into the ground with a huff and signals Morgan to take over. The hole is only a few feet deep yet. It will take at least another day to widen and deepen it to the point that it can hold all of their dead brothers. And it will take one more day to drag all of them from the beach to their last resting place.

“Should be Flint who’s diggin' that hole.”

Hands’ grumbled complaint startles Silver out of his ruminations. A part of Silver agrees. It should be Flint who digs the grave for his crew. After everything he put them through. Even though a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Flint is taunting him that it was Silver who led their men here and that it was Silver who let himself be so thoroughly distracted by Flint that Billy and Rogers could take advantage of it. He banishes that voice as quickly as it crept up on him and turns to Hands.

“The question you should ask yourself is, do you want him near you with a shovel?”

Hands grumbles something unintelligible and Silver sighs. He finally resigns himself to do the responsible thing and relieve Gunn from his guard duty, so he can send him in search of their dinner.

On the short track back to the beach, Silver tries to bury his simmering anger and calm himself. He won’t give Flint the satisfaction to see for himself how affected Silver is by their current predicament. And by what preceded it.

He fails miserably, for the moment Gunn is out of earshot he can’t bite back the words: “Hands proposed it should be you shovelling that grave.”

Flint regards him coolly. The top of his ears and the bridge of his nose has burned, testament to a full day in the sun without much cover. The trunk of the fallen tree they have bound Flint to provides a modicum of shade, but it’s hardly enough to protect someone with a skin as delicate as Flint’s from the burning sun. Silver wonders distractedly, and not for the first time, how Flint ended up making his home on the Caribbean Sea. But of course he knows the answer to that.

With a start he becomes aware that Flint is still watching him with narrowed eyes. The realisation that he probably took notice of Silver’s wandering thoughts and waited for Silver to give him his undivided attention chases heat up his neck. Most likely rivalling Flint’s in its redness. Satisfied that Silver is adequately attentive, Flint begins to speak.

“And why,” he enunciates very slowly, “would I care what Teach's washed up, disloyal, former second thinks about matters of a crew he was never part of?”

“Well, he’s not the only one. Don’t you think you owe them this?”

“What do I owe men who mutinied against me because you enticed them to? Who were willing to kill me because you decreed it? Besides, it wasn’t me who sent them to their grave. That was their loyal brother Billy.”

The frustration thrumming under Silver’s skin fully tips into anger.

“Fuck you. You factored their death into this war of yours long before they found their end at Billy’s hands. He only finished what you started.”

“Regardless of what twisted reality you have constructed in your head to justify all this, I don't actually revel in doing harm to my crew. They deserved better than being slaughtered by Billy and Rodgers because you were incapable of having your priorities straight.”

Silver gapes at him, struck speechless for a moment.

“Are you fucking kidding me? It’s the captain’s responsibility to look after his crew. If there was anyone with twisted priorities, it was you. You were the one who took the cache and abandoned them.” Who abandoned me remains unsaid but the pain of the memory tears at Silver’s insides anew.

Something ripples under the mask on Flint’s face, flashing in his eyes, but it’s immediately beaten down into submission.

“I was not captain at this point. Not anymore. Thanks to you.”

“How awfully convenient. And here you are accusing me of fabricating false realities. I’m sure Dooley would beg to differ, were he still alive.”

Flint looks at him for a long time. “Maybe I should have let him kill you after all.”

The words, spoken quietly, knock the breath from Silver’s lungs. He doesn’t care to examine why Flint hadn’t but questions instead if he made the right decision by keeping Flint alive.
Flint, who reads him effortlessly, and knows exactly what thoughts are running through Silver’s head, just lifts his chin and fixes him with an unflinching gaze. Daring him.

It would not be an unreasonable action. With their limited resources and the challenges they are facing, they can’t afford to divert their attention and provide for a captive that does nothing to ensure their survival. Threatens it even. And for one seductive moment Silver allows himself to imagine a scenario where he pulled the trigger that day deep down in the forest, or does so now in this very moment. But despite the short thrill that accelerates his pulse, the thought of Flint’s death brings him no satisfaction. As much as he wants to lay all the blame at Flint’s feet, he can’t fault him for the depths Billy sunk to in his thirst for revenge or for Rackham’s betrayal. He can’t even fault Rackham for going back on his word. He would have done the same.

Then there is the fact that Flint is doing this on purpose. Provoking him. Trying to goad him into killing him. Throughout their acquaintance, even in less troubled times, Flint’s regard for his own survival had been tenuous at best. Now it has evaporated completely, since he refuses to believe a single word Silver said about Thomas. But if Silver has to live and experience the horrors of their current situation then so will Flint.

With a decisive jerk, Silver turns away from him and studies the folds of a canvas in their loot pile, trying to figure out how to fashion them a cover for the night.

By the time his men return from their respective tasks, Silver has managed to secure the cloth between the fallen tree and the living one standing next to it, providing a shelter for his men. Throughout the hours struggling with the canvas he thought that he had sensed Flint’s eyes on him from time to time. But whenever he sneaked a glance at him, Flint had looked the other way.

Gunn is the last one to return. His catch is not what either of them expected but the smile he presents it with is soon reflected on all of their faces. In addition to three fishes - hardly enough to keep their stomachs from growling if it weren’t for Hands’ catch this morning - Gunn managed to get his hook tangled in a hammock floating in the bay. They spread it out on the dead tree to dry and resolve to take turns sleeping in it.

With the fish roasting on sticks over the flames, they share water like it’s the finest Caribbean rum. The fire overlays any unwelcome smells and with a bit of effort Silver can even ignore the vague shape at the other end of the beach. He asks Gunn to give Flint a few scraps of their meagre meal and watches with undisguised amusement as Gunn approaches Flint like he would a chained tiger.

The smile slowly fades from Silver’s face when Flint refuses to eat.

Chapter Text

They complete digging out the grave the following day. As Silver expected, they hit a layer of rock at some point but luckily the pit is sufficiently deep to hold all of the fallen men.

A day later, they drag the bodies from the beach to their final resting place. Well, to be more precise, Hands, Gunn, and Morgan do. Silver just stands next to the hole and watches the island swallow his former brothers one by one.

Unbidden, several memories claw their way up Silver’s mind.

“Those men listen to you. They give a shit about what you have to say. What you think, what you want them to think. Where else in the world is that true? Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter? You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?”

-

“And without these men, all I am is an invalid.”

But Silver is not the same man he was when Flint manipulated him to stay on the Walrus instead of walking out on him. Or when he confessed to Flint, starved and desperate, that he gave up his share of the Urca gold out of respect for the crew. For one, he is more than a man now. He is a myth. Long John Silver, feared by men, women, and children who have never even seen his face. That is not what matters to him, though. He would trade it all away –he did actually– if he only mattered to one woman. And he still doesn’t know if he does. Or if it’s enough.

The sun is already low in the sky by the time Morgan and Gunn dump the last body in the hole. They start to cover them with the loose soil lining the grave in little piles. Despite the pain in his leg, Silver kneels in the dirt next to his men and shoves earth into the pit with his bare hands.

Night approaches —as dark as their moods— when they are finally done. Silver can feel all of his men turning to him, a question in their tired faces. Biting back a grimace of pain, he climbs to his foot and brushes the dirt off his knees. A short distance from the grave stands a tree. It’s old and gnarly, weighted down by the years and its heavy crown. In its bark they have carved the name of each man they have laid to rest at its roots. It’s there where Silver’s uneven steps take him, knowing his men expect him to say a few words.

This is a captain’s responsibility, Silver thinks bitterly while gathering his thoughts.

“I’m not a religious man,” he begins, then stops. He clears his throat and tries again.

“These men have led a life like no other. They’ve hunted an immeasurable treasure, razed Charles Town to the ground, survived a ship killer and the doldrums, they forged new alliances, defeated the British Navy and took Nassau from Eleanor Guthrie and Woodes Rogers. And despite all these fantastical feats, they took care of their own. Like poor old Randall. Who first lost his mind and then his leg. They took care of him. They took care of me.” It’s easier to say these words now that there is hardly anyone left to hear or say them. The old dread is still there. But the feeling of being shackled by them has faded, superimposed by something less threatening. 

“And all I know is that they deserved better. They deserved a quartermaster who put their interest first at all times. They deserved a captain who made them rich instead of sacrificing them for his personal vendettas. And they deserved a bo’sun who stood by them instead of betraying them and delivering them from this mortal realm himself.

May they find peace, riches and rest wherever they are now.”

He bows his head in respect and then nods to his men. Gunn and Hands appear appropriately solemn, considering that they haven’t lived through half the things Silver talked about, nor knew the Walrus men for long. But Morgan looks actually stricken. He wasn’t part of the crew until recently, but he captained his own ship before, a staple in Nassau, and had known most of them long before Silver had set foot on Providence Island. Silver throws a last glance at the fresh mound of earth and leads his men through the darkness back to camp.

Flint is still where they left him. That alone proves more than his refusal of sustenance that he has truly given up, both the fight and the will to live. With Flint those were always synonymous. As Hands busies himself with starting a fire and Gunn prepares their catch from that morning, Silver’s mood blackens.

Without waiting for Flint to refuse yet another meal, he stalks over to him.

“Are you doing this just to spite me?” He spits at Flint.

“Don’t presume everything I do is about you. I‘m tired of prolonging this misery.” A spark of defiance in Flint’s eyes belies his words.

“We just buried our men, all of whom, I'm sure, would rather still be alive than lying in the fucking ground and here you are, pissing it all away.”

Silver is so enraged that he doesn’t even notice how much his voice carries.

“Does it bother you?” Flint’s eyes blaze. “That even after all this time you still can’t do what needs to be done? That I have to do it for you again?” 

Silver has to fight the urge to laugh. Putting a bullet into Flint would have been easier than having to wrangle him into submission and face his scorn every day. Easier than being regarded with nothing but cold rejection. There was a time where Silver would have been glad to never see his face again. But that was before . Silver can admit to himself that it was intoxicating to have a man like Flint rely on him like that. They have managed to twist what was once between them into something ugly that’s far harder to bear than its loss. But he won’t let Flint attempt to goad him into killing him again and quickly decides on a different tactic. 

“You told me that you might have done the same as me for the chance of getting him back. Or was this just another lie to placate me?”

“Don’t.” It’s terrible how Flint’s face darkens.

“The man I knew would do anything in his power to find Thomas again.”

“Out of all the lies you have told me, this one I will never forgive. I underestimated your capacity for cruelty. I won’t make that mistake again.” His voice is deadly calm.

“If that’s your measure of me, then why didn’t you kill me when you had the chance?”

“Because you manipulated me to invest in this partnership. Ingrained yourself so deep into my affairs that I came to rely on you. You took advantage of the fondness I had for you.” Flint’s voice cracks slightly on the word and he lowers his eyes as if ashamed of having admitted as much.

It’s that underlying note of hurt that gives Silver pause, softening him against his will, despite the harsh words.

“I’m not lying. Not about this. Morgan was there. He saw him.”

When Silver looks over his shoulder to point at the man in question, his men quickly look away. As if they haven’t listened to every word of their argument. But Flint’s eyes don’t follow his outstretched arm, sharpening on Silver’s face once more.

“It’s a vile thing, trying to use this to make me compliant. To construct this lie in the first place. Even for a liar like you.”

“It’s the truth!”

“I don’t believe you.”

Silver grinds his teeth. “Suit yourself.”

He turns back to the fire and his men, who are all suddenly terribly interested in their feet when he approaches. Turning their back to them he huddles down on the ground, facing the water. He has lost his appetite as well. In the periphery of his vision still looms the dark shape of a pile of bodies, somehow growing larger with each blink of his eyes.

They settle in some kind of routine: fishing, collecting firewood and fresh water from the stream inland, checking each morning if the river left them something useful on the beach, scouring the forest for fruit they recognize. Over the course of several days they map out the island on their side of the river. It’s a collection of valleys and peaks, hardly an even surface to be found. Silver’s leg twinges painfully traversing the terrain, as if he needed another reason to hate this island. During their explorations they also come across several caves that should prove useful, if a storm hits or the weather changes. But when Hands suggests moving their camp into one of them right away, Silver puts his foot down. It has been less than a week since Rackham abandoned them here. Silver wants to be near the landing site on the beach, so Madi can find them when she comes for him, the thought of her arrival the only thing giving him the strength to face the upcoming day each morning.

Managing his own apprehension while trying to keep his men from falling into despair proves to be more of a challenge with each passing day. Maybe this is why it takes Silver a few days to notice that Gunn is acting strange. It starts with his forays into the forest which get shorter and shorter each time, and when questioned he claims he prefers to stick to the beach. But Silver overhears him swearing to Morgan in tense whispers that he heard DeGroot calling him from the forest. To Silver’s surprise Morgan doesn't laugh off these ludicrous claims, his face pinched in unease instead. And even on the beach Gunn acts twitchy and nervous, throwing unsettled glances at one of the mountain sides. Shielding his eyes from the sun, Silver squints at the point that repeatedly catches Gunn’s eyes. High above the shoreline a mountain rises out of the forest. Breaking through its cover of trees is a stone formation in the shape of a skull, like the remains of a fallen giant who found his doom trapped on the island. Silver shivers despite the heat of the day.

During their sixth night, Silver startles awake in the middle of the night. Judging by the pale, silvery light reflected by the ever present fog, the moon is full, or close to it. At first he doesn’t know what roused him. His stomach is sufficiently full, his bladder empty enough to last until morning. It’s his night in the hammock, so by all means he should have slept comfortably until sunrise. But then hushed voices filter through his sleep-slow mind. He cracks open one eye. From his elevated position in the hammock, he has a perfect view of where Flint is slumped against the dead tree. He has lost all the softness in his face and body that those weeks on Maroon Island and its cooking had put on his bones. Gunn is kneeling in front of him, the hunched line of his body and the careful distance still betraying his fear of the captain. But he tilts towards him, talking insistently.

“... is telling the truth, Captain. I swear it. I saw Morgan return from the assignment Mr. Silver sent him to.”

All of a sudden Silver is wide awake. He almost pulls a muscle trying not to move and draw attention.

“When?”

At first Silver thinks he has imagined Flint’s voice. Judging by the stunned silence, Gunn is as shocked as Silver that Flint is humouring him.

“When did Morgan return?” Flint’s voice is barely recognizable, each word scraping out of his throat with difficulty.

“Before the Spanish Invasion.”

Flint repeats Gunn’s words to himself in a broken, disbelieving whisper and Silver wishes the hammock would swallow him up. That he had never woken up to hear this.

“I asked Morgan what he was supposed to look for and he said it was a man. And that he had found him.”

“Where?” A note of desperation creeps into Flint’s voice.

“I’m sorry Captain, he didn’t tell. But you need to eat. You have to regain your strength so you can get us off the island. So you can find out for yourself who Mr. Silver was looking for.”

Silver holds his breath. 

Then, after a long, tense moment of silence, Flint reaches for the offered bowl.

Chapter Text

The next morning the fog has swallowed them whole. Silver blinks up at the dull greyness surrounding him. Something between mist and drizzle wets his face. Despite many conflicting feelings sitting like a bad meal in his stomach, he managed to fall back asleep last night. He sits up in the hammock, swinging precariously for a second, and squints at Flint’s cleared bowl with disbelief. Gunn is already up, rummaging around the camp, shuffling through their provisions. His nervous energy is now coloured by something more hopeful, bolstered by his success in the night. There are not many men walking this earth who can say that they managed to talk sense into Captain James Flint. Silver is not sure he was ever one of them. He waits until Morgan and Hands do their usual morning rounds before motioning Gunn to follow him. As soon as they are out of earshot he spins around.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Gunn’s clear blue eyes widen, first in confusion then in realisation.

“I’m not doing anything!”

“Don’t pretend otherwise. You know what I’m talking about.”

“I swear, I’m not betraying you, Mr. Silver.”

“Then what the fuck were you doing with Flint last night?” Silver takes a menacing step closer and Gunn shrinks back.

“It’s just… I need to get off this island.” A haunted look passes over his youthful face, giving him the appearance of someone much older than his years. “We need to get off this island. I keep hearing… Something is not right here.” His roaming eyes focus on Silver, and there is a manic glint in them Silver doesn’t particularly care for.

“And you don’t trust me to do just that?”

“I just think we need every man to get away from here. That’s all this is.”

Silver regards him for a moment longer, slipping on the cloak of Long John Silver once more to stare Gunn down. But all he finds in his eyes is sincerity and fear. Silver gives him a curt nod and turns back to camp, where Gunn offers Flint a sun-dried fish and a hog plum for breakfast. Eyes narrowed, Silver watches Flint eat.

“If he’s takin’ our food, he should be workin’ for it.” Hands grumps from behind him.

Silver snaps his mouth shut, startled. He hadn’t even noticed it had dropped open.

“I’ll send him fishing with Gunn.”

“And yer think that’s a good idea?”

Silver turns to meet Hands’ disapproving glare.

“Hide the weapons and we’ll keep his hands bound.”

Hands raises an incredulous eyebrow to which Silver merely shrugs in response. If Flint truly wanted to kill them, he would find a way but Silver is fairly certain that this is not Flint’s intention. At least not right now.

They both watch as Gunn struggles to unfasten the rope that binds Flint to the tree. Silver instructed him not to cut it, since rope is a precious, limited commodity, and one never knows when they might need some. Flint bears this indignity in silence with his eyes closed. Finally Gunn pulls the last end of the rope free. Carefully, one by one, Flint pulls his feet under him and rises slowly. It’s obvious to all of them that he does this with difficulty, limbs numb and weak from disuse and malnourishment. He ignores the hand Gunn offers him, though. Silver feels a twinge of sympathy. He can relate all too well. Once Flint seems sufficiently sure that his feet are able to carry him, he marches over in the direction where Silver and Hands are standing. Silver immediately tenses and then quickly pretends that he didn’t. He feels Hands going rigid beside him, finger twitching over his hatchet. But Flint passes them without sparing them a glance and heads straight to the shoreline.

“Should we stop him, Mr. Silver?” Gunn asks, alarmed, coming up beside him.

“Good riddance,” Hands mutters at the same time.

Gunn makes to follow Flint but Silver stops him with a hand on his arm. His eyes track Flint’s slightly uneven gate until he reaches the water. Flint wades into it until it comes up to his thighs. They all watch as Flint pulls his shirt over his head, balling it in his fists due to his bound hands, and starts rubbing himself down vigorously. Silver releases a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Tension among them dissipates like the tide pulling back to the sea. Hands turns away with a scoff.

“See, if you can catch us some fish,” Silver tells Gunn without taking his eyes from Flint’s bare form. Gunn grunts an affirmative and disappears from his side. Down in the water, Flint meticulously washes blood and grime from his body. His uncovered, freshly cleaned skin glimmers pale in the murky light, somehow weirdly out of place on this strange island. Silver has to fight not to stare.

After Gunn and Flint manage to catch a couple of grey snappers, Silver sends them into the forest to fetch water and to find them something else to eat. He knows it’s a dangerous gamble but he could never snuff out the urge to play with fire. That this is more a test to see how far Flint’s newfound compliance goes than out of a real need for sustenance, is clear to them both. But Flint plays along, doesn’t raise any objections and even Gunn seems less reluctant to foray into the forest with the captain by his side.

The sun never really shows itself that day, preferring to hide behind a blanket of clouds, but judging by the eerie twilight it must be late in the afternoon when Flint and Gunn return. Silver watches them strolling out of the forest as if they just returned from a relaxing afternoon walk. Gunn is carrying a small bundle of cloth filled with something while Flint is talking, gesturing to a small green fruit he is holding in his hand.

“...so it’s hard to spot in a forest like this because the outer skin just blends into the greenery. But if you peel it off, it’s unmistakable. Here, try one.”

Gunn pops a small, orange fruit into his mouth.

“Mind the seed, but don’t throw it away. We can roast them in the fire.”

At Gunn’s completely unnecessary hum of pleasure, Silver decides that he has heard enough and limps over.

There is a reason Silver assigned Ben Gunn to the task of tending to Flint even before the events of last night. He banked on Gunn’s air of haunted vulnerability to appeal to Flint’s softer side. That it would make him less likely to rail against his captors. And he has been proven right. But what he did not account for was how well his plan worked. How Gunn now gravitates towards him like a flower to the sun. It bothers Silver in a way he doesn’t care to examine. He refuses to call it jealousy, mainly because he suspects that this is what Flint intends.

“What have you got there?”

“Guinep,” Gunn mumbles around his mouth full, pushing the fruit into his left cheek. “You should try one, Mr. Silver.”

Silver picks up one of the small green fruits. It does look fairly unremarkable. He clamps his crutch under his arm, so he can peel the skin off with both hands. The flesh underneath is soft and moist, a few shades lighter than an orange. As Gunn spits the large black stone into his hand, Silver pops the fruit into his mouth. It’s sweet and tart and so juicy, that Silver has to clamp down both the sound and the juice that threatens to escape his lips. Flint watches him with an indecipherable look in his eyes.

Despite both the gloom of the weather and Hands’ mood, the atmosphere around the fire that night feels a little lighter. A little less strained. Half of the fish that Gunn and Flint caught this morning are dangling from a rope at the dead tree, waiting for the sun to reappear so they can dry properly. The other half they roast in the fire while Gunn tells them excitedly about the guinep tree they found, how much fruit it still bears. Flint doesn’t partake in the conversation but for the first time he is sitting inside their circle around the fire.

It’s only for appearance’ sake, although Silver doesn’t know who they are trying to fool, that they tie Flint back to the tree for the night. Still, Flint has been nothing but difficult all week, so he can do a bit of penance as far as Silver is concerned. He casts a last glance at Flint before trying to get comfortable on the damp sand. It’s Gunn’s turn in the hammock, the lucky bastard. But Silver supposes he has earned it.

The nights on the ground are not kind to Silver’s leg. Despite their efforts to cushion the ground and ward off the wetness with an array of leaves and cloth, Silver never manages to get comfortable. The dampness oozing from the ground and the fog above seeps the warmth from his body, makes his joints ache and irritates the vulnerable skin of his stump. Maybe that’s why Silver wakes at the first sounds of struggle.

A large hulking shadow looms over Flint, bearing down on him. For a short, panicked moment Silver is inclined to believe the stories his men have whispered between themselves when they thought he couldn’t hear them. Story about voices, long dead, echoing through the forest. About how the island breathes life into your darkest fears and gives birth to your biggest regrets. But on second glance the dark shape over Flint seems definitely more corporal in nature. A quick scan over the camp confirms all of his men are accounted for as Flint struggles against his attacker. He desperately kicks up with his knees and tries to twist his hips but with his hands still bound and the rope tied around his middle, it’s a losing fight. Two sets of grunts and ragged breathing disturb the silence, one growing fainter, more wheezing by the second. As Silver’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he realises that Billy, who else could it be, has his giant hands around Flint’s throat, determined to choke the life out of him. Silver finds his voice as Flint loses his.

“Get him off, for fuck’s sake!”

It’s too dark and Billy and Flint are moving too much for Silver to risk firing his pistol. He draws his sword with shaking fingers and a racing heart. Hands and Morgan try to grab Billy’s arms, but their sleep-addled incoordination is no match for Billy’s determination. He shakes them off like irritating flies, hands immediately going back to Flint’s throat. But Flint has used the short moment of distraction to pull one of his legs up and gives Billy a vicious kick in the balls. To Billy’s credit, he only releases a muffled grunt of pain, but when he curls into himself, Hands and Morgan are finally able to get a hold of him and pull him off Flint. Gunn has climbed out of the hammock and approaches them with rope as Silver touches the blade of his cutlass to Billy’s throat.

“Don’t do anything stupid now. Well, even more stupid.”

Silver cuts a quick glance at Flint who is lying on his side, struggling for breath. He seems mostly unscathed though, all things considered. Breath comes a little easier for Silver as well. They light up a torch and tie Billy to the dead tree, a safe distance away from Flint. Silver stands in the space between them.

“What am I going to do with you?”

He looks at the two men, who, at one point in his life, were his closest friends. Billy stares back defiantly. The swelling on his face has receded to the point where he can open his eyes fully again. Now all they are filled with is hatred. He has lost weight as well, his clothes loose and dirty, even torn in places. Fending for himself for a week on his island obviously has been a challenge for him. Silver wonders if Billy spied on them before he made his move, searching his memory of the past week for any unusual occurrences or hints of his presence. Flint is staring straight ahead, not looking at either of them.

“Why haven’t you gotten rid of him yet? You’ve had so many good reasons by now.”

Silver’s eyes snap back to Billy. Somewhere behind him, Hands grunts approvingly.

“Call it weakness of a kind heart,” Silver says conversationally, before he lets his voice go hard. “Quite obviously a mistake in some cases, seeing that it would have saved us all an awful lot of trouble had I had you killed instead of advocating for your survival.”

“Did you honestly expect gratitude? After what you have done to me?”

“Given the alternative, which was letting them torture you to death, a little bit of appreciation might have been appropriate. Certainly more so than running straight to Rogers.”

“You chose this. Chose him. You brought this onto yourself.”

“And yet it was my throat you just tried to crush.” Flint cuts in mildly. They both turn to him. His voice is raspy and deep. It must hurt him to speak but Flint would rather die than let something as trivial as that stop him, Silver thinks with a confusing mix of irritation and fondness.

“You have long forfeited the right to live. With the things you’ve done. Even you can’t deny that,” Billy says.

“That makes three of us.”

Silver can see the moment Billy settles on a different approach in the subtle shift in his expression. Billy’s eyes flicker to him before fixing on Flint with a sneer.

“How did it feel to have him turn on you? To have him turn your own men against you? Send them to kill you? The very same men who fought countless battles at your side and in your name?”

Flint finally turns to look at him.

“If you’re so adamant to talk sentiments, why don’t you tell us instead how it felt to kill your own men, defenceless in the water? The ones who called you their brother?” A shadow passes over Billy’s face but Flint is relentless. “There is no coming back from something like that. No matter what you are telling yourself, you have to accept the fact that you are not a better man than he is. Than I am. And you never were.”

“I was never like you.” Billy growls. “I loved these men. Bled with them. I would have died for them.”

“You were never cut out to lead them. You lost sight of the bigger picture over gossip and petty, personal vendettas whenever it counted most, risking their lives. Maybe they realised that.”

“They betrayed me because he poisoned them with his words. Not for anything I have done.”

“Every man has a choice, Billy. And we all have to live with them.”

“I’m sick of this squabblin’. Put a dagger in them both,” Hands snarls.

Three raised voices cut through the night at the same time.

“This does not concern you.”

“Shut the fuck up!”

“You stay out of this.”

There is still common ground to be found between the three of them, Silver thinks cynically. His mind wanders to the dark place under the tree where their crew lies. Billy, Flint and Silver himself are the last of them. The only men still wandering this earth who lived through all of it. Who are able to tell their story. And here they are, still hurling accusations at each other.

“Nobody can make anybody do anything. There is always a choice.” Flint resumes the conversation as if Hands had not interrupted them. But he is not looking at Billy. His eyes rest on Silver instead.

“You always thought yourself so much smarter than the rest of us. Both of you did. But you aren’t.”

Silver rips his gaze from Flint’s arresting eyes to cast a glance at Billy. A dark, self-satisfied expression has taken over his handsome features, distorting them into something sinister. “It was my idea to use her like that. I knew you two would turn on each other sooner or later. Once I figured out she was the key, it was almost too easy.”

Silver is at Billy’s side in three, limping strides. The look of triumph in Billy’s eyes doesn’t have time to fade before Billy’s temple meets the handle of Silver’s pistol. He falls onto his side like a sack of flour, unconscious. Silver tugs his pistol back into his sash and hobbles over to Flint. Without saying a word he pulls a dagger from his belt and crouches down. His crutch falls into the sand with a muffled thump. He does not look at Flint as he cuts him loose. Nobody says anything. Even Hands doesn’t dare to voice his opinion. Once Silver is done, he gropes for his crutch, struggles upright and walks away into the dark.

He doesn’t walk far. He is not stupid enough to risk accidentally falling into the water or break his bones, stumbling over a root in the darkness.

Madi is safe, he has to remind himself. They freed her. She is with her people again, and neither Rogers nor Billy nor Flint’s war can touch her there. That thought is almost enough for him to pretend that it would suffice, knowing she was safe. But the comfort is stale. He did not plan to be left behind. The future he fought for was for them together. That was the whole point of it. If that makes him selfish, so be it. He never pretended otherwise.

The sound of soft footsteps in the sand heralds someone approaching. Even without turning around to look, Silver knows who they belong to. Flint sits down next to him, careful to keep some distance between them. He doesn’t say anything and Silver doesn’t know if he feels grateful or irritated by it. Look at that. Billy having the power to separate and realign them again, however unintentionally the latter. A mirthless chuckle escapes Silver. From the corner of his eyes he sees Flint turning towards him in question, but Silver is not in the mood to share his thoughts.

Unbidden, his mind conjures one of their last peaceful moments aboard the Walrus, when Flint told him he thought Silver was the best of them. That he planned for him and Madi to build something better out of the ruins of his war. Prevent the world from descending into terror. Silver wonders if Flint thinks differently now. Maybe he finally managed to prove to him that the world was not worth fighting for. Or maybe Billy did. How easy it is to turn good men into monsters. You just have to find their weakness, their desire or fear, apply pressure and see how fast they turn on their friends. Silver has always known this and yet he was not immune to it. It’s a lesson Flint too should have learned a long time ago.

He steers the maelstrom of his thoughts towards their current situation. With Flint willing to work with them, they have gained a new man in their little ragtag group but they also have a new captive they can’t afford to provide for. What is he supposed to do with Billy? The ever increasing throb in his temples warns him that he won’t find an answer for these questions tonight. Silver exhales slowly, only now becoming aware that the silence between him and Flint has changed. Calling it companionable would be premature, but it has lost a fraction of the tension that tainted every interaction between them for weeks. Honed by his sharpened awareness, Silver feels Flint’s presence like a physical touch. He imagines dark threads, spreading out from Flint like vines, gliding along his skin, engulfing him. Instead of the irresistible pull towards a dark void, they radiate something akin to comfort though.

With a final sigh, Silver struggles to his foot and starts walking back to the camp, confident that Flint will follow him. His stomach still gives a relieved little twinge when Flint does and goes on to settle not too far away from him to sleep. Silver curls in on himself, and with the last glowing embers of the fire warming his face and Flint at his back, sleep claims him quickly.

Chapter Text

When Silver wakes up, Flint is gone. Billy’s face could not spell “I told you so” more clearly were the letters literally etched onto his skin. Silver curses under his breath.

“Flint’s left with Morgan. To hunt,” Hands chimes in conversationally, a note of malice in his voice. “Are ye regretting yet to have cut him loose?”

Of course Flint would pounce on the chance to speak to Morgan in private the second he was able to do so. Silver tries not to feel bitter about it. Casting his eyes around the camp, he spots Gunn fiddling with the dried fish. He seems oddly subdued, sneaking unsure glances at Billy every now and then. Right, Silver will have to keep an eye on that. Before Gunn followed Flint around like a puppy, there was Billy.

“Gunn. With me,” he calls out. “Watch him,” he says to Hands, nodding at Billy.

Together they walk along the shoreline, checking for flotsam. The sky is overcast again, a shade darker than the day before. Silver tries not to think about what that means.

“Hear me very clearly,” he says after they have walked for a while, turning to Gunn. “It would not be in your best interests, if I wake up to yet another of your nightly recruiting attempts. I will decide what happens with Billy.”

Gunn looks to the ground. Silver sighs.

“Listen, you did good with Flint. But this is entirely different. We can’t risk Billy harming our men. Any of them. And until I’m sufficiently convinced that he is able to refrain from doing so, he stays where he is and nobody talks to him. Understood?”

“Yes,” Gunn murmurs.

“Good. Now what’s this?” Silver pokes his crutch at a lump in the water, balancing precariously on his good leg.

Gunn crouches down and reaches for it. They are both a bit hesitant to pull it onto the shore. But it just turns out to be a jumbled knot of rigging.

“Mr. Silver, look!” Gunn points out towards the bay.

Silver lifts his eyes towards the horizon, noting an array of debris and other unidentified objects floating their way.

“The current has changed direction.” He looks at Gunn. “Get Hands down here.”

**

Sweat is running down his back, dampening his shirt and burning his eyes. Silver wipes his forehead with his dirty sleeve, a splintered pile of wooden planks and pieces of sail cloth next to him, as movement by the treeline catches his eye. Morgan and Flint come out of the forest and make their way over to where Silver and the others are pulling debris from the water. Morgan has some kind of bird or duck slung over his shoulder.

Silver watches Flint taking in the scene in front of him. His gaze catches for a second on the bruises around Flint’s throat before sliding up to his profile. There is a slight twitch in his cheek that Silver knows how to read. Even after her death, the Walrus provides for her crew. As careless as Flint had been with the men manning her, he loved that ship. And now she is coming back to them, mutilated and fractured. Watching her battered, broken pieces drift towards them must leave him as unsettled as Silver feels. The Walrus has been the closest thing Silver has ever had to a home. He is fairly confident this must have been true for Flint as well. Despite the blackened ruins of a house somewhere on Providence Island.

“The weather is changing,” Flint says after a while, still squinting out at the water. “It would be wise to move camp into one of the caves.”

“No.”

Flint’s eyes cut to Silver, unable to mask his surprise.

“Not yet,” is all that Silver is willing to say on the matter. Madi could arrive any day now. And Silver will be waiting for her right here at this beach when she does.

Whatever Flint sees on Silver’s face, it stops him from arguing. Well, not entirely.

“Supply one of them with firewood and water at least. In case a storm hits.”

Silver nods once. Nobody can accuse him of being incapable of compromise.

“I need to borrow the shovel.”

“What for?”

But Flint remains stubbornly silent, raising Silver’s hackles instantly.

“Surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that we could use another set of hands here. So unless you are telling me what you need it for I’m going to decline.”

“You have not buried all of the men,” Flint says quietly.

Of all the things he could have said, this might be the least expected. Silver doesn’t even know what he expected. Maybe he hoped Flint would dig up the cache as a peace offering, but not this. He regards Flint for a moment longer, and finally gives him a curt nod. Flint marches off in the direction of the camp. It’s only after he has left that Silver realises he forgot to ask him about Morgan.

Darkness has crept over the island by the time Flint returns. He walks straight over to where Silver is wrangling the feathers off the duck and drops Joji’s sword, his whetstone, and Dooley’s pistol at Silver’s foot. In the silence that follows the soft thump of Flint pushing the shovel into the sand can be heard throughout the camp. Silver looks up at him from the large root that serves as his seat but he can’t see the expression on Flint’s face. The fire behind him casts his entire front in shadows, only illuminating the familiar contours of him. A silhouette of darkness and fire, like the God of Death. Maybe Silver’s starved and dehydrated mind had had the right idea all those months ago. But instead of demanding worship, it’s Silver who receives an offering. In the absence of a better idea, Silver simply nods in acknowledgement and continues plucking the duck.

Among the treasures the sea spit at them - or the Walrus provided them with, as Silver likes to think - was a large pot which they now use to catch the grease dripping from the roasting duck in fat, sizzling drops. After a week of eating fish, the smell is downright seductive. Even the fact that the bird can hardly feed six men can’t dampen the joyous spark that ignited when they put the duck over the fire. As they wait for it to be done, salivating for it, Silver entertains his men with stories about the Walrus.

“That ship was a damn near miracle. What she had to endure, the things she survived… Shortly after I joined the crew of the Walrus, we encountered a Spanish man-o’-war. I don’t know if you have ever engaged one in battle, no, I know that you haven’t, because you are here and not at the bottom of the sea, but believe me when I tell you, I will never forget the moment she flashed her broadside at us and opened all 56 of her gun ports. It was like staring in the face of death and I mean that in the most literal sense. They rained hell on us and blasted us to pieces. I saw no way how the poor ship could survive this. But I was mistaken. Somehow Rackham got her patched up and returned her to Nassau.”

“Why Rackham, though?” Gunn interrupts.

“Hmmm?”

“Why did Rackham bring her back and not you?” Gunn gestures vaguely in Flint and Silver’s direction.

“Well, that’s a story for another time. Besides, we had just taken over the warship that demolished us. Bigger fish and all that.”

Silver, overcome with a wave of nostalgia, risks a glance at Flint. The warm glow of the fire brings out the copper in his beard and a twinkle to his eyes. To Silver’s quiet delight, Flint’s eyes meet his in acknowledgement. Through the simple act of reliving this memory, something unclenches between them.

Brimming with a confusing mix of sentiments, Silver continues telling the heroic tales of the Walrus. How she survived ship killers and doldrums, countless skirmishes in open water and Roger’s assault in Nassau harbour. Silver knows, it’s only a fraction of her story. Flint must have so many more tales about her tucked away in the crevasses of his mind, but he seems content to leave the stage to Silver. When he is done, so is the duck and they feast like kings. Billy has long lost the fight to mask the hunger on his face and Silver takes pity on him, ordering Hands to give him a few scraps as well.

Afterwards, Flint leaves the fire-lit circle and inspects the various piles of debris they fished out of the water that day. Not that he will be able to see much in this light. Taking advantage of the mellow mood this evening, Silver joins him.

“Anything useful?” Flint asks him after a moment.

“Mostly bits and pieces from the deck. Part of the rigging, some sail, splintered boards. We are still sorely lacking in tools. The carpenter’s chest must have sunk. Too heavy to float.”

Flint hums non-committingly. Silence stretches between them, the first tendrils of awkwardness creeping back in. It’s as if they have unlearned to talk to each other.

“Had a nice hunt with Morgan?” Silver asks. To his great frustration, it still bothers him that it took both Gunn and Morgan to convince Flint to give some credit to Silver’s words. And judging by his responding silence, Flint is still not willing to admit there was any truth to them.

Just as he is about to return to his men, ready to close this particular door, Flint’s voice stops him.

“What are you going to do with Billy?”

Silver recognizes this as the olive branch it’s meant to be and turns back to him, limping closer.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“He can be a valuable asset.”

“So you think we should free him? It’s your neck most at risk, should he be unable to put aside his personal vendetta against you.”

“I think we can’t afford infighting and wasting our resources, if we want to get off this island.”

Silver presses his lips together to bite back a smart quip.

“I’m aware of that. Either he can be reasoned with or we have to kill him.”

“Billy tends to lose focus when he is overwhelmed by emotion. It’s almost impossible to reason with him then.”

This time Silver can’t hold back his incredulous snort. That Flint managed to say this with a straight face is almost admirable.

“Happens to the best of us.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” The rueful tinge in Flint’s voice proves that the irony is not lost on him.

“Ask Gunn to talk to him. He’ll be the one most likely to get Billy see reason.”

“I don’t know if it escaped your attention, since matters of the crew were always too trivial for you, but Gunn was Billy’s shadow for a while.”

“Precisely.”

“What if he is susceptible to his influence and Billy manages to divide our group?” He’s had some good practice recently, Silver reminds himself grimly.

“If you were afraid of one of the men sowing discord among the group, you should have gotten rid of Hands a long time ago.”

Silver opens his mouth to argue, just on principle, not because he has a good argument at hand, but Flint continues without giving him a chance to butt in:

“Gunn wants to get off this island. He won’t jeopardise this for whatever loyalty he may or may not still have for Billy.”

Silver huffs.

“You didn’t listen.” The words slip out unbidden and accusingly, revealing far too much for his liking.

“Can you blame me?” Flint doesn’t bother pretending not to know what Silver is talking about.

“You know, I think I do. I thought you would know better than to believe I would lie and use this against you.”

“But you did. You could have told me sooner. Instead of keeping this to yourself until you decided to end what I had been fighting for and needed me to disappear.”

Flint crouches down and starts to disentangle a knotted rope, talking more to his hands than to Silver. “I thought you had grown past this need to only look out for yourself.“ The disappointment in his voice is hard to bear.

“Can you not see that I did this for your and her sake as much as mine?”

“Let’s not pretend that it was any concern for me which informed your decision.”

“It’s not like you ever gave any thought to mine. I made no effort to conceal how I felt about this war. About risking her for it. About the cost of it."

“What we tried to achieve was worth the cost.”

The old fire drives Flint back to his feet, the rope slipping from his hands. But at his familiar words Silver only feels an equally familiar rage twitching to life inside of him.

“And what did you try to achieve besides tearing it all down? You can’t in good conscience tell me that you saw a future where we came out alive at the other end of it. And even if we assume that against all odds we did, what then? Do you honestly think we could have been able to rebuild and govern the New World?”

“Well, we’ll never know now, will we? But you saw what difference one battle made. We took Nassau and news spread far and wide. People from all over the West Indies and the colonies flocked to our camp, wanting to be a part of this revolution. Once we showed them what was possible.”

“Yes, only for us to be immediately attacked by Spain and lose Nassau in the process again.”

“Loss is nothing else but change. People are afraid of it because there is the possibility that things might turn out worse than they had been. But the same is true in reverse. There is always a chance to bring change for something better.”

Flint takes a step closer and Silver hardens himself against the seductive pull of his conviction as he did that day in the forest.

“Madi and her people. You and me. We will never be a part of “civilisation” under England’s rule. And I’m not referring to us being pirates. We are not human to them. None of us. Can you really find comfort in a life where you are deemed less than a man, where society will never let you forget that you don’t belong? Where the woman you claim to love will live in constant fear of being put into chains? I did not take you for a man who would let that stand.”

“As opposed to finding comfort in a senseless death, you mean? I don’t care about civilisation and its morals. I never have. You knew this.”

“If there is anything recent events have proved, it’s that I don’t know you at all. And looking back, I find myself wondering, if this was by design from the very beginning of our acquaintance.” Though the words cut like a blade, they are said without malice. Flint just sounds tired and sad. All the fire that fuelled him only moments ago has been snuffed out again.

“You know me better than anyone.”

In voicing it aloud, Silver realises its truth. There is no one still walking this earth who has seen him as clearly as Flint has. And it doesn’t matter that there are blank spots on the canvas, Flint has a more complete picture than anyone else. It terrifies him to the core.

Flint is silent for a long time, probably taking revenge for all the times he bared himself only to meet Silver’s assessing gaze.

“Let’s get some rest,” Flint says finally.

“In a moment.”

Flint slants his eyes over to him but thankfully realises that Silver wants him to leave. Only when he is out of sight does Silver allow himself to take a deep breath and close his eyes. He should know better than this.

Any hope that everyone, including Flint, would be asleep when Silver returns to the camp is dashed the moment he spots Flint next to the dying fire. His shoulders lose some of their tension once he sees Silver approach. Noting that Flint is not as unaffected as he seems is not enough to ease Silver’s discomfort. Instead of giving Silver the courtesy to wallow in his mortification in private, Flint gets comfortable on the ground right next to him. Facing him. Silver considers his options. Showing Flint his back or moving to another spot would be interpreted as a sign of weakness. Although the temptation is strong, Silver‘s stubbornness is stronger and he settles down, facing Flint in turn. Lying on their side on the ground, they regard each other silently until their lids grow heavy with sleep.

Silver opens his eyes to an empty space next to him. Sitting up with a hitch in his breath, he quickly scans his surroundings. Flint is nowhere to be seen.

Hands just shrugs at Silver’s questioning gaze, while Gunn looks even more rattled than usual. Billy is frowning at the sky, his mouth a thin line. Judging by the loud snores coming from Morgan, he is still blessedly asleep. Damn it all to hell. This time he does not hold back his curse.

The wet drizzle that had started yesterday has solidified to heavy, single drops. It’s not a continuous downpour yet but it will be soon. The wind has picked up as well, bending the large trees, plucking at their leaves. An ominous rustling swells up from the forest. Despite how much he hates it, Silver orders his men to move their provisions, weapons and limited tools to the cave they have chosen as their shelter.

That leaves him with Billy who watches him approach warily. Last night Silver had been almost amenable to Flint’s idea to let Gunn do the talking. But now that Flint has disappeared off to God knows where Silver is angry at himself that he even considered listening to him.

“There has been a lot of talk about choices. This is yours: Either we leave you here, sitting in the rain without food or drink, or you can come with us to take shelter and share our meals.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“What’s the catch?”

Silver gives Billy a look. “Don’t insult me by having to spell it out. So are you going to behave yourself or not?”

Billy squints at him, considering. That he even has to think about it makes Silver’s blood boil.

“Let me make myself very clear, Billy. We have been at this crossroads before. Don’t think for a moment that I’ll make the same mistake again. The mistake of keeping you alive, in case you were wondering. This vendetta against him. Against us. It ends here. Or you will.”

Billy opens his mouth, probably to argue, but then movement at the shoreline catches his eye and Silver forgets all about Billy. Flint approaches them, coming leisurely up the beach. Silver stomps over to him, stabbing his crutch into the sand as if it has personally offended him.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Up close he notices that Flint is sopping wet and not just from the rain. A large, dripping rope is diagonally wrapped around his shoulder and hip.

“Looking at what we have at our disposal.” He says as if it’s obvious and the last vestiges of Silver’s composure dissolve into the blowing wind.

“You seem to be misled by the notion that because I cut you loose, you can just wander off and do whatever you please. Make no mistake, it’s me who those men listen to and who decides what we do and what we don’t do.”

Predictably, this does not go over well with Flint. He might have been willing enough at one point to share his authority with Silver, but clearly that’s not the case anymore. And maybe it had never been.

“I thought making our survival a priority was in line with your intentions?” Flint asks with a raised eyebrow, voice sharp.

“By quite literally diving head first into peril the moment I give you freedom to do so?”

He refuses to let any more of his men die. That includes Flint and, if he’s honest with himself, even Billy. Flint's face goes from bewildered, to indignant and then softens in realisation. There is a peculiar expression in his eyes as he searches Silver’s face.

“We can't afford to wait for somebody to come for us, John. If we want to get off this island, we have to do it ourselves.”

“Fuck you. She will come.”

“I’m sure you can still see the merit in having another option. To the very least, it gives the men something to do. We–” Flint catches himself. Wets his lips. “You can’t risk them losing their heads. And they will. This island does this to men and worse.”

“I don’t need you of all people lecturing me about what’s best for the men. And how can I be sure that it isn’t you who has lost his head? You are the one tempting fate by diving alone in a bay full of death traps.”

“There is a skiff not too deep which I think can be salvaged, given the needed repairs. But I need the men to get it to the surface. We can use the rigging to fashion something to pull it up with.”

Silver huffs. Flint takes another step closer. Despite his sodden state, he radiates heat. This close Silver has to tilt his face up a bit to meet Flint’s eyes. He is pretty sure this is intentional on Flint’s part.

“Give me Billy at least.”

“What, so you can make yet another attempt to drown him?”

“Third time's the charm.”

That startles a chuckle out of Silver. Flint's eyes crinkle at the corners and drop to Silver’s mouth which freezes halfway to a smirk. The wind has evolved into a full blown gale, ripping at their clothes and tangling Silver’s hair. Goosebumps break out on Flint’s wet skin where his shoulder meets his neck, just below the purple marks Billy left him with, and Silver has to temper the sudden insane urge to map them with his lips.

“Alright, maybe it’s not the best idea,” Flint admits wryly. “Send him to scout the island. If we are to believe him, he was stranded on the other side of the river, so he is less familiar with our side of it. Billy functions best when he has a task. And it’s not bad to have a better understanding of the lay of the land.”

“And what makes you think Billy would follow my order to ‘scout the land’? You heard him. He is as stubborn as you are.”

“I'm sure you can think of something. You are the captain now, aren’t you?” The condescending edge in his voice at odds with the warmth in his eyes. Water has clumped and curled his lashes into something far too arresting.

“A captain without a ship,” Silver mutters.

“I’m working on it.”

In that moment the sky opens and releases all the water it has amassed in its grey depths.

“Not today, you won’t.”

Chapter Text

Silver stands at the shore and observes the bay in front of him. Next to him a rope snakes from the dead tree out into the water. On its other end a roughly cobbled together raft bops on the small waves. Gunn and Morgan cling to it, gasping for air. Flint is still under. Silver has lost count of the seconds a while ago, tripping over the numbers in his agitation.

During the two days they had to hunker down in the cave to wait out the storm, Flint managed to convince Silver to give his plan a try. If only to appease his men, Silver told himself, for he still refuses to consider the possibility that Madi won’t come for him. When Silver spun a story for his men, presenting a united front with Flint once more, it felt like slipping on a well worn glove; a bit threadbare and dirty in places but hugging his hand like a second skin. Morgan and Gunn had been immediately amendable, glad to have something to focus their energy and pin their hopes on. Predictably, Hands and Billy were less so. Hands has stopped talking to Silver because he thinks not getting rid of Billy is a catastrophic miscalculation on Silver’s part, only surpassed by leaving Flint alive. For someone who has made it so abundantly clear that he has no interest in hearing what goes on in Silver’s head, he certainly has a lot of opinions on his decisions. Silver is not bothered by their opposition. Once this idea shows the first fruits of success, they’ll come around. So, as soon as the weather allowed, they fashioned a raft to serve as some kind of floating island and support Flint, Gunn and Morgan on their dives.

And now here they are, Silver on the shore, the three men in the water, and Billy and Hands standing further up the beach with their arms crossed, watching the proceedings with narrowed eyes.

Finally, Flint breaks the surface a couple of feet from the raft. He says something to Gunn and Morgan that Silver can’t hear, but the intention is unmistakably clear. He wants to go down again. They still haven’t managed to secure the rigging around the skiff to raise it. This is their fifth attempt. The three heads disappear under the water once more.

Silver starts counting anew. Memories of his near drowning in Nassau harbour creep up on him, refusing to be brushed aside. His leg tangled up in the rigging, pulling him to the bottom of the sea. The fight to loosen the clasps on the boot. Dodging debris and bullets on the way to the surface. How his lungs almost burst, the pressure crushing his chest. No matter how hard he tries to ignore it, his mind keeps conjuring an image of Flint’s lifeless body tangled up in a rope, watching him with unseeing eyes.

He has lost count once more. Damn it all to hell. And damn Flint in particular for putting him through this again.

After what feels like an eternity there is movement in the water. Silver squints against the glare of the sun reflecting on the surface and can barely make out Gunn. He fastens a rope to the raft and hastily swims towards the shore. Morgan appears above the water shortly after, pushing the raft towards the beach. Silver’s eyes search the surface. Flint is last. Always last to return but first to challenge providence and death itself. Then he finally rises out of the sea like the mythical creature Silver once believed him to be and shouts for them to pull.

Silver bends down and scrabbles for the rope. But in his haste, his crutch gets stuck in the wet surf and he slips on the first tug, landing flat on his ass. Mortification heats his face and neck. He would not have been able to effectively pull on the rope one-footed anyway, but it was the thought that counted. Now he has to wait for Gunn and Morgan to reach the shore, so they can lift the wreck, while Flint tries to prevent it slipping out of the ropes and rigging. More time yet for Flint to overplay his luck and meet a watery grave. He struggles up, not bothering to smother his curses. Gunn, Morgan and the raft still have more than half the distance to go, and Flint has disappeared again below the surface. Regardless of its futility, Silver bends down once more to grab the rope.

Before he can touch it, it rises out of the water as if on its own accord, and Silver turns his head to see Billy’s corded biceps pulling at it. Behind him, Hands has gripped the rope as well. Relief makes his good leg wobble for a moment, but Silver quickly gets himself back under control. They line up and find a rhythm. Once Gunn and Morgan reach the shore with their raft, they join them, transferring the rope leading directly to the skiff.

For a time Silver loses himself in the meditative, rhythmic push and pull. He feels like they have become one multiple-armed creature, working towards a single goal. It reminds him of their time on the Walrus, when every hand on deck knew what it was doing, trying to follow one of Flint’s outrageous tactical manoeuvres. A couple of paces from the shore, the wooden prow of a skiff pierces the surface, sending an energising bolt through their group. They pull even harder, faster. The skin on Silver’s palm splits open and chafes but he doesn’t pay it any mind. Slowly, the shape of the longboat becomes visible underwater. And behind it is Flint, pushing against the rear, holding the rigging clasped around it. The moment it comes into reach, Gunn and Morgan leap towards it, letting go of the rope and haul the boat up to the beach. Flint emerges from the water, breathing heavily.

They form a circle and look down at their salvation. The hull is pierced by bullets, some still stuck in the wood, and there is a large, bucket sized hole near the prow and a smaller one in the back. But repairing it, making it fit for the high seas, should be more feasible than building a boat from scratch with their limited knowledge and tools. Against his better judgement, something like hope flutters in Silver’s chest.

His gaze finds Flint’s across the skiff between them. The whites of his eyes are irritated and red from seawater but when his face splits into a blinding shark grin, Silver is helpless against it. He feels his lips crack as he returns it.

**

“Although I’m usually not one to indulge, there hasn’t been a day so far that I have been more desolate we didn’t manage to salvage any rum than today,” Silver declares as he plops down next to Flint in front of the fire. They have lit it early tonight, returning to their old campsite at the beach. There are no stars to celebrate with them, the waning storm still left them with an overcast sky. But tonight nothing can sour the cheer of the men surrounding the burning logs.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Flint says, watching the flames. “We all need to keep our wits about ourselves.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport on this joyous occasion, Captain. Just because you hate having a bit of fun, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be miserable.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, Silver bites his tongue, chastising his carelessness. He let himself be carried away by the contagious buoyancy of his men. The last thing he wants at this moment is for Flint to recall why he has reason to be miserable.

But Flint turns to him, a smirk curling his lips. “I distinctly remember a time, not two days ago if memory serves right, that you were decidedly against this venture.”

Silver relaxes slowly. It seems that Flint is not completely immune to the elation around him.

“And I would do so again. If nothing else, you can always count on me being the only one to speak out against you gambling with your life so haphazardly. Even when rewarded with a success such as this one.”

That came out more genuine than Silver intended. Flint’s eyes widen a fraction and his lips part in surprise. His gaze roams Silver’s face, searching for a lie where there is none.

“I don’t understand you,” he says quietly.

“Yes, we have established that already. Might as well get used to it.” Silver tries to discharge the tensions that has suddenly sprung up between them. Flint’s eyes are still locked on his, a melancholy look clouding them.

“I want to, you know. I thought I did. But if I had, we would not be here.”

Silver breaks eye contact and looks down. This conversation is already far too intimate to be had in this setting. He sneaks a glance across the fire. Hands doesn’t pay them any attention for once and is busy with adding barbed comments to whatever tale Morgan is telling. A bit further to the left, next to Gunn, sits Billy and oh he definitely was paying attention. A small jolt runs through Silver when he meets Billy’s judgemental stare but he tilts his chin up and returns it defiantly.

“Don’t let him bother you,” comes Flint’s voice, suddenly closer than it had been before. Helplessly, Silver turns toward it, locking eyes with Flint again. It proves to be considerably harder than with Billy.

“Whatever he thinks, it’s of no consequence” Flint continues, pinning Silver with his gaze. Heat creeps up Silver’s neck.

“He doesn’t bother me,” Silver lies.

“And he did help,” Flint points out unhelpfully.

“How are you so lenient with him? If I’m counting right, he has tried to kill you at least three times by now.”

“As have half the men in present company. You don’t want me holding onto grudges, Silver,” Flint warns. There is an edge to his voice now that does nothing to dispel the heat building under Silver’s skin. It makes him jittery and reckless. It makes him want to push where he shouldn’t.

“No, I guess that wouldn’t be in my best interests,” Silver admits. “Unfortunately, not unlike someone I’m acquainted with, I happen to ignore what’s in my best interests at the most inconvenient times.”

Flint’s eyes narrow but there is a hint of amusement sparking in their depths. He leans closer, invading Silver’s space.

“I find that very hard to believe. But humouring you, assume that I do. How has that worked out for you so far?”

“Well,” Silver glances down at his missing leg significantly, before meeting Flint’s intense gaze again. “With varying results, I would say.”

“So you freely admit, that even with pain as your tutor you haven’t learned and grown from your experiences?”

“Have you? You are no stranger to pain either.”

“‘If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.’”

Silver snorts mirthlessly. “I’m sure whoever you are quoting has never lost a leg.”

A faint smile blunts the sharp edges of Flint’s features, transforming his face into something far too soft for Silver to be comfortable with.

“Probably not,” Flint concedes quietly. He seems lost in a memory, eyes growing unfocused and brimming with an emotion long buried before they sharpen and pierce Silver again.

“‘When pain is unbearable it destroys us; when it does not it is bearable.’ I have always thought this one to be more apt, but I’ve yet to reach a final verdict. Are we aware of your own destruction? Is pain bearable just because we continue to live with it?”

Silver’s chest squeezes painfully, and there is nothing in his power to revoke the ache of it.

“It seems there are some things we are helpless against. They make us burn ourselves over and over again, trying to reach the light beyond the pain.”

Flint looks stricken at Silver’s words. Belatedly, Silver realises that his eyes are stinging. Flint raises his hand tentatively, as if to touch him, but aborts the motion halfway, remembering himself.

“That’s why it’s preferable to stay in the dark,” he says quietly before pulling away.

Silver blinks disorientated. One by one the noises around them filter back into his consciousness. The low murmur of his men conversing, the soft lapping of the waves against the shore, the rustling of the trees in the wind, a mournful cry from a bird in the jungle, and its muted answer from somewhere far away.

Silver quickly looks around. Everyone’s attention seems to be elsewhere. Heads bent together, Billy and Gunn are talking quietly, while Morgan is still trying to convince Hands that he has sequestered some of his share of the Urca gold somewhere. Silver makes an effort to be an active participant in the conversations of his men, doing his part to uphold the celebratory mood. It’s not easy when every part of him wants to drag Flint somewhere private and ask what the hell that was about. Flint has shifted slightly away from him and is looking into the fire unseeingly, retreating into himself.

When they get ready for the night, Flint doesn’t move from his spot next to Silver to sleep somewhere else. Silver takes that as permission to subtly shift a little closer to him again. He watches the expansions of Flint’s broad back and imagines touching his hand to it to feel him breathe.

“We‘ll remove these parts, from here to there.”

“Absolutely not.”

“The timber we salvaged from the Walrus is long enough to cover the hole.”

“You are just going to damage it further.”

“Like I have just told you. We need to widen it, so we can make a clean cut. It makes fitting the replacement parts easier.”

“We don’t have the proper tools. You’ll never be able to make a clean cut.”

“I know what I’m doing, Billy.”

Flint and Billy are standing in front of the damaged skiff, too distracted by their bickering to notice Silver’s approach.

“If we were on a ship out at sea, I would be forced to agree. But this is different. I don’t see how your navigational skills make you knowledgeable in the ways of woodwork.”

“I don’t give a shit if you agree or not.”

“I’m not going to gamble our survival on your ludicrous vanity even if Silver does.”

“This has nothing to do with vanity. My father was a carpenter, for fucks sake. I have done this before.”

“You asked for an axe?” Silver butts in conversationally, filing that new morsel of information away for further examination. They both turn to look at him with matching frowns.

“You better treat it gently. It took me the whole morning to convince Hands to give it up.”

Flint takes it with a nod and gets to work, hacking away at the skiff. Billy falls back until he is standing next to Silver.

“Did you know that?” He mouths at him.

Silver shakes his head, mentally rearranging every piece of knowledge he has about Flint’s past. That Flint had been a Navy man was obvious to him, long before Flint admitted to it. He hadn’t known that a man could rise up the ranks to the position of an officer coming from a lower background like that, though. Flint surely had to be an exception. His talent on a ship undeniable even to his superiors who were no doubt among the more high born. This also shines a new light on Flint’s entanglement with the Hamiltons. Turns out that Lord and Lady Hamilton had snatched themselves a bit of rough. As Silver watches Flint working the wood, he tries hard not to let that bother him.

**

Silver sees less of Flint the following days. The captain spends most of the time on the beach, working on the skiff. Gunn and Morgan willingly play his errand boys, handing him tools and timber, procuring everything he asks for within their limited means. Billy has ceased his complaints and observes the progress with a critical eye.

Sometimes Silver joins Flint to watch him work. They don’t talk much, though. Flint is solely focused on his task. As Silver witnesses for the first time how Flint uses his skills to repair instead of destroy, his thoughts circle around this new glimpse into Flint’s former life. Like the irresistible urge to pick at a scab, his mind can’t seem to leave the matter alone, imagining one story after another about Flint’s youth and how he clawed his way up the Navy ranks until he caught the eye of a rich Lord. He itches to learn more. Given how Silver refused to shed light on his own past, he doesn’t think Flint would take kindly to any further inquiry, though. So he wisely keeps his mouth shut and restricts himself to watching him, observing how Flint wields axe and hammer as expertly as a blade. Flint seems more guarded now anyway after the night they celebrated the retrieval of the boat. But at the end of each day he returns to the fire and finds a spot next to Silver, accepting the food and drink he offers him.

Once Flint has finished patching up the holes, they discuss how to modify the longboat with a mast and sail, so they have a chance to reach the nearest inhabited island. None of the timber they retrieved from the Walrus is fit to be refashioned into a mast. They need to cut down a tree. Flint, Morgan, and Billy spend a whole day wandering the jungle, trying to find the right one. Meanwhile Gunn and Silver try their hand at sewing, stitching together several pieces of sail cloth into one canvas. Surprisingly, Hands turns out to be better at it than either of them and takes over.

Despite their daily hardships–securing food remains a challenge each day, and sleeping under the open sky under a blanket of fog is hard on their bones–there are less arguments than one might expect given that half of them were hellbent on killing each other not too long ago. Something resembling peace resides in their camp. Everyone is focused and carefully optimistic. The escape from the island seems almost in their grasp.

Silver should have known that it wouldn’t last.

On the sixteenth day the sky displays a sickly green colour shortly after daybreak, heralding another storm. Silver orders everyone to the cave. Flint still wants to go into the forest and cut down the tree they selected, but Silver won’t allow it.

Naturally, Flint doesn’t thank him for it when they huddle down in the back of the cave as lightning flashes outside, followed by earth splitting thunder. Sheets of rain pummel the entrance of the cave, reaching inside with cold, wet fingers, bolstered by the howling winds. Lighting a fire is out of the question which leaves them sitting in the twilight and pressing against each other for warmth. Another flash illuminates the near darkness, followed by the screeching sound of a tree or large branch crashing down.
Silver tries not to think about what would happen to them should they encounter a tempest like this on their small boat on open sea. They are in the middle of storm season. The weather will remain unpredictable for several months. This must be the true reason why Madi hasn’t returned yet, he tells himself as he tries to get comfortable on the hard stones.

The storm disappears as quickly as it came.

The next morning they emerge from the cave like tired, malnourished bears on the first day of spring. Climbing over flattened shrub and fallen branches, Silver and Flint make their way to the beach where they had secured the skiff.

It’s still where they left it. Silver feels numbness settle into his bones as he looks down on the giant tree and what remains of their boat peeking out from underneath it.

Chapter Text

Standing before the ruins of their escape, Silver struggles to breathe.

They are going to die here. The realisation hits him, undeniable and definitive, sitting like a stone in his throat and cutting off his airflow. For the second time, he simply can’t think of a way out of this. Desperation swells up inside of him, the same kind he felt when his crew held him down for Howell’s saw to irrevocably seal his fate. This time, though, it’s an isle that refuses to let him go, cruelly cutting off each and every flight path in its hunger for more souls to feed on. Everything he has endured and done up to this point has been in vain. Every sacrifice, every betrayal, every death. He lost parts of himself, he lost his brothers, his ship, his riches, and the thing he longed for most in the world: a quiet life with the woman he loved, untouched by war. And it all led to this. Wasting away on a forgotten island in the sea with no means of escape. Condemned and alone.

Not entirely alone.

Standing next to him, Flint regards the remains of their boat with a grim expression. The familiar lines of his face deepened in dismay. It takes a moment for him to notice Silver’s turmoil, too preoccupied with managing his own frustration, but when he becomes aware of Silver’s quickened breathing, he turns towards him. Eyes widening in alarm, he takes a step closer and grabs Silver’s shoulders.

“Hey, look at me. Calm yourself.”

If Silver had any air to spare, he would laugh.

“We will find another way.”

Flint’s voice sounds as if it’s coming from far away. The rushing in his ears drowns out the sounds of morning, birds continuing to sing their song, unfazed by the disarray of broken branches and twisted trees. His head fills with cotton.

“You were right. She won’t come.” Why would she for someone like him? A viscous voice in his head asks. “And we have just lost our only chance to get off this fucking island.”

“No, we haven’t.” Flint puts one of his palms on Silver’s rattling breast. “But you have to focus now, John. Stay with me. Breathe. Can you do that for me?”

Silver finds that he can’t. He starts to feel lightheaded, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes.

“This is it, don’t you see? This is where it all ends. Our crew died here. Our ship sank here. There is nothing left but us and the cache in the ground. We might as well bury ourselves on top of it,” Silver wheezes, voice brittle with lack of air and the onset of panic.

“This is not the end,” Flint insists stubbornly and pulls Silver against him, sliding a hand under his curls to grasp his neck. “Breathe with me. Come on.”

Silver clings to him. Letting Flint do the work of expanding and compressing his ribcage, he concentrates on the seemingly simple task of filling his lungs with air in time with Flint. His leg wobbles a bit, prompting Flint to steady him with a supporting arm around his back. It should shame him, to be this weak in front of Flint, but right now Silver can’t find it in him to care.

After a while the fog in his brain clears slightly. One by one his senses return and he becomes acutely aware of how close they are. They are pressed together from shoulder to knee, Flint’s hand a grounding anchor on his nape. He feels warm and solid and alive against Silver. Unshakable in his convictions and the obstacles life keeps throwing in his way. The only constant remaining in Silver’s ever shrinking world.

When he trusts himself enough to breathe on his own accord, Silver lifts his head to look at him. Relief chases over Flint's features as their eyes meet. If Silver didn’t know better, he would have thought Flint had been afraid.

“Better?” Flint asks, giving Silver's neck a reassuring squeeze.

Silver tilts his head up and presses his lips to him in answer.

Before he has the chance to question himself, Flint slips a hand between them and pushes him away, gently but firmly.

“No.”

Of course not. Silver recoils as if slapped, the rejection hurting more than his still aching lungs. Of course Flint would never choose him, if there was still the slightest chance of finding Thomas again. Reeling, he turns, desperate to flee.

“No,” Flint says again and halts Silver’s retreat, reaching for him before he can escape. Silver feels his warm palm on his face, a thumb swiping over his cheekbone. “Not like this.”

Silver's jumbled thoughts trip and stumble to a halt.

“We will find a way to leave. I saw at least one other skiff on the ground farther out in the bay. It’s not in as good shape as the one we had and retrieving it will be more of a challenge but not impossible. We have succeeded in the past with far worse odds than this as long as we both put our minds to it. But you have to pull yourself together. Can I trust you to do that?”

Silver just stares at him. His mind still stuck on ‘Not like this’.

“Silver, do you hear what I’m saying?” Flint taps his cheek to get his attention.

“And even if we find a way. What then? There is nothing out there for me. She won’t forgive me as you have told me time and time again. I can’t get back on the account, Rackham will have made sure of that. And you. You’ll just…” abandon me and search for him, he leaves unsaid. The pain etched into the lines of Flint’s face is all the answer he needs.

“Let’s get off this island first,” Flint deflects but Silver is already turning away from him.

He limps towards the treeline as fast as his crutch allows. His vision blurs. Somewhere behind him, Flint is calling his name but Silver needs to put as much distance between them as possible right now.

*

He spends the day aimlessly wandering the jungle. His vast, overgrowing grave. He doesn’t want to be a witness to his men finding all of their hopes dashed under a tree. Let Flint deal with it. There is no strength left in him to prevent them from falling into despair anyway. Not anymore. Not when he is lost to it himself.

Without a conscious thought, his feet carry him to the large tree guarding the grave of his brothers. It has survived the storms unscathed, looming regal and large in the clearing. How long until Silver will join them? His fingers trace the familiar names. Tears of sap have bled out of the letters. He draws his dagger and carves his name into the bark under theirs.

As he brushes splinters out of the fresh grooves, he is overcome by the inexplicable compulsion to lie down on the mound of earth, allowing his brothers to pull him into their welcoming embrace. His arm holding the dagger becomes unbearably heavy, slowly sinking back to his side. Weariness, more all-encompassing than the one he usually carries with him, settles deep into his bones. The birds have quietened. He has become so accustomed to their constant lament, that its absence strikes him as even more forlorn. A slight breeze sweeps through the forest, rustling the leaves of the trees and in its murmur he hears their voices:

We will take care of you…

It fills him with a weird kind of longing. He is just so fucking tired. Tired of holding together their group with his bare hands, tired of upholding the illusion that there is still a future where Madi forgives him, tired of forcing his body to endure the pain each day. The thought of giving up and letting go takes root inside of him, growing stronger and more appealing with each exhale. It’s so seductive that it jolts him back to his senses. This is not who he is, he fights to remind himself. Terror spreads through him and he knows with absolute certainty that if he does not leave right now, he won’t ever, and wills himself to walk away.

While his mind is suspended in the paralysing state between numbness and despair, the island is not. By afternoon, dark clouds gather overhead once more and the jungle around him comes alive. Trees are creaking, bending to the whims of forceful winds. Their rustling taunting him with an echo of crashing waves. Dry leaves and small twigs swirl through the air, catching in Silver’s hair. A deep, foreboding rumbling rolls through the sky. Blearily, he trudges back to the cave.

After he climbs through the entrance, he notes that Billy and Gunn are missing. It doesn’t come as a surprise. The fact that Flint is here, along with Morgan and Hands, does though, Silver has to admit. He sits down on a small ledge, rubbing his stump, and watches wordlessly as Hands is attempting to light a fire. Due to the layout of the cave and the building storm outside the smoke can’t properly escape. It curls black and smelly around them, stinging their eyes. Silver stifles a cough.

“Have you seen Billy and Gunn?” Flint’s voice cuts through the silence, thick with smoke and some unnamed tension. He seems jittery and agitated but Silver refuses to look in his direction.

He just shakes his head, fanning the dark fumes away from him, as Morgan and Hands mumble something. Even in his dazed state Silver notices that they are uncharacteristically subdued, especially Hands. Hands would never answer a question from Flint without a token barb or complaint. He wonders with a detached curiosity, what went on in his absence.

“I’m going to look for them. They won’t survive the night outside.”

“No, you won’t,” Silver says calmly, staring at the pitiful flames. “They will find their way back here or shelter elsewhere. Billy is not stupid.”

“We should stay together.”

“Which is precisely why you won’t go after them in this weather.”

Silver is still not looking at him, so it takes him a moment to realise that Flint is walking out of the cave without another word.

“Damn you.” Silver leaps up and stomps after him, propelled by a spark of anger he welcomes after the apathy he was weighed down by all day. The numbness is fading fast and ire builds in its place.

“Flint, I swear to God, get back in there and quit being such a contrary bastard!” He shouts against the howling winds.

Rain slaps against his face, drenching him in the blink of an eye but it does nothing to douse his wrath. On the contrary. The small cavern they have been sheltering in is halfway up a mountain, partly obscured by a big boulder. There is hardly an even surface in front of the entrance, before it falls down a steep slope, lined with rocks and shrub. Crutch catching and slipping on the wet, uneven stones, Silver almost loses his footing and curses up a storm, rivalling the one wreaking havoc around him. The sky has darkened to an ominous colour. Sheets of rain pummel the earth, flattening everything the winds have left standing. He can’t see farther than a couple of feet.

“I know you tend to see these things quite differently, but I would rather not unnecessarily fall to my death here. If I do, the blame will solely lie at your feet. You’ll have another death on your conscience, so you’d do me a great favour if–”

A dark shape appears out of the gloom in front of him, pushing him painfully against the stones next to the mouth of the cave, and then Flint is crushing their lips together. Silver’s mind is two steps behind, still teetering on the treacherous, stony surface in front of him. Once it has caught up with Silver’s body, his first instinct is to fight. He shoves against Flint, heart thundering up to his throat, but Flint doesn’t budge any more than the mountainside at Silver‘s back. It’s more a bite than a kiss and he snarls at the sting of teeth, only for Flint to take advantage and lick into his mouth, silencing him more effectively than he ever has. Like everything else, it’s a battle between them.

Silver twists his head away to gasp for air.

“How can you be so fucking infuriating? This is hardly the time and place–”

But Flint grasps his jaw, turns it harshly back to him and claims his mouth once more. Taking advantage of his greater height and width, he bears down on Silver, caging him in and flattening him against the rock surface.

Silver is transported back to the first time he met Flint face to face, pressed against a boulder in the outskirts of Nassau with a dagger against his throat and a schedule in his head. He can still recall how blind-sided he was by the intoxicating blend of fear and intrigue. Even back then he already had an inkling that this man‘s fierceness in combat would extend to other aspects of his life. But bearing the brunt of Flint’s rage and grief was one thing, being faced with his fervour is something altogether different. It crashes over him like a wave, and the last vestiges of reason are carried away in the torrential rain. Silver’s thoughts turn sluggish and slow, succumbing to sensation; the rough, titillating glide of Flint’s tongue, his heat branding Silver’s front, contrasting with the bite of the wind that claws at Silver through his wet clothes, the discomfort of the sharp rock surface against his back warring with the first tendrils of arousal. Silver is lost to it, until the insistent pressure of a stone against his ribs gets too hard to ignore.

“I’m entirely serious,” he slurs with kiss-swollen lips. Blood is roaring in his ears and farther south, as his hand slides up to Flint’s face and further up to touch the soft fluff on his head. His hair has grown out a bit but it’s still short enough to tickle the skin of Silver’s palm. Flint presses their foreheads together.

“You just disappeared. I couldn't find you.”

“That was rather the point of it.”

“I thought… “ Flint closes his eyes in a grimace.

“Are you serious? You thought you could rid yourself of me so easily?” He jokes halfheartedly, recalling the eerie moment at the grave and the strange effect it had on him. It makes his stomach twinge in unease, and he quickly banishes the memory.

“Don’t do that again.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. You are the one who keeps disappearing without a word. You seem to think that only you exist outside every set of rules.”

“Says the thief,” Flint rumbles against him, nosing down his face and pressing his mouth to Silver’s throat, nipping at the vulnerable skin there. The combined sensations of Flint’s prickly beard, the sting of his teeth, and the hot line of his body straining against him shoots through Silver like lightning. He feels not unlike he did that morning when air evaded him and the simple act of breathing seemed an impossible challenge. Despite his best efforts, he can feel himself stiffening in his trousers. When Flint sinks his teeth into the junction between Silver’s shoulder and neck, Silver can’t help the twitch of his hips, confirming that he is not the only one. The evidence of Flint’s arousal makes him lightheaded for a moment. Not that he needed more reassurance after the way Flint has been attacking him, but the thought that it’s him who brings that out in Flint seems incomprehensible. A helpless moan fights its way out of his chest and he grinds his hips against him, clasping Flint’s head against his throat.

Just then a flash rips the sky apart, blinding Silver momentarily, followed by ear-splitting thunder.

“No.” Some sense returns to him and a small part of him, the one that’s not yet mindless with need, still smarts from Flint’s rejection this morning. Grappling for a modicum of control, Silver pushes against him. “I want to be somewhere dry and preferably where I’m not in immediate danger of falling to my death. Or being struck by lightning.”

Flint groans, the sound shooting straight to Silver’s cock, and rests his forehead against Silver’s shoulder before stepping back. Silver glares at him, nostrils flaring. Without the heat of Flint’s sturdy body shielding him, the wind hits him like a blow, wracking him with shivers.

“And how am I supposed to go back in there like this?” He gestures to the bulge in his trousers and his open collar, blinking rain and hair out of his eyes. He probably looks like he has been mauled by a wild beast of the jungle. Flint lets his gaze slide slow and deliberate from Silver’s face to his throat, down his body, and directly to his crotch. Silver feels it on his skin like a physical touch, and his cock throbs pitifully in response. It almost makes him want to cover himself, even though he is still adequately dressed, and he only realises now how guarded Flint had been with his looks before. He has seen Flint glance at him with distaste and ire, with trust and respect and hurt but never like this. With unashamed hunger.

Once Flint has observed his handiwork, a little bit too self-satisfied for Silver’s taste, his gaze turns wicked, sending another alarm bell off in Silver’s head. He closes the distance between them again.

“There is an easy solution to your problem,” he says directly into Silver’s ear before he sinks to his knees.

“Jesus Christ, are you out of your damn mind?” Silver hastily grabs for Flint’s arms and hauls him back up. His heart, already thundering in his chest, has quickened even more at the ease and speed with which Flint was willing to go down on his knees for him, sending another flare of heat south, albeit worsening the problem at hand.

He grips the back of Flint’s neck, pressing on the fading bruises there before pulling Flint’s mouth back against his. It thrills him a not inconsiderable amount that Flint goes as willingly as he went to his knees. Is this really something he can have, he wonders still a bit incredulous as he slides his tongue over Flint’s sharp teeth. Not right now, he’s not suicidal, not really, but he thinks that, unlike the cache, neither he nor Flint will be able to bury what has just been unearthed between them.

“Will you stop being difficult and come back inside?” He asks, after a while, against Flint’s lips.

Flint lowers his gaze. “In a moment.”

Silver narrows his eyes at him, tightening his fingers on Flint’s neck in warning.

“You have my word,” Flint promises in a wry tone.

With reluctance and a last suspicious squint, Silver turns and climbs back into the cave, studiously avoiding eye contact with Hands and Morgan. He slips out of his drenched coat and shirt, careful to keep the side of his throat covered under his hair, and spreads them out on the rocks to dry. Huddling closer to the struggling fire, he tries his best to ignore the awkward silence. After what feels a lot longer than it probably was, Flint returns as well. Silver notes with some satisfaction that his sure strides falter when he spots Silver shirtless by the fire. It was not purely done out of petty revenge. Silver really hadn’t wanted to sleep in his sodden clothes. But covering himself with a crusty, smelly piece of sail cloth, he has to admit it’s a poor substitute for what he could have had instead.

Chapter Text

Silver dreams in shades of green. The teal of the open sea, out of reach for now. Flint’s ever changing eyes. The sickly tint of an overcast sky, heralding another storm. Scales of a snake, shimmering and moving in hypnotic figure eights. The mysterious jungle on the island, the current centre of their world. He wanders the forest, the underground thick and lush, thriving from the bodies in its soil. It’s eerily quiet. No insect disturbs the heavy silence with a buzz or a prick. The birds have ceased to sing. A dark maw opens in front of him, tempting him to come closer, to find oblivion in its depth. But he is not alone. Flint is a step behind him, wholly bared and Silver lets his hand glide over the glistening skin. Their limbs tangle and intertwine like the roots of the trees surrounding them. He can feel him inside his core and all around him. Together, they let themselves get pulled into the void, becoming one as the island swallows them, accepting their gift. Deeper and deeper they sink until there is only the embrace of darkness. But in the absence of light, there is warmth. Roots are reaching for them through the soil and they sustain the trees above them with their flesh. The thought does not fill him with terror but with calm.

When he opens his eyes to the dim twilight of the cave, the remains of the dream cling to him, soft like the web of a spider. He blinks, brushing them away with his lashes but they leave him with a lingering sense of dread and arousal. He turns his head and finds Flint already watching him. At the heat in his eyes, arousal wins out and Silver hastily sits up and pulls on his clothes. He gets tangled in his damp shirt and stifles a laugh at his haste. With a last glance at Flint he heads out of the cave, belatedly realising that he didn’t even bother to check the weather.

Fortunately, the storm has quieted down. Mist curls over the jungle, the air humid and steaming. Beads of water glisten in the twilight, weighing down leaves and collecting in small pools on the stone surfaces around the cave. Silver can’t remember the last time he has seen the sun. Flint comes up behind him. In silent accord, they venture down into the forest.

The jungle whispers in pitters and pats. Droplets, falling from the foliage, hit the ground with a wet sound. Ferns tentatively roll out their leaves, rustling slightly. Flowers open their heavy blossoms, searching for the light. What were once small streams now have become rushing creeks, coloured by the red-brown soil fed to them in muddy slides. A net of veins covering the island, pulsing with life and death.

After a while Flint takes up the lead and Silver follows. Like he always does. Flint guides them through the undergrowth with the air of someone having a clear destination in mind. The farther they walk, the less urgency Silver feels, his desire simmering down to a pleasant hum of anticipation, certain of its fulfilment. This is, and maybe always has been, as inevitable as their end.

They reach a small waterfall, blood-red as all the other streams. At its foot, water pools into a pond, obscuring its depth under the opaque surface. Flint regards the pond for a moment, throws a glance at Silver, then walks along the shore until it slims down to another creek. He wades into it and holds out his hand to Silver expectantly. Silver accepts it. The consideration used to rankle Silver, especially by his crew since it was often infused with pity, but it had always been different with Flint. Not only due to the lack of pity, but Flint had never treated him differently after he lost his leg. Well, not for that reason alone.

On the other side, a tall tree rises from the ground, at least 60 feet high. It stands slightly apart, a small clearing underneath it. Flint leads him towards it and reaches up to pluck a small green fruit from a low hanging branch. The motion showers them with another array of drops. Silver recognises the guinep.

“Are you to be my Eve then?” He asks Flint, the first words spoken between them all morning. “Or the snake?”

Flint only gives him a small, inscrutable smile in answer. He peels the fruit and presses its soft flesh lightly against Silver’s mouth.

Silver parts his lips. The guinep is as delicious as he remembers, though this time he doesn’t bother to restrain the sound of appreciation nor the juice escaping his lips. Flint leans close and licks the small trace off his chin before venturing lower, mouthing down his throat, over the bruises he left there last night. Silver has to remind himself not to swallow the stone.

They undress each other in silence and with care. Appreciating every new inch bared to them appropriately as the gift it is. Flint spreads his palms wide and roams Silver’s skin, the cool metal of his rings leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake; he starts at the hollow of Silver’s throat where his right hand rests for a couple of heartbeats, before he continues over his ribs, his heart, and down to his waist, grasping him with both hands. Silver is still clinging to his crutch, being at a disadvantage with only one hand free to explore. He traces Flint’s scars with trembling fingers; first the ones he knows, then the ones he doesn’t, before drawing patterns in the freckles that cover the wide expanse of Flint’s skin.

Flint turns away from him to spread out Silver’s coat on the ground.

His expression seems almost shy when he asks, “Would you let me?” and offers his hand again.

Silver is not quite sure what Flint is asking permission for but it’s too late to turn back now. He lets Flint guide him down on the coat, setting his crutch aside.

Flint regards him for a moment, spread out before him, and Silver has to fight not to fidget. He never liked being looked at too closely, far more comfortable hiding behind a performance. Since Howell took a part of him, he doesn’t like to be looked at at all. Flint has seen his leg countless times but never like this. It’s not a matter of pride. Silver feels naked in a way that has nothing to do with the lack of clothes. There is only appreciation in Flint’s darkened eyes, though. His pupils blown wide as he takes in Silver’s body. Silver makes an impatient noise and Flint takes pity on him, kneeling down to kiss him at last.

The jittery nervousness running through Silver abates, mollified. Flint is a good kisser, Silver admits grudgingly. Passionate and single-focused in a way that reminds him of their sword training on the cliffs, but with an underlying tenderness. Silver wouldn’t have guessed based on the way Flint attacked him last night. It’s different now. Less frantic. Flint takes his time to learn Silver’s shape, which stroke of his tongue makes him hum in appreciation or moan in pleasure. Silver has never been kissed like that by a man before. Unbidden, a thought invades his mind. Did Thomas Hamilton teach him how to kiss like that? A spark of annoyance makes him surge against Flint, nipping at his tongue and Flint moans, the sound trapped between their lips. Interesting.

Slowly, with some reluctance, Flint moves away from the slick slide of their mouths but only to use his lips to cover the entirety of Silver’s body with kisses. He leaves no part of him unclaimed; from his pits to his nippels, over the scarred flesh of his leg and the dark trail to where Silver wants him most. Like an offering to the gods, Silver feels both cherished and on the precipice of death.

Then Flint touches his tongue to him, tasting him before swallowing him down with a groan, and Silver’s mind goes temporarily blank. This is uncharted territory for him too. Not the act itself but the reverence, the obvious pleasure Flint takes from it, allowing Silver to give himself over to his own pleasure in turn.

Flint, as it turns out, is outrageously good at this as well, trapping Silver in a torrent of need that builds and builds, until every part of him is screaming for release. If it only weren’t for that irritating awareness, niggling at the back of his mind that this, too, Thomas Hamilton must have taught him. Silver imagines a young, fresh-faced James McGraw, eager to please and reciprocate the attention the esteemed Lord has bestowed upon him. Did he go down on his knees whenever his Lord demanded it? Had Hamilton tangled his fingers in Flint’s auburn locks and praised him for each new trick he’d learned to do with his tongue? Had Lady Hamilton watched them or taken part in his debasement? Did they take turns fucking him, with Flint completely at their mercy?

A stab of jealousy and arousal pierces through him and his hand shoots out on its own accord, grasping the back of Flint’s head and pressing him hard against his groin. Flint chokes from the sudden change in angle, Silver’s cock sliding deeper down his throat. But he makes no move to dislodge Silver’s hand, so Silver leaves it where it is, letting Flint fight through it. Tears gather at the corners of his green eyes, still darkened with desire. Silver’s cock pulses at the sight and he can’t help the twitching, needy motions of his hips, feeding Flint more of himself. Unbothered by the harsh treatment, Flint works Silver with renewed urgency and Silver’s mind finally quietens. He is hurtling towards his release, blind and deaf to everything around him save for Flint’s wicked mouth and his scalding palms on Silver’s hips. Before he lets himself fall over the precipice, he grabs Flint’s head with both hands, sparing an unfocussed thought for how much he wished Flint still had his beautiful hair, and twists his hips up to thrust into him one, two, three times. Flint, as always, takes everything Silver is giving him, swallowing his release until there is nothing left.

Tremors are wracking Silver’s body, he feels untethered and, for one blissful moment, at peace. Until Flint slides up his body, pressing his lips against Silver’s with unconcealed need, his length a hot brand against Silver’s hip. He is too worked up to maintain anything resembling a proper kiss. Still, it’s enough for Silver to taste himself on Flint’s tongue. Silver reaches down to grasp him and Flint instantly comes over Silver’s spent cock and lower body.

Breathing heavily, they observe each other with wide eyes. Silver’s heart is still tripping over itself in an uneven rhythm, as he lets his gaze roam over Flint’s face, so familiar and yet somehow new. A muddy fingerprint adorns Flint’s temple and there is a small scratch under his left eye. If from a branch or Silver’s own hand, he can’t say, but Silver reaches for the small tear of blood and rubs it over Flint’s cheekbone. Small twigs are stuck in his beard, his lips glistening and there is a little leaf, clinging to the short hair on his head. His eyes are unbearably bright, regarding Silver wondrously, like he is something to be treasured.

Silver thinks of a tale his grandmother used to tell him, of the Elder Mother, guardian of the Elder tree. The tree was said to cure ailments, protect livestock from evil and stop the dead from rising. It could not be struck by lightning but witches used it to conjure storms by stirring water with an Elder branch. Silver had always likened his captain to the sea but now he reconsiders that notion. Flint seems at home here, in the mud of the forest, as much as he does on the ocean. Maybe he should cease trying to place him in a specific realm and accept him as the elemental force he is.

Flint breaks their eye contact and looks down at the mess he’s made of Silver. Slowly, he reaches down, swirling his fingers through the come on Silver’s belly and rubs it all over his skin, marking his claim. To Silver’s horror, his cock gives a valiant effort to harden again, revelling in this possessive animal behaviour instead of being repelled by it. Throwing the last vestiges of decorum overboard, Silver gives into the urge to repay Flint in kind and rolls them over, covering Flint’s body with his own. Flint lets out a small grunt when his back hits the ground, and a louder, more heartfelt one when their cocks slide against each other but otherwise indulges him. Silver wants to wring more of these sounds out of him, wants this fearsome creature to be reduced to helpless moans and breathy whimpers. A better man would be more considerate of his partner, would give Flint time to recover, but Silver never claimed to be one and rubs his swelling arousal all over the strong body beneath him. A bottomless hunger has taken hold of him. Luckily for Silver, Flint seems as starved as he is, if not more so, matching his greed for skin and taste with every touch. In this they are wholly aligned.

The day passes in a blur of sensation. They feast on guineps and each other. Even during a respite, in the moments between their fucking, they can’t keep their hands off each other; fingers digging into soft flesh and hard muscle, the brush of a palm down sweat covered skin, a touch of lips. Silver is losing himself, whittled down to a creature of instinct. The thought would have terrified him once but right now he can’t think of a future beyond this very moment, being taken apart by Flint.

“Sometimes I think you have killed me on that day and I lie rotting in the ground at the foot of that boulder.” Flint says out of nowhere in one of their moments of rest. Silver is lying half on top of him, his head cushioned on Flint’s shoulder. He leans up on his elbow to glance down at him. Flint is looking at the sky, the remains of a rosy flush colouring his cheeks and the hollow of his throat.

“Despite your best efforts, you are not dead yet.”

Silver brushes his hand through the sparse hair on Flint’s chest, follows its trail down to his groin and grips his spent cock. Flint winces at the contact, still oversensitive. They are both sore everywhere. Proof enough that they are still among the living. Surely the afterlife would do away with pain.

“Tell me, what doesn’t feel real about this?” Silver asks, stroking Flint’s length even as their skin chafes. He pauses to scoop up some of the release pooling on Flint’s abdomen and resumes his motions with an easier glide.

Flint rolls his eyes, exasperated, but fists a hand in Silver’s tangled curls to pull him down into a kiss.

“I would let you do it, you see. It’s why I set foot into that boat even though I knew you were lost to me,” he continues, dashing Silver’s hope that he would drop this morbid train of thought. “I don’t know how you have managed to burrow so deep under my skin, but there is nothing I wouldn’t let you do to me. You have ruined me. I’m helpless against it.” He says against Silver’s temple, pressing the words into his skin.

Silver stills. Despite the dark turn of the conversation, Flint’s length has hardened in Silver’s grasp, proving the truth of his claims.

“You put in a good effort that first week we were stranded here. Could have fooled me. And has anyone ever told you that your bedside manner needs some improvement? This is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation for the occasion,” Silver manages, trying to conceal how shaken he is by Flint’s admission. Between the two of them, he had always thought himself as the one more in danger of losing himself in the other. Yet Flint is the one baring his neck to him. It fills him with a heady, confusing mix of power and apprehension.

“You knew what this war meant to me. Why it mattered. So I tried. I tried hard to hold onto my anger and resist you. But in the end it was futile.”

“I’ll remind you of this on the next occasion you are trying to argue with me.”

But Flint doesn’t answer, stroking Silver’s hair absently with a faraway look in his eyes.

“Do you regret it?” Silver doesn’t know if he means their physical entanglement right in this moment, Flint overcoming his resentment or their entire history.

Flint glances back at him at the question, his hand tightens in Silver’s hair, angling his head so Silver has no choice but to meet his eyes. “I regret that you didn’t believe in us enough to prevent doing what you did. I will never hold any regret for you barreling into my life. Regardless of what we have done to each other.”

Silver doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he leans down and kisses Flint instead, long and slow, and softer than he thought himself capable. Flint hums slightly, another sound for Silver’s compilation, and his fingers loosen in Silver’s curls to gently scratch his scalp.

They don’t return to the cave that night. Sleep claims them easily, following a bone deep exhaustion.

Silver wakes up warm for once, cocooned in Flint’s embrace. He didn’t dream, or if he did, he has no memory of it. He starts moving against Flint before his mind is fully conscious. Flint is still asleep but his body responds to Silver even without that terrifying mind ordering it to. A soft sigh leaves his lips, making Silver’s heart clench and his cock twitch. They are sticking together in places, skin catching on flakes of dried mud and come, tearing at the fine hair on Silver‘s skin. He doesn’t mind though, savouring the small discomfort because it proves that this is real and not a figment of his imagination, conjured in response to his despair. He considers taking them both in hand but decides against it, because that would mean putting more space between them, and he likes the feel of Flint’s body against his. So he swings his shortened leg over Flint’s hip instead and rubs himself against him with more intent. It’s not enough to get either of them off, but Silver finds pleasure in it nonetheless.

Eventually, Flint’s breathing changes and his eyes snap open, already darkened with hunger. His hand, which had rested possessively on the small of Silver’s back, slides to his ass, gripping him firmly before pressing them together more urgently. It has only been a day since they have indulged in this madness but the familiarity with which Flint handles his body feels like it has been built by a lifetime together. It thrills and frightens him in equal measure. Silver can’t hold back the moan leaving his lips as Flint’s hand ventures further, slipping a finger inside. And oh, maybe that is enough for Silver to reach completion.

Afterwards, Flint drags his eyes over Silver’s body, his indecent sprawl, a faint smirk playing at his lips. They are utterly filthy. Covered in sweat, mud and come and whatever rained down on them from the tree at night.

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not like you are faring any better.”

“I think, I prefer you like this.”

“What, filthy?”

“Naked,” Flint counters with a suggestive look, sliding his hand up Silver’s bare thigh. Silver swats it away. The playful expression fades from Flint’s face, a sadder one taking its place.

“Unburdened.”

And just like that Silver is back in his head, battered by the dark maelstrom of his thoughts. He sits up. Flint sighs and casts a glance in the direction of the waterfall.

“We should probably head back,” he says, reluctance heavy in his voice.

They make a half-hearted attempt to wash up at the stream, but with the water still saturated with earth, it does more harm than good. Flint picks leaves out of Silver’s hair and Silver combs his fingers through Flint’s beard in turn.

Then they head back in the direction of the cave. In Silver’s estimation, the hike through the jungle feels much more arduous than it did yesterday. Maybe it’s because he knows that at its end less satisfaction will be found than what awaited him the previous day. His stomach twinges with the beginnings of hunger.

When they reach the cave, they find it empty. Silver exchanges a glance with Flint, before checking if Morgan and Hands have left any of the provisions. They have not.

“To the beach, then?” Silver asks and Flint grunts in agreement.

They continue their journey through the forest. Even with a clear destination in mind, Silver begins to wilt. His hunger is now impossible to ignore, stomach growling loudly. With each limping step his pants chafe against the sore skin of his inner thighs. Flint notices and slows down before leading them towards a gnarled tree with huge, knotting roots protruding from the earth. He gestures at Silver to sit on one of them.

“Let’s rest for a moment.”

The old irritation rears its ugly head but then Silver sighs. There is no point in hiding anymore. The time for secrets and false bravado between them has passed. He takes a seat on the root and stretches his aching leg. Flint sits on a root across from him.

“You think they have all converged at the beach? Even Billy and Gunn?” Silver asks with his eyes closed.

He finds himself surprised how much he doesn’t want to meet up with the others again. To face their judgemental stares, for there is no doubt in his mind that everyone with a pair of eyes will immediately know what has transpired between him and Flint. After having been granted the freedom to take, touch and taste to his heart’s desire, the thought of having to moderate himself fills him with dismay. He feels instead a subtle, seductive pull to simply turn back, into the heart of the jungle, evading the expectations placed upon him, abandoning appearances he once thought so vital for his survival.

“Most likely, although it’s hard to say with absolute certainty.” Flint’s voice halts his wandering thoughts and leads him back to the present. “There is also the possibility that they have been driven mad by the island and are running naked through the forest.”

Silver snorts. “Like we did.”

“You think this is madness?”

“What else can it be?” Silver asks lightly, eyes still closed. Images of the previous day swirl behind his lids like a fever dream, making his stomach quiver with something other than hunger and chasing heat to his cheeks.

“If what we shared is madness, I was taken by it long before I set foot on this island,” Flint says softly.

Silver’s heart skips a beat. He opens his eyes in time to see Flint wince and grab his side. Then Flint launches to his feet, draws his cutlass and hacks at something in the shrub near the spot where he had been sitting until a moment ago. Silver grabs his crutch and gets up as well, hand going to his own weapon. The motion stops and Flint bends to pick something up. He turns to Silver with an expression of shock on his face and a headless snake in his grasp.

“Come here and let me see,” Silver demands, trying to suppress the panic welling up inside of him.

Flint tosses the lifeless snake to the side and comes to stand before him. Silver scrabbles at Flint’s shirt pulling it out of his trousers. And sure enough, in the soft flesh of his side, two puncture wounds blink up at him.

“Lie down,” he says hoarsely.

“I’m fine. It must not have been poisonous.”

“Do as I say and lie the fuck down!” Silver shouts at him.

Maybe it’s the naked desperation in Silver’s voice or maybe Flint isn’t as fine as he claims to be, because he does, for once, not put up a fight and crouches down to lie on his side. Silver immediately kneels beside him, sparing no thought how the position aggravates his leg.

“What are you…”

Flint’s voice cuts off as Silver bends down and puts his mouth over the puncture wounds, sucking hard. His mouth fills with the metallic tang of blood. He spits to the side and continues sucking, mind carefully blank. He can’t allow himself to think about losing Flint. Not now, after he has lost everything else.

“That’s enough.” Flint says after a while, attempting to sit up again. Silver spits another mouthful of blood on the ground.

“Shut up.”

But he has to admit to himself that his efforts no longer serve any other purpose than combatting his own powerlessness.

“Can you walk?”

Flint nods, albeit a little unsure. His face is several shades paler. They both struggle upright and start walking towards the beach. Ignoring Flint’s protests, Silver takes his arm and lays it across his shoulders, while Silver grabs his side. Their progress is slow and Silver can’t find any pleasure in the fact that this time, it’s not him who is the cause for it. Flint’s movements become increasingly sluggish.

“Come on. It’s not far now,” Silver fights to keep his voice even. “Look, you can already see the growth getting thinner.”

Through the trees in front, the yellow beach beckons them. Silver doesn’t know what it can do to help them once they reach it, he just needs to get Flint out the forest. It suddenly feels like a prison and Silver curses himself for even entertaining the thought of staying in its shadows. But Flint slows even further, sagging heavily against him.

“Don’t you dare do this to me. Come the fuck on!”

Silver shoulders more of his weight and drags him a few feet farther until his leg threatens to collapse. He lets Flint down to the mossy ground as gently as he can and looks around, panicked. Under the branches of the last line of trees, he spots a familiar tall figure.

“Billy!”

Billy turns and makes a shushing motion.

“Come here and help me!” Silver shouts, increasingly desperate. But Billy makes no move to come closer.

“I’ll be right back,” Silver whispers to Flint and limps over to where Billy is standing.

“Billy, I swear to God, this is not the time to hold gr-”

“Quiet!” Billy hisses.

Silver opens his mouth to argue but then his gaze lands on the far end of the beach, where Hands, Gunn, and Morgan are in a heated debate with Madi.

Chapter Text

Silver is flying across the beach. Well, he is running as fast as his crutch and one functioning leg allow. As soon as Madi spots him over Gunn’s shoulder, she silences the men in front of her and takes a step forward. They part around her, allowing her full view of Silver’s tumbling approach. Bone crushing relief floods him, followed immediately by harrowing guilt. He probably still smells like Flint.

“Where is he?” Madi asks with a voice like thunder before Silver can even open his mouth. He gasps for breath and focuses on rearranging his features into something neutral.

“Just beyond the treeline. I need the help of your men to–”

“What have you done to him?” She cuts him off, eyes accusing.

Silver gapes at her, his jaw hanging slack.

“Tell me!”

“I… nothing. I did nothing to him. He was bitten by a snake just now,” Silver finishes hollowly. Any lingering guilt over what happened between him and Flint pales in face of the realisation that Madi knows what part Silver played in reaching that treaty with Rodgers.

The righteous anger leaves the beautiful planes of her face, transforming into shock. She hurriedly calls for her men.

“Lead us.”

Silver hobbles back to the forest in a trance. The affirmation that he had been right rings hollow. There is no future for him beyond this island.

When he can make out Flint’s slumped form in the near distance, he quickly scans the surroundings and realises that Billy is nowhere to be seen. Right, Billy might be smart not to reveal his presence to Madi. They didn’t part on the best of terms. Silver searches for the fury he felt not too long ago. He doesn’t find it. It all seems so far away. As if he had lived through an entire lifetime since then. But as soon as he reaches Flint all thoughts flee his head. Flint lies motionless on a bed of leaves. Silver falls to his knees beside him and presses his ear to his chest. At first he can’t hear anything through the rushing in his ears. But then, after a tortuous moment where his heart does the work for the both of them, he can make out a sluggish thump, hardly audible. He raises his head to glance at Madi.

“He’s still alive.”

Madi quickly issues an order, her men lift Flint up, each grasping a limb, and move towards the beach where a boat is waiting. Silver watches this mutely, feeling like a disregarded bystander. Madi slows before stepping back onto the beach.

“Are you coming?”

Silver blinks several times before he realises she is talking to him. He looks around.

“There is still another man on this island.”

Her eyes narrow. “Who is it?”

Silver sighs, wearily. “Billy is here too. He was instrumental in our survival. He helped us. He helped the captain.” What is one more lie to add to the mountain towering over him? At least he deploys it to try to save another life.

Madi’s face hardens. “How can you ask this of me after what he has done? To our people. Our alliance. To me?”

Silver can’t bear to hold her gaze. He looks at his foot.

“But if I were to decide whom I allow on my ship based on how they treated me and our alliance, I could not grant you passage either.”

“You can put us in chains, but allow him the opportunity to choose his fate. This island has claimed enough souls already.”

Madi’s stony expression wavers.

“You may call for him. But I cannot give you any reassurances regarding his survival. He might as well choose between two manners of death.”

With these words she takes her leave and steps back into the light of the beach, abandoning Silver to the shadows under the trees. He stares blankly after her. As soon as she is out of earshot, there is a rustling sound nearby and Billy steps out from behind a tree. Silver gives him a look.

“You heard?”

Billy nods grimly.

“Well, Billy, tell me how you choose to die.”

Silver wanders the ship like a ghost. Caught in the liminal space between two nightmares. Even the shrinking outline of the island disappearing behind the horizon gives him no peace.

The Maroons manning the ship take Madi's lead and ignore him. With Billy secured in the hold, Gunn, Morgan and Hands keep to themselves, careful not to draw attention. Their company brings Silver no comfort. His awareness is pulled undeterred towards the captain’s cabin where they had brought Flint to after hauling him on board. It’s also where Madi spends most of her time. There had been no invitation extended to him.

On the fourth day at sea, he observes Madi talking intently to the Maroon serving as coxswain. They are bending over a map together before he nods and takes to the wheel. Even with his limited seafaring knowledge Silver realises they have set a new course.

Instead of disappearing back into the cabin, Madi remains on deck, only moving towards the railing to look ahead, out to the sea. After a short bout, when they were leaving the island, it had calmed down considerably.

Silver approaches her cautiously. When she makes no effort to leave, he takes this as permission to come closer. He rests his hip against the railing next to her and turns slightly to study her profile. Her beauty still humbles him.

“How is he?” He finally has the courage to ask.

“Better today than he has been the day before. Unconsciousness still claims him often. He has been running a fever. But Mata tells me the worst is behind him.”

Relief floods him. “Good, that’s good.”

Silver exhales, long and slow, eyes never leaving Madi’s face but she keeps her gaze on the horizon, not looking at him. After it becomes clear that she won’t make any effort to continue this conversation, he grasps for something else to say. He doesn’t want this moment to end, doesn’t want to see her walking away from him again.

“It’s good to see you. Even though it was immediately apparent that it wasn’t me you came back to the island for.”

“If you are hoping to hear reassurances to the contrary, you will be left wanting. I will not give them.”

“I'm not–”, Silver starts but then pauses. Has he become so transparent? “In any case, I am glad you came, not only for my own sake but for that of my men. I have buried enough of them. And Flint would be among them if it weren’t for you and your healer.”

“It is a prospect I prepared myself for when I started on this journey,” she says, still looking out at the water. “I could not believe he would give up the cause without a fight.”

“Oh, believe me, he didn’t,” Silver mutters, more to himself.

Madi turns to face him. Having her full attention on him feels overwhelming after so long being deprived of it.

“Why did he ask me to take him to Savannah?”

The pain is expected but the force of it still comes as a surprise.

“Because Thomas Hamilton is there.”

Her brows pull together. “How can you know this?”

“I heard a rumour and sent a man there. He confirmed it.”

“And when did you find time to do this? You have been detained on that island for nearly a month.”

“It had been… before that.”

“When?” She presses.

“When we took Nassau.”

Madi takes a step back, her face crumbling. “All this time…” she whispers before she gets herself back under control. Closing herself off from him.

“Madi, please listen to me.”

The Maroons closest to them on deck start giving Silver looks, inching subtly closer.

“No, I will not. I do not want to hear your excuses. Not only did you betray my trust by negotiating a treaty behind my back. A treaty that may spare a few of us however long the Empire sees fit but leaves thousands of our brothers and sisters in chains. You also robbed me of my closest ally by using what he told you in utmost confidence against him. Don't dare to insult me by denying this.”

She turns her back to him, her shoulders shaking slightly.

Silver stands frozen, not trying to touch her, knowing it would not be welcome.

“He has asked for you,” she says before walking away, leaving him once more condemned to the dark.

Silver does not immediately follow the summon.

That night he sleeps on deck with only the stars as company. He can’t bear to be near anyone and he has missed the sight. After sleeping under the open sky for so long, the narrowness below deck leaves him unsettled. Though not lashing in a gale, the sea breeze is still cool, chilling him down to the bone. He barely sleeps and wakes up aching.

When Madi leaves the captain’s cabin to go for breakfast, he makes his way across the deck towards the door. The first thing he notices after stepping over the threshold is that Flint is awake. He is lying in a cot, a Maroon bent over him, checking the bandages wrapped around his middle. Flint looks up as Silver’s shadow darkens the doorway. At the unguarded relief on his face, something that had been cut loose and adrift settles inside Silver. They stare at each other. The Maroon throws a glance at Silver and takes her leave. Under the heavy weight of Flint’s gaze, he makes himself move closer. A chair sits in front of the cot, an open book on top of it. Setting it aside carefully, Silver takes a seat and tries not to think about how Madi must have been sitting here at Flint’s bedside. Reading to him.

Flint’s face falls a little, but Silver needs to uphold that small distance between them.

“We are on course to Savannah I hear,” he says neutrally.

With a weary sigh Flint closes his eyes and sinks a little deeper into the bedding. There is an air of frailty about him that Silver finds intolerable.

“I need to see if he is alive,” Flint says after a moment. “I need to see this with my own eyes. And if he is where you say he is, I need to get him out of there and burn that fucking place to the ground.”

“I see.”

Flint’s eyes open and find him again. “Don’t hold this against me.”

“I’m not. Not the first part at least.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Do you need to ask?”

“This doesn’t change anything.”

Silver scoffs. “Right.”

“C’mere.”

“No. That would be a terrible idea.”

With difficulty, Flint leans up on a shaking elbow. “Don’t do this. Don’t brush away what happened.”

“I’m not. But one of us, preferably the one not in a poison induced delirium, has to see clearly. And the reality is that you want to find Thomas and Madi could come through that door any time.”

“Have you told her?”

The thought chases terror down Silver’s spine.

“No, there’s hardly any need. She is not interested in hearing anything I have to say.”

“Then I will tell her. She is my friend.”

“Fuck no, you won’t. Not if this is the last you want to see of me.”

Flint looks at him, wounded, before pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Stop that.”

Flint doesn’t. Sweat beads on his forehead and he sways slightly.

“Lie back down.”

But Flint, as usual, doesn’t listen to him and makes an unfortunate attempt to stand. Silver catches him before he can crumble to the floor and guides him back to sit on the cot. All the colour has drained out of Flint’s face but when Silver tries to disentangle himself, Flint’s hand closes around his wrist like a vice and he pulls him down next to him. Silver sighs and rubs his face with his free hand.

After a moment, Flint loosens his grip and intertwines their fingers, bringing them to his mouth to press a soft kiss against Silver’s knuckles.

“You are truly devious,” Silver grumps. To his utter embarrassment, he feels charmed.

“I have been known to catch some slippery sharks,” Flint says with something of his old swagger and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“I regret to inform you that your metaphor needs a lot of work. What are you even trying to say? Am I supposed to be the shark? I was there, too, as you are well aware. This wasn’t your feat alone, we did this together and…” oh. It’s hard to resent a manipulation if it’s executed as skillfully as this one.

Flint’s smile is utterly disarming. Soft, on the verge of tender and completely devastating. Silver is helpless in the face of it. All his defences crumble under the warmth of Flint’s gaze. He realises now that he had been a fool to feel powerful in the face of Flint’s confessions back under the guinep tree. Silver is just as helpless against him. Just as ruined.

He leans over and rests his forehead against Flint’s damp temple in surrender.

“You’ve made your point. Now, lie back down.”

Flint finally does, but he doesn’t trust Silver enough to let go of his hand. Silver shifts around, trying to get more comfortable on the edge of the cot. He gives up a short moment later and pulls the chair closer, resting his leg on it before sneaking a glance at Flint.

Exhaustion seems to catch up with him, his eyes growing heavy.

“Would you come with me, if I asked?”

“You mean to Savannah?”

“Yes,” Flint breathes.

Silver looks at him dumbfounded. “Why would you even ask me that? Isn’t Madi coming with you?”

Flint shakes his head. “I only asked her to drop me off at the port closest to it. Taking her with me to the plantation is out of the question for a plethora of reasons, the most prominent among them being that she shouldn’t be seen freeing slaves at this moment. It’s too risky.”

At Silver’s silence, Flint clarifies, “It’s not a matter of risk that I’m asking you instead.”

Silver lets him stew for a bit, occupied with trying to arrange his own thoughts. Why would Flint want him with him when he still intends to find Hamilton? A dark part of him, the one he owes his continued survival to, wonders if Flint only wants to use him to break his lover out of prison and will discard him the moment they are reunited.
He lets his eyes roam over Flint's face, the familiar furrow of his brows, the lines framing his mouth, the fine nose, his full upper lip peeking out under the bristles of his beard, those sea-green eyes. Silver knows in excruciating detail how far Flint was willing to go for vengeance. What he was willing to sacrifice. It’s only reasonable to assume he would go just as far for love. If not farther. Leaving everything and everyone behind if it meant to find his lover again.

His gaze falls to their entwined fingers.

“Why are you asking this of me then? Knowing what it would cost me?”

“Back on the island, when the storm destroyed our boat, you could see no future for yourself.”

“Don’t attempt to assuage me with promises you won’t be able to keep.”

“I’m not. I want you with me. That’s the simple truth of it.” Flint squeezes Silver’s fingers. “You haven’t lost everything,” he adds softly.

Silver pulls his hand from Flint’s grasp at the painful reminder. Flint doesn’t make any attempt to recapture it, just regards him with dark, knowing eyes.

“Do you love her less now than when we set foot on the island?”

“Of course not!”

Flint continues watching him, waiting patiently for Silver to arrive at the realisation on his own, following the carefully laid out breadcrumbs of their conversation. Silver smiles, brittle.

“You should rest now,” he says hoarsely.

“You too. You look like shit. Did you spend the night in the crow’s nest?”

“As if I would be able to get up there,” Silver snorts, struggling upright. He really does feel like hell.

Throwing a last glance at Flint over his shoulder, he adds, “I’ll see to it that someone brings you breakfast.”

“As long as you are not involved in preparing it.”

**

Silver stands at the bow of the ship, looking out at sea. He still doesn’t particularly care for it but watching the dazzling display of the sun glinting in the waves, it is impossible to deny its beauty. Above him, a lone seagull draws her lazy circles, a reminder that they will reach their destination soon.

Madi is still refusing to talk to him and he has yet to give Flint a definite answer. One future, the one he hoped, planned and bartered for, seems forever out of his reach. Its loss leaves him unmoored, reluctant to commit to either of his two remaining options.

There is one where he starts over like he has done so often in the past, free of history and the burdens that come with it. Only this time he fears that too much has been taken from him to rebuild himself into something new. The other is agreeing to accompany Flint, essentially binding himself to him again. Silver doesn’t know which one terrifies him more. Some part of him doesn’t trust Flint not to abandon him the moment he is reunited with his lost love. Trust has never come easy to him. Life has imparted too many lessons about the dangers of it. And then there is also no guarantee Flint will stop fighting regardless of the deals set in place. The prospect of being roped into another war against his will looms dark over any future he imagines with Flint in it.

Silver used to be better at this. Coping with incertitude. Accepting the dice as they land. Back when his concern only extended to himself. Sometimes he wonders if he was not better off in those days. But then his gaze would fall on Madi across the deck and he’d remember how she was the first person to make him feel whole again after he thought that he had lost that privilege forever. How unconditional her love had been. Or his eyes would meet Flint’s and they would communicate silently, having moved past the need for words. It still terrifies him, being known like that, but in the few stolen moments, when Flint presses against him in a dark corner, branding his reassurance into his skin, Silver thinks he might be able to bear it.

Maybe some things are meant to endure. If Flint has managed to hold onto his love for Thomas for a decade, Silver will wait weeks, months, even years for her to give him a chance to mend what's broken between them.

A loud screech from above pulls him out of his ruminations. With a last, sweeping curve, the seagull plunges into the sea next to the ship and resurfaces moments later with a tiny, wiggling fish in its beak. A soft breeze billows the sails, playing with Silver’s curls. It holds the faint scent of hay. The ship creaks under his foot.

“Ready to go ashore?” Flint asks behind him.