Okay, so I wrote this once before and I was really happy with it the first time around, but then my computer shut off and I lost it all. So after legitimately crying for ten minutes, then just kind of sitting there with my teeth bared making these awful frustrated grunts, I turned my computer back on and I took another go at it. I hope you guys enjoy it.

"Edward..."

He winced and turned away from the sun with a great pain in his head. He let out a soft groan that was something in between a curse and something completely incomprehensible. His muscles ached as he moved and he swatted away a the voice.

"Edward..." it called again. Mary? Was that the voice he heard? It gave him a warm feeling inside at the thought of her standing by him and beckoning him awake. He could see her, all in white standing on the beach and calling for him with a gentle smile on her face.

"For Chrissake, Kenway, get your ass up," the voice said again, though it didn't belong to Mary. He opened his eyes, then quickly brought a hand to his chest as he sat up. He sharply inhaled at the feeling of being stabbed straight through the chest, then let out a dry sob.

He let his eyes drift to the source of the voice and found her standing with her arms crossed looking down at his form in the sand with a bitter look on her face. It wasn't Mary. No, with the painful realization that his friend was indeed gone, he glared up at his friend and said, "What do you want?"

"For my friend not to be pissed on a beach for two weeks," Anne said and walked over to him. She offered him a hand- which he graciously accepted and slowly worked his sore body out of a sitting position. His eyes were sunken and red from his crying. She pretended she didn't notice, though, and for that he was thankful.

She had a point. He had spent weeks on end at the bottom of a bottle in secluded places to drink away the hurt and the memories and the feeling of his dearest friend's weak body in his arms. He still heard every breath and ever word, felt every feeling as the life drained from her quicker than it needed to. No one bothered him, or said anything. They knew he was grieving. He had lost someone so near and dear to him. The only person that saw something more in him than the lust for gold and treasure.

"It's okay," he said. "I'm fine..." he told her as they stood in the sand. That was a lie clear as day, but she let him believe what he wanted to. He wasn't sure how he got here, but it more than likely had to do with the many bottle that laid around them, either smashed from drunken anger or just lying there empty because he'd been too broken and drained to throw any more tantrums. "I just need some time..." he said. How else could someone deal with such a pain in the heart? When the only way for it to be cured is by the one person who can't cure it is gone? You turn to drink. So he drank until the memories didn't hurt him anymore and he sang out to the world until he couldn't speak and when that was done, he'd pass out somewhere remotely comfortable and sleep until the late afternoon of the next day only to repeat the process.

"I gave you time, Edward," his quartermaster said with a pleading look in her eyes. "I lost her, too, ya' know," she said with an angry bitterness to her tone. Death seemed to do that to people; turn them bitter and angry...Broken. "But drinking ain't gonna bring her back."
Edward sent glares her way. "No. No, drink ain't goin' to bring her back. Nothing will! Nothing will bring her back to us. Because she's dead!" He looked up to the sky and screamed, "She's dead! Is this what you wanted?" Was he screaming at Mary? Was he screaming at God? He wasn't sure. He didn't care, in all honesty.

Anne let out a soft sob as tears overflowed from her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand. "Did you want us to suffer, dammit?!" he yelled and picked up a bottle. After finding it empty he threw it down in his fit of rage and it shattered with the collision of it and a rock. Once he heard Anne cry, he stood there breathing heavily, his anger slowly seeping from his body. It wasn't Anne's fault she was gone and it never would be. It wasn't even Mary's fault. She had fought until the end but they couldn't do a thing. If the guards had just given her some water or some food or even a cloth...Anne closed her eyes tight as the memories of her friend sweating and groaning in pain showed up in her mind. The very things that haunted her night after night.

She would remember being in the cold and dank cell as her friend whispered, "It's happening, Anne." And all she could do is sit by and hope she'd be alright. Sit and plead for water or a blanket for Mary so she'd be okay. It hurt too bad to remember.

After all the anger left his body, he just felt...hollow. With sunken eyes and even less motivation that ever, he slowly forced his sagging muscles to bring him forward a few steps. After a seconds hesitation he wrapped her in an embrace and let her cry into his shoulder. She accepted it, for she needed the embrace more than she thought.

"I want them back," she sobbed. "Thatch, Rackham, Mary...I can't afford to lose you, too. You're all I have left," she cried to him. She was right. She had lost her own child, her lover, and her dearest friends.
"I know," he whispered. "I'm sorry...I'll be better," he promised. Just for you, Mary. He'd be a better man, he would. How could he refuse his dearest friend's dying wish?

Edward wished he'd been able to fulfill it quicker. After he'd shown no mercy to any of the guards and done everything but anything sensible they had made way for Kingston. They knew that her daughter would be at the sugar plantation to be raised a slave, but upon arriving there, there were more than one infants and they hadn't the slightest idea which was hers.

Anne would have cared for her. Would have raised her just like she were her own because that's what Mary would have liked. She would have loved and cherished the child and raised her with stories of her mother and father and she hoped maybe even Edward would love the child and contribute.

It made him angry they weren't able to do that. Because he would have...He would be a better man, for you, Mary, he thought. He would love the child and would take it to sea as soon as she could walk and teach her how to steer the ship once she was old enough. A bitter feeling took him and he squeezed Anne tighter.

Would he ever get over her death? He doubted so...But he would still try to be a better man. He would sail and he would sing and he would raise a bottle in her name.

I'll try, he thought, for you, Mary.