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.
Ed closes his eyes, taking a cleansing breath. Maybe that was uncalled for... Izzy had already paid for his disloyalty, after all. And that was just it, if Edward Teach was to be Blackbeard again, he did need Izzy.
"The men can run a ship without you screaming at them for a moment." he sighs as his eyes open again, his fist still clenched as he tries to work the anger out. It does him no good to have his own first mate afraid to voice his opinions.
"Grab a bottle of rum." he mutters, moving past Izzy back to the direction of his quarters, "We've got work to do."
The call to action pushes the tangles mess of conflicting feelings aside, and he leans back to give Edward space before following, albeit slowly.
He'll need time to recover his steps, but time stops for no man, and he won't complain. He's got a fresh(ish) bandage and the bleeding has stopped for the most part.
Rum is easily acquired, and while the details of work is still to come, the fact that they're doing something fans those embers in his belly a little brighter. He feels good with a purpose. With a plan. Even if it's just getting to the Captain's Quarters, delivering the bottle, and easing himself into a seat with a soft noise. He can work with this.
There's no sense in waiting for the hobbling first mate in the hall. Ed makes his way back to his quarters, giving himself the spare time to work out his emotions before Izzy is present. Things are different with Izzy, Ed can't feel freely without judgement, he's expected to be strong. He has to remember what that is like.
Moving through the eerily empty room, he pushes one of the chairs out from behind the table, settling down in it and kicking his feet up. By the time Izzy makes it there, Ed will be lighting his freshly-packed pipe as a means to keep his nerves settled.
"Sit down." he instructs without looking up, shaking the match off to the side until the flame disappears.
"How long can we realistically run on a skeleton crew before things become difficult?" he asks, not wasting time. Better to ease into this moment by focusing on the work, which there'd be plenty of, soon enough.
He considers the question for a beat as he opens the bottle of rum and pours two glasses. Edward's first (always), which he gives over before pouring his own.
A vessel never carries more crew than it needs to. There's never the space and feeding extra mouths is bad business. But Bonnet's crew was mainly comprised of layabouts and harlots, so it was running under powered long before they marooned most of them.
"Well," a sip. He'll give Bonnet this, the drink selection is decent.
"We could do with a carpenter and another gunner or two but assuming the lot we've kept pull any kind of weight we'll be fine for the foreseeable future. Maybe a sailmaker. I'm not sure that lad can sew as well as he says he can."
The glass doesn't sit for long before Edward is swiping it up to drink it. He'd have foregone the glass altogether, there was certainly no one aboard to pretend to be proper for.
"He'll learn to." he mutters into his glass. Frenchie managed to stitch up the flag to Ed's liking, which was good enough. And he seemed to fear them enough to not talk back, to do as he's told and do it quickly.
"Right. West, then." he sighs, the expedition not nearly as exciting to him as it might have once been. There's a moment of silence as he drinks more of the rum, contemplating.
"Can I ask you something?" he starts, not waiting for an answer to continue, "What do you want out of all of this?" Because this can't just be it. There has to be more to life than sailing back and forth and feeding people their toes.
Israel considers this for a moment as well. It's a question he's asked himself with increasing frequency the last long while. Honestly compels him, though.
"Freedom?"
A sip. There's guarded but worn emotion in his voice when he speaks next.
"I can't go back there."
England, he means.
The ring tied at his throat feels tighter than ever. The glove on his hand stuck like tar.
That word hangs in the air long enough for Ed to feel it begin to lay heavily over him. He grits his teeth, because it doesn't feel like freedom to him, not completely. Certainly he is living outside of law or order but there are still rules and expectations of him. Of who he's allowed to be.
"Neither of us can, can we?" he mutters, that much is true. He'd fled his duties as a soldier... he wouldn't be given that opportunity again. Next time he gets caught, he's dead for certain.
Ain't that always the way. Always a hair away from death. Always lurking around the next corner, the next job, the next risky docking to resupply. Izzy knows he'll have to be more alert than ever. Edward may seem like he has his head back in the game but he's hurting. And that makes him like a wild animal.
Unpredictable and extremely dangerous.
A sigh, looking to change the subject. There's no use being upset about ghosts.
Which is, of course, all that's waiting for him back in England and the only hope he'd have at the end of a hangman's noose.
"I don't know, why don't we do something fun. Let our hair down a little."
Yes, a great idea.
"Let's find ourselves a little ship and let loose. Kill 'em all and lock the helm towards land. Remind everyone who we are, ay? That'll cheer you up."
Fun is a relative term, but he'll hear his first mate out on this one. He turns, watching Izzy inquisitively as he explains himself. The idea of letting off some steam isn't so bad, but Ed wonders if he'll be expected to do the killing. He's only indirectly killed others since his father's death; technically fire or the ocean or his men had killed the others.
"Just like old times." he replies, trying to sound enthusiastic. He doesn't.
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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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"The men can run a ship without you screaming at them for a moment." he sighs as his eyes open again, his fist still clenched as he tries to work the anger out. It does him no good to have his own first mate afraid to voice his opinions.
"Grab a bottle of rum." he mutters, moving past Izzy back to the direction of his quarters, "We've got work to do."
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The call to action pushes the tangles mess of conflicting feelings aside, and he leans back to give Edward space before following, albeit slowly.
He'll need time to recover his steps, but time stops for no man, and he won't complain. He's got a fresh(ish) bandage and the bleeding has stopped for the most part.
Rum is easily acquired, and while the details of work is still to come, the fact that they're doing something fans those embers in his belly a little brighter. He feels good with a purpose. With a plan. Even if it's just getting to the Captain's Quarters, delivering the bottle, and easing himself into a seat with a soft noise. He can work with this.
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Moving through the eerily empty room, he pushes one of the chairs out from behind the table, settling down in it and kicking his feet up. By the time Izzy makes it there, Ed will be lighting his freshly-packed pipe as a means to keep his nerves settled.
"Sit down." he instructs without looking up, shaking the match off to the side until the flame disappears.
"How long can we realistically run on a skeleton crew before things become difficult?" he asks, not wasting time. Better to ease into this moment by focusing on the work, which there'd be plenty of, soon enough.
no subject
A vessel never carries more crew than it needs to. There's never the space and feeding extra mouths is bad business. But Bonnet's crew was mainly comprised of layabouts and harlots, so it was running under powered long before they marooned most of them.
"Well," a sip. He'll give Bonnet this, the drink selection is decent.
"We could do with a carpenter and another gunner or two but assuming the lot we've kept pull any kind of weight we'll be fine for the foreseeable future. Maybe a sailmaker. I'm not sure that lad can sew as well as he says he can."
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"He'll learn to." he mutters into his glass. Frenchie managed to stitch up the flag to Ed's liking, which was good enough. And he seemed to fear them enough to not talk back, to do as he's told and do it quickly.
"Right. West, then." he sighs, the expedition not nearly as exciting to him as it might have once been. There's a moment of silence as he drinks more of the rum, contemplating.
"Can I ask you something?" he starts, not waiting for an answer to continue, "What do you want out of all of this?" Because this can't just be it. There has to be more to life than sailing back and forth and feeding people their toes.
no subject
"Freedom?"
A sip. There's guarded but worn emotion in his voice when he speaks next.
"I can't go back there."
England, he means.
The ring tied at his throat feels tighter than ever. The glove on his hand stuck like tar.
no subject
That word hangs in the air long enough for Ed to feel it begin to lay heavily over him. He grits his teeth, because it doesn't feel like freedom to him, not completely. Certainly he is living outside of law or order but there are still rules and expectations of him. Of who he's allowed to be.
"Neither of us can, can we?" he mutters, that much is true. He'd fled his duties as a soldier... he wouldn't be given that opportunity again. Next time he gets caught, he's dead for certain.
no subject
Unpredictable and extremely dangerous.
A sigh, looking to change the subject. There's no use being upset about ghosts.
Which is, of course, all that's waiting for him back in England and the only hope he'd have at the end of a hangman's noose.
"I don't know, why don't we do something fun. Let our hair down a little."
Yes, a great idea.
"Let's find ourselves a little ship and let loose. Kill 'em all and lock the helm towards land. Remind everyone who we are, ay? That'll cheer you up."
no subject
"Just like old times." he replies, trying to sound enthusiastic. He doesn't.