There was a time aboard The Revenge where breakfast was eaten at a white-clothed table, marmalade jars were plentiful, and excessively wasteful cakes were served for no real purpose. Those days were over. What was left onboard the ship they'd have to pray to whatever god would answer them that they could trade for gunpowder or the proper equipment to make an actual living as a pirate. Blackbeard's flag may not be taken as seriously given the rumors that surely were heard around the sea- the once dreaded and famed Blackbeard had signed his life away to serve the King.
Edward kicks at a bag of dry goods as he looks over their current stock. The liquor should stay, he'd need at least a bottle a day to keep him from feeling things anymore, and that was the goal.
"Fingerling potatoes..." he scoffs, digging a hand into one sack of provisions, plucking a small oblong spud from the pile and flicking it at his first mate. "Funny. Looks more like toes."
The poor little nightshade hits Izzy’s arm and falls to the floor with a thump, the impact of which being enough to make the man stop and cast his captain a long suffering side eye. It’s annoying as fuck but in the same breath (and being an acknowledgement of The Return To How Things Should Be) the funniest thing he’s heard in a while.
Stocktake is well below them but sometimes- and this feels all the more poignant at the moment- you just have to do things yourself if you want them done right.
And in any case Izzy will never complain about time spent with Edward away from the gaggle of morons above deck. This time, even counting potatoes and pomelo, is sacred.
That sanctity has been raked across the coals and spat on these past many weeks. So this stupid joke, the act that commands it in the first place, and the blissful departure of the human Punch and Judy doll- all of it is carefully lifting those battered bits of whatever remains and breathing life back into the embers.
They’re small embers, but they’re there. And to Izzy they’re more dazzling than all the stars in the night sky.
He’s quiet for a beat, considering the pomelo in his hands. It’s the size of a cannonball and has a good heft to it. Push come to shove it might do some damage were he to throw it with all his might.
A snort. He puts the fruit back in its barrel and turns, shifting his weight to lean against it and give his aching foot a break.
Ed’s laughing. That’s good. Psychotic but good. Feels like old times. Keeps a man sharp. Terrified. Efficient.
“You sound hungry. Three month’s supplies in here. Three and a fortnight if we chuck over the fatty up top. Does this mean you’ve decided our heading?”
The gabby little shit he'd thrown off of the deck was wrong. Ed had done everything 'right'; gone to lengths he never thought he hinself could, and Stede Bonnet had still left him. But Edward Teach wouldn't die alone in a puddle of his own piss... he'd been wrong about that too. Ed would never be alone as long as the man hobbling behind him remained loyal, and he'd made sure that he would never even consider crossing him again. That wretched little spud was just another reminder.
He scoffs at the accusation. Blackbeard hadn't had an appetite for anything but rum in some time. He'd depression-eaten enough jars of marmalade to turn him off of it completely, the smell alone turning his stomach. "If you keep chucking them overboard we won't have any of them left to steer the ship." he replies, any pretense of a smile leaving his face. Seeing Bonnet's men didn't make things easy, but there wasn't much choice in crewmates until they could either make landfall again or cross paths with the right sorts of ships.
"We'll continue to head West." he mutters in response, "Pick off a few weaker merchants until we have the proper fire power to handle the larger traders."
He shrugs, their options are limited, but they'd make do. They always did. "Send the green ones over first when we raid. With any luck the rations will last nearly twice as long."
Not that he wouldn't like to. Not that the urge doesn't routinely burn in his throat every single second he sees them. They only kept the useful ones and still that urge is there.
Just like the potato. Just like the meaning of it. Just like his loyalty.
Always, always there. His loyalty to Blackbeard never waned. Never. To Edward? Sure. But not Blackbeard. It's been his driving force this entire time.
"I'm sure we can make that happen. We've been dicking about in this sea long enough."
Heading West feels like a blessing. West means warmer waters and The Caribbean Sea. Past Cuba towards The Spanish's naughty little Nicaragua. There is opportunity in the West, and (with any luck) far enough away that a pissfuck in a rowboat wouldn't be able to follow. God, if there is a God, please let that man be dead.
Izzy marinates on it for another moment, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his beard.
"Can we speak plainly for a moment, sir."
He doesn't wait for the response. He knows through his privilege that he can push forward. Earned with years of sweat, blood, and tears.
"This is for the best, Edward. I know it hurts, but this is for the best. Your eyes are clouded. Mine aren't."
The word blessing is questionable here, while Blackbeard is hoping the change of scenery will set his mind at ease, Ed still finds himself longing for the man who had left him behind. The man that he didn't know was alive or dead. The man he risked everything for and for what? An empty promise and an evening wasted waiting, feeling like a fucking idiot on a dock.
Izzy is speaking to him again, knocking him loose of his thoughts. It's for the best he says. Maybe that's true. Whatever will stop that horrible feeling in his gut akin to the tip of a blade trapped there... worse- he'd rather be impaled over and over again than to experience this.
"Of course it is, Izzy." he sighs loudly, "More opportunities await..." He attempts to change the subject, because the last person he wants to hear from about badly he hurts is the person who sold him out to begin with. He feels the anger flare in his stomach again... anger is so much easier to feel than grief, and it boils within his belly white-hot, consuming him.
"You'd best not question my vision, Izzy." he hisses, "Or I'll take yours next."
That's fair. He deserved that. Moment over, Izzy nods and backs down. He knows he's been heard, and that's good enough.
"Of course."
It's a careful waltz between them. More accurately a hobble at the moment, but that's okay. His dues for taking desperate action and he isn't in the mood to fight over the past. They both did what they did and they're both hurting for it.
Eyes forward. Ever onward. Barely scraping by to live another day.
Ever since the incident with the barnacles, there has been an all-out war on the ship Revenge.
It involves Lucius figuring out exactly how to make Izzy’s life as miserable as possible.
Sure, Lucius doesn’t necessarily have to put in that much effort, as just being in the Revenge seems to be a special hell for Izzy in the first place. But Lucius is a crafty little bitch, and it’s so much more FUN to put in the extra effort.
The first part of the plan was to figure out where Izzy was sleeping most nights (one of the guest cabins), then which wall his bed was against (Starboard as it turns out), followed by figuring out which room had an adjoining wall with it (the ball room). The next part he had to rope Pete in on, but the man was started to look at Lucius like he’d do anything the younger man asked him to, bless his heart. So that wasn’t too much of a chore.
Then, the plan just involved waiting until Izzy had gone to sleep, pulling Pete out from whatever he was in the middle of, and having fantastically loud sex up against the wall adjoining Izzy’s room.
So far Lucius Spriggs is proving one of the biggest pains in the arse Izzy has ever encountered in his whole bloody life. And he isn't young. He's also met a lot of pains in the arse.
Can't kill him yet, can't get him to listen, what is there left but to grind the fucker into the ground? He's tried, he really has. Some people are just hard to break.
And it sounds like he's being broken judging by the awful fucking noise through the wall.
Izzy does his damnedest to ignore the noise but no amount of cotton jammed in his ears does the job and every time he thinks he might just manage to nod off, a great thump against the wall violently jars him back.
Enough- he growls and gets to his feet, shoving himself into his outer clothes before tearing through the corridor and into the ballroom like a bat out of hell.
It's Lucius. Of course it's fucking Lucius. He had an inkling (and a lot of self hatred at being able to distinguish who a man was based on sex noises) but finding the mess of limbs and sweat in a quite frankly disgusting rat-king of a lump fills him with a rage he can't articulate. He isn't stupid. They're positioned exactly opposite his bunk by design.
"YOU!" he roars, still fastening his belt before thinking better of it and pulling the length of leather back from his trouser loops.
Pete moves to get around past Izzy and to the door which is a good opportunity to snap that belt of his against the retreating man's thigh, still exposed as he struggles with his britches. Pete yelps and gives a scandalized look back before disappearing faster than you'd think a bloke like him could move.
Izzy barely looks away from Lucius as he does it.
And a lashing is a brave thing to do on a ship full of tortured men. Too close to the bullshit that goes on aboard military ships. Things those men do to men like them.
He would know.
He doesn't stop, doesn't break gate, doesn't break eye contact. Just barrels across the room until he's got his gloved fist at the other man's smug throat. His naked hand holds the belt which he presses up against Lucius' adam's apple as though it were a blade. There's contact this time. Lots of it, chest to chest with weight to pin them against the wall.
"I've had enough of you," he says softly. Which should be a much greater indicator of danger than yelling.
"You're just being cute again, yeah? Is that it? Tell me, mummy didn't love you? Did you get the belt too hard as a boy? Are you so desperate for any attention that you you'd fuck that pig against my bed?"
This should be fucking terrifying. They’re alone, which means that the rest of the crew isn’t here to stand up for him like they usually do. Almost every other time Izzy has lost his shit on him like this, there have at least been witnesses, and Lucius knows his boys would never let any real harm happen to him. So any rational person would be genuinely worrying about what Izzy might be capable of now that they’re alone.
But instead Lucius can’t stop smiling, even as Izzy is desperately trying to cut off his airways. Because seeing the other man this angry just fills Lucius with so much satisfaction that he fucking won.
“Yeah, my mum never liked that I wouldn’t marry a nice girl from a good merchant family and bring respect to our piss poor family. Definitely the entire reason I am the way I am. What’s your excuse, Izzy? So much fucking anger, do you think it’s from the fact you gave your whole life to a bloke who’d rather fuck the first pretty piece of blond ass he come across?”
Is that why he's angry? Maybe. Is he going to divulge that to this worm? Over his dead fucking body. Edward can and will and has fucked whomever he likes. Israel's feelings about the matter aren't a factor. His job, his purpose is to keep his captain content and safe, come Hell or high water. He will always work towards that goal, even if Edward doesn't agree with his methods. At any cost. This crew would do well to take note.
"I am angry because I am tired, and you have nothing better to do than unravel the hem of my jumper," he says and leans in that little bit closer. So close it's intimate. They are well and truly alone and the possibilities are endless. What a shame his blade is in his bunk.
"If you want to die, Mr. Spriggs, I would be more than happy to oblige. All you need to do is ask. But I don't think you do, and I don't think this is all you are. Respect has to be earned. It's work, which you know fuck all about and might be half good at if you tried."
[ Stede stands with his hands on his hips, surveying the market in Port au Prince. It's a beautiful day. Perfect, really. It would be more perfect if it weren't for the company, but Ed had asked him to do this, specifically, trusted him with this, and if that means he has to be here with Mr. Hands, so be it. He'll make the best of this, despite his companion's sour attitude.
He looks back at Mr. Hands with a smile ]
Now, clearly that vendor was a bust. I really thought they ought to have a pineapple! I had no idea they were out of season. Do you think that Ed will take candied pineapple?
[Izzy rolls his eyes, hands on his hips, longing for anything- literally anything else- that he could be doing with his life right now that isn't hunting for a fucking fruit.
There's a joke to be made in there somewhere, but he leaves it. There is no fun whilst out with Stede Bonnet. Two blokes strolling around, supposedly on a mission. In reality it looks like a sugar high toddler being followed by an exhausted nanny dog.
He feels like an exhausted nanny dog. This isn't a mission, it's fucking punishment, and Edward is a genius because it plays to every part of Izzy's stupid fucking need to be what he is. To be the best. To be, above all else, loyal and prove it.]
I don't fucking know. At this point I think you could bring him a dog's bollocks and he would be happy.
[Much in the tone of Any second now the earth will swallow me whole and finally I will get sweet relief from living in a world where you exist.
It would be funny, though.
But- fine- He gives an exasperated gesture with his gloved hand.]
Lucius Spriggs finds that he actually rather likes London. It's loud, messy, mean, and very overt. Precious few people here have bothered to try and trap him in the sort of lies and traps that his parents and employers had, and even fewer of them are interested in knowing him or what he's up to at any given time of the day. His clothes still look fine enough that he's mistaken for a page fairly regularly. He delivers other mens' mail on occasion, if he's picked the letters from a pocket alongside a wallet or a snuffbox. That's always a lark because it causes immediate chaos and earns him a quick, legitimate tip for the delivery.
Unfortunately, if he means to keep up this facade, he will require more sets of clothes ere long. His face and hair are innocuous, plain enough, but a page in tatty attire is likely to draw the eyes of the law and he would really rather avoid them. So, with his ill gotten gains and an assortment of pricey little pieces of silver to fence, he heads first to the shops to find a decent tailor. That little endeavor sets him back the better portion of his saved monies but there's not much for that. After that, he heads to the market in the street, where he might be able to buy food for the week, or any little things that catch his fancy. If he's lucky, he can use the little stolen silver baubles on him to barter, if not, he will have to head to the docks to find the less discerning crowd.
It's here, meandering the market, that he finds the most delightful things. A fur here, a perfume there, and then right in the center of the stalls, in the shadow of an overhead awning, he finds a handsome man with a bolt of plain navy cloth that feels so familiar it stops him in his tracks. It's terribly rude to drag his fingers over cloth but he's dressed nicely enough, looks proper enough, that nobody has had the wherewithal to stop him. Good luck too because this bolt on this man's table feels precisely like the cloth of his mother's dresses. If he hadn't been touching it, he would have passed right by.
It's stupid. It's absurd. He can't sew. He doesn't need this. He would have to stash it under his bed in his rented room and just watch it molder away.
"How much for this one?" Lucius asks, feigning casual interest and can't quite get his fingers to leave the raw edge of the bolt alone.
It's so much fabric. It will cost him a leg, he's sure of it. He has to have it. The man behind the stall is handsome, dark hair with a dark mustache and a neatly shaped beard with only thin flecks of grey. Lucius doesn't have to try to fake his polite smile.
The stall keeper looks up from his ledger and casts an eye over the man. He is clearly a page of some sort, well kept and handsome. Not that these things matter much when you're selling, but in all honesty, they actually do. Izzy can spot a waste of time from a hundred yards but the careful way the man's fingers draw against the material says genuine interest.
"Three shillings a metre or the bolt for a pound," he answers.
"You have very fine taste," as an addendum, knowing that the cost is dear. His voice carries a soft, smoky rasp, but it isn't employed for any particular reason, it's merely the voice he was given.
Izzy hates market days, but they are a necessary evil. Were it up to him he would have someone here in his stead so he could be a part of the action on the dockyard, but it's harder and harder to find anyone they can trust, and after their last, useless excuse for an employee he's taken up the burden himself. He supposes there are a few perks, the roasted chestnuts across the way are nice and he does enjoy a fair amount of people watching. He just wishes he didn't have to speak to them.
"Understated, yes, but elegant. This cotton has just arrived from the colonies, dyed with imported indigo from the far East. I doesn't need a pattern to speak of it's craftsmanship."
Lucius balks a bit at the price, but manages to contain his expression as the man drones on about the quality. His voice is all gravel and rasp, handsome in the way a very fine aged brandy is, and he keeps Lucius's focus as he turns his attention as he speaks, even if he's not listened to a word. Idiot that he is, before he can think about his gambit or whom he currently presents as, he starts talking.
"Don't suppose you'd take half trade?" Lucius offers, as though he's hocking stolen trinkets at the dockyard to seedy gentlemen with more brine in them than blood.
Why trade? He has three shillings. A meter is more than enough but...somehow, the idea of someone else owning some of this makes him uneasy. It's stupid, it's just fabric, fabric he won't even use. He manages to release it and pull his purse from his breast pocket--it's a far cry finer than the rest of his clothes, something picked from a fancier pocket than his own and carried because of how easily it slots into his jacket. He has...what eight shillings left after buying his new clothes? Fuck him running.
Izzy's brows furrow as he tries to put the story together in his mind. It very quickly becomes apparent that this is no errand for a master. This is a personal purchase and one the man desperately wants.
He really shouldn't barter. He really shouldn't. But who is going to hold him to his actions? His father is old, drunk, and unconcerned so long as the ledger remains black. This business rests squarely on Izzy's own shoulders. It's stressful, yes, very, but places him in a position of power to make these small decisions.
And really, he is a hopeless romantic. If this fine young man wants this bolt of cloth, it is undoubtedly to give to his sweetheart. It would make a very fine gown. Perhaps for a wedding.
A small breath and he holds out his hand, palm up.
Lucius's grin is broad and grateful and he fishes in his pocket until he can find the ring he pulled from the last fellow who was fool enough to shake his hand as he took someone else's mail. He hasn't had time to get a proper look at it, but it seemed nice enough. No signet, no precious gems, but a great heavy bit of something semi-precious set in a masculine cut slab of silver. He takes it out and gives it a quick glance before setting it in the merchant's hand.
He's shit at bartering, but he knows what's worth what. That ring at a stall would have cost him more dearly than this bolt, but he doesn't have a stall, and he's not a jeweler. He'll take what he can get for it.
The quality of the purse gives him pause, but it has been a long day and to be honest Izzy is a pit past caring. He takes the ring and looks it over. It has a hallmark which is a good sign, and some weight to it. Finally he bites it with a sharp canine and when it leaves a small dent, he is satisfied.
Izzy pockets the ring and holds his hand out for the coins which also go into his pocket before picking up the bolt and moving it to a pad of fine brown paper to wrap, tie, and stamp with the company arms.
Israel Hands, a man of 18 years and some days, has been a sailor in His Majesty's Navy since he was a boy. Born a merchant and raised on the docks, he was fascinated by the stately crafts which carried their goods from the colonies. Clever, good with commands and his letters and numbers, Israel followed his father's every move. He learned early how to keep stock and determine worth. He learned how to hiss and snarl at passers by with sticky fingers. He learned the value of coin, and spent his summers accompanying the long trips by narrowboat to London where they traded.
It was a fine life. A good life. A little boring, but it was a good purpose, and one he was glad to have. His family was respectable and proper, he had an education and thirst, they could afford food and their home and fine sets of tailored clothing. This life was a privilege but not so high that it came with the shackles of aristocracy. Some day, he knew the business would be his, and with it he might rule that little shipping dock, toting strong lumber, tobacco, fur, and cloth.
What he never expected, or knew to expect at the tender age of fourteen, was the idea that his father was only human. And humans make mistakes. Overnight, it seemed, his life dissolved in the wake of tax fraud and arson. The details were foggy but the fire was very hot, and he almost died that night, saved only by his mother's lady's maid who had roused and grabbed him out. He'd heard arguing and the frantic whinny of horses, but they left out the back of the house and kept running.
He'd tried to go back, screamed and fought her, but she grabbed him tight and held him there, hiding deep in the dark, thick leaves of a lilac. The flames grew so bright and hot that the whole area went warm, and together they sobbed in silence, knowing there was nothing to be done.
By morning, wet from dew and covered in ash, his home and parents were gone. His life was gone.
Too scared to investigate, and having no idea what to do, Emma had taken her young master, now charge, to the village and sobbed to the vicar. He is just a boy.
A small conference was held, and it was decided that there was nothing that could be done to fix the home or pass on the fortune. His father was not the banking sort as it turned out, and all their worldly worth had burned away.
Destitute and ragged, with nothing but his night clothes, Israel, Izzy as she called him - everybody did save his father- and Emma laid a small bunch of posies on the doorstep of the charred shell, and said their goodbyes. He could not pay for gravestones and there were no bodies to bury. Nothing at all survived.
Emma did what she could, she really did, but there was no longer a future for Izzy in Liverpool and without willing relations to take him in there were two options: the poor house or the navy.
Izzy chose the navy.
They took him, gladly, and he was enlisted to The HMS Rose. First as a cabin boy, but his interest in the ship and aptitude quickly moved him into that of a powder monkey and rigging hand. Small and keen sighted, it wasn't unusual for Izzy to be up in the sails where it was more dangerous for the grown men, and his youth and thirst to prove himself pushed back common sense and fear of danger.
Over the years they saw their fair share of battles and glory and beautiful ports, often sailing to the colonies or the warm Caribbean full of exotic treats he had only ever heard about from other merchants. He learned exotic fruits and hard work hand in hand, but the navy was not kind. His captain was even less so. He ran his crew into the ground with an iron fist, obedience and retribution in equal measures. It made sense to Izzy at first, because the brutality was all he knew and it worked so very well. He worked and he worked hard, earning his swallow and the crest of their ship into his skin like a rightful sailor, good as any of them despite his age and size. But the older he got the more he came to hate it. Stories and shanties of their king and country, who knew nothing of a life at sea or real toil. Their king who's hand in Liverpool would do nothing for him when he lost everything, who hadn't the faintest idea. All of this blood and gold for a king who couldn't, and wouldn't, give two shits that they risked their lives every single day, it became a burden.
The call of freedom became loud. Very loud. By the time they docked in Curaçao to resupply only to set out on yet another pointless mission, Israel Hands knew he was done. He had found love there, and made a promise, but like all good things in his short life, he had to say goodbye to that as well. They sailed back to the colonies, trading off their goods to another ship headed back to England, and headed for Nassau where they would spend three days.
Finally, opportunity presented itself.
It was dangerous to be there, a naval ship docking far to avoid the dreaded Republic of Pirates. Stupid really, but the captain's orders were the captain's orders, and given the first leap of freedom, Izzy packed his few belongings, and headed straight for the dangerous side of New Providence island to find anything that meant he would never have to board The Rose again, stopping only to knick a single glove from the back pocket of a passing merchant which he slipped over his tattooed hand and vowed to never remove if he could make this work.
Which is how, of course, he finds his way now, wandering through the seedy streets rife with crime, drink, and the smell of freedom. There's coin in his pocket, and he intends to find a place to drink, or a promising looking crew to approach, but in reality he ends up down the docks inspecting each vessel he comes across from the safety of land. Most are small and scruffy, but some have real promise. The Ranger, in all it's gleaming, heavily armed glory, sits pride of place and Izzy can not look away as he's perched sitting on a sidelong barrel in the only set of civilian clothes he owns. Far too worn and a bit snug, but he has always been small and so the high cuffs of his trousers don't mean much. the only thing worth anything at all, if finding out who captains the glorious beast and not leaving until he has secured a tenure.
Edward's life had followed a similar trajectory, albeit on the other side of the coin. Following his father's death he began a career as a cabin boy, just as Izzy had. There would be questions if he'd had stuck around of course, but what frightened Ed moreso than any punishment for his actions was the thought of hurting someone else; he'd snapped, just as his father had. He may not have been chained to the bottle, but he still had a fuse, and how long would it take before he too was responsible for his mother's pain and fear? Like father, like son.
He didn't bother saying goodbye.
His own father had sailed with merchant ships and as such, Ed could be certain that he'd be safe among such men. Perhaps 'The Kraken' had taken his father, but his father was only one man. Surely a few more could take on the monster should it rise from the depths during a storm. Men like these trained their whole lives for such things, stories, if nothing else, and Ed became fascinated with the shanties and tales told aboard, the drama; the romance of it all.
Such obsessions with theatrics came in handy when faced with death, as sailors so often are. Merchant ships were often menaced by privateers while off the coast of Nassau, and Ed had no intention to be aboard one when it was taken. He'd heard the tales, and he wasn't going to take his chances. In the end, it was much better to be the one feared than be the one afraid. Edward Teach was so tired of being afraid.
Under Hornigold, Edward had quickly climbed the ranks. His passion for what came next was unmatched by his peers, and what he lacked in technical fighting skills he more than made up for with creativity. Fighting and swordplay can be taught, but one can't teach a person to think outside of the box if they're so firmly grounded within it.
When The Ranger made dock, Edward had been given a directive on land, the sort of errand that needed to be handled by someone trustworthy. Ed was for the most part, although his short fuse had ruffled some feathers with the party he'd meant to be negotiating a trade with. He'd returned to the ship to regroup, half of him considering returning gun-in-hand to thank the doorman for insulting him on the fly, panic racing through his veins at the thought of disappointing his Captain and being thrown out to sea as a result. He knew he couldn't get violent-- such an act could start a real war between bitter rivals, of which Hornigold had a few.
His anger is present in the way he walks, the focused look as his mind ponders options while he approaches the ship. The man in ill-fitting clothing sitting nearby doesn't go unnoticed (one should always be conscious of their surroundings), but not seen as a threat, either. Not exactly, anyway, but the way he's staring at Ed pokes that temper of his irritatingly.
"The fuck are you looking at?"
Edited (nothing to see here) 2022-07-07 14:43 (UTC)
"Just looking," he answers quickly, brows raising high for a moment before his brain catches up and they furrow. Was that stupid? Maybe he shouldn't have been looking, but he was. When someone comes storming past you like they're on a mission and heads straight for the ship you've been eye-fucking for twenty minutes it's only natural.
Nothing, might have been the better answer, but it would have been a thin, unnecessary lie.
Izzy pulls himself up a little more. He's been chewing a bit of resin and spits it to the ground before nodding towards The Ranger.
"Hornigold's ship." he answers, but it's said with the sort of pride that suggests he considers it his own as well. He lived aboard it after all, a favored member of Hornigold's crew.
There are only a few reasons one might ask such a question. They aren't in the sort of port that would require anonymity, or otherwise Ed wouldn't have answered at all. The other man could be a pirate hunter, but Ed had grown fairly competent in his swordplay- he could take on one man. If he was a hunter it was foolish of him to come alone, and any other men on board would quickly jump to Ed's side for reinforcements. No, this was a man looking for work, staking out prospects, or at the very least a man on the run. Ed knows the type because he's been there before.
Hornigold, of course. That makes sense given his reputation and the vessel's grandeur. The man largely responsible for establishing this republic. The best, most respected ship of all pirates. Now with that knowledge, all other prospects drop away. It will be this one or nothing.
Izzy has to get on that ship or he will die.
The bloke doesn't look old enough to be captain, but he's crew. It's an in. This is the opportunity he's been searching for. The cutlass on Izzy's hip is a reassuring weight but could be just as damning. It's regulation issue, but a man could have gotten that off any ol' kingsman in battle. He hopes for the latter to be assumed.
"I'm looking for tenure. Not shy of 'ard work or killin'."
Earnest with the air of having experience in both. Why a seasoned boy would be out here alone looking for prospects is anyone's guess, but he answers the obvious follow up himself.
"I want something worth doing. Somewhere I can make a real difference."
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Edward kicks at a bag of dry goods as he looks over their current stock. The liquor should stay, he'd need at least a bottle a day to keep him from feeling things anymore, and that was the goal.
"Fingerling potatoes..." he scoffs, digging a hand into one sack of provisions, plucking a small oblong spud from the pile and flicking it at his first mate. "Funny. Looks more like toes."
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Stocktake is well below them but sometimes- and this feels all the more poignant at the moment- you just have to do things yourself if you want them done right.
And in any case Izzy will never complain about time spent with Edward away from the gaggle of morons above deck. This time, even counting potatoes and pomelo, is sacred.
That sanctity has been raked across the coals and spat on these past many weeks. So this stupid joke, the act that commands it in the first place, and the blissful departure of the human Punch and Judy doll- all of it is carefully lifting those battered bits of whatever remains and breathing life back into the embers.
They’re small embers, but they’re there. And to Izzy they’re more dazzling than all the stars in the night sky.
He’s quiet for a beat, considering the pomelo in his hands. It’s the size of a cannonball and has a good heft to it. Push come to shove it might do some damage were he to throw it with all his might.
A snort. He puts the fruit back in its barrel and turns, shifting his weight to lean against it and give his aching foot a break.
Ed’s laughing. That’s good. Psychotic but good. Feels like old times. Keeps a man sharp. Terrified. Efficient.
“You sound hungry. Three month’s supplies in here. Three and a fortnight if we chuck over the fatty up top. Does this mean you’ve decided our heading?”
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He scoffs at the accusation. Blackbeard hadn't had an appetite for anything but rum in some time. He'd depression-eaten enough jars of marmalade to turn him off of it completely, the smell alone turning his stomach. "If you keep chucking them overboard we won't have any of them left to steer the ship." he replies, any pretense of a smile leaving his face. Seeing Bonnet's men didn't make things easy, but there wasn't much choice in crewmates until they could either make landfall again or cross paths with the right sorts of ships.
"We'll continue to head West." he mutters in response, "Pick off a few weaker merchants until we have the proper fire power to handle the larger traders."
He shrugs, their options are limited, but they'd make do. They always did. "Send the green ones over first when we raid. With any luck the rations will last nearly twice as long."
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Not that he wouldn't like to. Not that the urge doesn't routinely burn in his throat every single second he sees them. They only kept the useful ones and still that urge is there.
Just like the potato. Just like the meaning of it. Just like his loyalty.
Always, always there. His loyalty to Blackbeard never waned. Never. To Edward? Sure. But not Blackbeard. It's been his driving force this entire time.
"I'm sure we can make that happen. We've been dicking about in this sea long enough."
Heading West feels like a blessing. West means warmer waters and The Caribbean Sea. Past Cuba towards The Spanish's naughty little Nicaragua. There is opportunity in the West, and (with any luck) far enough away that a pissfuck in a rowboat wouldn't be able to follow. God, if there is a God, please let that man be dead.
Izzy marinates on it for another moment, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his beard.
"Can we speak plainly for a moment, sir."
He doesn't wait for the response. He knows through his privilege that he can push forward. Earned with years of sweat, blood, and tears.
"This is for the best, Edward. I know it hurts, but this is for the best. Your eyes are clouded. Mine aren't."
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Izzy is speaking to him again, knocking him loose of his thoughts. It's for the best he says. Maybe that's true. Whatever will stop that horrible feeling in his gut akin to the tip of a blade trapped there... worse- he'd rather be impaled over and over again than to experience this.
"Of course it is, Izzy." he sighs loudly, "More opportunities await..." He attempts to change the subject, because the last person he wants to hear from about badly he hurts is the person who sold him out to begin with. He feels the anger flare in his stomach again... anger is so much easier to feel than grief, and it boils within his belly white-hot, consuming him.
"You'd best not question my vision, Izzy." he hisses, "Or I'll take yours next."
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"Of course."
It's a careful waltz between them. More accurately a hobble at the moment, but that's okay. His dues for taking desperate action and he isn't in the mood to fight over the past. They both did what they did and they're both hurting for it.
Eyes forward. Ever onward. Barely scraping by to live another day.
"I should be up top.. Unless you need me."
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It involves Lucius figuring out exactly how to make Izzy’s life as miserable as possible.
Sure, Lucius doesn’t necessarily have to put in that much effort, as just being in the Revenge seems to be a special hell for Izzy in the first place. But Lucius is a crafty little bitch, and it’s so much more FUN to put in the extra effort.
The first part of the plan was to figure out where Izzy was sleeping most nights (one of the guest cabins), then which wall his bed was against (Starboard as it turns out), followed by figuring out which room had an adjoining wall with it (the ball room). The next part he had to rope Pete in on, but the man was started to look at Lucius like he’d do anything the younger man asked him to, bless his heart. So that wasn’t too much of a chore.
Then, the plan just involved waiting until Izzy had gone to sleep, pulling Pete out from whatever he was in the middle of, and having fantastically loud sex up against the wall adjoining Izzy’s room.
So far is was working beautifully.
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Can't kill him yet, can't get him to listen, what is there left but to grind the fucker into the ground? He's tried, he really has. Some people are just hard to break.
And it sounds like he's being broken judging by the awful fucking noise through the wall.
Izzy does his damnedest to ignore the noise but no amount of cotton jammed in his ears does the job and every time he thinks he might just manage to nod off, a great thump against the wall violently jars him back.
Enough- he growls and gets to his feet, shoving himself into his outer clothes before tearing through the corridor and into the ballroom like a bat out of hell.
It's Lucius. Of course it's fucking Lucius. He had an inkling (and a lot of self hatred at being able to distinguish who a man was based on sex noises) but finding the mess of limbs and sweat in a quite frankly disgusting rat-king of a lump fills him with a rage he can't articulate. He isn't stupid. They're positioned exactly opposite his bunk by design.
"YOU!" he roars, still fastening his belt before thinking better of it and pulling the length of leather back from his trouser loops.
"GET UP, NOW!"
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Lucius gives Pete a little slap on the ass as he leaves, just to rub it in. Yes that’s right, Izzy. He is banging the fuck out of that dude. Jealous?
“Don’t you look all wound up, Dizzy Izzy. Couldn’t sleep?”
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Izzy barely looks away from Lucius as he does it.
And a lashing is a brave thing to do on a ship full of tortured men. Too close to the bullshit that goes on aboard military ships. Things those men do to men like them.
He would know.
He doesn't stop, doesn't break gate, doesn't break eye contact. Just barrels across the room until he's got his gloved fist at the other man's smug throat. His naked hand holds the belt which he presses up against Lucius' adam's apple as though it were a blade. There's contact this time. Lots of it, chest to chest with weight to pin them against the wall.
"I've had enough of you," he says softly. Which should be a much greater indicator of danger than yelling.
"You're just being cute again, yeah? Is that it? Tell me, mummy didn't love you? Did you get the belt too hard as a boy? Are you so desperate for any attention that you you'd fuck that pig against my bed?"
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But instead Lucius can’t stop smiling, even as Izzy is desperately trying to cut off his airways. Because seeing the other man this angry just fills Lucius with so much satisfaction that he fucking won.
“Yeah, my mum never liked that I wouldn’t marry a nice girl from a good merchant family and bring respect to our piss poor family. Definitely the entire reason I am the way I am. What’s your excuse, Izzy? So much fucking anger, do you think it’s from the fact you gave your whole life to a bloke who’d rather fuck the first pretty piece of blond ass he come across?”
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"I am angry because I am tired, and you have nothing better to do than unravel the hem of my jumper," he says and leans in that little bit closer. So close it's intimate. They are well and truly alone and the possibilities are endless. What a shame his blade is in his bunk.
"If you want to die, Mr. Spriggs, I would be more than happy to oblige. All you need to do is ask. But I don't think you do, and I don't think this is all you are. Respect has to be earned. It's work, which you know fuck all about and might be half good at if you tried."
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He looks back at Mr. Hands with a smile ]
Now, clearly that vendor was a bust. I really thought they ought to have a pineapple! I had no idea they were out of season. Do you think that Ed will take candied pineapple?
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There's a joke to be made in there somewhere, but he leaves it. There is no fun whilst out with Stede Bonnet. Two blokes strolling around, supposedly on a mission. In reality it looks like a sugar high toddler being followed by an exhausted nanny dog.
He feels like an exhausted nanny dog. This isn't a mission, it's fucking punishment, and Edward is a genius because it plays to every part of Izzy's stupid fucking need to be what he is. To be the best. To be, above all else, loyal and prove it.]
I don't fucking know. At this point I think you could bring him a dog's bollocks and he would be happy.
[Much in the tone of Any second now the earth will swallow me whole and finally I will get sweet relief from living in a world where you exist.
It would be funny, though.
But- fine- He gives an exasperated gesture with his gloved hand.]
I guess... any citrus works. Buy that one.
[It's a papaya. Nailed it.]
Coffee Shop AU (Metaphorical)
Unfortunately, if he means to keep up this facade, he will require more sets of clothes ere long. His face and hair are innocuous, plain enough, but a page in tatty attire is likely to draw the eyes of the law and he would really rather avoid them. So, with his ill gotten gains and an assortment of pricey little pieces of silver to fence, he heads first to the shops to find a decent tailor. That little endeavor sets him back the better portion of his saved monies but there's not much for that. After that, he heads to the market in the street, where he might be able to buy food for the week, or any little things that catch his fancy. If he's lucky, he can use the little stolen silver baubles on him to barter, if not, he will have to head to the docks to find the less discerning crowd.
It's here, meandering the market, that he finds the most delightful things. A fur here, a perfume there, and then right in the center of the stalls, in the shadow of an overhead awning, he finds a handsome man with a bolt of plain navy cloth that feels so familiar it stops him in his tracks. It's terribly rude to drag his fingers over cloth but he's dressed nicely enough, looks proper enough, that nobody has had the wherewithal to stop him. Good luck too because this bolt on this man's table feels precisely like the cloth of his mother's dresses. If he hadn't been touching it, he would have passed right by.
It's stupid. It's absurd. He can't sew. He doesn't need this. He would have to stash it under his bed in his rented room and just watch it molder away.
"How much for this one?" Lucius asks, feigning casual interest and can't quite get his fingers to leave the raw edge of the bolt alone.
It's so much fabric. It will cost him a leg, he's sure of it. He has to have it. The man behind the stall is handsome, dark hair with a dark mustache and a neatly shaped beard with only thin flecks of grey. Lucius doesn't have to try to fake his polite smile.
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"Three shillings a metre or the bolt for a pound," he answers.
"You have very fine taste," as an addendum, knowing that the cost is dear. His voice carries a soft, smoky rasp, but it isn't employed for any particular reason, it's merely the voice he was given.
Izzy hates market days, but they are a necessary evil. Were it up to him he would have someone here in his stead so he could be a part of the action on the dockyard, but it's harder and harder to find anyone they can trust, and after their last, useless excuse for an employee he's taken up the burden himself. He supposes there are a few perks, the roasted chestnuts across the way are nice and he does enjoy a fair amount of people watching. He just wishes he didn't have to speak to them.
"Understated, yes, but elegant. This cotton has just arrived from the colonies, dyed with imported indigo from the far East. I doesn't need a pattern to speak of it's craftsmanship."
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"Don't suppose you'd take half trade?" Lucius offers, as though he's hocking stolen trinkets at the dockyard to seedy gentlemen with more brine in them than blood.
Why trade? He has three shillings. A meter is more than enough but...somehow, the idea of someone else owning some of this makes him uneasy. It's stupid, it's just fabric, fabric he won't even use. He manages to release it and pull his purse from his breast pocket--it's a far cry finer than the rest of his clothes, something picked from a fancier pocket than his own and carried because of how easily it slots into his jacket. He has...what eight shillings left after buying his new clothes? Fuck him running.
He can go hungry a while.
"Eight and a silver ring?"
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He really shouldn't barter. He really shouldn't. But who is going to hold him to his actions? His father is old, drunk, and unconcerned so long as the ledger remains black. This business rests squarely on Izzy's own shoulders. It's stressful, yes, very, but places him in a position of power to make these small decisions.
And really, he is a hopeless romantic. If this fine young man wants this bolt of cloth, it is undoubtedly to give to his sweetheart. It would make a very fine gown. Perhaps for a wedding.
A small breath and he holds out his hand, palm up.
"Show me the ring."
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He's shit at bartering, but he knows what's worth what. That ring at a stall would have cost him more dearly than this bolt, but he doesn't have a stall, and he's not a jeweler. He'll take what he can get for it.
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Izzy pockets the ring and holds his hand out for the coins which also go into his pocket before picking up the bolt and moving it to a pad of fine brown paper to wrap, tie, and stamp with the company arms.
"Do you have any plans in particular?"
Can't help it, he is curious.
"For the fabric."
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When We Were Young | For Edward | treading_water
It was a fine life. A good life. A little boring, but it was a good purpose, and one he was glad to have. His family was respectable and proper, he had an education and thirst, they could afford food and their home and fine sets of tailored clothing. This life was a privilege but not so high that it came with the shackles of aristocracy. Some day, he knew the business would be his, and with it he might rule that little shipping dock, toting strong lumber, tobacco, fur, and cloth.
What he never expected, or knew to expect at the tender age of fourteen, was the idea that his father was only human. And humans make mistakes. Overnight, it seemed, his life dissolved in the wake of tax fraud and arson. The details were foggy but the fire was very hot, and he almost died that night, saved only by his mother's lady's maid who had roused and grabbed him out. He'd heard arguing and the frantic whinny of horses, but they left out the back of the house and kept running.
He'd tried to go back, screamed and fought her, but she grabbed him tight and held him there, hiding deep in the dark, thick leaves of a lilac. The flames grew so bright and hot that the whole area went warm, and together they sobbed in silence, knowing there was nothing to be done.
By morning, wet from dew and covered in ash, his home and parents were gone. His life was gone.
Too scared to investigate, and having no idea what to do, Emma had taken her young master, now charge, to the village and sobbed to the vicar. He is just a boy.
A small conference was held, and it was decided that there was nothing that could be done to fix the home or pass on the fortune. His father was not the banking sort as it turned out, and all their worldly worth had burned away.
Destitute and ragged, with nothing but his night clothes, Israel, Izzy as she called him - everybody did save his father- and Emma laid a small bunch of posies on the doorstep of the charred shell, and said their goodbyes. He could not pay for gravestones and there were no bodies to bury. Nothing at all survived.
Emma did what she could, she really did, but there was no longer a future for Izzy in Liverpool and without willing relations to take him in there were two options: the poor house or the navy.
Izzy chose the navy.
They took him, gladly, and he was enlisted to The HMS Rose. First as a cabin boy, but his interest in the ship and aptitude quickly moved him into that of a powder monkey and rigging hand. Small and keen sighted, it wasn't unusual for Izzy to be up in the sails where it was more dangerous for the grown men, and his youth and thirst to prove himself pushed back common sense and fear of danger.
Over the years they saw their fair share of battles and glory and beautiful ports, often sailing to the colonies or the warm Caribbean full of exotic treats he had only ever heard about from other merchants. He learned exotic fruits and hard work hand in hand, but the navy was not kind. His captain was even less so. He ran his crew into the ground with an iron fist, obedience and retribution in equal measures. It made sense to Izzy at first, because the brutality was all he knew and it worked so very well. He worked and he worked hard, earning his swallow and the crest of their ship into his skin like a rightful sailor, good as any of them despite his age and size. But the older he got the more he came to hate it. Stories and shanties of their king and country, who knew nothing of a life at sea or real toil. Their king who's hand in Liverpool would do nothing for him when he lost everything, who hadn't the faintest idea. All of this blood and gold for a king who couldn't, and wouldn't, give two shits that they risked their lives every single day, it became a burden.
The call of freedom became loud. Very loud. By the time they docked in Curaçao to resupply only to set out on yet another pointless mission, Israel Hands knew he was done. He had found love there, and made a promise, but like all good things in his short life, he had to say goodbye to that as well. They sailed back to the colonies, trading off their goods to another ship headed back to England, and headed for Nassau where they would spend three days.
Finally, opportunity presented itself.
It was dangerous to be there, a naval ship docking far to avoid the dreaded Republic of Pirates. Stupid really, but the captain's orders were the captain's orders, and given the first leap of freedom, Izzy packed his few belongings, and headed straight for the dangerous side of New Providence island to find anything that meant he would never have to board The Rose again, stopping only to knick a single glove from the back pocket of a passing merchant which he slipped over his tattooed hand and vowed to never remove if he could make this work.
Which is how, of course, he finds his way now, wandering through the seedy streets rife with crime, drink, and the smell of freedom. There's coin in his pocket, and he intends to find a place to drink, or a promising looking crew to approach, but in reality he ends up down the docks inspecting each vessel he comes across from the safety of land. Most are small and scruffy, but some have real promise. The Ranger, in all it's gleaming, heavily armed glory, sits pride of place and Izzy can not look away as he's perched sitting on a sidelong barrel in the only set of civilian clothes he owns. Far too worn and a bit snug, but he has always been small and so the high cuffs of his trousers don't mean much. the only thing worth anything at all, if finding out who captains the glorious beast and not leaving until he has secured a tenure.
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He didn't bother saying goodbye.
His own father had sailed with merchant ships and as such, Ed could be certain that he'd be safe among such men. Perhaps 'The Kraken' had taken his father, but his father was only one man. Surely a few more could take on the monster should it rise from the depths during a storm. Men like these trained their whole lives for such things, stories, if nothing else, and Ed became fascinated with the shanties and tales told aboard, the drama; the romance of it all.
Such obsessions with theatrics came in handy when faced with death, as sailors so often are. Merchant ships were often menaced by privateers while off the coast of Nassau, and Ed had no intention to be aboard one when it was taken. He'd heard the tales, and he wasn't going to take his chances. In the end, it was much better to be the one feared than be the one afraid. Edward Teach was so tired of being afraid.
Under Hornigold, Edward had quickly climbed the ranks. His passion for what came next was unmatched by his peers, and what he lacked in technical fighting skills he more than made up for with creativity. Fighting and swordplay can be taught, but one can't teach a person to think outside of the box if they're so firmly grounded within it.
When The Ranger made dock, Edward had been given a directive on land, the sort of errand that needed to be handled by someone trustworthy. Ed was for the most part, although his short fuse had ruffled some feathers with the party he'd meant to be negotiating a trade with. He'd returned to the ship to regroup, half of him considering returning gun-in-hand to thank the doorman for insulting him on the fly, panic racing through his veins at the thought of disappointing his Captain and being thrown out to sea as a result. He knew he couldn't get violent-- such an act could start a real war between bitter rivals, of which Hornigold had a few.
His anger is present in the way he walks, the focused look as his mind ponders options while he approaches the ship. The man in ill-fitting clothing sitting nearby doesn't go unnoticed (one should always be conscious of their surroundings), but not seen as a threat, either. Not exactly, anyway, but the way he's staring at Ed pokes that temper of his irritatingly.
"The fuck are you looking at?"
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Nothing, might have been the better answer, but it would have been a thin, unnecessary
lie.
Izzy pulls himself up a little more. He's been chewing a bit of resin and spits it to the ground before nodding towards The Ranger.
"Is that your ship?"
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There are only a few reasons one might ask such a question. They aren't in the sort of port that would require anonymity, or otherwise Ed wouldn't have answered at all. The other man could be a pirate hunter, but Ed had grown fairly competent in his swordplay- he could take on one man. If he was a hunter it was foolish of him to come alone, and any other men on board would quickly jump to Ed's side for reinforcements. No, this was a man looking for work, staking out prospects, or at the very least a man on the run. Ed knows the type because he's been there before.
"What's it to you?"
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Izzy has to get on that ship or he will die.
The bloke doesn't look old enough to be captain, but he's crew. It's an in. This is the opportunity he's been searching for. The cutlass on Izzy's hip is a reassuring weight but could be just as damning. It's regulation issue, but a man could have gotten that off any ol' kingsman in battle. He hopes for the latter to be assumed.
"I'm looking for tenure. Not shy of 'ard work or killin'."
Earnest with the air of having experience in both. Why a seasoned boy would be out here alone looking for prospects is anyone's guess, but he answers the obvious follow up himself.
"I want something worth doing. Somewhere I can make a real difference."
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