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Even with the bullet in him, it takes four men to bind and drag Flint from the wood. Once on the beach, he goes heavy like a stone down into the loamy sand - an animal whose last option is to simply refuse. So Israel Hands strikes him hard enough on the head that, for a time, Captain Flint is dead to the world.
Presumably he's then put into the bottom of the longboat and it's rowed back to where the Lion lies in wait. What does Jack Rackham say when what comes off Skeleton Island isn't a chest of pearls and gems but a man who must be swayed up over the side like a sack of flour? Likely nothing at all. Rackham is a man with ambition these days; if he didn't agree with what had been done, would he be so eager to set the sail and be away?
Because they are gone. Flint knows it in the moment before he's even fully conscious as the ship skims along its course, the motion of the water against the keel so fundamentally different at pace than at anchor. Even so, when he comes to in the cabin's stern window, he finds himself sluggishly searching the horizon line for any trace of that place. Any smudge between water and air to indicate how far he's been removed. But it's just grey sky, a wine dark sea, the heavy chains at his hands and feet, and the bolt fixed to the bulkhead to keep him exactly where he is for as long as is required.
The bullet hole in his side has been cleaned and stitched. Dried blood has been washed from his face and neck. The light through the window is warm. The cabin is quiet and comfortable - as if he belongs here instead of below. As if a kindness has been done. He sits quietly for some time with his head against the painted window frame, watching how the sea churns beneath her. It is rhythmic and nauseating and he doesn't know how long he looks before the sound of three bells melts into a tell tale thump on the quarterdeck.
Flint doesn't raise his head when the door to the cabin opens and closes, but after a time he does ask, "Where are we?" as if it matters at all.
Presumably he's then put into the bottom of the longboat and it's rowed back to where the Lion lies in wait. What does Jack Rackham say when what comes off Skeleton Island isn't a chest of pearls and gems but a man who must be swayed up over the side like a sack of flour? Likely nothing at all. Rackham is a man with ambition these days; if he didn't agree with what had been done, would he be so eager to set the sail and be away?
Because they are gone. Flint knows it in the moment before he's even fully conscious as the ship skims along its course, the motion of the water against the keel so fundamentally different at pace than at anchor. Even so, when he comes to in the cabin's stern window, he finds himself sluggishly searching the horizon line for any trace of that place. Any smudge between water and air to indicate how far he's been removed. But it's just grey sky, a wine dark sea, the heavy chains at his hands and feet, and the bolt fixed to the bulkhead to keep him exactly where he is for as long as is required.
The bullet hole in his side has been cleaned and stitched. Dried blood has been washed from his face and neck. The light through the window is warm. The cabin is quiet and comfortable - as if he belongs here instead of below. As if a kindness has been done. He sits quietly for some time with his head against the painted window frame, watching how the sea churns beneath her. It is rhythmic and nauseating and he doesn't know how long he looks before the sound of three bells melts into a tell tale thump on the quarterdeck.
Flint doesn't raise his head when the door to the cabin opens and closes, but after a time he does ask, "Where are we?" as if it matters at all.
Edited (haha i beat you) 2017-08-25 02:14 (UTC)
Pulling the trigger puts to rest any assertion Flint had made of reparations between the two of them. John knew that. John was always aware of consequences. They loomed large in his mind, insistent on being considered. John knew the consequence of pulling the trigger: Flint would never forgive him. But he also knew the consequence of allowing Flint of proceed unimpeded. John had pulled the trigger, and watched the pretense of reconciliation shatter. All that was left was to hope that he could render a reunion worthy of ending Captain Flint.
Rackham is not quite sulking. He and John had spoken of options in low, furious undertones as the shackles clacked closed around Flint's hands. The chest is lost to them. John stands by Jack as the watch the island recede, before he maneuvers down to watch as the bullet is dug out of Flint. It's John's soft heart that has Flint placed in the cabin rather than the hold. Flint had done as much for John once. John had woken missing a leg and in a great deal of pain, and Flint had been there. John intends to do the same, though he is slow to compose himself, slow to gather his strength to enter the cabin and confront whatever he finds.
By the time Flint speaks, John had made his way to the chair aside the window. It's been placed carefully out of reach. John doen't move it any closer.
"Right now? Nowhere," John answers, voice contained as he sets his crutch down beside the chair. "But we have a destination in mind."
John's held the idea of it in his head since Max had spoken of a place where men disappear. Even with confirmation, the plantation seems more convenient dream than a viable reality to reroute Flint. But still, John finds it preferable to martyring Flint and burying him in the lush, menacing foliage of Skeleton Island. Either way, Flint will be lost to him. But secured on a plantation, with the man he loved, seems a better fate. And selfishly, it will afford John some small peace of mind.
Rackham is not quite sulking. He and John had spoken of options in low, furious undertones as the shackles clacked closed around Flint's hands. The chest is lost to them. John stands by Jack as the watch the island recede, before he maneuvers down to watch as the bullet is dug out of Flint. It's John's soft heart that has Flint placed in the cabin rather than the hold. Flint had done as much for John once. John had woken missing a leg and in a great deal of pain, and Flint had been there. John intends to do the same, though he is slow to compose himself, slow to gather his strength to enter the cabin and confront whatever he finds.
By the time Flint speaks, John had made his way to the chair aside the window. It's been placed carefully out of reach. John doen't move it any closer.
"Right now? Nowhere," John answers, voice contained as he sets his crutch down beside the chair. "But we have a destination in mind."
John's held the idea of it in his head since Max had spoken of a place where men disappear. Even with confirmation, the plantation seems more convenient dream than a viable reality to reroute Flint. But still, John finds it preferable to martyring Flint and burying him in the lush, menacing foliage of Skeleton Island. Either way, Flint will be lost to him. But secured on a plantation, with the man he loved, seems a better fate. And selfishly, it will afford John some small peace of mind.
The dark water stretches in every direction beyond the stern window. With a clear sky and no record of how long he's been unconscious, there's no way of putting together even a vague notion of their bearing. The sea could be running in any direction and though the wind from here blows southeasterly and he can tell it must be blowing abaft their beam, none of those points in isolation from a chart or observation means anything. Nowhere.
"I see."
It's the only thing he says, attention apparently arrested so by the ship's foaming way that he might as well be talking to it instead of the man in the chair. Maybe there's the expectation that something more is to follow - a series of words meant to make this different, an argument attempting to allow the ship to wear windward and spin like a top back in the direction they'd come, at the very least a question for their intended landfall -, but nothing comes. Flint lapses back into silence. Anything more would be fundamentally wasteful of the energy necessary to shape the words, to hang them in the air where nothing can logically come of them.
Maybe it's the wound in his side or the weight of the irons at his wrists, but he can't bring himself to swallow and summon the effort. (Does it occur to him to save it for other things - like if Silver strays within arm's reach or Rackham does; to fight at the bolt in the bulkhead so fiercely that they're forced to move him from the greatcabin and into the fore where men with less resolve might be spoken to. Or is this just the end of that too?)
"I see."
It's the only thing he says, attention apparently arrested so by the ship's foaming way that he might as well be talking to it instead of the man in the chair. Maybe there's the expectation that something more is to follow - a series of words meant to make this different, an argument attempting to allow the ship to wear windward and spin like a top back in the direction they'd come, at the very least a question for their intended landfall -, but nothing comes. Flint lapses back into silence. Anything more would be fundamentally wasteful of the energy necessary to shape the words, to hang them in the air where nothing can logically come of them.
Maybe it's the wound in his side or the weight of the irons at his wrists, but he can't bring himself to swallow and summon the effort. (Does it occur to him to save it for other things - like if Silver strays within arm's reach or Rackham does; to fight at the bolt in the bulkhead so fiercely that they're forced to move him from the greatcabin and into the fore where men with less resolve might be spoken to. Or is this just the end of that too?)
Forgive me.
The words catch in the back of his throat as the silence stretches between them. John is not unaware of what he has forced Flint to sacrifice. As necessary as he finds it, he was unprepared to feel remorse for having wrenched Flint's war from him. He may as well have taken a limb. John imagines it feels much the same.
"Before I was returned to your company, I met with Max," John begins, hands coming together, elbows on the arms of the chair. "I'd thought to barter with her, but I hadn't realized..."
There's a great deal dwelling in that pause. John lets the thought spin out, remembering the shock of realizing just how far Max had strayed from his perception of her.
"She wasn't going to kill me. She was going to remove me. There was a place where people pay to make men disappear, and she'd bought a place for me. Or so she said."
Confirmation had come after. There was such a place. It would have had a spot for John. He would have been set beyond anyone's reach, erased and negated, figurehead no more. Had John not confirmed one more piece of information, he'd be more uneasy about relegating Flint to the same fate. He watches Flint's face, waiting to see the connection being made before pressing onward with his explanation.
The words catch in the back of his throat as the silence stretches between them. John is not unaware of what he has forced Flint to sacrifice. As necessary as he finds it, he was unprepared to feel remorse for having wrenched Flint's war from him. He may as well have taken a limb. John imagines it feels much the same.
"Before I was returned to your company, I met with Max," John begins, hands coming together, elbows on the arms of the chair. "I'd thought to barter with her, but I hadn't realized..."
There's a great deal dwelling in that pause. John lets the thought spin out, remembering the shock of realizing just how far Max had strayed from his perception of her.
"She wasn't going to kill me. She was going to remove me. There was a place where people pay to make men disappear, and she'd bought a place for me. Or so she said."
Confirmation had come after. There was such a place. It would have had a spot for John. He would have been set beyond anyone's reach, erased and negated, figurehead no more. Had John not confirmed one more piece of information, he'd be more uneasy about relegating Flint to the same fate. He watches Flint's face, waiting to see the connection being made before pressing onward with his explanation.
There's no reason to look at him there in the chair, a small man with one leg in the sprawl of the Lion opulent (by the standard of ships) greatcabin. Great pirates stood in this room once. Hornigold, before he'd struck himself so violently from the account. Teach before they'd parted ways. Bellamy before he'd sailed North to dash himself on the cliffs of Maine. Long John Silver mist be the least of these men, one in a long and diminishing line. Is it funny that the greatest men this room will know are now him and Jack Rackham?
For a long minute Flint doesn't lift his attention from the warped window glass - not because he doesn't understand (he does), but because he doesn't anticipate John Silver to require anything from him to talk. When the length of the silence reaches him, he shifts where his chin is set against his chest and turns finally by some small degree toward him. The small motion is punctuated by the clank of chain.
"Is that how you think this works?" He speaks so low in the hollow room. That Captain Flint will be put away like a coat in summer. That he will go where he is told to go and live how he's told to live and will disappear like a body in canvas slipping under the mirror sea. That he will make it to their intended destination at all?
For a long minute Flint doesn't lift his attention from the warped window glass - not because he doesn't understand (he does), but because he doesn't anticipate John Silver to require anything from him to talk. When the length of the silence reaches him, he shifts where his chin is set against his chest and turns finally by some small degree toward him. The small motion is punctuated by the clank of chain.
"Is that how you think this works?" He speaks so low in the hollow room. That Captain Flint will be put away like a coat in summer. That he will go where he is told to go and live how he's told to live and will disappear like a body in canvas slipping under the mirror sea. That he will make it to their intended destination at all?
Not so long ago, John had said with great conviction, I don't want to be a pirate. He had wanted gold. He'd wanted a comfortable life. He'd wanted opportunity, not this kind of hardship. He'd never asked to be a pirate king, but he had stepped into the role Billy had made from him. Now it must be borne out.
"It's how it must work," John says, for the alternative is a more permanent removal of Captain Flint. And regardless of what John has become, he still cannot stomach the death of a friend. He still cared enough to seek out an option that would allow Flint his life. "I don't think you'll be as opposed to it as you may think now."
The reunion will not balance out what John is sending him to. Thomas Hamilton will not change the ultimate imprisonment John has arranged for Flint. But it is better than dying. John tells himself that, one hand kneading the stump of his leg fitfully, watching the silhouette of Flint's face.
Please forgive me.
"It's how it must work," John says, for the alternative is a more permanent removal of Captain Flint. And regardless of what John has become, he still cannot stomach the death of a friend. He still cared enough to seek out an option that would allow Flint his life. "I don't think you'll be as opposed to it as you may think now."
The reunion will not balance out what John is sending him to. Thomas Hamilton will not change the ultimate imprisonment John has arranged for Flint. But it is better than dying. John tells himself that, one hand kneading the stump of his leg fitfully, watching the silhouette of Flint's face.
Please forgive me.
They return to the Station literally garlanded in brassy flowers and the rising, animal pleasure of winning something. But in the evening - or what passes for it -, that pan flash of elation has passes so fully that he wonders if it was ever his to begin with. Or if it was something he absorbed like heat from the air, like sun into skin, words in a language he shouldn't know in a book he shouldn't be able to read but does and can.
There are other things to feel that should have taken precedence, he thinks after. There is a blunt numb nerve ending of something distant gone missing in the place where a stranger once was - some young silly boy he'd hardly known at all and had no connection to except by way of a half dozen others, there and gone as an image on the horizon - and in the quiet of the Station after it feels like that should have mattered more no matter what was in the air. Or that it should have mattered less. The boy wasn't in his brood. It shouldn't matter at all.
Only later, it does. In the low light of whast passes for night, he wakes up with a weight on his chest in the shape of him and for a long minute James doesn't know why it's there.
Then that too crawls out of the darkness - the lip of some wave slithering up glass smooth sand. He throws back the blanket, sets his book on the table beside the bed, and takes a walk. Eventually the Station bends to accommodate him, spitting him up wherever John has set himself. Flint has two cups and a bottle under his arm by then. He says, "You're keeping me awake," before he sets them down.
John Silver isn't in his brood either, they tell him. But the bleed of him tastes like copper in his mouth, like an ache in his hip.
There are other things to feel that should have taken precedence, he thinks after. There is a blunt numb nerve ending of something distant gone missing in the place where a stranger once was - some young silly boy he'd hardly known at all and had no connection to except by way of a half dozen others, there and gone as an image on the horizon - and in the quiet of the Station after it feels like that should have mattered more no matter what was in the air. Or that it should have mattered less. The boy wasn't in his brood. It shouldn't matter at all.
Only later, it does. In the low light of whast passes for night, he wakes up with a weight on his chest in the shape of him and for a long minute James doesn't know why it's there.
Then that too crawls out of the darkness - the lip of some wave slithering up glass smooth sand. He throws back the blanket, sets his book on the table beside the bed, and takes a walk. Eventually the Station bends to accommodate him, spitting him up wherever John has set himself. Flint has two cups and a bottle under his arm by then. He says, "You're keeping me awake," before he sets them down.
John Silver isn't in his brood either, they tell him. But the bleed of him tastes like copper in his mouth, like an ache in his hip.
Must, he says. You may think, he says. As if he is the arbiter not just here in this room, but everywhere and for everyone. As if he doesn't just know every small piece in play here, but owns them. Controls them. As if he has all along. As if the reason any of them are here in this room has anything to do with him and not a series of choices by other men and women who accidentally placed him here to make this decision he has no right to make.
(It scrapes something raw in him, a knife stripping flesh from bone maybe.)
"Really. And how did you arrive at that conclusion?" It's only just barely a question instead of a flat judgement of Silver's assessment. How the fuck did he get there?, and the thought is so laces with anger that he can taste it bubbling up in his chest and flooding into his mouth, pressing against the backs of his teeth.
He doesn't mean to, but Flint is so still there in the stern window seat that it's as if he's part of it - or some dangerous predator pretending to be - or his attention is so divided into the stab of resentment that he's neglected to do anything else with himself. He can't remember the last night he forgave someone of anything; it's a good thing Silver hasn't actually asked.
(It scrapes something raw in him, a knife stripping flesh from bone maybe.)
"Really. And how did you arrive at that conclusion?" It's only just barely a question instead of a flat judgement of Silver's assessment. How the fuck did he get there?, and the thought is so laces with anger that he can taste it bubbling up in his chest and flooding into his mouth, pressing against the backs of his teeth.
He doesn't mean to, but Flint is so still there in the stern window seat that it's as if he's part of it - or some dangerous predator pretending to be - or his attention is so divided into the stab of resentment that he's neglected to do anything else with himself. He can't remember the last night he forgave someone of anything; it's a good thing Silver hasn't actually asked.
Perhaps there will be no forgiveness. Flint may never forgive him. Madi may take this decision poorly. John will have to live out the rest of his days under the weight of their grievances. He'd never imagined willingly taking on such a burden at the beginning of this journey. His fingers tap along the edge of his thigh before he lifts his hand to the arm of the chair instead.
"Because I know Thomas Hamilton is alive," John tells him, braced for Flint's reaction. This is why he'd kept out of arm's reach. John has no desire to die.
There was no way to soften the statement, even if John had wanted to. This news is a blunt object. It will come down like a swung club no matter what sweet words John sought to wrap the news in velvet. All there is for him to offer is a truth that Flint must have long ago put to rest. John can only imagine the effect it will have on him, and he wouldn't like his own odds going up against it.
"Because I know Thomas Hamilton is alive," John tells him, braced for Flint's reaction. This is why he'd kept out of arm's reach. John has no desire to die.
There was no way to soften the statement, even if John had wanted to. This news is a blunt object. It will come down like a swung club no matter what sweet words John sought to wrap the news in velvet. All there is for him to offer is a truth that Flint must have long ago put to rest. John can only imagine the effect it will have on him, and he wouldn't like his own odds going up against it.
They achieve a victory that only barely feels like a victory. The satisfaction of it pales when set against what it cost them to achieve it. John was never intending to lose another limb, but he feels as if the youth's death was both his own and a replication of having his ruined leg sawed from his body. The sensation lasts even when the flowers are laid aside, and the group of them disperses through the ship.
John had known the boy too well and not at all. When he sits awake, it's in consideration of the pain left in his wake rather than because John was particularly attached to his presence. He had grown accustomed to the ache of his leg. Would he be obliged to resign himself to this same pain on top of the intrusion of other minds pressing in against his own? He sees no way of escape, apart from winning a seemingly impossible war.
In all honesty, John isn't sure how the rest of his brood isn't sitting up mulling over this predicament with him. But as that thought comes and goes, the ship deliver Flint to him. John eyes the cups, settling into the electric buzz of Flint's presence.
"Well, my apologies," John answers, voice flat as he uncrosses his arms and shifts to better face Flint. "My head is too crowded to sleep, at the moment."
But it isn't truly his brood's fault to blame. John's stewing in his own thoughts without any help from borrowed nightmares.
John had known the boy too well and not at all. When he sits awake, it's in consideration of the pain left in his wake rather than because John was particularly attached to his presence. He had grown accustomed to the ache of his leg. Would he be obliged to resign himself to this same pain on top of the intrusion of other minds pressing in against his own? He sees no way of escape, apart from winning a seemingly impossible war.
In all honesty, John isn't sure how the rest of his brood isn't sitting up mulling over this predicament with him. But as that thought comes and goes, the ship deliver Flint to him. John eyes the cups, settling into the electric buzz of Flint's presence.
"Well, my apologies," John answers, voice flat as he uncrosses his arms and shifts to better face Flint. "My head is too crowded to sleep, at the moment."
But it isn't truly his brood's fault to blame. John's stewing in his own thoughts without any help from borrowed nightmares.
The black sea rises and its horizon line devours the matchstick skeleton of Charles Town and all the smoke which hangs over it. It takes Peter Ashe and the threadbare dream of what people in an empire can be; it buries Miranda. It swallows the L'Urca gold in the fort on Nassau. Flung far enough in the days that follow, one might be forgiven for fantasizing about the possibility of the water climbing high enough to swallow every piece of land on the globe leaving only doomed ships floating on the surface.
The Walrus wallows down into the trough of the shifting sea; in the great cabin, fresh water in a pan sloshes far enough to splash over the side to soak into the dry cloth beside it on the table. Flint hisses - a sound that might be Shit if it were more enunciated - and hooks the razor on the edge of the pan, trading it for the cloth. Folds it over twice and then presses it to the sting he can feel there at the crown of his skull. A minor nick from the lurch of his hand at the wrong moment, he thinks, then he draws back the cloth and swears over the dark spot there. Takes a moment to examine the cut in the small hand mirror laid a moment ago beside small scissors, a comb-- "For fuck's sake." He soaks the cloth's edge more completely, pressing it back in place with one hand and cleaning the goddamned razor in the shallow water with the other.
It's such a minor form of idiocy that he doesn't bother disguising it when there's a knock at the door, when it opens.
Edited 2017-09-16 02:37 (UTC)
It shouldn't meant anything to him - that this is the thing Silver says to exonerate himself with. What is one terrible lie beside everything else? He's already undone every worthwhile thing. He's replaced the stones in the wall they'd been unbuilding. An hour, a day, he'd said. At least there on the island, the words had seemed true. His reasoning had felt as honest as it was broken. He'd believed those things. This is different.
Flint looks at him, split open and hacksaw dull. It feels like being strangled, he thinks. And laughs, lopsided and flat - one short crackling sound as the sea shifts under the ship's hull and the greatcabin murmurs around them.
What a hideous thing to promise him.
"Don't." Do that. "Don't use that here."
Flint looks at him, split open and hacksaw dull. It feels like being strangled, he thinks. And laughs, lopsided and flat - one short crackling sound as the sea shifts under the ship's hull and the greatcabin murmurs around them.
What a hideous thing to promise him.
"Don't." Do that. "Don't use that here."
He's slow to take a seat there on the step beside him (his knee aches - or he expects it to; it used to be harder to get up and down than it is now). "You don't say." He stretches his legs out before them, takes up the bottle and pops the latch on its closure. Pours a measure into each glass, bottle clicking against their rims.
These steps lead down into a long empty room, mottled light casting strange shadows. It should be like existing nowhere - this place like slipping between a seam in the world - but it doesn't feel as empty as it looks just like the liquor in the glass doesn't smell right but tastes familiar. The man next to him shouldn't be knit into him either, but that's true too.
"Where's the rest of your company?" Brood too strange a word. Either way they're not here. Not suffering a sleepless night where anyone can see (feel) it.
(Maybe it's an accidental mirror of John's own thoughts. Maybe it's something else.)
These steps lead down into a long empty room, mottled light casting strange shadows. It should be like existing nowhere - this place like slipping between a seam in the world - but it doesn't feel as empty as it looks just like the liquor in the glass doesn't smell right but tastes familiar. The man next to him shouldn't be knit into him either, but that's true too.
"Where's the rest of your company?" Brood too strange a word. Either way they're not here. Not suffering a sleepless night where anyone can see (feel) it.
(Maybe it's an accidental mirror of John's own thoughts. Maybe it's something else.)
Most pirates, Kaz Brekker knows, have no particular aspiration for their coin beyond a day or a week of pleasure. To be drunk and well-sated by women, to experience the risk and reward of cards and dice, to be, for a night, generous enough to be well-liked by all — and then back out the door without a penny to their name for more long hard weeks at sea.
When he first arrived in one of these seaside towns of ill-repute alongside his brother, Jordie, he had been young and wide-eyed, a child of a different name and a different world, believing in a better life. Now he's alone and all he believes in is living long enough to seek his revenge. In the time between his natural sense for numbers and planning has helped him find his way through this rough new world, though he still has no idea how to sail a ship. He's been from Tortuga all the way up to Barataria Bay, where he had truly started to see how, as each man pursued his individual freedom, how wasteful the spending was without the vision of a greater good.
The man he works for is just as short-sighted as his clients; he wants to run his bars and brothels and gambling dens, take men's money, and spend it on his own liquor and girls and ridiculous clothes. Kaz thinks bigger. Kaz thinks of how much money it would take to buy trade goods, to buy local businesses, to buy power. To rise high enough to buy everything owned by the man who killed his brother.
Most pirates, Kaz Brekker knows, have no particular aspiration for their coin. But then he sails to the Bahamas. To New Providence. To Nassau.
-
Probably Flint isn't expecting the person Eleanor wants him to meet to be no older than a teenager, even if his three-piece suit and polished shoe buckles are the clothes of an older man. Kaz stands by the window, gloved hands clasped at the head of his cane, but when he hears Flint enter the parlor he turns with a slight smile. "Captain?"
There's a lot about him Kaz didn't expect either. The trimmed beard, the neat lines of his clothes in juxtaposition with his sea weathered skin and the hints of old injuries. Kaz isn't sure he can guess his age at a glance. More unnerving, usually Kaz prefers to be the most dangerous person in any given room, even if he also prefers to be the only one aware of it. But something about Flint makes him feel like right now, that's no longer true. He keeps his expression carefully neutral.
"Licking their wounds," John answers, forced lightness in his tone. "One lucky bastard is sleeping."
Even now, so far removed from their lives and anything familiar, John still feels the same prickle of jealousy at the way Flint can stretch out his legs in front of him. Even waking in his pod hadn't given John back what he'd lost. And now, in some kind of darkly humorous twist, he feels as if he's lost yet another limb when his foolish, youthful broodmate got himself killed.
"I thought you would be sleeping too," John adds as he takes the cup. "Most of your people are."
On Nassau, aboard the Walrus, John had slowly acclimated to being aware of Flint. He'd thought at the time that surely he'd hit some sort of maximum. But now, sitting beside Flint on these steps, he can feel every ache in Flint's body. It's an oddly welcome distraction.
Even now, so far removed from their lives and anything familiar, John still feels the same prickle of jealousy at the way Flint can stretch out his legs in front of him. Even waking in his pod hadn't given John back what he'd lost. And now, in some kind of darkly humorous twist, he feels as if he's lost yet another limb when his foolish, youthful broodmate got himself killed.
"I thought you would be sleeping too," John adds as he takes the cup. "Most of your people are."
On Nassau, aboard the Walrus, John had slowly acclimated to being aware of Flint. He'd thought at the time that surely he'd hit some sort of maximum. But now, sitting beside Flint on these steps, he can feel every ache in Flint's body. It's an oddly welcome distraction.
"I'm not lying."
But he cannot pretend that he isn't using what he knows of Thomas Hamilton to disarm the weaponry of Captain Flint. He doesn't deny that. It is a sin. One more sin in the long line of transgressions John had committed. This one is both the least and greatest among them at once. He took a confession made to him in the dark and used it to root out the one thing that could dismantle his dearest friend.
If Flint was ever his friend. John applies the word to him knowing that it does not fit correctly. They had been more and less than friends. And John has torn that asunder now. He does not think the gift of Thomas Hamilton will be suitable to repair the damage he's wrought.
"I'm giving you back to him," John says, because it's the only hope he has left. Captain Flint's story ends in a reunion with his long lost love. The world continues as it was, undisturbed.
But he cannot pretend that he isn't using what he knows of Thomas Hamilton to disarm the weaponry of Captain Flint. He doesn't deny that. It is a sin. One more sin in the long line of transgressions John had committed. This one is both the least and greatest among them at once. He took a confession made to him in the dark and used it to root out the one thing that could dismantle his dearest friend.
If Flint was ever his friend. John applies the word to him knowing that it does not fit correctly. They had been more and less than friends. And John has torn that asunder now. He does not think the gift of Thomas Hamilton will be suitable to repair the damage he's wrought.
"I'm giving you back to him," John says, because it's the only hope he has left. Captain Flint's story ends in a reunion with his long lost love. The world continues as it was, undisturbed.
[It is said that if you want to transport a queen, you get a navy, and a king, you get a pirate.
Well, at least, that is what Edmund says. However, needs must. The war has pushed the royal family to bundle up the youngest queen and set her with Edmund's less than above board contacts, and insist that if the entire kingdom should fall in this, she will be safe. Edmund, particularly, insists that whatever may happen, this ship will fare her well to warmer waters.
So there she is.
Seventeen, and young, and fearless, or so it seems. Perhaps someone was worried she would cry, or be afraid, or skirt around in fear. If they did, they were proven wrong; she sits atop bow of the ship and refuses to do nothing, so she sews sails or ruins her fine hands doing whatever chore someone puts in her hands.
But the sun and the salt and the terror catches up with her, even then, and so she can be found, half asleep against a barrel and inside a twine of coiled rope, shocked awake with a heavy boot.]
I'm not sleeping!
[The insistence suggests that yes.
Yes that's what she was doing.]
Well, at least, that is what Edmund says. However, needs must. The war has pushed the royal family to bundle up the youngest queen and set her with Edmund's less than above board contacts, and insist that if the entire kingdom should fall in this, she will be safe. Edmund, particularly, insists that whatever may happen, this ship will fare her well to warmer waters.
So there she is.
Seventeen, and young, and fearless, or so it seems. Perhaps someone was worried she would cry, or be afraid, or skirt around in fear. If they did, they were proven wrong; she sits atop bow of the ship and refuses to do nothing, so she sews sails or ruins her fine hands doing whatever chore someone puts in her hands.
But the sun and the salt and the terror catches up with her, even then, and so she can be found, half asleep against a barrel and inside a twine of coiled rope, shocked awake with a heavy boot.]
I'm not sleeping!
[The insistence suggests that yes.
Yes that's what she was doing.]
Reality feels as if it were coming apart. Waking to a raw stump may someday be easy, but John hasn't managed to acclimate to it. Every morning brings him swiftly back to the new and painful realization of his circumstance. He's trapped. His body is a betrayal. And worse, his priorities have expanded beyond the simplicity of his own advancement. He cares for the crew, and recognizes their care in return while being aware it won't save him.
Something must be done. John can't think of exactly what, but the urge to be proactive propels him to Flint's cabin. Just inside the door, John's eyes flick quickly over knife, bowl and blood before he closes the door behind him with a click.
"Can I offer you a hand? Luckily I still have two in my possession."
The offer comes out carelessly. John hardly expects it to be accepted. Surely Flint isn't a man who would trust someone like John so close to him with a sharp knife in hand.
Something must be done. John can't think of exactly what, but the urge to be proactive propels him to Flint's cabin. Just inside the door, John's eyes flick quickly over knife, bowl and blood before he closes the door behind him with a click.
"Can I offer you a hand? Luckily I still have two in my possession."
The offer comes out carelessly. John hardly expects it to be accepted. Surely Flint isn't a man who would trust someone like John so close to him with a sharp knife in hand.
Every action has its equal in opposition. This is the law by which the wind drives ships before it, which grows Nassau and Port Royal and places like it from parliamentary and mercantile houses managing rich trade on the backs of subjugated men, which rattles the bones in a hand as the bullet is forced from the pistol, which funds a war of freedom with goods and men and land and breath stolen from so many empires. It is also true for magick.
On the island of New Providence, there is a farm. On that farm is a garden and under it is buried a small mahogany box. In that box three promises are placed from the year he and Miranda first arrived. They are a stone from the island's center wrapped in locks of dark and auburn and yellow hair to swear them to the place and it to their purpose; a piece of one of Thomas's shirts soaked in sea water and carried stitched inside his coat lapel from England to the Bahamas so that he might somehow come to them from across that same ocean; and blood - his and hers - to bind them to each other.
'It's a funny thing isn't it,' Miranda had said. That first year on the island had been colored with such determination. He sees it now even in memory: the ferocity of her spirit in that wild place, underwritten by the the fervent tenderness of dressing mutual wounds - her wrapping the cut made high on the inside of his arm, he tending to the one there on the inside of her thigh. 'That letting blood should be as useful as it is dangerous. A little given here and there can heal all kinds of things.'
A cut from a knife for cooking bleeds. A cut from a sword's edge bleeds. A cut from a handaxe hacking over and over into a limb bleeds and it all runs down into the earth and the sea where Nature remembers and pays it in kind. That's how the world works. The sea gets the key to the cache; the ground gets the box.
Here, now - on an island not so far from New Providence, the final preparations are at last being made to deliver on so many promises. Can't you see it?, he'd said to Silver on that hill overlooking the sea between the maroon island and Nassau. What he'd meant was Can't you feel it? - the sensation of the world poised. It's important that he does. Let the man have his story; it can be enough to share the rest. And so in the evening before the ships must sail, after the coalition has discussed the last fine details of the plan to take Nassau and most of its figureheads have retreated to their separate camps, he says to Silver, "Stay a moment," and takes from a packet of oilcloth a short knife and a small bowl.
He lays both on the circular table between them.
On the island of New Providence, there is a farm. On that farm is a garden and under it is buried a small mahogany box. In that box three promises are placed from the year he and Miranda first arrived. They are a stone from the island's center wrapped in locks of dark and auburn and yellow hair to swear them to the place and it to their purpose; a piece of one of Thomas's shirts soaked in sea water and carried stitched inside his coat lapel from England to the Bahamas so that he might somehow come to them from across that same ocean; and blood - his and hers - to bind them to each other.
'It's a funny thing isn't it,' Miranda had said. That first year on the island had been colored with such determination. He sees it now even in memory: the ferocity of her spirit in that wild place, underwritten by the the fervent tenderness of dressing mutual wounds - her wrapping the cut made high on the inside of his arm, he tending to the one there on the inside of her thigh. 'That letting blood should be as useful as it is dangerous. A little given here and there can heal all kinds of things.'
A cut from a knife for cooking bleeds. A cut from a sword's edge bleeds. A cut from a handaxe hacking over and over into a limb bleeds and it all runs down into the earth and the sea where Nature remembers and pays it in kind. That's how the world works. The sea gets the key to the cache; the ground gets the box.
Here, now - on an island not so far from New Providence, the final preparations are at last being made to deliver on so many promises. Can't you see it?, he'd said to Silver on that hill overlooking the sea between the maroon island and Nassau. What he'd meant was Can't you feel it? - the sensation of the world poised. It's important that he does. Let the man have his story; it can be enough to share the rest. And so in the evening before the ships must sail, after the coalition has discussed the last fine details of the plan to take Nassau and most of its figureheads have retreated to their separate camps, he says to Silver, "Stay a moment," and takes from a packet of oilcloth a short knife and a small bowl.
He lays both on the circular table between them.
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