(POVs: Eleanor's, Rogers more and more, occasionally Max's, once Vane's. Spoiler alert: S3, refers canon S1-S2 plot.

Fan warning: I follow S3 canon evidence and clues that shed another light on Vane-Eleanor and Maxanor. It expands on why Eleanor loves and chooses Woodes Rogers. The show-writers took a bleak, but realistic approach of Eleanor and showed how Vane's and Max's own interests conflict with her ideals. Thus, Eleanor abhors Vane and mistrusts Max in this fanfic. It is not meant to defend Eleanor's choices, but was written to expand understanding of her character by using similar thematic themes and parallels with the stories of Flint, Silver and Vane. The opinions of Vane, Max and Mrs. Mapleton about her is one of projection for me, caused by their need to ignore she has a will, ideals and feelings of her own, especially because these conflict with their own desires of her. I wrote this in honor of the series' writers and use inspirational legends, literature, history and other authors to share with people how I have come to understand S3 Eleanor.

At the end of each chapter I share notes of references, quotes, allusions or historical facts. You're free to skip them. It's added for those who enjoy such tidbits.)

Still in the mourning dress for her father's funeral, Eleanor has been convicted as a pirate and sentenced to be hanged. She feels as good as dead anyway. The sole thing that makes her feel alive is the Pontic hatred for Charles Vane, former lover and murderer of her father. When she thinks death has come for her in the form of a handsome man in his late thirties, it turns out she gets a chance to exact the revenge she vowed to have to God by helping the newly appointed governor of Nassau, Woodes Rogers.

Chapter 1 - The Convicted Mourner

She had no idea how long she had been down here, since they shut the door behind her after her conviction and buried her in this cold, damp place with its thick walls. Was it yesterday? Or was it last year? It had a small window to allow for daylight, but without the ability to see the sky, she saw neither sun, nor moon. She could have kept track of time with paper and pen, if she had wanted to. To what point? She was but a ghost in a body, breathing on borrowed time. What use are plume and paper to phantoms?

"To write your lawyer," the gaoler had said, "or your family; to prepare your defense." But her conviction was assured and her family in Boston never had shown to care for her.

"Or write your story." Her story, the real one, the heartfelt one, the mental one, only belonged to herself. Her story had come to an end. She intended to take it with her into her actual grave.

Will they open the door to lead me to my noose in moments, tomorrow, or next year? She feared it not though. She had been dead, since the day they showed her the broken corpse of her father. Eleanor still wore the black mourning dress. This time it would serve her own funeral. Her jailer was the sole sign of life around, when his steps echoed through the vaulted corridor, his keys chimed, a rusted door screeched, or the slot clanged with a bang when he passed food through it. But apart from that he seemed to have forgotten about her too. After her conviction, he had not spoken a word to her anymore.

Her cell was not without some comforts. She had a bed, a chair, a desk, and a candle. Nor was she left to starve or thirst. She would have thought hunger would make even old, molded bread edible. But everything tasted like ashes. She had been down here for so long, her nose had even become insensitive to the bucket in the far corner. Eleanor lay curled with stiff muscles on the mattress, her hands wrenched like claws around her pillow. In her mind, they were wrapped around another man's neck.

Her Pontic hatred for him was the sole thing left that still made her feel somewhat alive. All the love she ever believed to have felt had vanished, blown by the wind. Gone. Where her heart used to be remained only a nest of vipers. She still heard his raspy voice, or smelled his sweat and musk after he shot his seed into her, the dry shoving that hurt if she was not quick enough to lubricate herself, the ache in her loins after he was done with her, his weight on her when he pinned her down. She remembered the grainy sand of his tent scratching her skin and being everywhere in her clothes, impossible to be gotten rid of. She could feel the stabbing pain when he took her maidenhood in his fiery, rough way as if it happened yesterday. Passion she had called it then. But no more. Her left jaw throbbed in memory of the bruising punch he once gave her. These memories filled her with ice that floated on a violent ocean, red like blood.

Eleanor felt soiled from hair to toe, outside and inside for allowing that cowardly monster to talk to her, touch her, fuck her. The noose would end the pain and the feeling of wanting to cut out the associated filth within.

What sort of hellish monster is a man, when he tortures and murders an innocent, who never harmed or opposed him, only because he happened to be her father? Coward, she thought. You fucking coward! All that to save his your own skin with your crew. You used me as your punch bag or fuck-prize to brag about. He had Max gang raped to keep his captaincy. He had taken innocent Abigail hostage for the same reasons. And he murdered her father and then burned all of Charles Town, all in order not to lose face and save his hide. All Charles Vane ever cared about was himself and the freedom to rape, steal and kill others. But she was to hang, and he lived. He should hang along with me. By God, hear my plea – grant me justice, and let him hang and rid the world of his destructiveness, and I swear upon marbled heaven I will accept my fate without looking back, without regretting that I ever loved a monster.

She and her father had given Charles a tactical preference for years. He was smart and cunning, all that was necessary to make up for his lack of education and society in youth. Still, no goodness could be imprinted on him, not even to his fellow men toiling in bondage. Only capable to do ill, Charles was like a savage Caliban who only knew his own meaning and murdered her father to have the island for himself and make others his slaves. The commonwealth this wretched Caliban fought for, this Golden Age of Piracy, was one where only plantations of nettle, dock and mallow existed. Nobody would toil or grow anything. He wanted to be a souvereign executing anyone he pleased and could. There would be no books, no contracts, no service, no work - everyone idle, men and women alike. The Pirate Republic was but a world of treason, felony, sword, pike, knife and gun; and whores and knaves its subjects. Charles was his devilish father's son after all.

Eleanor rose from her bed and started to pace her cell, wrists clenched. He robbed me of my humanity and empathy, to know what should have been plain right and wrong. Even though it had shocked her to see a girl as young and innocent as Abigail Ashe in chains, eating filth in a leaky dungeon, Eleanor had only rescued her after Mrs. Barlow made her see how Abigail was the key to a different future for Nassau. Was that what they meant when they told me to prepare my defense, to write my story? To make me look like a repentant pirate who went out to save a damsel in distress out of the goodness of my own heart? It would have been a foul lie.

She would have laughed at the irony of it all, if she could. Instead a tear leaked down her cheek when the broken face of her father and the loss of luster in his dead eyes came unbidden to her mind. A full six feet under his coral bones lay now, which would be all that was left of him. She would break if she allowed herself to remember the strange sea change in her father when he hugged and held her the last time she saw him. And yet, she could not resist the richness of that memory.

Eleanor became only dimly aware of boots echoing through the corridor. Initially, they were but distant ghosts wholly unconnected to her. Until they grew louder and closer. She rubbed her eyes fiercely and sat down on the bed. Her demons were hers and hers alone; she could never allow anyone to see them.

The bolt was shoved aside from her door and the hinges screamed loudly as it swung open. Today is the day, finally. Like the pride pirate queen of Nassau they believed her to be, she held her back straight and her head high. She had haggled with, bartered with and ordered around the most notorious murderers known to the world for pretty much all of her young life. She could look this bringer of death square in the eye.

The stranger stepped into her prison cell wearing a dark blue justaucorps of rich wool, with deep cuffs and finished golden threaded buttonholes, matching waistcoat and muslin stock tie. His washed brown hair was bound to the back in the nape of his neck and his face clean shaven. She could smell the oiled leather of his black riding boots as well as a waft of soap and perfume off him. Death was a handsome man in his late thirties, with sparkling blue eyes that glimmered like the sun on the azure waters of the Caribbean. His gaze shifted like sand from amusement to soft empathy. This was not how she imagined death to look like.

"Judge – For years you lorded over the operations of hundreds if not thousands hardened pirates." His English was immaculate. "How exactly were you able to manage this?" Apprehension snagged at her throat. He is here to mock me, she thought and looked away. "Accused – One day at a time, I suppose." He paused and silence hung for a moment. "I enjoyed that."

Death was a purring cat that toyed with its mice, or a fancy rich man who paid for the privilege to meet with the queen of thieves in her prison cell before she was hanged. That was all she was reduced to – the enjoyment of others. Was there ever truly a moment after her mother's death where she had enjoyed herself? She could not remember.

The stranger continued in his warm, velvety voice. "There's a funny thing about notoriety. And I have little experience with this." He moved from the door to the chair, laying his matching tricorne on the desk. "The more people know of you, the more of you those people feel belongs to them." He sat down. "Now, right now, there is a barrister who feels entitled to say, 'I am the one who convicted Eleanor Guthrie'; a judge who wants to say, 'I was the one who hanged her'; a throng of people outside, 'I was the one who cheered as she swung.' They all feel entitled to a part of your story. And it's a hell of a story. So, you can imagine how difficult it was for me to arrange it, so that I could, say, 'I am the one who set her free'."

"Who the fuck are you?" she bit back.

He was smiling at her. "My name is Woodes Rogers and I am the next Governor of New Providence island. Well, assuming I can subdue her. That is where you come in. I am to set sail to the West Indies in two days time. I am prepared, but the one element I lack is knowledge."

Her heart beat in her throat and her mind raced. Can this be happening? Can I somehow reach out to Nassau through this man and rid myself of my worst demon, finally?

"… someone who understands Nassau that can help me know what I'm going to find there. If you agree to be that person for me, your sentence will be commuted, and the charges against you released."

Suspicious, she glanced at him. "And what would you ask of me?" Nothing had ever come cheap to her.

He leaned forward and with feeling said, "I understand it is an uncomfortable position for you, feeling like you're betraying people you've known so closely…"

Eleanor shook her head. She wanted none of his false empathy. Irritated, she said, much louder, "Specifically, what would I have to do?"

Much colder and more severe, he said, "To begin with, a list. The names of those on the island who could be made allies. Those who would be harder to sway."

Eleanor rose, walked to the desk, grabbed a piece of paper and scribbled one name on it. She dropped the piece of paper on the desk before him. "To civilize Nassau that is the sole name you need to concern yourself with." Woodes stared at her, before he picked up the letter and eyed it skeptically, as if he thought less of her for betraying any pirate so easily. Oh, if only he knew. But it was enough that she did, for she was Nassau. "As long as he is alive," she insisted, "you cannot succeed."

Two days later, her door swung open, and she was marshaled out of her cell to the yard and into the gatehouse. The clerk there had her sign a document of her release and gave her a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

"This isn't mine." Eleanor had sold every necklace, ring and other items on her person when she was first sent to Newgate to pay for her accommodations.

The clerk looked up over his glasses. "A gift from Mr. Rogers."

"So, I'm a free woman then?" Eleanor asked flabbergasted.

The clerk laughed. "A free woman? No, I don't think so, Miss Guthrie. Mr. Rogers' carriage awaits you. You are his responsibility now, not ours."

What sort of man is this Woodes Rogers that he can snatch me away from Wapping, with just the strike of a pen? "Who is Woodes Rogers?" she finally asked.

"You don't know Woodes Rogers?"

Eleanor shook her head. "Should I?"

The clerk grinned. "I suppose you moved in the wrong circles to have ever heard of him." He laughed at his own wit. Eleanor did not. He lifted his glasses from his nose and cleaned them with a handkerchief. "He's a hero - sailed around the world, went farther south than any other man before him, fought the Spanish and French in the Pacific, rescued a poor sod who was marooned for four years, attacked a Spanish city in South America and lifted the jewels from the ladies, returned with numerous captured treasure galleons and wrote a book about it." The clerk pushed his glasses back across his nose.

Galleons, Eleanor thought, like the Urca. She had told Flint once that it had never been done before. But somehow this man had captured two of them. "A privateer?"

"Indeed."

Buccaneers, privateers or pirates - the first two only pirated enemy ships of England during the war, and carried royal letters of marque with them. Of course Spain and France regarded them as pirates just as well, war or no war, while England saw them as heroes. So, basically the crown was sending a pirate to conquer the pirate republic – a rich, cultured pirate of the highest class.

Eleanor tore the paper to reveal a saffron calico shawl. Little roses were embroidered on the shiny material. She snagged a pin from her dress, stuck it between her teeth, wound her greasy hair behind her head and tried to fix it as deftly as she could. She picked a few more pins from her collar and got every stray hair neatly tied. She draped the shawl around her waist, hiding much of her old, black dress underneath, except for the skirt and sleeves. Then she wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled it over her head, and for a moment let her thumb and finger slide across the smooth fabric. "Goodbye," she said to the clerk.

"Hmmm," was all he answered, without looking up.

And so, Eleanor stepped outside the gatehouse, never to look back. She had to blink against the sunlight and for the first time she became aware of the noise, of carriages passing, street vendors hollering and the smell of broth coming from a stall. But there was no time to take in the wonder of her first moment outside of prison, unshackled. Armed redcoats lined up a path for her to the black carriage waiting. A man in livery opened the door. Eleanor hoisted up her skirts, lowered her head and stepped into a small world of thick, wine red, velvet cushions.

"Sit, please." Mr. Rogers gestured to the seat opposite of him.

Taken by surprise, Eleanor opened her mouth, but then lowered her eyes and did as told. Finally, she gathered her courage to ask, "Where am I going?"

"The Delicia, and after that onwards to Nassau." Rogers banged his palm on the outside of the door to signal the driver they were ready to go. He spoke no more. Outside, a whip snapped and the driver hollered at the two horses. She fell slightly forward as the vehicle jerked into movement and then they were riding.

With the curtains closed, the only point of interest to look at was the man who had freed her, this supposed hero, and he was staring right back at her, his face unreadable. He made her nervous. She thought her heart beat so loud, he must be hearing it. And her hands felt clammy. But Eleanor could not discern why this man in particular made her feel that way. He did not glare at her. In fact, he did not behave or appear threatening to her at all. Just indifferent, like one of those biologists studying a newfound species. Maybe that is what unnerves me, she decided. While she could not resist glancing at her hands, her feet or to the side, she had some pride left and refused to cower in front of him.

From under her eyelashes, she studied Woodes Rogers. He had the self-assurance about him of a man who was used to getting his way. His apparent confidence lacked the usual arrogance and cockiness that went with it though. He looked the gallant, handsome hero alright, in his wine-red justaucorps, beige waistcoat and britches and black tricorne, his symmetrical features and intelligent, amused, blue eyes. The sole blemish on his face was a jagged reddish scar that ran from his left cheek, beneath his eye, to his lower jaw. Most likely, he had acquired it at some duel. Rich men dueled for all sorts of imaginary honor dealings.

His silence, his lack of invitation for her to speak, while watching her made her self-conscious of her own appearance. She tried to tuck away an imagined stray hair. She cringed at the idea of how greasy it was. And she imagined she stank of sour sweat and waste. At Newgate all she was ever entitled to for hygiene had been a bucket of water once a week and one tiny leftover bar of soap.

Her hands were pale after being out of the sun for so long. She could only imagine what her face must have looked like – haggard, ghostly. Meanwhile, her mourning dress that had fitted her so well all those months ago, hung loose about her body now, and not just because she had sold her belt for that piss poor bar of soap. She felt itchy. Prison was full of bugs. And yet she dared not scratch and betray it in front of this clean man.

Eleanor wondered what his character was like. Were his features just a mask that hid ruthlessness or even cruelty? Did he feel superior over the less fortunate? How far was he willing to go? Would he storm the beach and burn Nassau before rebuilding it? How much did he desire power for himself? Was he like the previous governors? Or was he a man who overestimated himself and what he could accomplish in this venture? And what did he want with her?

She knew how to work people, to sell, to find leads. But she had no military or naval expertise. She had only sailed twice in her life. Once as a toddler from Boston to New Providence and the second time as a captive to London. Eleanor had no memory of the first, and wished to forget the later. Her heart yearned for Nassau though - the old Nassau that was no more, for a very long time. She dreaded how much it had changed for the worse, and wondered how much more it would change because of this man opposite of her?

Nassau! Initially settlers were lured to Nassau before the turn of the century with promises of easy living and wealth, since it was along the trade route for any and every ship leaving for Europe from Carolina to Venezuela. It was just a very small town when her father settled there, but in the process of being rebuilt after the Spanish had burned it down more than a decade before she was born, when it was still called Charles Town. There was always movement, hustle and bustle and no shortage of work, either on ships or building. Every time her mother rode with her to town from their inland cottage, some new establishment had sprouted out of nowhere, with each and every building of a different color – orange, azure, saffron, red, mint. It smelled of cacao, cardamom and pepper.

And the noise! There was always noise, night and day - sailors shouting in different languages at the dock and beach or the singing of drunk men floated out of the taverns. Bells chimed and whistles blew. She was already in love with Nassau in that first memory of it. That was before the Spanish and French burned it in the Rosario Raid, before England abandoned its daughter colony that English privateers used as a base to attack enemy vessels, long before it became the haunt of pirates. But even of that early pirate period, she remembered kicking the white sand as she floundered passed the pirate tents, laden with exotic tapestries and cushions, silverware and other prizes as a little girl – her father's beach.

The first pirate had been Henry Avery, seeking shelter under the false name Bridgeman and posing as an interloper. He offered his ship the Fancy to the governing council, of which her father was a member, to help protect Nassau from the French. The council accepted. Not that they could have turned Avery down. Avery's crew numbered more men than the men in Nassau and there was no Royal Navy to protect anybody. Long Ben and his men frequented her father's tavern and Avery would pick her up and put her on his knee. She was no more than six years old at the time. Avery fled after a few months, but it had made the governors and people of Nassau regard the pirates and privateers as men they needed for protection and wealth. The rumor that Avery had stashed part of the Mogul's stolen treasure on one of the uninhabited, neighboring islands, lured pirates all by themselves to Nassau. Once in a while, pirate crews tried to investigate a rumored lead, but either they were never heard of again, and the rest returned empty-handed.

They had ridden for half an hour in this silent manner before the carriage slowed to a halt. Woodes Rogers gestured for her to step out. She lifted the shawl and covered her hair. Stepping out, she found herself on the docks at the Thames. There was the familiar whistle. Gulls screeched overhead. And men hollered orders while they loaded cargo on the ships. Redcoats marched by. When the last stomped past her, Eleanor had her first view of Woodes Rogers' fleet - eight gunned ships, three of those of the Royal Navy.

Taking the size of the planned operation in, Eleanor could not doubt that England and Woodes Rogers meant serious business in retaking Nassau. Eleanor's stomach churned in apprehension. This whole fleet can burn all of Nassau down and bombard it back to being no more than a beach. She glanced at Rogers, standing beside her. He gestured for her to walk ahead.

She felt quite wobbly when she walked the plank onto the Delicia. While she loved the sea, she preferred to see it from ashore. Eleanor had no sea legs, and certainly not after months of stale bread and watery broth. The crew and officers welcomed Rogers with the utmost respect, and Eleanor tried to hide her face behind her saffron shawl and Rogers' back.

"Lord Governor Rogers," saluted an officer of the Royal Navy.

"Commodore Chamberlain."

The commodore bowed his head in her direction. "Milady, welcome aboard." Then to Rogers he said. "I am sorry, Lord Governor, we were not warned that your wife –"

Rogers coughed in surprise and scraped his throat. "My mistake, Commodore. May I introduce you to my guest, who has only become a very recent addition to the crew, Miss Eleanor Guthrie."

The commodore's features changed abruptly from obliging and cordial to dark, suspicious and disapproving. He pressed his lips together. "I see. In that case, we have sufficient accommodation. I will let the men clear out a quarter in the back of the upper hull, with a door that can be bolted from the outside."

"Thank you," said Rogers. "See to it immediately."

Eleanor glowered at Chamberlain who gestured at one of the lieutenants and passed on the order. Just fucking splendid! She had been wretched for a fortnight on the voyage to London while stuck and chained in a dark hull of the HMS Scarborough. It would be the same all over again. She turned her back on both the commodore and Rogers, and surveyed the hustle and bustle on the quay.

Rogers stationed himself beside her. "I realize this is an unpleasant arrangement for you, Miss Guthrie."

So far, he had said very little to her. But when he did, she felt her nerves wriggle into a knot and her heart jump into her throat. It was not just the soft, eloquent warmth of it. It felt just so damn personable, that it made her feel noticed in a manner that she wanted to crawl away and hide. And that was just a stupid way to feel about it.

"I will see to it personally that all your needs are met below deck. If you cooperate, I may take your present circumstances under review."

She wanted to snarl and sneer, but that would make her imprisonment in a hull for the coming voyage a certainty. If she was to live, if she was to return to Nassau, she needed to placate this man. So, Eleanor closed her eyes and allowed the feel of the breeze touch her face and the summer sun's pleasant warmth shine on her face. With a strained voice, she said, "I understand, Mr. Rogers. I am your prisoner."

To this, he gave no answer. So, she waited, beside him, her hands folded before her, staring at the land, while he talked with one officer or another. Before long the lieutenant returned to inform the lord governor that Miss Guthrie's quarters were ready and if she would be so kind to follow midshipman Mr. Eames. Rogers touched the tip of his hat. "Good day, Miss Guthrie."

"Good day, Mr. Rogers," she whispered and hurried after the midshipman, who looked more a youth than man. He could not have been no older than sixteen. But she had seen even younger boys with a similar white patch on the collar of their naval uniform. Mr. Eames guided her below deck to what would be her cell in the bow of the ship. "Your room, ma'm," he said and opened the door for her, while he stared shy at his feet when she passed him.

Eleanor stepped inside the dark, gloomy room and heard the door close behind her and the bolt locked from the outside. She dropped her arms and turned around slowly. At least it was roomier than the one Captain Hume had kept her in the HMS Scarborough, but not less depressing. There was a cot and some old hazy mirror hanging from a beam. Eleanor stepped towards the mirror and tried to wipe it clean with the cuff of her sleeve, without success. It had an open window. Her cell was a few feet above the waterline. If they were to travel through rough waters, the floor her bedding of her cot would be soaked with salt water. But it also meant fresh air, once in open sea. Unfortunately, laying at anchor in the harbor, so close to the waterline, it smelled like a sewer.

She sighed a breath of despair. Why did he not just let me stay in Newgate? At that moment, she guessed she still preferred to die, rather than live. Eleanor had already done all she could to have her last living wish completed – give Rogers the name of the one pirate that should die. Slowly, she unwound the shawl and dragged herself to the cot, laid down, closed her eyes and buried her face in the pillow that smelled of salt and sea.

(Reference notes - The death symbolism of her conviction is not solely echoed in her feeling as if already dead, but the darkness and death of her soul is reflected by the darkness of the dungeon (an underwordly place). The winter season, coldness, dampness, absence of color and senses all evokes death.

the shawl hints at Greek mythology elements that will become clearer in a later chapter. But where the first chapter starts with death, it moves towards the 'dawn' of a new life.

Othello is alluded to in relation to revenge such as Pontic hatred, bloody waters, the vow, ...

Tempest (Ariel's song) is alluded to in relation to mourning the dead father. Charles Vane is compared to the slave Caliban who in this story succeeded in his murder plot of Prospero. The Pirate Republic is compared to the world Gonzalo wishes to be king of.