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.
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Her bloodied hands shook. Her breath wheezed out in shaky breaths. It had all happened so fast. She'd moved without thinking, acted without ever considering the severity of the consequences that were sure to follow.
This had not been her intention. But it was done. Too late to change things, too late to turn back.
The guard lay sprawled across the dirt floor at her feet, his own dagger still buried in the side of his neck. She watched with a bewildered sort of detachment as life oozed from the wound and seeped into the earth.
What the hell was she to do now?
She struggled to collect herself, to reclaim the prudence she so prided herself upon. She would handle this, as she did all other things.
After what felt like hours but could only have been minutes, she'd managed to drag the body into an alcove at the end of the hall, obscuring it from immediate view. Hopefully that would buy her some time should anyone come looking.
With unsteady hands she procured the cell keys from the dead guard's pocket, and returned to the space before the cell where she'd killed him. She quickly began kicking over the dry dirt, covering up the deep red scar that marked the sentry's death.
With that finished, she straightened and breathed deep.
Absently and more out of habit than anything else, she lifted hands to smooth out her skirts, consequently smearing crimson across the fabric.
Oblivious to the error of her action, she picked up the discarded torch and moved to press the large worn key into the rusted old chasm. She fumbled with three different keys before finally finding the one that fit. With a harsh clank, the latch flipped open and the door groaned obstreperously as she slipped through. Weary of attracting attention, she closed it swiftly behind her.
It was dark. So dark, that even with the light of the torch she could barley see ten feet in front of her. Inching forward she could just make out the slouched form of a man. He lifted his head as she approached.
She drew closer and her flame made visible the state of his face. Her heart lurched in her chest.
He narrowed his eyes as he recognized his trespasser, but his expression barely registered in her mind. She saw only the wreckage she'd left upon what had previously been a bewitching set of sculpted features. Dried blood now crusted under his rose and in the corner of his mouth. The left side of his face was inflamed and bruised, on of his eyes swollen shut.
She had done this. In a fit of blind rage, she'd brought fists down upon a bound and defenseless man. A man she'd once claimed to love.
She had spent months mourning and hating; mourning the loss of a father she'd thought had changed, and hating the man who'd killed him. For extinguishing the fatherly affection she'd furtively yearned for all her life, she'd convinced herself that Charles deserved a fate worse than death.
But in the end, her retributive plans had been made without cause. She'd been deceived. The father she'd been so prepared to avenge, had again betrayed her. He'd once more proven less than worthy of her love, this time by offering her up in exchange for his own life.
Richard's murder had given her an excuse not to dwell on the treachery of her own actions. Even when it became apparent that Woodes' plans for Nassau differed from her own, and that she'd likely never be free of his restraints, she held fast to her warped ideals and paltry justifications. Instead of accepting the reality of her situation, she'd focused on Charles' sins, made him a scapegoat for her own myriad of transgressions.
Hating him had become a welcome alternative to hating herself. The fact that she had wanted so much to believe her father had changed, had made it all the easier. She had always hoped Richard would one day come to see her value, to finally acknowledge her for who she was and all she had accomplished.
She had clung to this fantastical notion for as long as she could remember. Never openly, as she'd have swallowed her own tongue before disclosing as much, but quietly and privately. Even knowing it was foolish, and that Richard would likely never truly see her, she had allowed herself the airy hope that he would come around.
Ergo, when Charles had declared her father's treachery and confirmed her fears, she'd lashed out. The wall of lies she'd been laboriously building around herself, began to crumble. Her shield cracked and her dreams went up in smoke. Months of carefully self-constructed fabrications and distortions of fact collapsed around her under the agonizing weight of truth.
Richard had never loved her.
The version of Nassau she sought, would never come to fruition.
Everyone and everything she'd ever loved was gone. She'd scorched her life in pursuit of an outcome that would never be realized. She'd sacrificed everything she had, and it was all for nothing.
She was the architect of her own destruction.
It was an excruciating revelation, and she'd raged against it. Fought to hang onto the tattered remains of her soul, and the fictions that had held it together. She'd used not only her fists, but the words she knew would cut him deepest. She had wanted to hurt him and she'd no doubt she'd succeeded.
But rumination had allowed remorse to slither in and settle. She'd found an uncomfortable acceptance of the truth in Charles's words. And with it, a deep and sudden understanding of all she had truly lost. It had left her feeling hollow and forlorn.
She'd come back here seeking some small measure of peace, a balm for the relentless gnawing of her own contrition. She didn't expect absolution, understood she might not even deserve it, but she needed something. She'd been compelled her to return to this cell, and at the time it had seemed reasonable. She hadn't really thought to question it. Now she'd murdered a man in cold blood, stood before a man she both hated and loved, and had no real understanding of why she'd even come here.
Life was a funny thing.
Though faced with this reality, there were certain things that came to light. It pained her to admit, but Charles had been right about a number of things. Firstly, that she would never be able to hold on to Nassau with the English here, not in any real sense. She could hide behind Rogers' authority, but she would never have any real power of her own. And second, though she'd denied it for many years, she had always loved Charles. More than she cared to consider.
She hadn't meant it when she'd accused him of being incapable of love or compassion. She'd only been aiming to wound. Deep down she understood he'd risked both his life and his standing in her name. And that he'd done so more than once. Too often, she'd allowed her own suspicious nature to accuse him of having ulterior motives. But a part of her had always known his actions were often simply for the love of her. Even when he made a point of denying as much, it was usually painfully clear.
Yet she'd betrayed his love in favor of legitimacy in the eyes of the crown. A crown that would happily see her stripped of all but her womanhood. Confined to a gilded cage, and destined to live out her days as lesser to the men around her. It was a life she'd spent her entire existence trying to circumvent. But even knowing all of this, it was still exceedingly difficult to concede aloud. Admittance of fault, had never been her strong suit.
Even now as she stood in this dirty cell, confronted with the handiwork that marred his face, she found herself at a loss for words.
What could she really say at this point? What good would come of admitting her treason and failures now? Soon he would hang, regardless of her admissions of guilt and wrongdoing. How could this be enough?
The dry cracking of his voice snapped her from her inner contemplations. "Why are you here?" He sounded tired and exasperated, no doubt assuming she'd come to gloat or gut him further. He sat slouched against the pillar to which he was shackled, somehow managing to look indifferent and somewhat blasé even here.
"I..." She broke off, frowning at her own inarticulacy and shifting uncomfortably. She avoided eye contact and muttered. "This isn't what I thought it would be..."
He snorted. "No? And what exactly were you expecting?"
Her frown deepened, mildly chafed by his sarcastic tone. Despite her good intentions, there was still an innate urge to defend herself, to justify her actions even knowing she'd been wrong. It was a character flaw that had often brought adverse effects. But instead of catering to that desire, she remained silent and stepped further into the cell, securing the torch to a sconce on the wall not far from him.
With her movement he caught sight of her hands, and of the familiar substance that marred them. He sat up a little straighter, looked slightly more attentive. "Eleanor..." His voice sounded on edge, apprehensive and indignant. Almost as if he didn't actually want her to answer. "...What did you do?"
She followed his gaze downward. Her attention now drawn to the sticky crimson that had begun crusting between her fingers and under her nails. She splayed her palms, eying them quizzically as if only just noticing their fouled state. When she spoke it was barely above a whisper. "This time?..." She closed her eyes for the briefest of moments. "Nothing I'll regret..."
"What did you do, Eleanor?" He repeated, firmer this time.
When she opened her eyes there was a fire there, a stubborn determination he knew knew all too well. And he understood that whatever she said next wasn't going to be anything he liked.
She began closing the distance between them. "The guard posted outside your cell is dead... He didn't want to let me in." Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were listing off what she'd had for breakfast and believed this to be explanation enough.
Lifting the ring of keys, she made a grab for the shackles that bound his wrists. But before she could touch him, he jerked his hands out of reach.
She paused and stepped back from him, clearly confused by his resistance. She looked up to find his eyes were narrowed and full of fury.
"Have you not toyed with me enough?" He hissed. "What more could you possibly want from me? What more could you take?" He leaned forward and gestured around the room, his shackles clanking with the movement. "I don't know what you're playing at, but I've nothing left to give." He still had is pride, and he intended to keep it.
Confusion and something akin to hurt clouded her eyes for only an instant before being replaced by anger of her own. "I have just risked everything!" She spat. "Do you not think I will be the first they turn to when they find that body? Rogers already knows I came to see you earlier, and it would not be a stretch to conclude I returned this night."
He noted her agitation, the hint of panic that rode the outrage in her voice. And a part of him reveled in it.
After all she'd done, she deserved whatever heinous fate she got. But he could not deny that her sudden change of heart was both curious and unexpected. Somewhat intrigued and feeling a little schadenfreude, he slowly inclined backward against the pillar. His posture once again adopted a more relaxed bearing and when he spoke again it was with cool and placid composure. "Stings, doesn't it? To have your sacrifice count for nothing..."
The laugh that crept unbidden from her throat was dry and sardonic. She threw up her hands and cast her eyes about the room in frustration. "You must be joking! I offer you your freedom, your life, and you refuse it simply to spite me? To have your death become some sort of ironic punishment?"
His brow lifted. "To spite you? Jesus, Eleanor, are you really so consumed by self-interest? Can you not consider there might be reason outside yourself?"
She shifted uncomfortably, having the decency to look somewhat shamed. "What then? What else could possibly be worth- " She broke off, realization dawning in here eyes. "You intend to martyr yourself... To give them reason to turn against Rogers and the occupation..."
His silence was all the confirmation she needed.
For a moment she looked stricken and thoughtful, as though she were considering the possible outcomes of such a maneuver. He found himself wondering what exactly was going through her head, whether the thought of his death or the possibility of his plan's success, would bother her more.
The night she'd taken Abigail, he'd watched tears streak down her stricken face. She was not a woman who wept easily or openly. And knowing as much, he was inclined to believe that the heartache he'd seen in her was genuine. Though his rage was palpable, he wasn't entirely blinded by it. He knew she was not beyond feeling guilt, and not nearly as much the hardened bitch she would have people believe.
But it wasn't enough. Neither the guilt nor the love had been enough to dissuade her. Presented with the choice between his life and the brave new world she had imagined, she had chosen Nassau. She had chosen Nassau repeatedly thereafter. And though it was a harrowing and excruciating truth to come to terms with, he had accepted it.
As such, it was difficult to believe that she would now turn from the payoff of those choices. The notion that she would abandon all she had sacrificed simply to see him freed, was ludicrous. And yet, a small, quiet and insane part of him still wondered if that was really why she'd come here.
If it was, he could think of few things that could have motivated her into such action. Not that it mattered; the dies had already been cast, their fates long since decided.
Decidedly obstinate, she reached again for his shackles. "No. That's idiotic." Her tone was firm and final as it broke the silence of his inner musings.
"Eleanor..." He growled, his tone holding just enough of a warning to cause pause in her approach.
Frustrated and anxious, she huffed out a querulous breath. They didn't have time for this, the guard could be discovered at any moment. She needed to make him understand the folly in all of this. "It's a fool's errand." She hissed. "Your death will solve nothing. You imagine it will rouse the masses into some kind of galvanized insurgency, but it will not. Your end will strike fear and acceptance into the hearts of too many. They will watch you die, and with you the age of piracy, everything you stand for."
His brow furrowed, and she did not miss the look of consideration that had entered his eyes. She strove on, impassioned and inexplicably desperate to sway his perception. Her voice was low and forewarning, full of all the truth she could muster. "They will witness the end of an era in your demise, Charles... And it will not move them to resist the weight of England's chains. It will drive them to embrace it."
He was eying her now with undisguised tension and suspicion. He stood. Staring down at her, his voice was quiet and firm."And is that not exactly what you wish? Why tell me this? Why offer me my life now, after spending months trying to extinguish it?"
The candor of the question and the cautious tone in which he asked it, was like a knife to her gut. How could she explain her actions? How could she justify all she'd razed to get here, knowing it had likely all been for nothing? The truth was that she had been blinded by ambition, the promise of a world where she kept her kingdom through the legitimacy of the crown. But such a world did not exist. England had no intention of letting her keep anything, and certainly not of granting her any authority.
After all, she was but a woman, a criminal, the queen of thieves.
She had taken irrevocable steps to get here, committed unforgivable sins to reach an end that was never part of her design. Now alone, disenfranchised and contrite, she could think of little she would not do to take it all back. To simply return to that night and agree to his declaration of 'another day, another month, another year, a lifetime'.
But such fantasies were for children. Nothing she could do or say would change the past, she'd made her bed and now she had to lay in in. But if she could save Charles, perhaps that would be enough. Perhaps then she could still find some small measure of peace in the cage she'd built herself.
Her eyes met his, and she prayed he would believe her.
She swallowed, licked her dry lips, and spoke the only truth she could think to say without sounding a blubbering romantic. "Because Nassau is lost, and I fear she will remain so... " She didn't believe heartfelt apologies or excuses would move him after all she'd done. But she prayed the fate of Nassau would be enough to motivate him, to push him to accept what little she had left to offer him. "None of this is as I'd hoped...With this occupancy, she will gain legitimacy and a new governance," She lifted desperate her eyes to meet his heavy gaze. "but she will loose her heart..."
As I have...
The thought startled her, left her slightly shaken. She had believed Nassau to hold the largest piece of her soul, the only piece that truly mattered. Now, as she stood with his life in her hands, she was uncertain.
But she was not so foolish as to voice this thought. It was unlikely he would believe such an admission anyway, not all after she'd lain waste to. Instead she shoved down that inexorable little voice within, buried it among all the other whispers of doubt. Right now there were more important things to consider.
She stepped forward. Standing a mere foot before him, she could almost feel the heat of him. Steadying herself, she continued. "I expect no forgiveness, nor clemency. But I would have you know that I-"
He cut her off, turmoil and suspicion still evident in his features. "Save your breath, I've no use for excuses or apologies." He knew that even considering an apology must have cost her dearly. And though something pulled in his chest when the look of hurt crossed her eyes with his words, he did his best to ignore it.
She nodded, reluctantly accepting the bitter taste of that particular truth. The urge to try and justify her actions was still present, but she knew nothing she could say would make a difference.
A moment of silence passed between them, and the air was heavy with understanding and regret. Her heart ached. Things would never be the same between them.
She fought to keep her voice steady and firm when next she spoke. She would not appear weak, not even here. "There were meant to be guards posted in pairs throughout the tunnels, but due to the sickness that's spread among the men, there is a shortage of available bodies. It was decided that the entrances and exits to the tunnels could still be guarded, but that patrols would be spread thin and most men would be without a partner." She paused, trying to gauge his interest, but his expression remained guarded. She continued. "The southern tunnel should be mostly unguarded. It's only exit opens deep into the jungle. With any luck, you should be able to get through undetected. Without luck..." She shook her head. "There's a blade on the body I left in the alcove, I trust you can handle yourself."
He said nothing, only continued to stare at her as though trying to decipher some elusive coded puzzle.
Slowly, with great hesitation and a muted prayer, she made a final attempt to remove his chains. This time, he did not pull away.
She did her best to hide the rush of relief that flooded through her.
With an eerie and quiet stillness, he allowed her to slide the key into the chamber and unclasp the irons. He watched her closely as the first manacle clattered to the floor and she moved to unhinge the second.
The moment he was free of both restraints, he was upon her.
She made a startled sound as his right hand grabbed her throat and his left fisted in her hair at the base of her skull. The grip on her throat was just enough to make breathing arduous, but not quite impossible. With a tug on her hair, he angled her chin up so he could see her eyes. With brow knit and lips tight, he studied the plains of her face as though they were a map to some immeasurable fortune.
His gaze seared sharply into her own and she wondered if this was how she would meet her end. For if she looked just hard enough, she was almost certain she could find her death in those brilliant cerulean blues. That in it's self, was not a vision entirely unexpected. He had made a promise to settle accounts, and she'd never doubted his ability to carry through on that threat. But what did take her by surprise, was that a part of her welcomed such a fate. She had no true wish to die, but conceded that if her time was to expire, she would prefer it be by his hand.
It was not as if she didn't owe him as much.
The heat of his focus was blistering, his eyes still searching for some invisible truth in her face. He looked both pained and furious, torn. She found herself wishing he would simply make a choice so she'd no longer have to bare the weight of that distressed expression.
"We are far from even...You're still a traitorous cunt..." He finally growled. There was a short pause in which he looked almost uncertain. "But today you leave here with your life..." He released her with a startling abruptness that had her stumbling backward. "Should we meet again, I cannot promise as much. "
He turned from her then, stalking from the cell and down the hall out of sight.
Her hands fisted. She fought to keep her breath even, to hold the well of conflicting emotion at bay. It was done. He was free. His death might yet still be nigh, but it would not be dealt by her hand.
She knew all too well, that every action had a price, a debt to be paid in full. Tonight she'd arranged his freedom, cheated death and all but asseverated a war within Nassau. The cost of which would be no small sum. It was likely that her actions had just secured her place among the very gallows from which she'd spared Charles.
Though if at all possible, that was a fate she intended to sidestep. She still had tools at her disposal, and adequate means of putting them to use.
She had never been one to take anything lying down. Whatever followed would simply have to be met with caution and shrewd vigilance, a bearing she was intimately familiar with.