Chapter Text
Chapter 6
Charles is awakened - far too fucking early - by one of Flint’s stupid goats chewing on his hair.
He swats the beast away and rolls over, fully intending to go back to sleep, because fuck all mornings and this one in particular. But then he hears a voice. Flint’s, he’s fairly certain, though he can’t really tell from where he’s nestled in the corner, and the off-chance that it isn’t Flint bothers him enough to make sleep a lost cause. So he brushes as much crap off his clothes as he can and goes to take a look, footfalls muffled in the straw.
It’s Flint, alright. Or some kind of devilry that’s stolen Flint’s body. Because this Flint appears to be singing. To his horse.
Well, maybe singing isn’t the right word. He’s sort of…chanting? Tuneless but lilting, like a nursery rhyme one might teach to a child. And it’s not in any language Charles can recognise. He can tell it’s affectionate, if only by the care with which Flint is brushing the animal’s coat as he speaks. The horse whickers, turning its head towards its master, who chuckles and strokes its glossy neck.
“You’ll have to wait for sugar, you greedy old bastard.”
Something in Flint’s tone makes Charles feel like a thief for having heard it. He shifts his weight unconsciously, straw rustling beneath his boots. Flint’s head snaps towards him, warmth falling from his features, which Charles wouldn’t care about even if he’d noticed (which he absolutely definitely didn’t).
“Your goat tried to eat my fucking hair.”
Flint’s mouth twitches faintly. “No accounting for taste, I suppose.”
“Twat,” he mutters, staggering outside to take a piss.
When he returns Flint is still absorbed in his task, brushing the gleaming black coat beneath his hands with practiced ease. It’s hypnotic to watch, though Charles is strangely troubled by the silence now that Flint has stopped his…whatever the hell that was. Flint himself still looks tired and dirty, but that desperate edge from yesterday has flattened into quiet resignation. He puts Charles in mind of a beach after a storm - littered with traces of destruction and yet strangely peaceful. There’s even a few bits of straw tangled in his stupid hair, which Charles has the sudden, mad urge to pluck out with his fingertips.
This is why he doesn’t wake up early.
“What’s his name?”
Flint stares at him as if he’s sprouted tusks. But fuck it, he had to say something or he’d keep on having Thoughts, and that wasn’t going well.
“Doesn’t have one,” Flint grumbles. God, he’s a prick.
“If you’re gonna lie the least you could do is put some effort in.”
Another bratty glare, and then -
“Argos.”
He rolls the name around in his mind. “Spanish?”
“Greek.”
Flint’s tone doesn’t invite further questions, but Charles wasn’t raised by Teach for nothing. He knows how to tell when a man has a story on his lips. He leans against the nearest wall, ankles crossed, watching Flint work like he has all the time in the world. Sure enough, after a few minutes of silence, Flint folds like a poorly-pitched tent.
“It comes from a book,” he says, like he doesn’t trust Charles with the concept of books in general, let alone one in particular. “About a king who goes to war, and finds himself kept away from home for twenty years. By the time he returns, he’s been so altered by his travels that even his own wife fails to recognise him. The only one who knows him is the dog he left behind as a pup.” He rubs the horse’s muzzle, eyes crinkling when it snuffles in response. “Argos.”
The name is a caress this time, familiar and fond. For a second Charles envisions reaching out, snatching it straight from the cave of Flint’s mouth to hide like a coin in his pocket. God, is this why Jack talks all the time? To stop his brain from doing shit like this?
“And they live happily ever after?”
It comes out scathing, not entirely on purpose. Attack has always been his favoured form of self-defence. Except it doesn’t work, because Flint answers with a crooked toothy grin that hits him like a gut-punch.
“He lives just long enough to greet his old master, then dies in his arms.”
Jesus. No wonder Flint’s such a foul-tempered bastard, if that’s his idea of a joke.
“So it was Greek?”
“What?”
“Whatever the hell you were speaking just now. Wasn’t English, I know that much.”
The grin vanishes, and the glare that takes its place is both sharper and more brittle than usual. It reminds Charles, weirdly, of the time their old mouser on the Ranger bore a litter of kittens. She’d made a little nest in the empty crate that Charles just so happened to leave beneath his desk (which he’d also completely accidentally lined with an old blanket and a few soft rags). They’d ignored each other, mostly, but every now and then he’d get too close for her liking. He remembers how she’d curl herself around them, the low growl she’d make, warning him away from something precious and private. Flint looks at him now as if he’s guarding something fragile; like the only thing that stops him lashing out is fear of giving away how truly vulnerable it is.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugs, feigning an indifference he wishes he actually felt. Flint’s eyes track his movements as he swaggers back over to his corner and digs out his tobacco.
Charles ignores him. Makes a point of it, in fact, focusing on rolling his cigar. It’s not Flint’s unwillingness to answer that bothers him so much as his own curiosity. It’s never been a trait he’s had much use for in the past - though in fairness, he hasn’t often needed it. Jack is nosy enough for the both of them, digging through the muck of human life like a pig might hunt for truffles. He knows most people see it as Rackham seeking gossip or advantage, but it’s far more than that. What Jack truly craves is a story - a way to find meaning in whatever is in front of him, no matter how trivial. He treats every tale, real or fictional, like part of a map that he’s assembling; a blueprint of how to pass from boy to man to legend. Even the Urca gold is just another wildcard attempt to secure his place in history.
In some ways, Charles envies it - the belief in being part of something bigger. He’s seen too much wasted human life to imagine he has some kind of purpose in this world. Existence is a series of accidents and choices. Knowing the why of things doesn’t change the outcome.
“I hope you’re not planning to light that in here.”
Charles doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near fucking thing. He’d almost suspect that Flint snuck up on him deliberately, except that would imply the man has a sense of humour that doesn’t revolve around horses and dead dogs.
“Do I look that fucking stupid?”
Flint raises an eyebrow, the smug sack of shit. Charles flips him off and heads back outside because despite what certain pasty ginger dickheads might think, he’s not actually an idiot.
“It’s Cornish.”
He stops just shy of the doorway. Flint doesn’t look at him, suddenly absorbed in a study of his own dirty fingernails.
“What you heard. Before. I don’t recall what most of it means, so you needn’t bother asking.”
The last bit is probably a lie, so Charles could ask anyway. Just like he could ask if Flint is Cornish, or who he learned to speak it from, or why he seemed to think this was something he should hide. A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Jack is telling him to do exactly that.
Luckily for Flint, he’s used to ignoring Jack’s advice, whether real or imagined. Stories can be valuable, yes; but right now they’re dealing in a different kind of currency. A half-truth offered with an open hand is worth twenty secrets pried from a closed fist.
“Fair enough.”
He doesn’t wait to see how Flint takes it, just saunters out the door. He lies in the sun, smokes his cigar, and thinks about the tabby cat underneath his desk. About how she’d hissed and snarled whenever he drew near, but never tried to move her babies elsewhere. About the night she’d jumped into his hammock uninvited, glaring like a gorgon - and gently deposited a fat grey kitten on his chest.
*****
Flint’s good mood - or the absence of a shitty one - disappears abruptly in the shadow of the house. He stands on the threshold for a solid five minutes, stiff as a corpse, then storms inside like a bailiff determined to evict whatever ghosts he finds within. Charles had debated going with him, but he’d rather not get beaten to death with a broom because he looked the wrong way at one of Mrs Barlow’s teacups.
So he wanders. Pokes around the barn, flips off the couple of chickens who are eyeing him judgementally. The vegetable garden is full of green crap he has no idea how to name or use, but when he yanks one out of the ground it turns out to be a carrot, so he steals a few more and feeds them to his horse. If he also sneaks a chunk or two to Argos, that’s neither here nor there.
He avoids the slave quarters, not wanting to seem like an intruder to Samuel or his wife. Yet he can’t help being drawn to the sight of them moving in and out of their cabin, bundling possessions by the door. He’s surprised by how much they seem to have - how much of it is personal. A blanket sewn from scraps of colourful cloth. A set of four wooden bowls with a zig-zig pattern carved into each one. He tries to snoop discreetly, but judging by the look that Samuel’s wife casts his way, he doesn’t pull it off.
*****
“Are you really Charles Vane?”
Charles pulls his dagger from the tree with a small grunt. He can throw a knife in his sleep, but it never hurts to practice.
“At your service,” he says to the two figures lurking in the bushes. He’d known they were there, quiet as they were. Apparently watching him at target practice beats herding chickens.
The boys sidle cautiously out into the open. They could almost be twins, save the difference in their heights. Charles has no idea how to guess children’s ages, but somewhere between 8 and 12 seems a decent bet.
“They said you were a slave.”
It’s the smaller boy who’s spoken, his brother standing close at his shoulder, eyeing Charles carefully. Something about it - the way they’re positioned, the elder standing guard over the younger boy’s open curiosity - makes him crack a smile. Jack would like these two.
“I was.”
“And that you killed the man who owned you.”
The smile disappears. The warmth in him turns molten, rage and shame and pride.
“I did.”
The boys share a look, too fleeting to pin down.
“But you are not here to kill the Captain?”
Charles blinks at the elder boy. The tone of the questions is more of a surprise than the fact of it.
“If I was, would you want me to succeed?”
Two vigorous head shakes, two pairs of anxious eyes. Huh.
“You like him.”
“Argos likes him.”
He raises an eyebrow. “The horse?”
“The best horse. We take care of him. The Captain taught us how. And he brings us chocolate sometimes, and oranges. And he made us these.”
Like a conjurer’s trick, both boys produce a battered wooden cutlass. Each one is no bigger than Charles’ own dagger, and much used judging by the state of them. He wonders, stupidly, what purpose they could possibly serve - and then it hits him.
They’re toys. Toys that two slave boys have had the time and energy to play with. Toys that Flint gave them. That he made for them.
Suddenly the very air around him feels unbearable. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to take his normal, not-dead-Greek-dog-horse and ride back into Nassau where things make sense. He needs to get away from this house and everyone who’s ever lived in it.
But the boys are still watching him with apprehensive eyes. Holding out their little toy weapons as if for inspection. Players on a stage, uncertain of their audience - because that’s what this is, Charles realises abruptly. A performance, not unlike the one he gave at Charlestown. Testimony offered on behalf of the accused.
It had been a trick, of course. Part of his and Billy’s plan. But the rage and contempt with which he’d spoken had been entirely real. All those so-called decent people, gorging themselves on the misery of someone they didn’t even know. Jeering at a man made helpless by captivity and having the nerve to call it justice. Charles had been glad to see them burn.
These boys have no warship. No weapons, no plan. Yet here they are, facing him anyway. How many men of Nassau would show that kind of courage? The least he can do is to put their minds at ease.
“Flint and I are allies. He has nothing to fear from me.”
The smaller boy relaxes, but his brother still seems unconvinced.
“So he’s your friend?”
Christ almighty. “Something like that.”
“Is that why you saved him? In Charlestown?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
Both boys shift uneasily, and Charles feels that tightness start to flicker in his ribs again.
“S’alright. If you don’t ask questions you never learn anything except what someone else sees fit to teach you.”
The kids brighten visibly at this, so Charles presses his advantage.
“Flint show you how to use those?” He gestures to the swords and receives twin enthusiastic nods. “Let’s see it, then.”
Amos and Elijah fight with the eagerness of every boy who’s ever whacked something with a stick. It’s clear they’ve had no actual training, but they know enough basics to make them quick learners. Charles decides they can’t be worse students than Jack, so he gives a few pointers - correcting the placement of feet and bony elbows, showing them how to dodge and feint. In the end it’s sort of…fun? Maybe not that. Satisfying, perhaps. Seeing them improve before his eyes, witnessing their glee when they pull off whatever new skill he’s just demonstrated. When Amos knocks his older brother’s sword clean out of his hand, he throws his head back and crows like a cockerel, and Charles ends up laughing so hard he has to sit down.
Yet all the while he studies them. Cataloguing details with that corner of his brain that never fully rests unless he’s in a haze of opium. Their hands, dry and calloused, yet free of scars or injuries. The hint of puppy fat around their chins. Clothes that are worn but clean; the simple wooden clogs they both remove to fight barefoot in the grass. Even the fact that they approached him in the first place, daring to look him in the eye…he thinks of himself at that age. At any age, really, before Teach took him on. Filthy and wary, constantly hungry, living on the edge of exhaustion. A creature stripped to nothing but the impulse to survive. These boys might as well be a different fucking species.
Eventually they leave him, scampering off in the direction of their mother’s voice calling their names. Charles watches them go with a strange sensation in his chest. It’s different from the pain of last night - lighter, softer, yet still taking up far too much space for his comfort. As if he’s been stuffed full of lamb’s wool and forced to breathe around it.
Maybe this place really is fucking cursed.