DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: This is kind of a 'part two' to my Of Pirates & Queens. Inspired by Vane's S1E1 comment "I may just forget that I loved you once...". It is my take on what might have been Vane & Eleanor's falling out before the start of season 1.

Nassau – 1709

It lasted three years. Three gloriously complicated and remarkable years. He would set out to sea and be gone for weeks or months at a time. She'd bury herself in the business, determined to turn it into something worthwhile, to prove she was more than just Richard Guthrie's daughter.

And whenever he returned to port, he'd glide into her tavern and it would be as if he'd never left. They'd fall together with a string of curses, a blatant solicitation, or a wordless plea. How it happened didn't much matter, only that it always did.

Nothing had ever been gentle or simple between the two of them. There was always an edge of roughness, a demand, a challenge. It was who they were, who they had to be. It didn't matter that neither of them bothered much with soft words or declarations of undying affection. The sentiment between them was plain enough to see. And that had been sufficient enough to content them both.

There were little things of course. A soft touch here, the odd gesture there. Small but expressive indications of affection that suited them both.

Both were far too stubborn and full of pride and ambition to allow for the open admittance of such weakness. But even if they had not been so, they could not have afforded to; their positions demanded dispassionate pragmatism. Vane's men needed to see him as untouchable, as a brutal and efficient man unburdened by affective attachments. He needed to present as being utterly dedicated to the ceaseless pursuit fame and fortune, not to some uppity tavern wench with a power complex. No fool would follow a man ruled by emotion. Eleanor's business dealings required her to maintain a ruthlessly efficient management criteria if she was to be viewed as even half as competent as any man.

Thus, this ruff and tumble sort of relationship was exactly the sort to agree with both their personalities and occupations.

Of course, there were whispers. People would talk of the shameless Lady Eleanor and her brute of a pirate lover, Captain Charles Vane. As much was to be expected, and for the most part such whispers were ignored through the years.

But something had changed. Perhaps because their affair had lasted so long, and people had begun to suspect they were more to one another than a passing fancy. Or perhaps nothing had changed, and she had just been blind to verity of the situation. Perhaps her feelings for the incorrigible pirate had clouded her judgment. Either way, Eleanor had come to realize an unfortunate and painful truth.

Standing beside him, she would always be viewed as lesser.

Not only was he a man, but he was a notorious and influential racketeer, a king among pirates. His very air demanded fear and respect. At his side, she would never achieve the standing she so desperately required.

For when people looked upon them, his presence outweighed her own.

Eleanor had always known she needed Nassau accept her authority, to yield under the power she'd spent her entire life striving to acquire. As a woman, she'd had to work twice as hard to earn half as much respect. She'd dragged Nassau from the dirt and turned it into a prospering commercial trade base. And had done so with little more than wits and will.

This place was wrought with her blood, sweat and tears. It was everything. She could not afford to be seen as merely the extension of a man. Or worse, as some love-struck, imbecilic female.

Which was exactly what she'd begun to see happening. She begun to realize that many people viewed her not as a competent and successful woman who was not to be fucked with, but simply as Charles Vane's woman. That the qualms of her investors were often squelched not for fear of her, but for fear of Vane. And that whatever strides she made while at his side, would inevitably be attributed to him.

The anguish that accompanied that realization was striking.

When he had crawled under her skin and so effectively set up camp, she didn't know. But she knew she had to cut him out. It would pain and bleed, but she would live. She had to.

No one had ever managed to burrow into her heart so efficiently, and she doubted anyone ever would again. But she couldn't let that change things, he still needed to be removed. If she allowed herself this weakness, everything for which she'd worked her whole life would be for nothing.

When she told him it was over, he'd tried to argue. To tell her she was being foolish, that they had something worth fighting for, and to hell with what people thought. But even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't be enough. He knew her too well, perhaps better than she knew herself.

She would leave him, and he would let her.

He understood why she felt she needed to do it. Nassau was her heart and soul in the same way that the sails and sea were his. He could even acknowledge that her reasoning for doing so was sound. Her analysis of the situation was accurate; no one would truly accept her validity were she to continue operating in his shadow. Which only made being angry with her more difficult. It was hard to be angry when he understood, when he knew her to be right.

But that didn't mean he couldn't try. Anger was an agreeable alternative to misery.

The reality was that it still felt like she'd tossed him aside. A feat he wasn't entirely sure he could have done, had their positions been reversed. This acknowledgment was one that only served to irritate him, as she'd once again proven less attenuated by this fatal attraction than he himself.

But he would concede. He would give her what she wanted because he saw no other viable alternative. Because if he could give her nothing else, he could give her this.

There would be no tearful goodbyes or woeful apologies. Such displays were beneath them both. He had stated his case, his desire to continue as they were. And she had stated hers, the will to remain autonomic.

The two could not exist in tandem, and thus a parting was inevitable.

And so they came together as they often did. Not with words, but with a perceptive understanding and acceptance of the situation and it's connotations. This was the end of an era, a pained relinquishment of a love wrought in savage beauty and ruthless magnificence.

Where most their couplings were a fevered rush of hands and teeth and tongues, this one was different. Perhaps it was due to the weight of unspoken goodbyes, or perhaps it was merely an attempt to prolong the inevitable. Lavish generosity and delayed personal fulfillment were hardly strong character traits in either of them, but here they made it work.

He lay wrapped with her for hours after they had finished, long after she had drifted into sleep. And he left long before she woke, slipped out and off to sea before the daylight ever broke.

She woke to find herself alone, and alone she allowed herself the solace to weep. An allowance rarely granted and desperately needed. Woeful for all she'd set fire to, all she'd destroyed in the name of independence and proficiency. Anguished to know that it was neither the first time, nor the last that she would be forced to watch what she loved burn.