A/N: Do feel free to point out typos if you find them! I proofread carefully but sometimes they're sneaky and I'm blind, apparently. Next chapter will probably be longer; I'd love input on the subject but as of now I'm aiming for somewhere between 5-6 pages in Word. Except for this one. Because reasons. Thanks for reading!


A firefight was to be expected when hunting Spanish merchants. However, sometimes a pirate could get lucky and sink the escorts in such glorious fashion as to, shall we say, convince the schooner to surrender before such harm were to be visited upon it as well. That luck was nowhere in sight. The moon had risen fully, silver light illuminating the shipwrecks and survivors flailing for purchase on bits of shattered wood. With the island within reach, there was hope for survival...if they made it there before the sharks. Edward had no time to think about it, however, as the Tigre was still in fighting shape, though they'd exchanged blows with the second frigate. Courtesy of the mortars and an excellently timed round of cannon fire, she labored in the water, the damage to her sides obvious from where he stood at the helm. Chain shot whistled, slicing through the air end-over-end to connect squarely with the frigate's mast, disabling it permanently. Men shouted and cried out, scrambling over one another to avoid being crushed beneath the toppling wood.

"Ease off!" Ade barked. The Jackdaw slowed. Repairs would be necessary. Both of the human and ship kind. But first… Heavy shot cracked, the sound echoing over water disturbed only by the war frothing her surface. The Tigre's captain was no fool. He'd gotten off no less than two direct blows of his own, letting the other three vessels chip away at the heavily reinforced Jackdaw, knowing they'd more than likely be the last to be dealt with since they held the valuables. The ships came at each other head on, each trying to minimize damage to themselves whilst attempting to inflict the maximum on their opponent with the forward cannons and heavy shot. Edward was having far more luck with it, as evidenced by the bursts of splinters and occasional scream. The closer they drew, the more nervous the crew of the frigate became. Their captain shouted an order and someone scrambled to the rail, a bag bearing the merchant's seal in his hand. Thought they could 'lighten their load,' did they? Fuck that. He had not just sunk the other ships and put an end to the Tigre in order to spend the next several hours fishing valuable out of the ocean. Relinquishing the helm to Ade, Edward yanked a pistol free of the holster, took aim, and fired just as the sailor reared back to hurl it overboard. He dropped in a lifeless heap, the goods he'd been meaning to discard landing square on top of him, blood spraying over the canvas sack.

"Prepare to board, lads!" Edward commanded, replacing the pistol and grinning across the space at the captain, who was staring at him open-mouthed in surprise. The look quickly faded, replaced by steely determination.

The time for exchanging cannon fire was done, thankfully, and a new sort of battle began near immediately as the Tigre's crew rallied, drawing weapons and guns of their own, ready to defend their ship no matter the cost. All who were able launched themselves to the frigate's deck and engaged the Spanish, cutlasses clanging and guns popping as each man fought for his life. Edward watched the captain a moment, noting the way his men looked to him for support and encouragement. There, then, was the key to ending the fight in short order. Scaling the rigging, he crept through smoke and around the sails, waiting for the opportunity to strike. It presented itself as the captain, letting out a roar not quite unlike the tiger his ship was named for, charged into the struggle.

Death came from above in a silent shadow as Edward dropped, the hidden blade responding smoothly and silently, though the noise wouldn't have much mattered. One moment the man was standing, brandishing his sword and driving his men to greater ferocity, and the next… the Pirate Captain rose from his crouch, smoke and gunpowder clinging to him as he moved, making him look almost as if he'd emerged from the haze of war itself. The shadow of his hood obscured all but the hint of a smile on his face. It was no Blackbeard's smoking beard, but it would have to do. Although the blood dripping from his blade to the deck was a nice touch if he did say so himself. The Tigre's crew surrendered near-immediately upon the realization their own captain had fallen, all hope of winning dashed, and were lowered into a boat just as quickly. He would have liked to press a few of them into service on the Jackdaw, knowing some of his own men were wounded, but with Elaina on board he knew plucking random sailors from the middle of the ocean wouldn't be the wisest idea he'd ever had. Taking stock of the situation, he waved on the members of his crew who'd come away with minor or no injuries. Morgan pushed his hair out of his face as he passed and jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Jackdaw.

"You're needed, Captain," he said. Edward tossed his hood back and gave the man a nod, leaping back to his own deck and noting the damage with a heavy dose of irritation. More than they ought to have taken. Couldn't be helped now. His attention was immediately drawn to Norris, however, and Mathison. The green-eyed man sat propped up against a barrel, his skin pale and damp with sweat. Blood steadily poured from the wound in his side and even from where Edward stood at the rail, he could tell a doomed man when he saw one. Sorrow lanced through his heart, sharp and quick. Losing one of his men was never easy. Especially when they stuck around long enough for goodbyes.

"Look 'ere, lad, you just 'old on," Norris said. He'd torn open the thin shirt the other pirate wore, baring the damage to the sea air, and Edward winced as he approached. Not a direct hit from a cannonball, no, but the splinters had torn him up just the same. Upon closer inspection he noted smaller pieces, still lodged in his shoulder and chest, tiny blood trails snaking down from each one. Kind thing to do would be to shoot him, not let him bleed to death, but he and Norris had struck up something of an odd friendship, and he knew there'd be no separating them now. At the rate he was losing blood, though, it wouldn't be long.

"Know I'm dyin'," he said as his Captain dropped to a knee beside him. Bits of bone showed through the vicious gouge a large chunk of wood had simply torn out of his body.

"Looks that way," Edward agreed gently.

"You gotta…" his slender chest shook with coughs, ragged wet gasps which hurt just to hear. Blood flecked his lips as he fought to speak. "Tell my sister," he said. "My…the money, I…for her." Ah. Edward sat back on his heels. Some of his men were pirates because they wanted to be. For themselves alone. But some had stories similar to his own. Some had once been privateers, and found themselves at the wrong end of the law when their captains decided the riches were too grand to be merely abandoned. With few opportunities for a decent living—sheep farms, anyone?—being a pirate at least brought in something for those back home, if you had them.

"We'll see to it, Mathison," he said, and Norris nodded his agreement. The ships rocked gently in the water and what sounded like rather expensive dinnerware clanged about as the goods were loaded onto the Jackdaw. Morgan returned to stand at Norris's side, and several more members of the crew joined the half-circle, bearing witness to the loss of one of their own. Pirates weren't so prone to sentiment as the common man, perhaps, but when there was time to stand still and say goodbye, it was afforded. Raul, short (and very blonde) hair wet with sea spray and exertion, ventured up with Hanson. Emilio, the best of them at manning the chain shot, put his crate down and joined them, too, until nearly half the crew stood around the dying man and their Captain.

Mathison didn't have to die. Did he? Could Elaina heal this kind of damage? Perhaps the better question was, could he ask her to? He himself had warned her not to reveal her talent to the crew. She was safer that way. He had the advantage of the Sense, and knowing just a little more about the world thanks to his time with the Assassins, however brief, and the hunt for the Observatory. These men did not. How would they react to someone who could heal with nothing more than a touch? As he considered the choices before him, knowing time to make a decision was dwindling, the cabin door opened. Spotting the ring of pirates and knowing immediately something wasn't right, Elaina started toward them. Hanson opened his mouth and received a sharp elbow in the ribs for his trouble, though from whom no one was entirely sure thanks to the close press of bodies and Hanson's size.

"Oh, Mathison," she said, catching sight of the man as Morgan shifted to the side to let her pass.

"Elaina," Edward began, not yet sure what he was going to tell her. Or ask of her.

"Let me help," she said, cutting him off. "I can help."

Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised. And yet, he was. They were pirates. Why would she volunteer and put herself at further risk to save one of them without even having to be asked? Meeting her eyes, the gray of them somehow brighter in the moonlight, he quickly gauged the amount of blood Mathison had already lost and gave her a curt nod.

"Give us room," he ordered.

Silence reigned for a long moment. The unspoken question hovered. What could she possibly do? "Is there nothing more to be taken from the Tigre, then?" he asked, his voice sharp. Ade stepped up behind him, folding his arms over his broad chest.

"You heard the Captain," he said. "Finish the job. Let the woman do hers." Exchanging unhappy looks with one another, the gathered crew began to disperse as Elaina knelt beside Edward, taking Mathison's cold hand in hers as she inspected the wound.

"You ever tried this before?" Edward asked, the question pitched low and for her ears only. The little gash on his arm was one thing. And hadn't she said she didn't have much practice? Norris, who hadn't moved despite the order, was watching them intently.

"No," she admitted quietly. "But I'm going to try." His survival would be a near thing as it was. Nerves prickled under her skin, but for once, her hands were steady. When it came to healing, they always were. Well. So long as that healing was on somebody else. Taking a deep breath and casting a nervous glance around deck, well aware of the eyes on them despite the grudgingly given distance from most of the men, she shut out the distractions and focused on the dying young man. Silver light came to life under her hands as if it were a piece of the moon itself, and Edward found himself watching her face rather than the wound as her eyes narrowed and she mouthed a curse to herself. Giving you trouble already? he wanted to ask, but dared not break her concentration. Silence smothered the ship in a silken veil, as if no noise could penetrate while she worked. In the back of his mind, he noticed Mathison's breathing was no longer so strained and clogged with his own blood. Still, the work was not yet done, and the minutes ticked by. She paled, and took a short breath of her own. Steadying her with one hand, he looked down at his unlucky crewmember, and blinked. If what she'd done was only 'trying,' he wondered what she was truly capable of. How could anyone view a talent like that as anything but beautiful?

"That's all I can do for now," she said. Norris stared at her, eyes wide.

"What are you?" he asked, looking between her face and Mathison's side. She found a sad, if somewhat wobbly, smile for him.

"I don't know," she said. She did know she had a god-awful headache.

"Ain't natural," someone growled. She didn't have to look up to know who.

"She saved him," Morgan responded, his voice flat. Hanson's reply didn't reach her ears.

"He might still die," she said, looking at what remained of the wound. The bleeding had stopped, the big gash closed over, though his skin was raw and angry, much like a burn would have been. Small injuries were simpler, a matter of coaxing the skin to knit itself back together rather than attempting to repair a wound where a piece of the man was, essentially, missing. The effort massively drained her energy, and she blinked, trying desperately to keep the world in focus. There were other splinters she hadn't even been able to look at. And if Mathison was wounded, he probably wasn't the only one. She could do more. In a moment. She just needed a moment. Edward pulled her to her feet, conscious of the fact she still hadn't fully healed from her own cut, and silenced the whispers with a hard stare.

"Take him below and get him comfortable," he said. Morgan crouched next to Norris, giving him a bump with his shoulder and jarring him out of his frozen state, and the two of them gathered the unconscious Mathison into their arms.

"He's not the only one hurt," Elaina said, looking up at him as if unaware she was practically swaying on her feet.

"We can handle the rest," he told her, giving Ade a meaningful glance over his shoulder as he began to guide her back to the cabin. "Nothing so serious as that." Luckily. His Quartermaster nodded in response and immediately began assessing the injuries among the rest of the crew, quieting the whispers and staring with the stony look on his face.

"But," she said.

"Stop that," he replied.

Once inside, he guided her back to the mattress and gave her a gentle push. She sat, and glared at him, though it was half-hearted.

"You have to quit doing that," she said.

"I will when I've a reason to," he told her. Knowing he needed to get back outside, to quell any uncertainty and get them all somewhere safe, he began to turn back to the door, and hesitated. "You saved his life."

"If he lives," she said. The pirate made an irritated sound in the back of his throat.

"Aye, if he lives," he repeated. "Why?"

"Why? What kind of question is that?" She pushed her hair out of her face and rubbed at her eyes. Was feeling like she'd run five miles through quicksand normal? Too bad there was nobody to ask. And she hadn't even finished the job.

"I didn't ask," he said as if that were explanation enough. Elaina gave him an exasperated stare. It might've had more effect if she hadn't also looked like she might fall asleep at any given moment.

"If I'd waited until you asked, he would be dead," she pointed out. "Besides. Wouldn't be right."
"Why not?"
"Because," she said around a yawn. "Then you'd feel responsible if something were to happen to me as a result of it." I already do, he thought resignedly. Whether or not it was her decision in the end. "And Mathison doesn't deserve to die. I'd be a coward to let him. Not a coward."

"No," he said on a sigh. She wasn't.

"And he hasn't learned to cook yet."

"What? You...what?" What had he said about not letting Mathison touch the Galley?!

"Oh, he hasn't come inside," she said, giving in to the fact he was likely to block any attempts she made to get up and flopping to her side, the twinging of her back hardly noticed thanks to the warm tendrils of exhaustion. "But he hovers. Watches. I think he thinks I don't notice. Lee likes him. Pretty sure I caught him explaining boiling water to Mathison the other day." And then scurrying away looking incredibly sheepish, the both of them.

"Do not let him burn down my ship," Edward said, and she smiled to herself. Was that a plaintive note in his voice?

"Aye aye, Captain," she said. He opened his mouth to say more, but when he glanced at her, she was already asleep, curled up in the sheets like she hadn't just been ready to argue with him a moment before. Muttering to himself about women and the way they tended to make no sense, he stalked from the cabin. He had men to glare at, loot to oversee, a certain frigate to sink for good, and repairs to make. Ah, yes, and they needed to sidle back around to Havana. Grand. Just grand. A full schedule. Temporary, he reminded himself. Now why wasn't that as much of a comfort as it had been before? All he needed to do now was gather information. Hopefully it'd be of a good sort, and he could dig up the nearest Assassin, hand Elaina over, and be on his way. And yet...he couldn't help but wonder why the thought irritated him so. Voodoo, that's what it was. Voodoo. Plain and simple.