~~~~~~~
Chapter 1
The Boy
~~~~~~

The day that Edward becomes a pirate dawns still and hot. The sun has changed from a smug orange ball balancing on the horizon to an angry white fist, sending light dancing across the sea and stinging his eyes. Behind him and to his left, the thumb of land that is the only home he's ever known slips slowly away as the toothless man called Ox pulls at the oars of the dinghy.

They are heading toward the spit, a scrub of pebbly beach outside the bay and the breakers, only appearing at low tide and at even a high tide can splinter the hulls of unwary ships. It is a place for smugglers and thieves and gamblers and pirates. He's taken …the dead man out here more than once. The first time to be a man, if a man meant that he sat nearby and watched the bastard drink and laugh and spend precious money. He had told Mother about it once and she had said nothing, but her lips had thinned. The next day with a slight limp and a bruised cheek she had said that it was between his father and god.

Like god gave a shit about anyone. Like father gave a shit about anyone. Edward digs his fingers against the legs of his breeches, scoring the skin underneath, feeling the crease of his palms ache. The pain helps him focus. The pain keeps the blackness from welling up in his throat and overcoming him.

He shifts his cramped legs, stuffed as he is in the stern of the dinghy, crowded in by rope and supplies and lets his head fall back to stare at the deep blue sky. Of the men that are taking him, he only knows Ox— but they don't really matter. They are not pirates themselves, but brokers, movers of people, they say and Edward will mean a cut for them. A small cut but enough to keep living on for a few days.

It means he's next to nothing.

Worthless.

A part of him still wants to say fuck it. To jump in the cold briny water and swim back home— and apologize to Mother. That part of him wants to pretend to be the good boy again. The one that carries shit for the wealthy people — who knows his place and is content in it. But the scars of the rope still cut across his palms and the bloated corpse picked over by crabs and fish will be buried today before it starts to stink. He can't go back, he thinks looking at his bruised knuckles.

If he goes back Mother will know. If not now, soon. Even if never the rumors which have already spread will keep spreading, darkening the corners of the town — and when it reached the ears of the landed, Mother would be let go. She'd have nothing left. Not even a reputation. All because of him.

Better to think he'd run away to sea or maybe even died.

So he can't go back.

There is no back.

There is only forward.

Only ahead.

He has to prove himself somehow.

"Lad, look," says the swarthy man in friendly tones. Edward looks around the bulk of the Ox to the direction swarthy man is pointing. There just beyond the spit is a ship. It seems both huge and small sitting there in the azure water, sails pulled up against the yardarms. There is no flag flying but he knows it will be black.

"The Marianne. We've crewed, how many people for her?"

"Two," says the Ox. "One of them got stabbed through the eye with a fork before they even left port."

"Well that wasn't our fault was it. And if you're lucky and not a complete shit for brains, you might get a chance at joining up."

"Aye, but don't expect to live long even if you leave port in one piece," says the third man. "Cappin' Hornigold goes through men like paper. Boys don't stand a chance."

"But it's the first mate you have to look after. I'd give my right eye not to have to deal with the rabbit," says the Ox, shuddering. "Here, you take over now." He tells the swarthy man.

"Oh come on, we're almost there."

"I don't care if we're almost there, I'm sick of rowin' this sack of nothin' and my balls hurt."

Edward snickers and then yelps as the man smacks him upside the head hard enough to make his ears ring. He will stab him in the balls if they meet again after this, he decides. He will peel them like rotten plums. He rubs the side of his head and watches as the swarthy man sighs and prepares to move. The steady pull of the boat is stopped as they rearrange themselves.

It gives Ed an unexpected stab of envy, though he can't think of why.

"What's wrong with the rabbit?" says Edward as the rowing begins again.

"The rabbit is-" says the third man but Ox nudges him in the side and the third man abruptly smiles showing yellow teeth. "As wonderful a man as you'll ever see. You should ask him about his nose."

"After you're on the open sea," says the swarthy man.

Edward rolls his eyes and tips his head to watch the strand grow nearer and nearer. There are so many people on it in the daylight. Casks are being loaded into longboats to be taken to the ship or being rolled out. Seagulls wheel, screaming into the warming air. Something in Edward's gut clenches. He wants it to be excitement but it isn't.

By the time they get to the pebbly beach, his guts are twisting in on themselves like snakes. Everyone is so much taller, looming. Here they are playing cards, there, toiling under the sun stripped to the waist. Further on there is a fight and Edward watches the flash of fists and knives with sick interest. He thinks he sees his father in the crowd and his heart nearly starts out of his ribs, but it's not him.

It won't be him. It can't be him. He is putrefying in the ground by now. A hand on his shoulder makes him start and he grips the knife at his waist, but is is just the swarthy man who doesn't seem to notice.

"Now then, laddie buck," says the swarthy man, and steering him forward. The pebbles crunch under his thin shoes and he grips his rucksack with a damp palm. "We're lucky that Hornigold is looking for men today. The life is hard and the work is shit but you get your share of grog and eventually a share of loot, if you don't die that is."

There is a short bedraggled line of men standing just outside a patched tent pavilion. In the shade, a man has a large ledger open on a rickety table. All the men are head and shoulders taller than him and the one just in front is seething with muscle and tattoos. There are anchors and waves and a star and a topless mermaid lovingly detailed. Edward stares at the puckered nipples, wondering what Mother would think of that.

It was probably between him and god, Edward thinks sourly, looking past the men to the shadow of the pavilion. The man sitting at the table is slender in a doughy way and every time he moves, something glints on his face. Beyond him, further in the shadows, is another man, hard to see from where he is blinded a little by the sun. A curl of smoke drifts through the air which is cool but also feels dangerous, like stepping into the lair of a dragon.

One by one the men in front of him leave with either straight shoulders or slumped. It is almost Ed's turn and he wants to run. The fight is starting to come nearer no and he watches the flash of the knife and the stripe of blood that slicks the top of a man's ear right off. He howls and the blood flashes like rubies in the sunlight.

"Big arms," says the ledger man. "We'll need you for the cannons. Mark here." The muscle bound man does. "Good. Take the next skiff, we sail with the tide. Next."

Edward swallows and the swarthy man practically hauls him forward. The ledger man looks up. No, the rabbit man maybe. He has a thin face like a rabbit and a sharp jaw, his skin pale and his eyes red and bloodshot. His nose is metal and strapped to his face. It looks like gold and Edward feels an odd compulsion to touch it.

But the man just beyond him is more interesting still, now that Edward can see him. He's heavy set, roped with muscle and scarred like any dock worker, but he's dressed like a rich man. Rings flash on his fingers as they hold the bowl of an ivory pipe. There is nothing at all soft about him and his eyes are like stones. That is a man, Edward thinks, feeling an odd thrill go up his spine. That is someone to be.

"Not surprised you bring me shit," says the rabbit man and Edward blinks, looking back at him. "What do you call this?"

"I know he is small," says the swarthy man. "But full of muscle. And he'll grow up even stronger and as loyal as a tit on a cow. Isn't that right, lad?"

"Loyalty." The rabbit snorts. "He'll be loyal or he'll be cleaning barnacles with his back. Anyway, we've already got a boy."

"Yes but this is a special boy. Tell him what you can do." The swarthy man nudges him. Edward opens his mouth and shuts it again. He has no idea what to say, or even what to lie about. He knows the streets of the town he grew up in, he can carry buckets of shit and piss from the wealthy houses to the tanner yard, he knows the shoals of the little bay outside of their home.

"God almighty," the rabbit groans. "Can you sail?"

"I can row."

"So can anyone with a pair of arms. Can you cook? Mend? Set a bone? Chart the stars?"

He's not sure whether to lie about that or not. But he has to say something. Already the quiet man is looking away, hissing out smoke through his teeth. The swarthy man's grip on his shoulder is painful and he's sure at any moment the man will whip him around and slap him like a child. Worse, if he doesn't get this, he'll have nowhere go except to go back and he can't do that.

"Tell me why, then, I should put you aboard."

Edward, desperate, says the first thing that comes to mind.

"I can fight!"

"Can you kill?"

Edward remembers the buck of the ropes in his hands, hears the gurgling, feels the resistance of flesh, watches him twisting back and forth, fighting to live— and then slumping forward impossibly heavy and sodden with rain. He was gone as simple as that and Edward felt nothing but a horrible scraping inside his belly.

"Listen, you little shit, stop wasting my time," the rabbit man snaps, slapping his palm on the ledger. "Unless you can prove you have the balls to do something worth a damn, then go home to your stupid. mewling. mother."

Edward stabs him through the hand. He doesn't even realize fully he's doing it until it's done. The knife sinks through flesh and muscle and between ridges of bone to the pages beneath.

"Is this good enough?" Edward finds himself snarling and when the rabbit man tries to grab at him again, twists the knife so that the man cries out, sharp and harsh, then snarls at him, eyes glittering with rage. This is power too, dark and thrilling and he'd stab his hand again. "Or should I take your stupid nose too."

He leans forward and the man's other hand comes up fast as lightning. Edward has no time to move and black shoots across his vision as his head hits the table, the edge of it slamming into sis stomach so hard his breath leaves in a great rush. He struggles, blind and starved for air, heart pounding, knowing if he doesn't move he's fucked. He's absolutely fucked.

A hand grips his hair, nearly pulling it out by the roots and he feels a blood slicked blade against his throat. He stops struggling and swallows hard. Oh fuck. Oh fuck he doesn't want to die. Maybe he can apologize. Maybe he can-

"You think you're good? You think you've got all the answers? You're nothing, you hear me? Nothing but a grimy little stain on your mother's dress," says the rabbit.

"Fuck you! Fuck you! I'll kill you, you shit faced bastard!" He pushes off the ground, driving the table back right into the rabbit. The man grunts but doesn't release him and the knife digs deeper.

"Say your prayers."

"Die!" Edward screams. The knife pricks under his skin.

"Enough." The voice is cool and cold.

"Enough?" snaps the rabbit. "Captain-"

"Was I not clear?" the voice hasn't changed at all, but Edward can feel the threat of it over his skin. Rabbit lets him go and he scrambles upward, thinking to lunge for the knife and bury it in the man's throat, but he finds a pistol pointed at his head from the man in the shadows who hasn't done anything more than raise his arm.

Edward raises his hands to show he won't attack.

Not right now anyway. Not right yet.

"You wish to join my crew?" says the captain and Edward nods.

"Yes, sir."

"Harvey here won't go easy on you. He might even kill you."

"Not if I kill him first, sir."

"You stupid little bastard," the rabbit snarls.

"What's your name, boy?" says the captain.

"Edward Teach."

"Well then, Edward Teach…" The captain rises and, with a simple wave of his hand, the rabbit steps away from the ledger, scowling and dark. Captain Hornigold turns the ledger around with a single hand and holds the quill to Edward.

"Make your mark." The page is soaked with blood. Edward dips the quill tip in it and makes a careful X at the bottom of the page.

"To the skiff then," says the captain, and closes the ledger. "We sail with the tide… And Edward," the captain says just as he turns. "If you cause problems on my ship, I will feed you to the rabbit myself; piece by piece."

"I understand, sir," he says to the captain. Then he turns away and heads back out into the billowing sunshine.

The rabbit will get what's coming to him. Edward will make sure of that. His throat itches with a trail of cooling blood and a cut on his head means he has some coming down his forehead too where it must have gotten cut on something. It doesn't matter. For right now… Edward stares at the shadow of the ship…

He'd be a fool to turn back, he tells himself, after he's come this far. So he takes a deep breath of salt air and makes his way to the sea.

xxxxx

In a short time, he is once more stuffed in the bottom of a boat between casks and lengths of rope. His head aches and the sun is hot and high, but the breeze over the water curls over the side of the skiff and ruffles his hair. The skiff is a large one, large enough so two men have to row it. The one at the prow is a thin redheaded man with sun burnt skin and black teeth who keeps chewing and spitting something over the side. The muscle bound tattooed man is in the middle, so close Edward could touch him with his foot if there weren't bundles in the way.

For all his muscle, the skin of his face is sucked close to the bone and Edward can see the line of veins on his temple. He has a knot of thick brown hair at the top of his head and a thick brown mustache that looks like a caterpillar. Most interesting though are the tattoos that shadow his skin. Aside from the mermaid there are so many more in the front. There rocks and birds and a light house, bleeding hearts and something that looks like a storm cloud with a face. There are curls like sea foam and a large bottle with a delicate seashell inside and a crab on the back of one hand. The most impressive of all is the woman tattooed on his nearly bare chest. It's like Virgin Mary. Her robes are blue and there is a rose and gold halo around her head and her expression is solemn. But she is dark skinned and her eyes are black and two thick braids run down her shoulders. Her hand is also outward instead of pressing against her chest, and in the bowl of it is a tiny bird. The best part is the glowing heart in the center of her chest, red like the scrap of silk he keeps close to his own.

"W-w-what are you st-staring at?" the tattooed man growls. His large hands can't leave the oars so Edward doesn't flinch.

"I like your tattoos."

The man's scowl morphs into a slow smile.

"Th-thanks, m-mate. It's th-the sea b-beast right? She's n-new."

"Sea beast?"

"Aye." He rolls his shoulder and Edward spots it near the lighthouse. It's a fish from a nightmare, all large head and staring eyes and huge splintered fangs with a strange light coming out of its head. The colors are brighter here than elsewhere and Edward wants to prod it.

"What is it?"

"D-dunno. P-pulled it up near P-port au P-prince."

"Less talk, more row," says the black toothed man behind with a high thin vinegar voice.

"What about her?" Edward presses a hand to his chest.

"I said shut up!" says the vinegar man. "Jaysus, it hurts just to listen to ya.

The tattooed man flushes which is stranger to see than mermaid tits or sea monsters. He could strangle vinegar with his bare hands, but instead he ducks his head and looks away. Edward wishes the man were braver, because he can ask more questions and they are drawing nearer the ship, the great shadow of it casting over the water. It's wood crusted with barnacles.

He's never been on a ship this size though it's smaller than ones that have docked in the harbor. He's watched them drift on the line of the horizon with sails like clouds and has day-dreamed so many times about hopping on one drifting away with it. Sometimes in those day-dreams he is a boy, sometimes he's a man and sometimes, when he let his fancies fly, Mother is with him, skirts tugged by sea breezes, Father left far behind. He'd told her this once and she'd shaken her head and said: we were not born for the sea.

And maybe she's right because when they pull up beside the great vessel, Edward feels nothing but nerves. There is a ladder hanging over the side of wood and rope and he is nearest it. For the moment, all he can do is stare.

"Get up there, ya useless sack o' piss," says the vinegar man. "Or we'll lea' ya for the fishes."

Edward stands on the skiff and gropes for the ladder, stumbling and nearly falling at an unexpected swell.

"Jaysus jumpin Christ," says the vinegar man and Edward's face runs hot. He takes a second try for the ladder, gets a splintery wooden rung, then, holding his breath, begins to climb. It takes all his effort to keep going as the ladder isn't stable either. It shifts with the rocking of the boat and Edward clings to it as best he can. On one rung his foot slips on something damp but he saves himself in time, even if he bangs his knee on the solid hull.

Ignoring the pain, he pushes and climbs until suddenly— he is in a different world.

The deck is wide and the masts are strong but scarred here and there. The grate has been pulled away from the hold and men are moving goods toward it so that it can be lowered below decks. There are other men too in the rigging and on the yardarms, preparing to sail and a solitary figure on the quarter-deck, peering through a copper spy glass. There's a creaking sound right over his head and he twists his neck to peer upward.

A boy staring at him through the rigging. The sight of him sends a weird shock down Edward's spine. They are not the same age, the rigging boy being a little older but not old enough to have any fuzz on his lip or chin. His face looks old though and his eyes as he stares at Edward through a fall of sandy brown hair look hard and curious.

"Up here, dog!" someone snaps, and the boy looks up, and after one backward glance, scurries up the rigging like a spider. Edward grips the nearest rope, thinking to lean back and watch, only to have another shock go through him when the rough fibers rub against his palm. He can taste the storm, feel the rain, hear the creaking gurgle of death.

Edward snatches his hand away and buries both in his pockets, tries to chase away the memories.

This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. He can't sail or cook or mend or do anything useful. He can't even hold onto a fucking rigging. He should leave now before they decide to kill him.

And then what?

And then where?

The ship suddenly feels like a cage. Like a cocoon. Hard and stifling all at once. He has to do it. That's all. Until he finds something better or dies like the miserable shit he is, as Father would say, had said, would never say again.

There is a heavy grunt beside him as the tattooed man heaves himself on deck and huffs.

"Di-dios, hate the c-climb."

"Though I told ya not ta talk, ya walkin' boil." The vinegar man says, and smacks the tattooed man hard upside the ear. The sound is loud and carrying and Edward jolts. The vinegar man glowers at him and snaps out his hand. Edward grabs for his knife but realizes it isn't there too late and back of the man's hand smashes into his jaw, sending him falling on a pile of sacks almost full to bursting with grain. Before he can even blink the spots from his eyes, the vinegar man has tugged him to his feet, fingers knotted at his throat, choking the air from him.

"And ya can keep the daggers in your eyes from me, piss bucket," the vinegar man spits. "I won't be so hard ta stab."

He's thrown back hard, catching himself on his elbow which flushes a tingles all the way down his arm. The tattooed man looks on impassively as he struggles back to his feet, sullen and aching.

"Now then, cunts," says the vinegar man. "Move this shite the hold and be quick about it! Tide comes and it's not done I'll tie yer ass ta yer armpits and drop ya over the side!" With that he stalks away, swaggers away. Edward hopes he trips and breaks all his stupid teeth.

"S-shouldn't have d-done that, p-primo," says the tattooed man.

"Edward," Edward croaks, trying to shake some life back into his hand.

"Edw… w…w…w…"

Edward feels a sudden kinship with the vinegar man and hates it. His ears blister in embarrassment as the man tries to force it out and if anyone hears it they might hit him again to shut him up. Might do worse to them both and Edward hates himself for being afraid of that finds himself saying.

"You can call me Ed."

"Fuck you. Ed-w- w-ward!" The man lets out a heavy pleased breath through his nose. "Paolo." Then he turns back to the grain sacks.
"P-Paulo. Le-let's do wh-what that c-cabron wants. Sl-slide and st-stoop but li-li-lift with your knees n-not your b-back."

Edward is caught between wanting to do the work and wanting to dump the grain sacks over the side to spite the bastard. He'll definitely be killed if he does that though and instead stands back and watches Paulo pull two full grain sacks and fling them over his shoulder. Edward grabs one by the ends and is surprised how heavy it is. He struggles to get it onto his shoulder and nearly tips over. Paulo watches him with mild curiosity and Edward is glad he doesn't help. Even so he can feel the weight of it in his knees.

"Why do you let him do that to you" Edward asks as they make their way toward the hold.

Paulo snickers.

"S-should I have s-stabbed him in the h-hand?"

"I would have stabbed him in the ear," Edward mutters, but he is both surprised and pleased people know about this already.

"Only i-diots think of v-v-v-violence the fi-first thing and i-idiots are the f-first to d-die. M-me? I'm a bi-big f-fucker. If I go ca-cajones to the w-wall f-first th-thing, the c-captain will s-see me as a th-threat and I'll g-go in the d-drink. O-or I get st-stabbed in the d-dark."

He shakes his head and drops his heavy bags at the yawning black edge of the hold. There is another few rope ladders here, leading down to the dark, and shuffling noises and shifting shadows.

Edward looks away and follows Paulo back portside.

"So you're just going to do bend over and let them do whatever they want?" The thought makes his guts squirm.

"F-for n-now. B-but if I p-play it s-smart," he taps the side of his nose. "B-bide my t-time. G-gain t-trust…" He grins hard and feral. "Gi-ginger piss w-will get w-what's c-coming to him."

"I'd pay to see that." Already he can hear the vinegar man berating someone on the other side of the ship, his voice carrying with the stirring breeze. He doesn't know if Paulo will or if he's just bullshitting him. But a part of him wants to see those big meaty hands wrap around the vinegar man's thin throat and squeeze until his eyes bug out.

He banishes the thought by grabbing another bag of heavy grain and hauling it onto his shoulder.

"Y-you'll get it f-for f-free," says Paulo with a chuckle. "N-now y-you? Y-you ha-have to ei-either live to li-ve lo-long e-enough to be-become a b-big f-fucker or m-make fr-friends. Yo-you've a-a-already p-pissed off the r-rabbit."

"Yeah… That was great…" He can't help but grin. It had felt great and he'd do it again if he had to without a problem. Paulo smacks him so hard across the back of the head it makes his ears ring and he nearly falls. It takes a moment of struggle just to not drop his load.

"Ow! Shit!" Only the heavy bag stops him from doing something stupid.

"S-stupid, f-fucker," says Paulo without heat. "Y-you'll regret it. R-rabbit w-will make y-your life h-hell." The meaty hand clamps on Edward's free shoulder and squeezes hard. He grits his teeth and tries not to wince.

"Y-you're a t-tiny f-fucker. So k-keep your he-head down. L-listen to orders, and t-take it li-like the l-last whore in P-Port R-Royal or you'll be d-dead in a w-w-week."

Paulo lets him go so that he stumbles. Edward shakes his head and stops himself from spitting on the man's feet, not wanting to end up broken at the bottom of the hold. Mother would say things like that too. Don't provoke him, Ed' she would say. 'I know it's hard, but be still, be silent, it will all be over soon.'

Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, he never knew when it would or wouldn't and it didn't matter in the end. The storm would come whether Edward was good or not, whether they had good food or not, whether Father had apologized the day before or would sob one the day after— sometimes with his hands around her throat.

Still, a part of Edward knows that Paulo is right. He remembers the struggle. The fight. His arms had been sore after. That was one man. Not a whole ship. And these men had hard eyes that had seen death and blood. Knives and pistols flashed at their sides. He wouldn't stand a chance.

So that means he'll just take it all then? That it will be just like home? Or worse? He comes to the hold stares into the dark. At the writhing shadows. It's because he hasn't slept that they seem to bend and twist and grope for the light. Ghosts aren't real, he tells himself. Father is a fucking corpse.

But that's not going to matter here…

Except…it will matter for Mother… won't it? She won't have to deal with this. Edward can swallow a little darkness if it means she's happy. He just has to think—

"Aw, shit! You're gonna die!"

Edward jumps at the sudden voice and flails back just as hands shove him forward. He falls forward, dropping the bag into the abyss where it hits the floor hard and bursts open. Only sheer luck keeps him from going into the abyss himself and he end up with knees and elbows badly bruised on the deck, his heart in his throat.

"What the fuck?" a man snarls from below and laughter erupts behind him, one of the voices wild and shrill. Edward pushes himself to his feet and turns, glowering. The other boy is there, dirty bare feet on the deck. He's taller than Edward thought and his hands are big and sharp knuckled.

The boy holds them up defensively, a leer still scrawled on his face.

"Hey, don't be mad at me, Princess. It was just a joke. And you didn't die, did you?" The boy's expression hardens. "I'd turn those murder eyes away if I were you."

Paulo nods at him from over the boy's shoulder, taps the side of his nose. Because there are other men too, Edward notices, hanging from the rigging like birds or leaning against the mast, watching with expectant grins for what's going to happen next.

He wants to punch the boy in the face. His hands are trembling in fists at his sides and he looks down at the deck to that he won't. Shame helps a little. It softens the black thing. Turns it inward. He can't be stupid about this.

"That's it, princess," the boy coos. "It's good you know where you belong." He pats Edward's bruised cheek hard. "Now why don't you tell daddy how sorry you are for bein' a dick."

Edward nearly punches him in the throat. He wants to stab him in the throat. To peel his skin away from his face like he's a fucking grape. Even just to punch him will be enough but if Edward starts he knows he won't stop until the boy's skull cracks and his brains spill over the deck.

"Alright you sons of bitches!" a sharp bellow coming out of the hold startles the anger out him and he pivots to face it just as a rangy man with a missing eye and teeth filed to sharp points hauls himself half out of it.

"Hey, Saladin," says the boy and Edward notices how he slides back and men on the rigging and at the mast find something better to do.

"Which of you sniveling fuckers broke open a whole bag of buckwheat in my nice clean hold?!"

And suddenly the clouds cleared in his mind and he could see the sun on the wide open sea.

"That one," Edward says, jerking his thumb at the boy.

"What?" the boy's voice cracks in a shriek which is the most beautiful sound Edward has ever heard. "You shit!" The boy's face goes white than red than white again. "I swear, Sal, I didn't-"

"JACK!"

Edward steps out of the way, watching the boy called Jack bolt toward the rigging as Saladin whips after him fast as an eel. Jack makes a flying leap but Saladin grabs him by the ankle and yanks him back so that he slams hard into the deck, hitting the railing on the way down.

"I am so sick of your shit!" Saladin says, dragging the stupid bastard back to the hold. "Well you're going to pay for it this time. You're going to pick up every fucking grain with your teeth!"

"I didn't do it!" Jack screams, clawing at the deck. His face is a mess of blood from his nose and split lip. "I didn't do it. Christ! I swear!" He catches sight of Edward and his lips pull back from his teeth. "I'll kill you! You hear me? I'll kill you, motherfucker—" the last ends in a shriek as he's all but pitched into the hold.

Edward is tempted to spit after him but doesn't want to tempt fate and turns back portside, feeling refreshed. Paulo shakes his head, looking glum.

"D-don't say I d-didn't warn y-you." And then his face breaks into a grin. "Th-that was f-funny as shit, th-though."

Edward laughs, maybe it's a bit too wild and strained and cracked around the edges but it feels good. It feels so fucking good. And then he nearly bites his tongue as the vinegar man charges up and slaps him on the ear.

"Stop laughing and get back ta work! Did ya think I was kiddin'? Move!"

"Yes, sir," Edward murmurs, finding it surprisingly easy to say. Paulo winks at him and Edward grins. He can do this.

xxxxx

He can do it, but it won't be easy, Edward thinks.

It is only midday and he has seen enough ships and heard enough stories to know that they will be working until the sun is on the horizon and this time of year that's going to take forever.

Every part of him aches. His back hurts and his arms. It had gotten so hot working that he'd stripped to the waist and the rough heavy sacking had burned along his shoulders while the sun had burned everything else. His head aches and his legs feel like water and his throat is raw and eyes burn from the long time awake and the hard work. He longs to climb into one of the covered skiffs that have been hauled up on deck and secured and nap. But he can't because the tide is turning.

Edward tries not to think about that as he sits, back braced against the wall of the ship as he nibbles on soft bread and sips warm rum which gives his head a pleasant fuzz and makes the hurts hurt less. That he'd better enjoy, Paulo had told him. Because soon it would be hard tack and grog and dried fish. At least until they reach another port in a week's time or find something interesting along the way.

A week seems like a dream. It feels like he'll fall asleep an wake up in his own bed. He gulps down rum to chase the gray away and make the warmth come back.

"Ch-chin up, pr-primo," says Paulo, patting his head and Edward only winces a little at the movement of his hand. It's an odd feeling, to sit so close to someone not his mother and not be afraid. Edward can lean against him easily and maybe even fall asleep.

But he doesn't want to sleep out in the open because Paulo won't stop anyone from fucking with him either, he has a feeling. And there are plenty of people who want to. He can see Jack on the other side of the ship, scowling at him eyes blackened as he sharpens something with his knife. It's a threat and Edward wishes he had his own knife back.

There's vinegar piss man too who is called Mad Eddie, which makes him an even worse bastard in Edward's eyes. Also called the bastard Boatswain, he makes everyone he can thrash do what he wants or get thrashed in turn. But at least he doesn't want to kill Edward yet.

A low shrill whistle sounds close by the ship. The men on deck get to their feet, others climb down from the rigging and even Saladin pulls himself from the hold to stand in front of it like bracing for battle.

"Be-better get up, t-too," Paulo says.

"Why?"

The big man shrugs and Edward stuffs the rest of the bread into his mouth before slowly getting to his feet, his head spinning. One of the men unrolls the ladder and a moment later, Captain Hornigold climbs on deck. As soon as his boots touch the boards a wind picks up brisk from the west, curling around his coat tails and stirring his iron gray hair.

The men say nothing as he slowly makes his way to the quarterdeck. There's a grunt and a curse from the side of the ship and soon the rabbit appears too, looking florid and angry. It doesn't take long to find out why he's called the rabbit. One of his legs is shriveled and bent below the knee, foot pointing in the complete opposite direction almost. He uses a single crutch to walk and every step involves a little hop.

Edward notices it's the bandaged hand that grips the crutch and feels a little bad about it. Except then he notices his knife at the man's belt and doesn't feel that bad at all. That's his knife, damnit! He needs it.

Captain Hornigold seems to notice this and slows to a stop, seeming to give Edward an appraising eye. Edward appraises him back and can't help but be impressed. He looks just like any other man but there's something about him that speaks of strong currents and hidden depths.

"Well, Teach," he says in his calm deep voice. "How do you find your crew?"

Beside him, Paulo stiffens. Edward tries to think of a good answer and then shrugs and replies:

"They're alright."

Behind him, the rabbit snarls something unintelligible. The captain snorts a laugh though and continues on his way.

"Oh, y-you're f-fucked," says Paulo and Edward notices he's edging away. Edward wonders why until he sees he's the center of attention. Nearly every eye is on him and none of them are happy.

If he bows his head they will tear him apart like dogs, so he raises his chin instead. They look like they want to try it now, but the low whistle fills the air once more and their attention turns.

"Men." Captain Hornigold sets his hands on the railing. "We sail."

All at once the ship bursts to life. Edward steps out of the way as men leap onto the rigging, nimble and light as if they can fly and Mad Eddie starts screaming at stupid bastards to weigh anchor. Edward steps out of the way, nervous anticipation building in his stomach.

This is it. Sink or swim. He can go back. He should go back. Everyone wants to kill him and he is better trying his luck a beggar on some strange street…

And then the sails are loosed and billow bright and white against the blue sky, soon round and pregnant with wind and the ship moves, slow but picking up speed. Edward runs to the prow hopping up on the narrow spindle to see watch the hull slide through the water, frothing up white, but just a little in the bay— but soon, the sea- beyond that, straight ahead, the horizon—all sea and cloud and sky.

Edward can see nothing else.