Chapter Text
Izzy’s the last to see him.
Through the night he grappled with the urge to leave the Captain’s cabin, but there’s no sneaking around on a wooden leg, nevermind without it. And so he got up when Fang did and that bastard let Izzy sleep in with the rest of them.
“Where the fu–” Eyes opening to an empty room, Izzy panics and almost falls out of the bednook. Luckily Fang’s hand is on him, his voice low and soothing.
“Easy, boss, easy. They’re just working.”
“ Working ?” Izzy sniffs once his breathing slows down. “That lot?”
“Well, I didn’t say how fast…” Fang chuckles and lets Izzy up.
Bonnet’s presence is evident in the way the room’s swept and gleaming, windowsills clear of the detritus of the last few weeks. The floor’s clear of bedding. Knives pulled out of every available surface the day before have been stashed away. There’s a tray laid out with breakfast on the console. Izzy’s chair-leg prosthetic even looks polished. Fang kneels to reattach it.
“Guessing Bonnet wants his cabin back.”
“Too polite to ask.” Fang smiles and pats Izzy’s knee. “My tinamatua would clean around guests who overstayed their welcome.”
“Tina…matua?” Izzy’s Samoan is rusty. His brain feels in need of scouring. “That’s uh…”
“Nana. Her name was Rosa.” Fang’s smile is as warm as their breakfast. “Used to make me panikeke.”
The bowl Fang passes over, shrunken by his hands, feels fit for a buffet in Izzy’s. The last time he ate more than scraps of hard-tack was leftovers from Ed’s… Ed? Has he eaten yet?
Being in the Captain’s cabin without him, without evidence of him, is like falling through time.
Izzy’s always had an internal compass that spins towards his Captain. Even at opposite ends of the ship he’d know where Ed is and what he’s doing, how he’s feeling. Of course that compass started to malfunction long before Bonnet showed up, but still Izzy feels tethered to Ed. Surrendering his body to the sea seemed as illogical as destroying the ship’s wheel.
And Ed… he always liked to be warm.
“Rice pudding’s an upgrade from raw seagull.” Fang devours his own bowl whilst Izzy picks at the toppings. “Roach added nuts and dried fruit!” Ed would love it.
The Pirate Queen’s stores must be running low. The ‘chamomile’ Bonnet used to sedate her crew would be of more use than walnuts now that Ed’s come round. Up above the deck seems quieter than usual.
“He’s up and about then?” Somehow Izzy knows the rope store’s empty. Fang’s hand shakes, rattling his spoon against the empty bowl. Izzy takes it from him in exchange for his own.
“ Boss …” Fang sighs, reluctant to accept. And yet he always refuels well after times of strife. For all his smiling, Fang’s a secret pessimist, prepared for times of scarcity. “You can’t run on air–”
“Rum then.” Izzy reaches for his mop and takes his first step, tentatively feeling out points of pain. His head seems prepped to be the ringleader today. Fang watches with an expression that’s too sad to be just for him. “Out with it.”
“Better for you to see , boss.”
Chained to the bulwark like a hostage, Ed’s condition wouldn’t fetch much. Head lolling onto his chest, his breaths are laboured and his eyes can’t seem to focus. He doesn’t acknowledge anybody’s presence. The crew gives him a wide berth, preferring to gather on the lower deck.
“Fuck’s this?” Izzy whispers, wary of startling Ed. “Some fucking sideshow–“
“It’s temporary, okay?” Roach drags on what’s probably not his first cigarette. “The man needs sun and air. But he barely knows where and what he is. Can’t have him wandering and going overboard. Or lashing out at people. Look, it was this or tying him to the bowsprit and the Captain didn’t like that idea.”
Bonnet’s nowhere to be seen. His marooned crew have shed the blue uniforms of the Red Flag. Dressed anew in shirts and slacks pilfered from raids or hidden away at the back of Bonnet’s secret wardrobe, they look more united than they probably feel. Those who survived the Kraken cluster together, afraid to turn their backs on him. Roach looks at Ed only with a physician’s curiosity.
“He said anything?” Izzy’s spoken to Ed plenty in the past week. His only hope is that he heard none of it.
“Anything that makes sense? No.” Roach blows smoke in Ed’s direction, but he doesn’t react. Izzy’s had men lashed for less disrespect. “He was asking after you I think. ‘Iz, Iz…’ All he’s said. Unless he just wants to know what day it–”
As if on cue Ed mumbles that one word, his voice slow and rasping. “Iz… Iz...”
So often Izzy had woken with a start, his eyes on Ed’s chapped lips, only to realise that no world exists where Ed calls out for him. Now he does so without looking at Izzy, without inflection to make it into a question – just repeating a sound his mouth is used to making.
Eyes shut against the calling of his name, Izzy refuses to accept what he’s hearing. Ed shortened it once and then claimed it for himself. To everyone else, he was ‘boss’ or Izzy. Occasionally he was ‘Israel’, mostly if Ed really wanted something. Now it’s one too many syllables.
Izzy too can barely speak, throat aching with awaiting sobs. “ He… He just needs water.”
Roach looks Izzy up and down, as if to say: “So do you” and hands over the canteen from his belt. Unbidden, Izzy takes a swig, both to quell his dizziness, and to check for poison. Not that Ed’s condition could be worsened. At this point assassination would be a mercy for both of them.
Not to mention, Roach would be within his rights to avenge his marooning, the coarse treatment of Frenchie and Jimenez. As such he seems to enjoy the humbling display: Izzy limping over to his shackled Captain, bending at the waist because he can’t kneel, straining to offer the flask only for Ed to dribble water down his front.
“Edward…” Far from the first time Ed’s looked through Izzy instead of at him, there’s never been an audience for his weakness. Izzy always ensured privacy or made excuses, threats. Even now he wants to shout at Bonnet’s crew to avert their eyes and get back to work. But he’s first mate to a legend no longer, just a drunken pegleg tending to an invalid now.
“Open...” Ed accepts the water only because Izzy grips his nose closed. Once the water is in he shifts to clamping a hand over Ed’s mouth and tipping his head back, forcing him to swallow. Ed does so and then licks at Izzy’s hand, laps at it before snapping at him like a wild dog.
Hauled out of range, Izzy’s mop clatters to the deck. Startled by the sudden movement and the loud sound, Ed whimpers and turns his face away.
With the stealth of a cat, Frenchie replaces Izzy’s crutch and peers at Ed from behind him. Unfortunately his lean silhouette cuts a recognisable figure.
Ed’s whimpers turn to sniggering, his smile lopsided and wild-eyed.
“Pan…” he rasps, “Pan… to…” And though Roach looks confused, understanding dawns on Frenchie, fear rising through his body and setting in the width of his eyes, the arch of his brow.
Horror went down under the Kraken that could not be unseen, undreamed.
Frenchie believes in the supernatural: fairies and magic, ghosts and demons. He’d protested Ed’s placement in the rope store because it lacked a window they could open to release his soul. Similarly, he broke any mirrors on the ship to ensure Ed’s spirit couldn’t be trapped inside. As proof he was alive, Izzy kept the shards of one to hold under Ed’s nose, that fog all that kept him going. Now in the light of day, Ed breathes heavily, his whispering made louder by the silence that reigns on deck.
“Pan–” Roach claps his hands, once, twice and each time Ed flinches, cries. Before the twat can carry on or rouse the crew into a round of hateful applause, Izzy smacks his shins with the mop.
Roach drops his cigarette in shock, stepping into Izzy’s space and kicking at his crutch. Frenchie’s hand alone stops it from skidding out. His other hand grips the thin blade Izzy knows is sewn into the waistband of his flared slacks.
The first to step back, Roach seems unsettled by whatever he sees when he looks between Izzy and Frenchie, and Ed down on the floor.
In an act of good faith, Frenchie crouches to pick up Roach’s cigarette, but Ed stretches to stamp his foot over it.
“Spoons…” is what he says this time, sounding as confused about it as Roach and Izzy look. Frenchie, however, smiles and nods.
“Spoons…” he agrees softly, but Ed simply stares through him.
As though taming a beast, Frenchie tries humming a tune Izzy recognises, but can’t place. Ed turns his face away from the sound and draws his legs close to his body, whimpering again.
“Bit weepy, bit droopy,” Frenchie mutters as Roach inspects his cigarette. “Bit like a willow maybe. Needs a moist environment, water–”
“Or tea?” Roach relights and takes short puffs. “Not boiling. 7 sugars. Got Archie watching the kettle and it’ll be served up in a tin cup obviously .”
Archie appears as promised, carrying a tray of steaming tea and a full bottle of rum: “In case he’d prefer summin’ with a lil kick.”
“Needs a clear head,” Izzy snaps, snatching the rum for himself. “But I don’t.”
“Iz… Iz…” Ed’s tone is barely more than breath, but may as well be a fog bell. “Iz…”
“Izzy, that’s right!” Archie knocks Izzy’s elbow as he drinks. “He said anything new then?”
“So far,” Roach counts the words off on his fingers, “just ‘gold’, ‘panto’ and… ‘spoons’.”
Archie nods and cracks her knuckles, always game for a challenge. “It’s like charades or a puzzle – a riddle!” Never any good at those, Izzy uncorks the rum and takes a long swig.
Roach points his cigarette at him. “Ask your Captain something. A simple ‘yes/no’ question. For clues, you see.”
And Izzy can’t refuse, has to know if Blackbeard is still in there, still raging.
He limps forwards, but stays out of reach, bending at the waist so they’re almost face to face. “Ed…”
Ed blinks up at him through dark strings of wet hair, no recognition in his eyes.
“It’s me. It’s Iz… Izzy.” Countless times he’d imagined Ed waking up and calling out to him, declaring them even: a leg for a mutiny, no apologies. “I’m… ” ‘Sorry’ isn’t a closed question. “Do you… remember what happened?”
Blinking so slowly he’s almost sleeping, Ed points the fingers of his cuffed hand at his own head. He then strokes them down his temple and says: “Fuc… ker…” before passing out. A slow puddle forms by his feet, the trickle of warm piss almost as dark as Izzy’s rum.
“That’s new! So ‘gold’, ‘panto’, ‘spoons’ and ‘fucker…”
Sniffling, Izzy straightens up and wipes his face before turning his back on Ed. Frenchie alone tracks his exit, the other two too engrossed in their stupid banter.
The only riddle worth solving is how it came to this – the greatest pirate who ever lived, brought to ruin by Izzy’s inadequacy. “Above all else is loyalty to your Captain” and in the end that meant killing him.
Imitators of Blackbeard’s legend operate to extremes: ignorance and infamy, life and death, poverty and wealth. But the truth is, there are indignities scattered in between: a loss of intrigue and privacy, disability and madness, compromise and deceit.
Memory is a beast that can swallow a man whole or else occupy his bloodstream, a predator and a parasite both.
It’s possible Ed remembers enough of what happened to rage and to regret. It’d be better for him to forget, for Ed to be angry only about minor discomforts, more like an infant or a dog.
And sure, Izzy has the funds to pay for a nurse to serve Ed for the rest of his days. He’d have stepped into the role himself if not for his own infirmity. Maybe Bonnet will leave the sea behind to care for Ed? If indeed it’s the man beneath the legend that Bonnet loves...
More likely the Gentleman Pirate will keep Ed on board, just another part of his fanficul story – the bloodthirsty killer reduced to a plaything, a ragdoll to be dressed up and dined with?
Izzy retches, stomach lining protesting the lack of sustenance.
The small platform alongside Bonnet’s ridiculous figurehead is the most private part of the ship. Room only for two – before Ed took to sharing the Captain’s cabin – he and Izzy slept beneath the unicorn. Often they’d joke about the symbolism, how it could only be tamed by virgins.
The poor creature’s missing a head now, blown off by the British that Izzy sent for Bonnet… In old folk tales headless horsemen were omens of death. After Bonnet left, Ed liked the idea of haunting the ocean led by “a headless steed”.
Now it’s Ed who’s brain is shot…
Izzy laughs until he cries, cries until he shouts, drinks to drown himself out.
The rest of the crew he hears from time to time, most obviously when they gather in the hold. They’re unhappy about the reason for meeting, bickering and talking over eachother. Bonnet’s probably asking whether Ed can stay, asking as if he isn’t their fucking Captain.
Ed never asked permission for anything. But then he also cut off Izzy’s toes and fed them to him, shot him in the shin and then gave him a gun to end both their suffering.
Izzy should have done it… but the gun held barely one shot. It was alwaus Izzy’s job to take care of Ed’s weapons, to take care of Ed…
Two thirds of the way down the bottle, Bonnet pops up at the masthead with a smile. “ Hey .”
Izzy’s chair leg is propped on the railing, his head cushioned by rigging, rum held close to his chin to reduce spilling.
One hand on the railing and the other clenched behind his back, Bonnet nods knowingly at the ruined unicorn. “He’s seen better days, hasn’t he?”
The softness of his tone is lost on Izzy. Leaning forward, he spits bitterly at the figurehead: “At least he’s still got both legs!”
Bonnet leans forward to get a better look. “Yes!” he shouts, mimicking Izzy by raising his voice.
Then he’s back to looking at him, head tilted in sympathy, barely a foot between them. “He can’t hear you, he’s got no head.”
Bonnet steps back only when Izzy lifts his bottle for another long swig. At the sight of how much he’s downed, Bonnet’s words stall.’ “You’ve got a head though... Which you should look after–
The last thing Bonnet said to him was: ‘Everything’s going to be alright. I promise.’ Izzy’s not interested in whatever this is.
“What do you want, Bonnet?”
“Well, here’s the thing.” His eyes slide back in the direction of the hold and Izzy knows. Bonnet wants backing up.
Izzy can’t even look at him, eyes on the unicorn and thoughts of virgins, sacrifices, hauntings.
“The crew – they’re in a bit of a deadlock over the whole banishment-of-Ed thing. And I just thought, seeing as, well, you were the one who kept his body aboard, maybe you should weigh in.”
Somebody’s been yapping. Archie probably, embellishing everything. And a ‘deadlock’ – that means half are soft as doves, the rest as wise as serpents.
“You’ve already murdered him once,” Bonnet points out lightly, as if talking about a prank gone wrong and not a bloody mutiny. “Seems like a pretty good payback.” But the idiot doesn’t know the half of it, doesn’t know what Ed put them all through. Not if he thinks a long sleep and some memory loss will appease the crew.
“So, what do you think?”
The last time Izzy was standing this close to Bonnet, he was begging him to “shut the fuck up”. His sword was lodged in the twat’s gut and they’d made a deal that the loser of their duel would be banished. Izzy’s sword hilt snapped and Ed only shrugged, offering not even a farewell before he rowed alone back to Nassau.
How the tables have turned.
“My vote?” Izzy leans against the rope, imagines it tied around his neck. Sparing Bonnet a single glance, he answers with a riddle of his own. “ A rotten leg’s got to come off.”
Bonnet knows enough of how Izzy lost his leg to know it’s useless to expect his support. Archie probably filled him in on that too: an intense tale of life saving surgery and blood soaked first kisses.
“Right…” Dipping to slip back through the door and up to the deck, Bonnet hovers halfway. “So, just to confirm: is that a ‘yay’ or ‘nay’ on the banishment?”
Izzy laughs, a tear dripping off the tip of his nose. “You can’t… banish a man who doesn’t know who… or where the fuck he is.”
Bonnet’s voice brightens. “Oh, Edward’s back amongst us.” Izzy’s hands tremble as he raises the bottle, draining the last of it. “No longer asking for you. Not now that he remembers everything.”
“ Everything ?” Izzy doesn’t even remember everything, days and nights swallowed whole by hunger and agony.
“Enough,” Bonnet sighs, “to refuse to speak to me.” Izzy knows enough of Ed’s silent treatment to know it never lasts. But he doesn’t tell Bonnet that.
“Men have been… marooned for less.”
Bonnet smiles. “Yes, well… It’s pirate code to leave the marooned with water and arms, isn’t it? Almost as if you knew the others wouldn’t be there long enough to need either? You know, on that busy trade route where you foolishly left them. On a sandbar used by smugglers to store goods…”
“Well,” Izzy drawls, caught out, but admitting to nothing. “We all make mistakes.” Luckily Ed was too drunk to notice Izzy’s. There was true cruelty in leaving a man’s death to the elements.
Bonnet’s smile is grateful and Izzy fucking hates it.
“Your mistake…” he slurs, clinging to the rope and swaying, “was coming to sea. Mine…” Countless though they are, Izzy knows the first, the very worst. “ Mine was never leaving.”
Bonnet blinks up at him, a dog that knows it’s going to be kicked. “What was Edward’s mistake?”
Izzy’s stares at the headless unicorn, a herd of regrets galloping through his mind, trampling everything good in their path. In the settling dust of the ambush lies something small and red, bleeding out, but still alive.
Izzy smiles and says: “Having a heart.” And he can tell without looking that Bonnet’s smiling too, touched by the image of Blackbeard’s well kept secret. But the twat never saw it as a weakness. “That and giving it to you.”
Bonnet scoffs and shakes his head, such rudeness to be expected.
But Izzy came out to the figurehead to drown his sorrows and be a piece of shit. Unfortunately for Bonnet, he’s all out of rum.
“Get Frenchie up here.” He’s never denied Izzy a drink. And maybe Izzy can convince him to sway the vote. The guy could sell shit to an arsehole.
And they’re all fucking arseholes.