Chapter Text
They find Lucius three days later, sunburnt and drifting on what Stede instantly recognizes as his old chaise longue, amongst other waterlogged books and decorations. It takes a bit of effort to tug him aboard—it’s eight to a dinghy, so there’s a lot of counterbalancing that has to occur. They nearly topple the boat getting him on, and when they do he leers tall over Stede, sopping wet and visibly angry.
“Dear god,” Stede says. “What happened, man?”
“Your boyfriend threw me overboard!” Lucius rasps. “He’s nuts!”
“Ed?” Stede asks. “Ed did this to you?”
“Told you, captain, he’s changed,” Oluwande says. “I mean, he did literally leave us all to die.”
“I thought that might’ve been a clerical error,” Stede says. “Like when you forget your pocket watch or one of your cufflinks.”
“I’m gonna kill that guy,” Black Pete says. He’s had one of his hands on Lucius's breeches since they pulled him on. Lucius looks down and grazes a palm over his bald, sunburnt head.
“Aw, you wanna kill Blackbeard for me, babe?” he asks.
“I’ll kill a thousand Blackbeards,” Black Pete says, eyes full of devotion.
“Nobody is killing any Blackbeards!” Stede commands. He tries to rein in the panic that’s rising in his chest—he knew things were bad, yes, but not this bad. “We’ll…we’ll figure this out. I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
“I’m pretty sure he did,” Lucius argues. He takes off his jacket and wrings it out.
“Either way, ‘s obvious he’s not taking the breakup very well,” Buttons says. He looks Stede dead in the eye. “Ye broke the poor mad bastard’s heart.”
Stede swallows. “Yes, well.”
A familiar guilt starts to settle in again. Or, no. This one’s new. It's heavier, more real than the vague sense of being a disappointment he’s felt most of his life. This is the feeling of well and truly letting someone down.
He can almost picture Ed as he last saw him, looking at him with confused, big eyes, sitting on the other end of the boat wedged between Wee John and the Swede. The vision doesn’t say anything. It doesn’t need to. It just keeps staring.
Stede stares back. The feeling grows heavier. He worries it’ll capsize the whole boat.
Oluwande must sense something’s wrong, because the next thing he feels is a warm hand on his back. “I’m sure it’ll all work out,” he says. He looks up at Lucius. “Hey, by the way, um. You haven’t seen anyone else drifting along, have you?”
Lucius shakes out his jacket and puts it back on. “No, just me,” he says.
Oluwande takes in a breath and nods. “Right. Right.” He takes his hand off of Stede’s back and starts fidgeting with his fingers, looking down.
Lucius frowns and looks around the dinghy. “Wait, where’s Jim? And Frenchie?”
“We don’t know,” Roach says. “We were hoping they’d show up like you did.”
There’s a moment of silence as reality begins to settle in. Stede places a hand on Oluwande’s back, trying to return some modicum of comfort. Far off in the distance, a seagull caws. A few swollen first editions knock against the boat before drifting further out to sea.
“Jim can’t be dead,” Wee John says from the back. “Like, not without killing the person who killed them first, I think. And even then, I can’t see someone killing ‘em successfully. Not even Blackbeard.”
“Oh, yeah,” the Swede agrees. “Maybe half-killing, but not a full kill.”
Lucius leans forward and places a hand on Oluwande’s shoulder. “I’m sure they’re alright,” he says. Oluwande nods and sits up straighter. Lucius nods his head to the side. “Frenchie is probably dead, though.”
There’s an overall hum of agreement.
(“Without a doubt.”
“Guy never was all that good in a fight. Wonderful musician, though.”
“Oh, the best.”)
Stede nods along, but the guilt continues to claw at him. Jim and Frenchie are in danger—possibly dead in Frenchie’s case—because of him. The imaginary Ed on the other end of the boat continues to stare, unflinching. He tries to imagine him as Blackbeard. The legend, the myth, the monster. Face full of smoke and floating red eyes, the whole lot. Something to make it…easier, he supposes. But he can’t. He just keeps seeing Ed.
“In any case—” Lucius goes to stand up straight, making a face. “Oh, I think there’s something—hold on.”
He hops up on one leg, leaning on Black Pete for support and grasping at his foot. The boat immediately begins to keel to one side, and there’s a mad dash from everyone else to counterbalance it.
“Hold on, hold on,” Lucius says as everyone yells around him. He’s still leaning on Pete and wedging a hand into his shoe.
“Sit down, man!” Roach yells as the dinghy rocks back and forth. He tries to make some room in the boat.
“I am, I am! Christ,” he says, and sits down on Pete’s lap. The crew repositions themselves. “I’ve got something stuck in my fucking shoe.” He pries the thing off and a gush of water falls out. Grimacing, Lucius puts his hand in and pulls out something wet and red. “Eugh, how did that get in there?”
Stede’s breath catches. Snatching the thing from a mildly offended Lucius, he settles back down into his seat and studies it. He’s only ever glimpsed it once or twice, held it in his hands once, but he knows the feel of silk. He knows the small tear along the side, and the gunpowder smudge in one corner.
He rubs the fabric between his fingers and looks out at the sea that surrounds them, at the remnants of his cabin strewn about the water.
Oh, Ed, he thinks, clutching the piece of silk to his chest, what have you done?
Think the more accurate question is what have you done, mate, the imaginary Ed says.
Stede looks at the imaginary Ed. It stares back at him, challenging. The whole crew is staring at him, actually. Waiting for him, possibly more than a little concerned, but no questions, no objections. Only the sound of the gulls and the water.
“Right,” he says, stuffing the silk into the pocket of his breeches. He nods. “This is my mess, and I intend to fix it. Who’s with me?”
It brings a smile to his face to see everybody lift their hands, even if some are slower than others. Feeling a swell of pride, he stands to make a speech.
“Lads,” he starts, “I know we’ve a long way to go, but—” The speech is interrupted by the dinghy tilting again and nearly pitching everyone overboard. There’s a great cacophony of protest, and Stede sits down as fast as he possibly can. Everyone takes a moment to regain the proper balance and calm down.
“Okay,” he says after he’s gotten his breath back. “Okay.” He reaches down and pulls up one of the oars. “First thing’s first: we need a bigger boat.”
It only takes a couple of days to find a new ship. A merchant takes pity on them and thinks they are survivors of a wreck, and it takes one night before they’ve got the crew and captain subdued. Stede would feel worse if the dinner they’d supplied hadn’t been so dreadful. Seriously, what are captains feeding their crews these days?
He had to hold a knife to the poor man’s throat before they sent them off in the old dinghy. There was a storm on the horizon, but…well, surely they would survive, wouldn’t they? No one tied anyone’s hands to oars. Lord knows there’s enough of Stede’s old detritus floating about for anybody to safely keep afloat.
Stede keeps that in mind as he surveys the captain’s quarters. The ship was mostly carrying molasses, so there’s a sticky feeling to every surface. Most of the crew has already set to calling the ship the Barnacle for its rather…clingy attitude, towards everything and everyone. There’s a singular desk full of logbooks and the occasional novel, and a bed. The windows are framed with thick, sturdy curtains. The wardrobe is…well…
“The man was certainly fond of gray,” Stede says as he fishes out another storm colored jacket, alongside a pair of charcoal breeches and a hazy dress shirt. “Had he never heard of a blush? A beige, even?”
“Think he was more concerned with not getting attacked,” Oluwande tells him from one of the desk chairs.
Lucius snorts. He’s technically supposed to be taking notes, but is instead leaning against one of the windows and doodling. “Look how that turned out.”
Oluwande sighs in agreement. He looks to Stede. “Everyone seems to be settling in. You have a course set for the night?”
Stede surveys the sad-looking wardrobe and ponders the less-than-stellar dining service. “We’ll need supplies,” he says. “Not far from Antigua, are we?”
“Not far at all,” Oluwande says.
Stede nods. “Good. Set our course there, then. We’ll stock up, and then…we head home.”
There’s a moment’s silence. Stede doesn’t turn back, but he can imagine Oluwande and Lucius sharing a glance. He keeps digging through the drab wardrobe, then the trunk situated next to it. Still not a good, colorful coat in sight. He’s feeling less and less guilty about sending this man into a storm with each gunmetal gray piece of fabric he finds.
“Captain…” Oluwande says. Stede hums. “You realize…things probably won’t go well, when we catch up to them, yeah?”
“That’s neither here nor there, Olu,” Stede says. He chances a glance back. “Buck up. Always good to have a positive outlook.”
Another long silence. “I just mean…we probably won’t be welcome—you probably won’t be welcome. Are you sure you’re prepared for what comes with that?”
Stede thinks about what it took today to get this ship. It wasn’t particularly nice or polite. His shirtsleeves are stained with a fair amount of blood, and there’s more than one tooth littered on the ship’s deck.
Getting back onto the Revenge won’t be like this. It’ll be harder, even. And that’s nothing to say of Ed. How will he ever forgive him? How can he make it so? Does he even deserve forgiveness in the first place? The more he thinks about it, the less sure he is.
He imagines Ed as he last saw him, sitting next to the trunk and picking lazily through the shirts and jackets stuffed inside. He’s got a point, the fake Ed says. No sympathy for heartbreakers, here. And I’m not good with sharing on my best days.
What then? Stede thinks.
The vision looks him in the eye. Something red starts to blossom across its white linen shirt.
Panic seizing his chest, Stede blinks rapidly. The vision dissipates. “It won’t come to that,” he says. He’s not particularly sure who he’s talking to.
“Sure,” Olu says after a beat. “Sure, yeah. Of course.”
The air in the cabin grows stiff and awkward. Stede stands fully upright and dusts off his breeches. Some dust and dried blood falls off. When he looks up, Oluwande and Lucius are looking at him with identical concerned faces. He puts on a small smile. “Think it’s time you gents get some shut-eye, hm?” he asks. “Set the course and all that.”
Stede watches as an entire conversation plays out between the two of them only told through facial expression. He’s about to remind them that he is, in fact, in the room when Lucius sucks in a breath and looks at him. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “We’ll do that.” Oluwande nods as well, and they start to file out of the captain’s cabin only to pause in the doorway. Another silent conversation happens. Lucius flexes his grip on the doorway. “Are you…are you going to be okay?”
Stede blinks. “Me?” he asks, trying to feign nonchalance and utterly failing. “I’m fine.” He scans the floor, one book cover catching his eye. He picks up a translated copy of the Pentamerone and makes a delighted noise. “Oh, this one’s got a few whoppers in it.” He looks up to his crewmates’ still-concerned expressions. “Tell you what,” he says, “let me clean up here, and I’ll meet you up on deck in a few to read you to sleep, hm?”
“Sure thing,” Oluwande says, in a tone that means he believes it to not be a sure thing at all.
Stede’s plastered smile begins to hurt his face. “Good. See you in a tick.”
The door clicks shut, and Stede finds himself in an empty, messy room. He places the book of fairy tales on the desk and goes about arranging the rest back into the bookshelf. He tries not to think too much about the impending dread and guilt that seem to weigh at him, and instead focus on what he knows now:
- He’s in love with Ed, and
- He now has a ship that can get him to Ed, which means that
- He is going to fix everything by
Well, he hasn’t gotten to figuring out that bit yet. Doesn’t matter. The whens and hows are for later. For now, all he knows is that a clean ship is an efficient ship. He starts to pick through the articles of clothing he’d tossed out of the wardrobe and chest alike. He’ll find a new wardrobe in Antigua somehow.
He’s picking up one of the last piles strewn about when something falls out of it. It’s a waistcoat of deep maroon with yellow buttons that had somehow gotten lost within a mass of gray. He picks it up–it’s a sturdy sort of dyed linen. When he puts it on, he finds that it fits if he lets it hang around him unbuttoned. He looks at himself in the mirror and finds he doesn’t mind the look. The only thing that sticks out is the empty front pocket.
Stede empties his breeches pockets onto the desk. In one, he finds the necessities: dagger, pocket watch, simple handkerchief. They’re the only things that could denote his identity, if inquired; the S.B. is there, carved into wood and etched into gold and sewn into cotton. In the other, half of a petrified orange, and the red silk.
He stuffs the dagger and pocket watch back in his breeches. The orange finds its place on the desk, just to the right of the chair. Always within reach. The red silk has finally dried, and Stede smooths it flat onto the wood.
He stares at it. Keeps staring. Around him, the beams of the ship creak and groan with the rocking of the water.
With careful fingers, he lays his own handkerchief atop it, then flips it so the red is facing upward. Then, using the kind of smooth movements that only come from years of practice, he carefully folds the two of them together so that the silk is encased inside the handkerchief, hidden away from sight. Protected.
He tucks the square into his breast pocket. Pats his chest twice when he checks his reflection. “There you are,” he says. “Nice and safe until we get you home.”
He can’t tell whether he’s talking to the silk or the man in the mirror.
The first attempt doesn’t go as planned.
For one, tracking ships is no easy feat. There’s quite a lot to do with maps and navigating the currents that Stede was not privy to before all of this. Doesn’t help that all the maps keep sticking to the desk. Quite a lot of espionage and bribery as well. Tacking that onto the supply runs and general pirating, it’s fair to say that Stede has a lot on his plate.
It takes two months. In the intervening time, there’s a lot of ransacking, lots of harvesting gold teeth. Not a lot of new items in the wardrobe department, unfortunately, though they do acquire a lovely blue dress during an adventure involving Wee John, a pineapple, and a rather irascible young man named Andy. Stede gets news of Ed through tavern keepers and hollow-eyed sailors.
Think he might’ve burnt a whole island down, one man claims, knuckles scabbed and stinking of rotted fish. Just saw it off the shore, myself. But you’d recognize that flag anywhere.
He had me in his grip, says another, fair-haired and wide-eyed. And he just…just started crying. No natural tears, though. Dark tears. Pitch or blood or something. The man even weeps like an evil bastard, can you believe that? Had me thrown overboard. I just feel lucky enough to live.
He came through the ship like a freak wave, one says, pudgy-nosed and deep of brow. Burned the lifeboats to a crisp, and the sails. Took everything and left us gutted on the deck. Even carved shit into our bodies. Look! What kind of madman carves a snail into a guy?
When they do finally track the Revenge down, Stede tells everyone they’re going to set anchor and come up with a nice, well-thought out plan to board and retake the ship. It is unanimously approved by way of voting. It’s smart, after all, and cautious. It is the best possible route one can take.
And then, once everyone has fallen asleep and Buttons is busy conversing with an albatross, Stede steals the dinghy and starts rowing.
He comes upon the starboard side of the ship as steadily and as quietly as possible. It’s a new moon and pitch dark, but he knows this ship better than anybody. Tying his transport to the side of the ship, he feels along its edges for a gap in the woodwork.
It’s completely impractical, the foreman had told him, when he laid out the plans for the ship. You realize that if you’re ever in a storm, you’re fucked, right? What kind of man wants a hole in the side of their ship?
He finds the gap and hooks his fingers into it. Giving a rough pull, a panel of wood pops out from the side of the ship, revealing a tunnel big enough for one to comfortably crouch in. “Aha!” Stede whispers to himself. He pulls himself up and into the tunnel. From his crouched position, he looks out on the dark sea and the smattering of stars. “Now how’s that for ‘impractical’?”
He shuts the panel behind him and makes the long, blind trek through the ship. With only a few beams of candlelight through the wood to guide him, he tries to remember which door leads to where.
The first door he comes upon is a small hatch that opens to the storage room. Stede climbs the ladder and slowly raises the hatch, only to freeze at the sight of a sleeping Izzy Hands. He slowly lowers the hatch door back down, and makes a mental note to avoid it in future treks if need be.
The second door leads to the kitchen, the third to the ballroom. Well, it’s as good as anything. Tripping over cannonballs, Stede stumbles out into the mercifully empty hallway. He rights himself, dusting off as much old sawdust and gunpowder as he’s able to. Then he sets for the captain’s quarters.
His first instinct is to knock, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he eases his way in.
The room is…well, it certainly is different. The curtains are drawn. A few crates have been taken up as what Stede can only conceptualize as rustic sitting arrangements. The fire’s lit, casting the room as bright orange. The desk is still there. There’s a certain flair in what decor is around: bottles lying around in various states of emptiness, a few skulls added into the mix. One of his chairs still remains. In it sits Ed, looking out the windows and towards the sea.
Stede can’t see much of him, but he can recognize the uneasy set of his shoulders. In the short time they shared a room, Stede learned that Ed wasn’t much of a sleeper. He’d shut the curtains to his bed and hear the man pacing this way and that, muttering to himself about trade routes or dining etiquette. Sometimes he’d sneak a peek through the gap in the partition to watch him ramble to himself, something fond and unnamed growing in his chest. Other times he’d see Ed looking back at him, and the both of them would quickly avert their gaze out of some heated, shared embarrassment.
This is definitely one of his little rambling moments. In between the crackling of the fire, Stede can hear a soft murmuration of something he can’t quite make out.
Right. Moment of truth. Swallowing, Stede closes the door behind him as softly as possible and takes a step forward. “Well,” he says, mustering up all of his confidence. “I see you’ve redecorated.” He eyes the bare shelves, the bare bed. “Not exactly my vibe, but to each his own.” He gives a small laugh, tries to ease the moment.
Ed freezes, doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say anything. Stede decides to plow ahead. “It, uh. It wasn’t easy,” he says. He takes another step forward. There’s still so much distance between them—he hadn’t realized how large the room was until now. “Finding you, I mean. You’re quite the tricky one, but I’ve learned a thing or two.” Ed’s hand grips the arm of the chair tightly. “I came to…to set things right.”
He receives nothing but silence. Or near silence. There’s the sound of his heart in his ears, and Ed’s begun to breathe raggedly. Stede wants so badly to run to him, to comfort him. “Ed,” he says. “Ed, please. Look at me.”
He watches as Ed slowly stands from his chair. Hand on his pistol, he turns at a glacial pace. The first thing Stede notices is the small, stiff set of Ed’s jaw, and the trembling width of his eyes. Everything else is background noise, though also extremely distressing–he barely looks himself. He looks like one of his book illustrations come to life, gaunt and cragged. He almost looks haunted.
He’s still so beautiful. Stede takes in a deep breath and smiles. “Ed, I—” he says, but that’s as far as he gets before Ed’s pulling the gun out of its holster.
He aims, and Stede manages to yelp and duck just in the nick of time. The wood behind him splinters. “Fucking hell!” he yells, and springs back up into standing position. He takes a second to mourn the scarred wood before turning to Ed. “I know I cocked things up, but there’s no need to be dramatic!”
“Begone!” Ed yells. He aims again, hands shaking, and Stede ducks to the side. The bullet hits the wainscoting.
Ed’s face scrunches up, eyes glittering. He pants through his nose as he attempts to reload his gun. Stede watches as he fumbles for his gunpowder and ramrod for a minute. “Just…oh, fuck this!” He drops the gun and picks up a bottle. “Go away!” Stede crawls over to a nearby crate, and the bottle shatters on the bookshelves.
Stede pops up from behind the crate. “I just want to apologize!”
“Fuck off, spirit!” Ed yells, and Stede ducks again as another bottle goes flying.
He pauses for a beat, then two. He pops up again. “Spirit?” He ducks for another bottle, then continues. “Ed, I’m not dead!”
“Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of thing a ghost would say!” He hurls another bottle.
Stede stands up from the crate. “No, really! I’m alive! I mean, look!” He gives a little twirl, hoping to show off his vitality. “See? Living!”
Ed hesitates for a moment. Stede thinks he’s finally talked some sense into him until another bottle comes flying his way. “You can’t fool me, ghost,” Ed says. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
“Oh really?” Stede asks. He starts to advance towards Ed, who palms his knife.
Ed nods. “Yeah, you’re gonna try to—to woo me with your undead charm to follow you down to Davy Jones’s locker. Well, it’s a no from me, mate. Not a fan of lockers, or guys named Davy for that matter.”
“I completely agree,” Stede says, continuing to make careful steps forward. “A simple Dave does well enough.”
“Just one syllable, why bother making it two?” Ed asks.
They’re making direct eye contact, slowly inching towards each other. There’s a moment of tense silence before Ed lunges with a yell. Stede barely dodges, and Ed stumbles as he tries to follow through. He stands up straight, turns, and lunges again. Stede manages to grab Ed’s wrist and hold it there, but he’s backed into tilted wood framing the windows. From this close he can see the smudges where Ed’s fingers have applied the soot and the little earring dangling wildly against his face.
Ed tries to push forward for a moment before he realizes Stede’s sudden solidity. He looks to Stede, then Stede’s hand around his wrist, and then Stede again. His face falls. “Holy shit.”
Stede grins. “I told you.”
Ed’s shaky breath tickles his nose. “You’re alive.”
Stede tries to keep his composure, nods. “Yes, that seems to be the case.”
Something seems to fall out of Ed then, taking him with it. He stumbles back, and the knife clatters onto the floor. “I was told you died months ago,” he says. His voice is barely above a whisper. “On Barbados.”
That throws Stede for a loop. “On…” Right. Big cat, piano. It already seems so long ago, like someone else’s life. “Oh. I didn’t think you’d hear about that.”
“Yeah, well. I did, so.” He inhales and looks to the floor. Stede takes him in again—his gaunt face, the bottles strewn everywhere. The guilt creeps in. “But it’s true? What they said happened to you?”
Stede shrugs. “Well, as true as a jar of pig’s blood and a few tricks of the eye, yes.” He smiles, hoping for some kind of pride reflected back at him.
Ed looks at him. “You faked it.” Stede nods. “All of it.” He nods again. “Even the bit where you shat yourself?”
He starts to nod, then— “What? No! Where did you hear that I shat myself?”
“That’s what Izzy told me,” Ed says. “Said you got shot in the balls, shat yourself, and died.” He looks off to the left and nods his head to the side. “Actually, now that I look back on it, does seem a bit far-fetched.”
“Is that what’s been going around?” Stede asks, horrified.
“Yeah, basically.”
He tuts, frustrated. “What’s the point of a good faked death if people aren’t even going to tell it right?”
Ed frowns at him. “So you didn’t fake shitting your pants, then?”
“No!”
“No? So you actually shit your pants?”
“No! No, it was—it was very high drama, actually,” he says. “I got attacked by a leopard.”
Ed’s eyes light up, a smile forming on the corner of his mouth beneath old soot. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, and then I got run over by a stagecoach. Did a bit of a switcheroo with a corpse.” He does a rolling gesture with his hands. He’s already told this story to the crew, but he realizes he’s been waiting months to tell it to Ed. He takes a step forward and leans in conspiratorially. “And then I had a piano dropped on me.”
He stands up straight. Ed’s close to him again—not as close as he was with the knife, but near enough that Stede’s aware of the way his face creases as he attempts to hold back…something. “And now,” Ed says, slowly, “you’re here.”
Stede smiles gently. “I am.” He takes another step forward, and takes Ed’s left hand in his own. “I came back.”
Ed stares down at their hands. At first it looks like he’s going to pull away, but instead he just stays there, letting his fingers lie limply in Stede’s palm. “I thought…” he says, voice small. “I thought you’d–”
“I was intercepted,” Stede explains, thumb soothing over Ed’s gloved knuckles. “By Chauncey. He said some…” You’re a monster. A plague. “He said some things that…may or may not have rung true.” You defile beautiful things. He looks at Ed, swaying and soot-stained, and then looks off to his left. He’s greeted with fake Ed, all clean shaven, staring right back at him. The guilt weighs on him, wet and heavy and twofold. He looks back at real Ed. “He tried to kill me, but failed…” A gunshot, a body hitting the ground. “...rather spectacularly. I fled.” Walking all night through the forest, the gunshot still ringing in his ears. Thinking it was better this way. Yes, it had to be better this way, otherwise… He shakes the memory out of his head. “But that’s no matter. What matters is that I’m here, now.”
“You are.” His grip tightens, pulls Stede in so they’re inches apart. He smiles up at him, eyes alight. “You are here, now.”
Stede smiles back, his chest beginning to burst. “I am.”
He’s unsure if he’s allowed this closeness, but he revels in it. He can smell the salt and sweat of Ed again, can see his pupils growing wide. They’re leaning in towards an inevitable conclusion, one Stede’s been looking forward to for months, when—
“How’d you manage it?” Ed asks, his breath ghosting Stede’s mouth. Stede frowns, pulls away slightly. “The piano and the leopard, I mean.”
“That?” Stede asks. “Oh, Mary helped me out with that.”
Ed stares at him. “Mary,” he repeats flatly. Stede nods. “Your wife.”
Stede nods, more hesitantly. “Yes,” he confesses. “Well she’s who I fled to, after the whole business with Chauncey, actually. Tried living the quiet life, but it wasn’t for me. Or for Mary, either. There was an incident with an ear skewer, if you can believe that. She—” Ed’s eyes darken, the light snuffed out. He pulls his hand away. “Ed?”
Ed looks at the ground, his mouth a hard line and his eyebrows drawn together in distress. He swallows. “You need to go,” he says, voice trembling. Shoulders trembling, too.
Stede blinks. “What? Why? I just got here.”
Ed looks up at him. Really looks at him, angry and hard and just a little bit sad. Stede feels his stomach bottom out. Ed turns away and picks up the knife, distractedly wiping it on his trouser leg. “I’m going to give you thirty seconds to go,” he says.
Stede swallows. He wells up all of his courage. “And if I don’t?” he asks.
Ed turns, the knife in hand. This look is much more solid. Much more angry—Stede’s only ever seen that kind of anger directed onto other people. And even then, it’d been calculated. Strategic. Stede has no name for what this kind of anger is.
“Thirty,” Ed says, looking him in the eye. “Twenty-nine.”
Stede’s out the door by twenty-one. He bumbles his way through the passage and back out the side of the boat, where he unties his dinghy and starts rowing back. He keeps his eye on the Revenge as he pulls the oars through the water. He thinks he can see the curtains moving in the captain’s quarters for a few minutes. It might just be false hope. He’s unsure.
There’s no call for cannon-fire, but he waits for it up until he’s out of sight. Hell, he waits for it until he’s back on the Barnacle and climbing up the ladder.
He makes quick, relatively quiet work of the dinghy. When he makes it back to his quarters, the exhaustion hits him all at once. He collapses onto his bed, shoes on, and gazes forlornly at the wooden ceiling above his cot. Guilt and heartache swell within him, growing alongside your garden-variety sadness and completely overtaking the joyous mood he’d been in not twenty minutes beforehand. He places his hand over his left breast pocket, absently fiddling with the fabric.
Something creaks towards the end of his bed–most likely just some wood settling, but it causes him to sit up. Fake Ed sits perched at the end of his bed, giving him a pitying smile. Now that wasn’t very successful, was it? it asks.
Stede flops back onto the bed with a sigh.