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pengychan · 6 months

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[Our Flag Means Death] The Lost Unicorn, Pt. 1

Title: The Lost Unicorn Summary: Weakened by the gunshot wound, Izzy falls behind during the escape and is captured. The good news is that the navy surgeon can keep him alive. The bad one is that he's now live bait for the crew of the Revenge. Characters: Izzy Hands, Ed Teach, Stede Bonnet, Crew of the Revenge, Ricky Barnes Rating: T All chapters are tagged as 'lost unicorn' on my blog.

Do I already have WIPs I should be working on? Yes. Do I know exactly where this is going? No. And yet here we are.

***

Looking back later on, Izzy Hands wouldn't quite be able to recall the moment he’d collapsed.

It must have been close enough to the beach because he could almost smell it, the sea and salt in the air. He’d tried to focus on that and ignore everything else - the searing pain in his side, the slickness of blood seeping through his fingers, the cobwebs of darkness starting to cloud the edges of his vision.

He was going to die, he’d been certain that the second the shot had rang out and he’d felt the burn of hot lead in his gut - but please, he’d thought, please, let it be on the Revenge. Let it be at sea.

But if there was a God anywhere - the one his mother had taught him about, or any other - he’d never been much inclined to listen to his pleas. Today was no exception: next thing he knew he was on the ground, leaves beneath him and trees around him. He felt very heavy and very light at the same time, none of his limbs responding as they should, and he was so very cold.

He’d managed to look up, and he’d seen someone’s back - Ed, it was Ed - but he hadn’t seen him collapse, and Izzy did not call out. He’d turn back for him if he did, or at least Izzy wanted to believe he would, and if he did… if he did…

I’d slow him down. They’d get us both, he’d thought, and let his head drop back on the ground with a groan. The darkness in his vision grew, blotting out everything else. He heard steps, and voices - ‘We got one of them!’ - but it was all so very distant. When someone grabbed him to yank him up, he’d gone cold all over and even pain couldn’t reach him anymore. His head lolled back as someone shook him. Quite rudely, too.

“In the name of King George--”

“Oh, fuck off,” Izzy grunted, and everything went dark.

***

“WE DID IT!”

Blood rushing in his ears, Stede Bonnet wasn’t sure whose voice cried that out; all he knew was that the next second more voices were joining in, a collective wordless cry of triumph, which he joined the second he clambered aboard the Revenge.

He almost fell on his face in the process, really, but Ed caught him before that happened and no one noticed, busy as they were hugging and cheering. Jim was also kissing Archie fully on the mouth, and Stede turned to Ed to suggest they did that too, only for Ed to wordlessly turn, cup his cheek and, indeed, do that.

It made Stede just a little weak on the knees, particularly when Ed pulled back and smiled. “That,” he said, “was the best fuckery I’ve ever seen.”

Stede grinned back and leaned in for another kiss. Unfortunately, it was not to be.

“We’re not out of danger yet!” Auntie snapped, causing the cheering to die down a little. “We’re still within firing range, get this ship moving!”

Ah, right, that. Stede sighed, and turned from Ed. The sooner they were well away from the British navy, the sooner he and Ed could resume… interrupted business. “We’ll be off right away. Izzy, will you-- Izzy?”

Stede’s eyes scanned the deck and so did the crew’s, the cheering now definitely gone as they looked at each other in confusion and then - as they counted each other and came up one short, as Lucius rushed to the side to look back at the rowboats they’d arrived in only to find them empty - there was quiet, dawning comprehension.

“Izzy?”

“No, it can’t--”

“Where is he?”

“He wasn’t on your boat?”

“I saw him just before we got to the beach…!”

“He must have fallen behind, with that leg--”

Something very heavy and very cold sank into Stede’s stomach. He turned to see Ed looking back at him, eyes wide, jaw slack. “They got him,” Ed said, as though trying out words in a foreign language. “They got Izzy.”

There were shouts on the shore, and navy officers were storming the beach, just a few minutes too late. The crew had left no rowboats for them to follow, but several were already taking aim with their rifles and a few more were running back, surely to get to one of the warships anchored at the arbor.

As shots rang out, none of them hitting the ship, Ed turned fully to look back and scowled, anger looming behind his eyes like a thunderstorm.

“I’ll go get him back,” he growled, and stepped towards the ladder like he fully intended to get in the water, swim his way to the beach, and mow down half an army of navy officers. Which to be honest was probably his plan.

“What-- no, we need to get away now,” Stede spoke up, rushing to put a hand on his shoulder. “Ed, it would be suicide--”

Ed turned to look at him, and Stede trailed off. The anger was still there, but most of all he looked haunted. “Stede, if they got him it was my fault.”

“How would it--”

“I fucked his leg up, that’s got to be why he fell behind. I have to--”

More shots, and this time one whizzed past them to hit the mast. It got the paralyzed crew to move at last, getting the ship ready to lift anchor and move out of reach. Ed swallowed, looking around. “No. Please, I can’t leave--”

“We’ll get him back,” Stede cut him off, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll think of something, Ed. No one on this ship is going to just leave Izzy in their grasp. Isn’t that right?” he called to the crew over his shoulder, getting back a lot of grim gazes, some nods, and Jim’s voice.

“Of course we’re getting our unicorn back,” they said, to more nods and mutters of agreement from the others, and that was it.

… Well, there was the Swede loudly asking since when was Izzy an unicorn and what had he missed, but Stede supposed the crew could fill him in later. And him too, really, since he had no idea what this unicorn thing was all about. For now, however, he focused on Ed.

“We’ll lose them and then go right back for him. I promise. And then we’ll be regretting it because he’s going to be absolutely insufferable,” he added. Ed made a brave attempt at a smile. It came out more of a grimace.

“What if they didn’t catch him alive?” he whispered, and Stede’s grip on his shoulder tightened again. He gave what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

“From what I’ve seen, Izzy is good at many things,” he said. “But staying dead is not one of them.”

***

“Oh, look. It lives.”

The words didn’t register right away, not with his own grasp on consciousness fragile as a dry leaf. He could tell he was laying on his back, that there was a ceiling above him, and little else. It told him he was no longer laying face down in the dirt, which was an improvement.

It also told him that the British Navy got him, which was an absolute pain in the ass and not the kind he enjoyed, either.

… Speaking of actual pain, how come he was not feeling any? His head felt light, thoughts disjointed, and when he tried to move he seemed unable to.

“You’re quite lucky, you know.”

The voice came again, and this time it did register. That twat, of course. Ricky something, minor prince of the Kingdom of Fucking Off. Maybe he should have been happy with laying face down in the dirt after all. Beat being in the hands of the navy and having to listen to fucking Pinocchio’s drivel.

“Our ship surgeon was not among the good men your friends poisoned,” Prince Whathisface continued, like anyone had fucking asked. “I felt generous enough to have him use his skills on you. Etiquette demands you utter two little words for it, I believe.”

Izzy’s mouth felt dry as bone, but not so much he couldn’t graciously offer those two little words. Let no one say Israel Hands did not follow proper etiquette. “Fuck you.”

“... You got one of them wrong.”

“Fuck off.”

A sigh, like a long-suffering parent. “I suppose I served you that one on a silver platter, didn’t I? And to think I was going to offer some water,” he commented. Suddenly he was gripping Izzy’s chin, forcing him to turn. Vision slowly clearing, he could see the noseless fuck sitting on a chair by a cot he’d been laid onto, likely in one of the rooms at Spanish Jackie’s.

He could see his wooden leg against the opposite wall, too, and feel the cold of a mental manacle around one wrist as well as the tightness of bandages around his stomach.

He was going absolutely nowhere, that was for sure.

“Waste of your fucking time,” Izzy spat. “Patching up someone you’re going to-- hang either way.”

A shrug, and Prince Syphilis stood. “Yes, well. I never said we ought to hang you right away. You know, I thought long and hard about what you told me today. You remember your moving speech, I am sure?”

“That you’re a rancid, syphilitic cunt?”

“... What you said before that.”

Izzy bared his teeth in a sneer. Or at least he hoped that was what showed on his face. None of his muscles felt like it responded as it should. “Dressed in puffy, blue nighties.”

“Before that.”

“Oh, fuck off. I’m not playing games with a rich little boy.”

A scowl. “I ought to warn you, it’s quite unwise to provoke someone who single-handedly destroyed the Republic of--”

“What the fuck did you destroy? A few ships, some shacks. But you let the best crew that’s ever sailed these waters slip between your fingers.” Because you’re a fucking moron, Izzy wanted to add, but his dry throat refused to cooperate further.

He licked his lips and it was a mistake, because the next moment Prince Noseless was pouring water from a pitcher and drinking from the glass, making direct eye contact. The absolute cunt.

“Ah, refreshing. I did need that.” A smile fake as his nose, and he put the glass down. “But yes, the crew. That’s what I was thinking about. A moving spiel, that. About belonging, and… a family to kill for, I believe you said. An interesting perspective on piracy. Although it doesn’t seem any of them stopped to help you up.”

With the mind’s eye, Izzy saw it again: Ed’s back retreating as he kept running towards the sea. He had not seen him fall; of course he had not stopped. But had he called out, would he have come back for him?

“So, it got me thinking. This is a good chance to find out if your inspired little speech was true, or only the delusion of an old pirate in a dying world.” Prince Cunt sat again, and the fake smile curled his lips once more. “You’re not alive out of the kindness of my heart, of course.”

A scoff. “If you’re trying to scare me--”

“You’re live bait, Israel Hands. If what you said is true, then your precious crew will be back for you. Of course we will be ready for them in turn, and hang them to the last man. And woman. And… whatever else is there. We’ll hang you too, obviously, but you’ll get a first-row seat to watch them go first.”

Something cold squeezed Izzy’s gut, worse than the bullet, and suddenly he didn’t know what to say. Suddenly, for the first time in years, he was scared. He tried to keep his expression steady, but something had to show. The fucking cunt’s smile widened, ugly as they come.

“But if you were wrong, and no one comes to your rescue… then we’ll take you to Kingston to make a proper spectacle out of your execution when you pay the price for all of them. And you’ll die knowing none of them came back for you.” The scrape of a chair being pushed back, and the bastard stood. “This pirate’s tale ends with your death either way. But it will be fun, won’t it? To find out if you were right.” Steps to the door, the creak of hinges. “... And to find out which ending you fear most.”

Anger made a comeback, and it was a relief: he could handle anger far better than dread. Izzy ground his teeth, and lifted his head with a grunt of effort. “Fuck o--”

Another creak and the door was shut, a key turned into the lock. Shackled to the bed, a barely healing hole in his gut and a leg short, Izzy Hands closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, and he couldn’t keep his voice from trembling.

***

[On to Part 2]

#ofmd #our flag means death #izzy hands #ricky banes #edward teach #stede bonnet #crew of the revenge #lost unicorn

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pengychan · 5 months

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[Our Flag Means Death] The Lost Unicorn, Pt. 2

Unsurprisingly no one is having a good time, but at least they now have extra brain cells on board to think of a decent plan. Also, flashbacks. ***

“Good Lord, Israel, I truly hope that was one of your baby teeth.”

Israel tries to reply, but there is blood bubbling in his mouth and something hard on his tongue. He turns and spits out another tooth. “Think so,” he says, as well as one can manage to enunciate with both front teeth gone. So, not very well.

The innkeeper rubs his face before giving a quick glance towards the kitchen where Israel’s mother is busy cooking dinner, unaware of the trouble her son got into yet again. He can faintly hear her singing. “You’re going to give poor Edith a heart attack one of these days, you truly are.”

“So don’t tell her.”

“I think she’s going to notice either way, boy. Who was it this time? The cobbler’s kid again?”

“I fell down the stairs.”

Callused fingers grab his chin, forcing his face up. Israel scowls before the old man even starts his lecture. Or tries to, because one eye is swollen shut and it makes scowling difficult. “You can’t keep picking fights with everybody.”

“He insulted me,” Israel replies, and it is a lie. But he’ll die before he lets a word of what really happened - he insulted her - past his lips, so he’ll settle for lying. Mr. Doherty probably already worked out that his mother’s ring is all for show and that she’s not a widow nor was ever married in the first place, but it’s one of those things that are best left unsaid.

His mother made sure he understood that very well: a problem that goes unspoken is a less of a problem.

“You should learn to let an insult or two slide, before you lose something more than a couple of teeth.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

“You’re the size and weight of a wet rat. You really do not.”

“You should see the other guy,” Israel replies, even though the other guy barely got a nosebleed out of their fight, and steps past to head upstairs, to the room he shares with his mother, to wash some blood off. Or at least he tries to. He never manages to put one foot down on the steps before Mr. Doherty grapes his wrist, tight.

It’s wrong. Israel can tell right away that it’s wrong, because Mr. Doherty never grabs anyone like this unless it’s a drunk patron that needs to be thrown out of the inn.

And no one alive should ever have hands this cold.

“You’re going to die alone. You know that, don’t you, Izzy?”

Israel looks up, alarmed and more than a little confused, because no one has ever called him anything other than his full name before. Mr. Doherty is looking the other way, even as the grip tightens, colder and colder.

… Or maybe it isn’t that cold. Maybe it’s him who is warm, too warm, feverish. Israel swallows, and now even the blood in his mouth feels boiling hot. “Let me--”

“You’re difficult, you know? You make it so goddamn difficult for anyone to like you. Got it into your head no one could and now here you are, making damn sure no one does.”

The man turns his head now and it’s not Mr. Doherty anymore. Israel Hands is still some fifteen years away from meeting Benjamin Hornigold for the first time, but those eyes still go through him like a knife, make him still and stop struggling to break free from his grip.

A smile, wide, all teeth. “They’re not coming back for you, Izzy. None of them. Why would they?”

Israel’s vision is swimming, and it feels like he’s burning. The grip on his wrist stays, ice cold, while his left knee folds and he falls. The man who’s not Mr. Doherty pulls him up by the wrist, dangles him like a dead rat caught in a trap. Something in his gut hurts, more throbbing heat.

“Because you got dolled up, put on perfume, and sang a little song? That’s it? You think that would make anyone want to risk their lives for a miserable bastard? They wanted to have a laugh at you, that's all.”

A shake, the heat in his gut blooms into pain, and Israel screams.

“Ma--” he tries to call out, but another cold hand grabs his neck, squeezes, and the scream dies in his throat.

“They won’t come, none of them, least of all Ed. They thought they got live bait, and all they have in their hands is dead meat. It’s for the best, you know. If they do, they die. And the last person who was ever willing to give her life for you died shitting her bed while you were fucking around as a powder monkey for the Royal Navy.”

Israel tries to grasp the man’s wrist, to pry those icy fingers from his throat, but his hand is so weak and he feels so heavy. His vision darkens, and the arm falls back by his side.

“Do you want them to come for you? Do you want them to die for you? You selfish little twat.”

None of his words make sense to Israel, but he’s no longer listening. All he knows is that he’s burning, and his side hurts, and he can’t see anything anymore. In the dark he hears voices, faint and far away-- … high fever……bring it down…… doing my best…… keep him alive…-- but when he tries to scream, the grip on his throat makes it impossible. That’s when he knows that he’s going to die, and no one is coming.

A chasm opens beneath him, and Israel falls.

***

“All right. So. The plan. We need to be clever about this.”

“We’re never very clever about anything.”

“Yeah, whose idea was it to send the guy with the obvious wooden leg forth with the hostage?”

“I mean, Prince Whatshisname would have fucked it all up either way, I guess.”

“Still, proves my point. We’re never very clever about anything.”

“And it got one of us captured. So we have to be this time. Like with… remember the lighthouse trick?”

“Oh yeah, that was good.”

“Real good.”

“How’s playing lighthouse going to help with this?”

“It’s not, but what I mean is that it shows we can be clever, and that’s the kind of attitude we need to have again.”

“Oh! If we do the lighthouse thing anyway, can I do the foghorn?”

“Yes, Roach.”

“I say we go and burn the place down until they give Izzy back.”

“No, Wee John.”

“There were the towels, too.”

“Yeah, the drugged towels, when we got away from the Red Flag!”

“That was clever. Wasn’t it, Zheng?”

“... I’ll concede it was. Begrudgingly. But it won’t help us now, since none of those men will let us close enough to smell our towels.”

“I don’t need to get close.”

Jim’s voice was cold, and it caused everyone on deck to turn to them. They were sitting apart from everyone else, sharpening their throwing knives, jaw set and mouth a thin line. There was no doubt that they were already thinking of the moment each of those very, very sharp knives would sink in some pale English throat.

“Probably not what I’m supposed to say,” Archie muttered. “But you look really hot right now.”

“Appreciated,” Jim replied with the smallest twitch of their lips, but didn't stop sharpening the knives for a moment. Stede cleared his throat.

“Very well. So, um. Going back to our clever plan--”

“We split up.”

Ed had been silent almost from the moment they managed to lose the Navy ship at their heels - so silent, in fact, that Stede was starting to worry a little - but now he spoke up, and everyone turned to look at him.

“... Split up?” Pete repeated, and Lucius made a face.

“That sounds like a terrible idea. You know, in horror books someone always dies when the characters split up,” he muttered, gaining himself a look from Jackie.

“What kinda books do you read?” she asked, but never got an answer. Ed walked up to the improvised table they were all huddled around, and tapped his finger on New Providence.

“They gave up the chase now because we had a head start and sailed faster, but I’ll bet they’re not going to just dock again. They’ll be on high alert for any attack after we took down so many of theirs. I’ll bet Frenchie’s right arm their man-of-war will keep patrolling around the island, looking out for any ships.”

“Why does it have to be my arm?” Frenchie groaned, but got no reaction other than a sympathetic pat from Fang.

Stede frowned down at the map. “It makes sense, but how does splitting up--”

“Some of us stay on the ship, the others are dropped on New Providence,” Auntie spoke up, nodding. “Yes, I see. We lead their ship on a wild duck chase--”

“I think you mean--” Olu started, but a glare was enough to make him shut his mouth.

“I know what I meant to mean. Some of us keep their ship’s attention on the Revenge, while the rest get on the ground and scout things out from there.” A pause, and she looked around. “A small group would be best.”

Ed scoffed a little. “A big group kills more English.”

“Yes. But a big group also gets discovered quickly. If your friend is alive, the last thing you want is charging in like a bull without knowing what you’re getting into. For all we know, the noseless rat has him at gunpoint. ” Auntie crossed her arms, and looked Ed in the eye. “You want him back alive, yes?”

“Of course I do.”

“And come back alive yourself?”

It was a more charged question than she realized, Stede knew, and he found himself holding his breath for Ed’s reply. “Yeah,” Ed said, like a man who hadn’t purposefully steer the ship into a storm to go down with it only weeks earlier, and Stede breathed again. “Would be nice.”

“Then you take a small group for reconnaissance. Figure out what’s going on in Nassau, if he’s even alive, and where they’re keeping him. Then get picked up by the ship again, and we reconvene. Makes sense, no?” She turned to Stede. “What does the captain think?” she asked, her tone making it clear she was no huge fan of the fact he, out of all the people on board, was the captain.

Oh dear, now it fell on him to decide, of course. Stede opened his mouth, but Ed spoke up before he could utter a single word.

“... It makes sense. I’m going. Jim?”

A flick of their wrist, and the knife Jim had been sharpening whistled through the air, hitting the mast only a few inches left of Ed’s temple. He didn’t even flinch, and just looked on as Jim nodded. “Of course I’m in.”

“Me too, then,” Archie muttered, and Ed nodded.

“Sounds good. The three of us,” he agreed, and looked back at the others. “We’ll signal you when we’re ready to--”

“What-- no, wait a moment!” Stede protested. “I’m coming, too!”

A scoff. “No you’re not.”

“Yes I am!”

“Are not.”

A bit too outraged to even notice the way several crew members were rolling their eyes, Stede crossed his arms. “Am too!”

“I’m not risking you falling into their hands too. You’re the captain, so you stay on the ship--”

“Well, I am your captain, Edward Teach!” Stede snapped, slamming both hands on the table and causing Ed to recoil, several crew members to flinch, and Lucius’ eyebrows to shoot all the way up to his hairline. “I call the shots here, I am going nowhere without you!”

It was a pretty good outburst, if Stede said so himself. Almost up there with ‘do not try this captain again’, and he liked to think Izzy would be just as impressed. Ed sure seemed to be, because he opened his mouth, stared a moment, and then closed it before licking his lips and clearing his throat.

(Later, after leaving them on the coast some way north of Nassau, Lucius would ask aloud if he was the only one who’d gotten the distinct feeling that Ed had been very close to rawing Stede on the deck right there and then. He was not.)

“... Right. Yeah. So, the four of us,” Ed finally said, and turned to the pile of uniforms they’d thrown on the deck after getting away from the English warship. “Guess we should put them on again.”

Archie tilted her head. “You think that fuckery is going to work twice? Barely worked the first time. It was a bit of a shit plan. No offense, captain.”

“None taken. But to be fair, I didn’t have much time to come up with anything better and I didn’t hear any of you--”

“Shit plan or not, Ed is right,” Jim cut him off, crossing the deck to retrieve their knife from the mast. “Seeing their uniform may at least make someone hesitate a moment before shooting. And a moment is all I’d need to kill them.”

Stede nodded. “Oh! Yes, of course! We only need a moment to strike first, if it comes to it.”

“Not you,” Auntie said. “You need more moments.”

“Maybe two moments, babe,” Ed said quickly.

“More like twenty,” Zheng commented, and Ed crossed his arms.

“That’s not very constructive.”

“No, no, she’s not wrong,” Stede conceded. “I may not be the best swordsman. Or marksman. Or… well… I will be mostly there for, uh. Strategic thinking.”

“Then we’re fucked,” Jim remarked, but turned back towards New Providence, by now only a small dot in the distance. “So, what are we waiting for?”

“Nightfall?” Olu suggested, a bit hesitant, and Zheng nodded with a smile.

“Yes. Nightfall,” she said. A pause, and she turned to Jim and Archie. She pulled something from her sleeve, and held it out to them. A vial, with something viscous in it, like oil. “Take this. It’s a poison. Not of much use if someone drinks it, but if you coat your blades with it, the smallest cut is deadly.”

“Oooh, this is awesome!” Archie grinned, taking the vial. “Can’t wait to try this out.”

“Leave some for me,” Jim muttered, elbowing her side, and turned back to Zheng. “Thank you. We’ll put it to good use.”

“You’d better, because it’s more expensive than this ship.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have said that, man. I’ll get performance anxiety now.”

Archie’s comment made both Jim and Zheng chuckle. It was Zheng to speak again first. “And come back in one piece, both of you. Oluwande would appreciate that, and-- I would, too.”

“We’ll do our best,” Archie exclaimed, all brightness, putting an arm around Jim’s shoulders. “But failing that, do you have any preference on what pieces we do bring back?”

Stede was honestly a little curious to hear the answer, but he noticed Ed walking off below deck and that immediately shifted on top of his priorities. He followed, a little sheepish.

“Um, Ed? I’m sorry I raised my voice.”

It caused Ed to pause, halfway down the steps to retrieve more guns, most likely. He turned just a little, enough for Stede to see his profile. “... It’s all right. You’re the captain.”

“Well, it’s no excuse to yell--”

“The captain gets to yell.”

“That’s not really the kind of captain I wanted to be,” Stede muttered, more than a little bashful, and Ed fully turned to look at him.

“I mean-- I don’t mind.”

“But it’s ru--”

“Kinda hot really.”

“... Oh?”

“Well, maybe-- you know, in other circumstances. In a private setting. Not on the deck.”

Stede’s mind immediately attempted to supply various circumstances where that new bit of information could be used in a private setting, and it took him some effort to chase that thought away. Later, he decided. Once their mission was complete.

“Ah,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Well-- duly noted. But, uh… I think I really should come with you, that’s why I insisted. I’m worried about Izzy, too, and I don’t think I can just sit around while sending you to do this really dangerous thing alone. I mean, I’m the captain. Makes me responsible for all the crew. You know?”

Ed stared a moment, then nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I-- I get that. Just don’t wanna see you in danger if I can help it.”

“Well, that just means you’ll need to be my knight in shining armor if it comes to it,” Stede quipped, and was very relieved to see Ed’s lips quirk in a smile.

“I can do that. Killing is a hell of a lot easier when it’s to protect someone.”

“There, problem solved. But I’ll do my best not to get in the line of fire in the first place.” He stepped closer, and leaned in for a quick kiss that Ed reciprocated right away. “No one’s getting hurt. I mean, no one but the English.”

“... What if he’s already dead?”

“No, hey.” He pressed two fingers on Ed’s lips, looking at him in the eye. “Don’t think like that. Captain’s orders.”

Ed didn’t reply, but he did lean into the touch and kisses his fingertips, and Stede figured he could take it as an ‘aye’.

***

After letting his father’s body drop on the ground, Edward turns around and runs.

He has to run. He can’t go back. His mother will look at his face and see what he did, what he is, and he can’t bear the thought. Rain keeps falling, there’s thunder and he keeps slipping on cobblestones, hearing nothing but his own panting breath, blood rushing in his ears.

He can hardly think but there is one thing he knows, one thing only that keeps him running towards the docks. Father is gone, she is safe, and she doesn’t need another monster to replace him.

So he has to go.

Later, he won’t remember exactly what happened. He will only know that by the time he gets to the docks his eyes are full of-- rain it’s just rain--rainwater and he can’t see the man standing in front of him until he slams against his side and falls back on the ground with a grunt.

“And who the fuck are you?”

The man is towering over him, like his father did earlier that night before-- he --the Kraken got him. He’s pulling back his lips in a grimace, hair sticking to his forehead. There is a boy too, he’s got some kid by the throat and is holding him high up enough his feet don’t touch the ground.

“Well? I’m talking to you!” The man steps forward, and his boot is up to come down on him before Edward can even think of scooting back, but it never comes down. Not on him, at least.

“Eat shit!” the boy in his grasp yells, and his foot kicks out, hitting the man right in the groin.

The high-pitched scream would be funny, if Edward remembered how to laugh. For now he only stares, wide-eyed, as the man drops the boy and falls on his knees, holding onto his groin with a whine. “You little bastard-- you’re fucking dead meat when I--”

He never gets to say another word, because the kid he’s been holding by the neck picks something up from the ground and screams. He swings that something in an arc through the air, heavy and made of metal. It meets the man’s bald head with a sickening crunch, the skull caves in, and he falls back without another sound.

“WHO’S DEAD MEAT NOW, FUCKER!”

Another hit, another, and another. Edward doesn't remember standing, but he must have. Suddenly he’s up and grabbing the boy’s arm, stopping him from swinging the metal pipe again. “Stop it. Stop! He’s dead!”

He’s dead, dead, dead, I did it and I can never go back.

He expects a struggle, but there is none. The boy drops the pipe and turns to look at him, blue eyes wide under a mop of wet brown hair. Only later, when the sun dries them both, Edward will see it’s sandy blond.

“Ah, shit,” he says, and for just a moment his voice shakes. “I killed him, didn’t I?”

Tell them it was the Kraken, Edward thinks, and for a horrible moment he almost laughs.

“We’ve got to get away from here,” he says instead. “Come this way, we can--”

“Well well. That looks an awful lot like what my ship cook would look like after going through a meat grinder.”

Edward stills, and so does the boy. They turn, slowly, to see a man standing over the corpse - and over them. A boot kicks the dead man’s side. “Must have been shitfaced drunk for two runts like you to take him down. How do you plan to pay me back for this loss, precisely?”

Edward says nothing, mouth dry, still holding onto the boy’s arm and looks up. He cannot make out the man’s face.

The first time he sees him, Benjamin Hornigold is nothing but a dark shadow in silver rain.

“I should shoot you both,” the shadow is saying. “But he was an asshole, and I could use another couple of cabin boys who can take down a man if needed.” A sharp tilt of his head. “You, what’s your name?”

“John Rackham,” Edward hears the boy say, and the shadow scoffs.

“Well, I already have a John on board. So you’ll be Jack from now on. Objections?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Do you have a family to say goodbye to, Jack?”

“... No,” he says. It sounds like a lie even to Edward’s ears, but the shadow doesn’t insist.

Honestly, he probably wouldn’t have let him say goodbye either way. He just smiles, a flash of teeth in the dark. “Just how I like my men,” he mutters, and turns to Edward. “And you, what’s your name?”

Edward licks his lip, mouth dry. He has seen ships come and go his entire life, merchant ships as well as the occasional pirate ship port authorities turn a blind eye on for a bribe, but he’s never been on one. Still… he has no choice now, does he? This is why he was running to the docks in the first place. He has to leave, and the only way is by sea. By ship. This is his chance to disappear.

And it only cost another man’s life.

Laughter almost bubbles up his chest and throat, but Edward holds it down because he knows that if he laughs now, before this man, he’s as good as dead. So he looks up, face wet with rain, and speaks.

“Edward.”

“Edward what?”

“... Just Edward. I don’t have a family,” he adds. Somewhere out there is a woman nursing a bruised face, wondering when her beast of a husband and her son are coming home, but now they’re both gone - the Kraken got them - and there’s just him left, and he can never go back.

She’s better off without.

As with Jack, the shadow doesn’t question him. “Hm. Well, damn common names you’ve got. I’ve got another Edward too, and it seems much too long for a shrimp like you. So Ed it is.” A wave of his hand, beckoning them to follow, and they obey. They will keep obeying for a long time. What choice do they have?

Benjamin Hornigold walks to the docks in pouring rain, and Ed follows.

***

When Izzy woke up, he was still feverish and he could hear rain.

There was no window in the room he’d been put in, but rain was drumming loud above him, so he could only guess he was put into one of the rooms in the attic. Not a stupid decision: the only way in there would be up the stairs, and a few men with rifles could easily fend off an attack from the vantage point.

And he was sure Pinocchio had placed plenty of men on each floor, weapons at the ready. They’d taken down plenty, but the bastard had brought in half a fucking army. If the crew tried to storm in, they’d be utterly fucked.

They won’t. They’re not so stupid, he thought, but even as the thought crossed his mind he knew there had to be a limit to willful delusion. They’re probably not so stupid. But they won’t come. They must think I’m dead. Someone must have seen me get shot.

It was what he wanted to believe, sure enough. The best possible scenario: not one member of the crew would die for his sake, not because they didn’t care but because they didn’t know he was alive. He could go with that, hold onto that thought until the trapdoor opened beneath him and he hung by the neck for a crowd of cunts in Kingston.

Or maybe they know, and still won’t come.

Enough. Don’t go there.

Izzy shook his head, trying to dispel the thought, and tried to shift on the bed. He was still sluggish, much too warm, and whatever the ship surgeon gave him must have worn off, because his bandaged wound was hurting like a bitch. But he was alive, mind passably clear, so it looked like the fever was not going to do him in after all.

Bit of a pity, that. He’d have loved to stop being a chess piece in Prince Cunty’s hands.

Izzy groaned and let his head drop back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. What time was it? What day was it, how long had he been out? He had absolutely no idea. He could tell he was still really fucking thirsty and now also really fucking hungry, but he had probably pissed Noseless off enough he’d leave him to--

“What are you doing here?”

A voice on the other side of the door, barely muffled. Izzy craned his neck to look at it, not too surprised to find there were officers standing outside it, too. There was another voice, lower, more mumbled.

“Ugh, so we’re feeding him now?”

“Guess little Prince Ricky doesn’t want to hang a corpse in Kingston. Let him through.”

The door opened, and some kid walked in, closing the door behind him. Well, not quite a kid, but not a man either. The uniform didn’t quite fit him right, he had pimples across both cheeks, and was avoiding his gaze. He was carrying a tray with a glass of water and some bread. Izzy sneered.

“Do I get my own maid now?” he muttered, and the boy looked up.

“I’m no maid,” he protested, with a thick yet annoyingly familiar accent Izzy could place in three seconds flat. Look at that, all this way from London - another dweller of the city’s shit pits beyond the Tower. “I’m--”

“A powder monkey,” Izzy cut him off, and the boy flushed red.

“I’m learning to be a seaman--”

“And until you do, you’re the monkey fetching gunpowder on the ship. Now give me the tray or fuck off.”

A sharp intake of breath, and for a second the brat looked like he could cry, but in the end he placed the tray on the bed, where Izzy could reach with his free hand, and quickly stepped back. They had told him he was dangerous, more likely than not, but even if he’d been in any condition to harm him, Izzy couldn’t be bothered.

All he could do now was make an effort to sit up as much as the manacle and his wound allowed, grab the glass of water, and drink. His parched throat almost spasmed, but he forced himself to swallow and then drank more, to the last drop. Maybe seeing him drinking so desperately made him look less dangerous, after all, because the monkey gathered the courage to speak out, standing to his full height.

It was not a lot, but it wasn’t like Izzy was the one to speak there.

“I’ll have you know,” he declared, trying and failing to imitate the way of speaking of much higher class officers, “that my duties on the ship take skill.”

“No, they don’t,” Izzy replied, grabbing the piece of bread and biting into it. It was stale and rubbery, but he’d take it. He heard the monkey’s protests over his own chewing.

“What would you know!”

“That’s how I started out,” he replied through his mouthful, and swallowed. “A powder monkey on the HMS Riptide.”

“Ah.” A pause, a little uncertain. Izzy had time enough to chew and swallow another couple of bites before he spoke again. “I heard some men say you used to be in the Navy.”

“... It was a long time ago.”

“Then what happened?”

Izzy didn’t reply right away. Another bite, and the bread was gone. Hunger was somewhat quelled, but the thirst sure as hell was not. “If you want the tale, get me more water,” he said. “Or you can fuck off.”

A scowl, and the monkey want to take the tray, once again stupidly skittish for someone dealing with a bed-bound man who’d been deliriously feverish until that morning, with a hole in his gut, missing a leg, and with a wrist manacled to the bed frame. He hesitated a moment, glancing at the pitcher on a table at the far side of the room… then set his jaw and marched to the door, not sparing him a second look.

How easily offended, kids those days.

Izzy leaned back with a groan, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. Listening to the rain helped, to some degree; it kept his mind from wandering to the crew, what they may be doing, whether they may be foolish enough to return and fall right into a trap.

And it kept it from memories of a very long time ago, when he’d looked up at Captain Benjamin Hornigold and - still tied to the mast, back a bloody mess from the interrupted flogging, the corpses of his comrades littering the deck - he’d asked if he happened to be hiring.

***

[Back to Part 1]

#ofmd #our flag means death #izzy hands #edward teach #stede bonnet #crew of the revenge #lost unicorn

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