Chapter Text
Blackbeard is at the wheel of the Revenge, during the night of a new moon, nothing but the stars as company as he steers her though dark waters. That and the ghosts. A drowned Lucius, his ever-present companion, flesh pale and clothes dripping, stands at his side writing down his sins in his ledger, over and over again. And then there’s Bonnet. Dressed in his finest blue ensemble, blond hair perfect. Just as he remembers. Except his words are cutting, scathing. Expert passive aggression flaying Edward alive as he steers in the quiet night, the only other sounds the creaking of the ship, the susurrus of the sea.
He’s taken the night shift so he could excuse his passing out drunk in his quarters during daylight hours. Hopefully in a couple days they’d make landfall and he could find some more hashish, maybe some opium. Anything to drown out the presence of the ghosts who were his near constant companions.
And so the stars spin overhead as he continues to press south while his two spectral companions keep him company.
Hours pass and the sky lightens, clouds turning a fiery orange-red. Ah. So that's what he can expect from the day ahead. He plans for potentially interrupted sleep due to rough seas, but it’s late in the season for anything major, it being mid November. As the sun rises so too do his crew. Bonnet’s specter vanishes like mist, but the drowned scribe stays by his side, silently dripping, judging, constantly scratching in the ledger.
Ivan arrives to relieve him of the wheel and he gladly lets go, hands stiff in his leather gloves. Down in his quarters he claws off the gloves then flexes his fingers, working the stiffness out of them. His jacket comes off next, haphazardly tossed over the back of a chair. Rolling his shoulders, he reaches for a waiting bottle of whatever liquor they’ve managed to scrounge up for him. Taking a swig, he grimaces. Cheap whisky. Oh well. They can get better either when they reach Providence Island, or if they find a ship to raid first.
With another swig from the bottle, he lumbers tiredly over to the bed. Stripped of the fine covers, padding coming out in a few places, it stinks of sweat. If he could be arsed, he’d get a new one. Instead he just keeps it covered with a blanket, one of the few soft things he allowed himself to keep after the purge. He pulls off his boots, unstraps his brace, then flops down, facing the stained curtain over the window. This way he can’t see the ghost of Lucius, or Stede, if he decides to make another appearance. Taking another pull off the bottle, he waits for sleep.
Jolted awake, he groans. Overhead are the sounds of boots, shouting. A raid? May as well see if his presence is needed. Outside the window, the clouds have spread and he can’t tell what time of day it is. Mouth tasting like something died in it, his knee aching, he stiffly levers himself to a sitting position and begins putting on his brace and boots to see what the hell is going on.
Once he’s dressed he makes his way on deck to find the crew scrambling to secure anything that isn’t already tied down. Izzy is barking orders and there isn’t another ship in sight. When his first mate notices he’s up on deck, he shouts a final order and greets him.
“Big storm, Captain, we’re changing course in hopes of avoiding the worst of it.”
Blackbeard looks up at the sky, noticing how it’s much darker to the southeast. “Shouldn’t be that bad this late in the season. Keep on course.”
“But—” Izzy starts, but is cut off by the narrow eyed scowl of his captain.
“You will stay on course,” Blackbeard says darkly. “The crew can handle a little rain.”
And it might be a chance for a little fresh water before they reach their destination. He makes his way to the forecastle, looking out over the water. Since he’d retired to his quarters, the winds had increased and are now beginning to gust. The waters are choppy with white peaks, and off in the distance, he recalculates just how big a storm this could be. But it’s November. Hurricanes don’t happen this late in November.
Next to him, the ghost of Lucius pauses in his writing, staring at him, hair dripping, eyes staring whitely. “You could join us,” it whispers. On his other side, Bonnet appears, dressed this time in torn, bloodied clothes. “You haven’t tried death yet.” An echo of something he’d told Izzy months ago, upon having first boarded the Revenge.
Something stirs in him. He’s been a living shell, just going through the motions, for weeks. He’d already thought himself dead inside. So why not make the outside match? A fitting death for a notorious pirate, lost to sea instead of at the hands of the crown.
While he’s planning his demise there’s something approaching in the distance. Another ship, trying to outrun the storm. Eventually Izzy notices it too, and tries to convince Blackbeard of changing course to intercept, overtake. As they draw closer, he recognizes the flags of a British colonial merchant vessel, a frigate. He decides to wait, watch as they pass, gauge their reaction.
The crew on this other ship are just as busy, scrambling up and down the shrouds, up in the rigging, securing sheets, adjusting the braces and lines with the changing winds. As they draw closer, the crew on the other ship visibly reacts to his black flag, many scampering down to the deck. They're going to pass at shouting distance at this rate, and if he didn’t know any better… he’d say he recognized some of the crew. Yes, there, standing at the helm is Mister Buttons, eerily staring down his nose at them. And there, gripping the taffrail, is Oluwande.
Eyes darting to and fro, Edward looks for anyone else he might recognize. Who else made it off that island? But then there, gripping a shroud and staring right at him. No. It’s the ghost, taunting him again. It looks unlike anything he would have thought to imagine until now, but it must be. Bonnet is dead. So it can’t be the real man, wearing simple black breeches, white shirt, and a blue sash flapping at his waist, hair longer now and tied back, the beginnings of a beard on his chin.
“Fuck me,” Izzy spits. He draws his pistol and aims it right at Bonnet’s ghost. “Why can’t that fucking rat stay dead?”
Wait, Izzy sees him too? He yanks the gun from Izzy’s grip, tells him to about-ship and intercept. Glad to not be dashing into the storm, Izzy agrees and goes to shout new orders to bring the Revenge around. One hand tight on the rail, Edward squints, swears he can see the other man call his name. It… it can’t be. Dormant emotions awaken in him, swirling in an incomprehensible jumble.
As the crew busy themselves with their maneuver, Blackbeard tucks Izzy’s pistol into his belt and scrambles to keep an eye on the other ship. It’s bigger than they are, but the Revenge is faster. As soon as they’ve tacked about and are in pursuit, he goes to find Ivan and Fang, tells them to round up a boarding party. Not many, but enough to subdue any trouble. With the arrangements made, he slinks off to his quarters.
If Bonnet is actually alive, he must pay. But first, Blackbeard must look the part. Getting out the charcoal, he fills in his short beard and darkens around his eyes. He doesn’t do this often anymore, hasn’t felt the need to bother. But for Stede Bonnet, he wants that man pissing in his boots with fear. He decides to undo the tie that keeps his hair, shorter than it used to be, out of his face. The wind will whip his now shoulder-length mop into a wild mane, adding to the effect.
Various scenarios play through his head. Running the bastard through. Shooting him in the head. Slicing his throat and watching him bleed out on deck. Throwing him into the sea. Tying him to the mast to bake in the sun. An errant part of his mind envisions an embrace, but he shakes it off. That part of him is gone, all that’s left is ruthless pirate.
The Revenge draws close and the other ship has already hauled up a white flag, loosened the sheets to slow. Smart. Turning to his boarding party, Blackbeard notices Jim. This could be a problem, but they’re flanked on either side by both Ivan and Fang, so he assumes they’ll deal with them if there’s trouble. After ordering Izzy to man the ship, they pull alongside and lash the ships together.
On the other ship, the crew subdues easily. Brought to the front of the crowd are… literally everyone he’d stranded on that godforsaken rock. There’s a conflicting wave of frustration and relief. The next person that’s hauled forward makes him stop in his tracks. For a brief second, his mind supplants the drowned ghost of Lucius Spriggs that has been haunting him for weeks, before he takes in the weather worn and very much alive figure of the young man he’d pushed overboard.
Then he remembers why he turned the ship around. There’s a shout, and he turns to the aft of the ship, to see yet another ghost resolve into a very real man. Pushed roughly ahead of one of Blackbeard’s pirates, arms tied behind his back, is Stede Bonnet. He takes in the sight of the man he’d only gotten a distant look at previously. Gone are the fancy coat and breeches, replaced with simpler, sweat-stained clothing. Fists tightening, he can feel the leather of his gloves creak as the man is brought before him. Bonnet seems harder now, his face tanned, jaw squared in defiance as he stares down the pirate captain before him.
“You’re alive,” are the first words Edward can manage to speak.
“How astute of you,” Bonnet replies.
Blackbeard’s hands shake with the strain of his balled fists. Enough. “Untie him,” he tells the pirate holding Bonnet. “Let him have his sword.”
“Ed,” Bonnet says, before Blackbeard holds up a hand.
“No. You will call me Blackbeard. You lost the right to call me anything else.”
“Very well.” Bonnet takes the sword offered him. “You may call me Captain Edwards.” He prepares his stance.
This makes Blackbeard pause. “Really?”
Some of the old Stede comes forward, his eyes crinkled with humor. “Well, Stede Bonnet is officially dead, I had to come up with a new name.”
Taking the on guard position, Blackbeard circles his opponent. “Couldn’t you be a bit more original?” He feints a lunge.
Bonnet sidesteps and his form is good; he easily parries then ripostes, which Blackbeard dodges. “I had to come up with a new name rather on the spot, I think I did well, all things considered.”
They dance about like this for a while, and Stede has greatly improved. He’s more sure of himself, his posture strong, attacks fully committed, with good form. He still moves like a gentleman. Blackbeard steps in, engages Stede’s blade. Up close, he can see the strain taking its toll, sweat beading on his opponent’s face. He hides his own fatigue, realizing how badly he’s let himself get out of shape. Still, he uses his advance to push forward, and their swords disengage noisily as Stede stumbles backwards.
“You’ve improved,” Blackbeard says, shaking out his arm and masking it as a couple of loose swings.
“I have been practicing.” Stede doesn’t hide swiping his sleeve along his brow as he comes back to form.
Blackbeard can’t help but be impressed, but shakes off the feeling. He’s done playing, time to end this. Stepping forward, he engages Stede’s blade, using force to wrench it sideways, then grabs the sword from his opponent’s hand, finishing with his blade at Stede’s throat, the other sword pointed at his belly. Stede holds his empty hands out to his sides.
“I yield.”
Blackbeard backs up, both swords still ready. “Really? No underhanded tricks?”
Stede’s shoulders sag. “Izzy was trying to kill me that one time!”
“And how do you know I won’t?” Blackbeard steps closer as if to strike, and everyone else holds their collective breath.
“I may still be a novice, but you could have stabbed me at least three different times that I noticed. If you really wanted to, you would have long before now.” Stede rubs at his wrist.
No, he hadn’t, had he? Blackbeard quickly thinks back to their engagement, easily seeing where he opted to play with Stede instead of finishing him. It doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself. He just didn’t take Stede seriously as an opponent. An opponent who is still just standing there, disarmed, his hands raised.
“Can’t we talk this through?”
“Talk?” Blackbeard feels a bubble of hysteria. “You left me with no explanation on that dock, where I waited like an idiot, and you want to talk?”
“I can explain—”
“NO!” Blackbeard screams, backing Stede against the capstan. “You don’t get to explain away what you did.”
Stede doesn’t cower, but squares his jaw. “And you, Ed? Abandoning everyone on that rock with no food or water? Pushing Lucius overboard? Do you not care to explain yourself?”
Something snaps and Blackbeard drops the swords, drawing Izzy’s pistol and aiming it right in Stede’s face. “I told you to call me Blackbeard,” he snarls. And finally, there it is, the look of fear he expected to see. But it quickly turns sad.
Blackbeard feels a moment of vertigo as both visions that have haunted him for weeks appear on either side of the living Stede. Dead Lucius stares at him like he’s something disgusting, scribbling, scribbling, scribbling incessantly in that ledger. Immaculately dressed and coiffed Stede stands opposite, mouth pursed, frowning. “Ah, yes. Just another bloodthirsty pirate, how disappointing.”
Unable to take it, Blackbeard presses his free hand to his temple and screams, the gun wavering as he suddenly can’t tell who or what is real anymore. All three figures blur and resolve into one, the new one, and his hand trembles with the strain. Just shoot him part of his mind offers, but he can’t. Breathing hard, he flips the pistol around and whacks Stede across the temple with the butt of the weapon. Down he goes, collapsed at Blackbeard’s feet. Looking around, he notices even his own crew are silently staring.
“Bring Bonnet back to the Revenge, Give his crew the choice to stay or follow, take anything valuable and let the rest go.” He turns and crosses back to the Revenge, making it all the way back to his quarters before he collapses on the floor and screams himself hoarse.
By the time Blackbeard manages to make it back on deck, everyone’s either busy securing the cargo or working on the rigging. Bonnet is still unconscious and slumped on his arse, tied to the main mast. It seems that his original crew decided to come with, although why, he couldn’t say. Bonnet had left them all behind. What could he have possibly offered them to remain this loyal and come aboard Blackbeard’s ship when they had the opportunity to flee?
Shaking off the thought for now, he sees they’re less incompetent than they were when last they’d met. They’re securing lines, tying down cargo. Well, he supposes after enough time at sea, even an idiot will pick up a few useful tricks.
Taking control of the wheel, Blackbeard looks at his compass and at the darkening sky, pointing them in the rough direction of the middle of the storm, ignoring the throb of his braced knee. He made a plan and he intends to stick with it. They’ll go into the storm, get some fresh water, and then find the nearest port.
The sea soon grows rough and they’re turning into the waves to avoid rolling over. They’re rigged with storm sails set, everything has been battened down, and anyone not needed on deck have gone below. Some time after it started raining, Bonnet revived and started asking questions, but Blackbeard ordered his crew to ignore him. He’s still tied to the mast, as Blackbeard has refused to let anyone take him below. Let the bastard see how rough a mistress the sea can be.
Now, there’s just the sound of the storm, the crash of the waves, and Blackbeard keeping them facing the waves. It’s dark and he’s soaked through, but they will stay the course or die trying. Lightning occasionally flashes, but there’s not much to see except rain and thrashing ocean. Time loses meaning like this, and Blackbeard allows his thoughts to wander.
What if he had someone else take over? What if he were washed overboard? Finally let the sea take him. He weighs his death wish with his instinct for survival as the vessel lurches up and down a great wave that splashes everything with saltwater. Okay, so maybe this wasn’t the best idea for collecting fresh rain water. Also, why is the storm so bad? He’s never seen weather like this so late in the season.
He doesn’t realize how much his arms are tiring until the wheel slips from his fingers, spinning uncontrollably. Shit. It’s a struggle to get it back in position, and the next wave hits them at an angle, nearly causing the ship to capsize. Crew scramble on deck to pull those washed overboard by the ropes they’d tied to themselves just for this reason.
Suddenly there’s another pair of hands at the wheel, relieving the pressure on his arms. Blackbeard stares as Stede Bonnet, soaked through with his hair plastered to his head, helps steer them into the next wave.
“Who the fuck untied you?”
“I’m trying to help you keep us from capsizing, and that’s what you want to ask me?”
Someone needs to be thrown over for insubordination, but Bonnet has a point. So Blackbeard avoids looking at the man at his side as together they keep the ship afloat.
What feels like ages later, the waves seem less vicious, the wind less horizontal. Maybe they’ve finally passed through the worst of it. After they crest the next few waves which are definitely much easier to handle, Blackbeard risks taking his hands off the wheel to shake feeling back into them. Bonnet takes control and speaks.
“This is an experience I hope to never repeat. What were you thinking?”
Blackbeard stares at the side of his face, now barely visible in the swinging lamplight. He can make out the curves of his profile, the squint of his eyes.
“I was thinking storms aren’t this bad this late in the year.”
Bonnet huffs and rests his forehead on the wheel. “At least we made it out in one piece.”
With nothing to add, Blackbeard faces ahead. It’s almost like when his ghost haunts him, except this time it’s relieving the pressure on his increasingly exhausted body. As soon as they’re clear of the storm, he’s going to pass out and not emerge from his cabin until his arms stop aching.
A gust of wind and then a snap of rope catches his attention. The gaskets holding the Spanker have come undone, and it’s now flapping uncontrollably, gaff and boom swinging dangerously. Blackbeard calls out to whatever crew are still on deck as he tries to tie back what he can.
“Look out!” He’s pushed sideways as flying tackle passes through where his head would have been. Above him, Bonnet crouches.
“We’ve got to—” The words are cut off as Bonnet is swept off his feet, a coil of rope dragging him toward the edge of the deck.
Not thinking, Blackbeard scrambles after him, grabbing his shirt just as a wave broadsides them, sending both of them flying. Over the railing and down into the cold, heaving water. Briefly, he wonders what happened to the rope he’d used to prevent going overboard, before he succumbs to the depths of the sea.