Ed lies on his back on the galleon's topdeck and tries to feel nothing. It doesn't work.
No tears come, but that only means they are filling him up inside, like a hold slowly flooding until its weight drags the ship to the seabed.
It only means that Ed is drowning from the inside out.
He kissed Stede, once. Hardly at all. He had barely begun to kiss him.
He was not usually much for kissing. What was it for? Merely a signal. Like hoisting a flag. Kissing meant, ready for fucking. Or maybe, I'm pretending to be ready for fucking so I can cut your fucking head off.
Kissing Stede had not been like that. A new flag of some kind. Ed involuntarily pictures it, as he frequently does.
It had been... An urge. Yearning. An overwhelming desire to give, to tell, to insist that Stede know exactly how he felt. The opposite of piracy.
Nothing was required in return; in fact, Ed had expected nothing. Stede had been married, unhappily, and that generally made for even less affection than Ed was used to.
But of course this was Stede, not some alleyway sailor. And when Ed put his mouth to Stede's lips, Stede yielded, kissed Ed back, hesitantly, willingly, wonderingly.
Fuck, it was the wonder that gets Ed right in the guts. The sheer amazement that Ed would kiss him, the sheer fucking innocent delight. The wonder kills him.
"Even now," he mutters. "You can't let it go, you useless clamrag."
He stops at the kiss, as always, because everything beyond it is pain.
The kiss was the last good thing in his life. He ought to give it up, to grind his boot into it like a barmaid with a roach. He ought to make this memory no more than a blackened mess of legs and shell. He ought to be repelled by it.
He won't, though. He will return again and again to this memory until it is worn as thin as an old razor. Ed's arm around Stede's neck, his other hand caressing Stede's jaw ... Stede's hand creeping into his, and that feeling in Ed's belly like an unknown current, a wave from somewhere new, heading in a strange direction.
That current is still there. That is probably the worst part of all this. After all Stede did, Ed cannot hate him. He can't even try. Especially not now.
One kiss. That, apparently, is all it takes, to ruin you forever.
Ed sighs. Maybe today is the day forever would end. Or not. It doesn't matter. Not any more.
"Ed?" Frenchie's voice from the deck far below. It has been a while. Ed does not know what Izzy has done, or not done, with the captive sailors. "Ed, you all right? There's - something happening."
Ed sits. There are no ships visible except his own. But Frenchie's voice has an odd, strained note to it.
He picks up his pistol. His sword hangs ready at his side, but he isn't in the mood for blade play. Blowing trouble's ugly head off, that's the plan. "There'd better be something for me to shoot," he yells as he swings down through the rigging, to land neatly at Frenchie's feet.
"Er, there is," says Frenchie. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. "Sorry. Never saw them coming."
His hands are bound and so are Jim's. Izzy is in the process of being cornered by two unknown sailors. "Behind you!" croaks Izzy to Ed.
Ed whips round, hair flying, and comes face to face with a stranger.
The stranger is tall and slender, with calf-high boots and a black sash tied at his whip-taut waist. He has long blonde hair flowing down over his collar, and a wild, wavy beard which covers his throat like a golden cravat. His shirt - not linen, but silk, Ed notices - is tight and narrow at the wrists, and slashed open over the chest, revealing tanned skin and more honey-gold hair.
The man's eyes gleam through slits in the midnight-blue bandana tied around his head, hiding his face.
"Fuck me," breathes Ed. His hand drops to the hilt of his sword, but he doesn't really mean it.
"Do not move," commands the newcomer in a low, deadly voice. He draws a pistol and aims it at Ed's gut.
Smart move. Aim at the head and the gun will fire high, allowing Ed to charge and run the stranger through. Aim at the gut and the bullet will strike somewhere lethal - belly, heart, neck, skull.
"Your name, sir."
Ed snorts. "You know who I am."
"I am new in these parts. Your name!"
"Blackbeard," says Ed.
"Ah." The stranger cocks his head as if trying to recall. "I heard of you once."
"Right," says Ed, still fixated on the other man's delicate but strong fingers around the butt of the pistol.
"Or maybe I didn't. I hear so many fearsome names. It's all a bit of a blur." The stranger waves his free hand carelessly.
"Shall I kill him," says Izzy Hands, behind Ed. "He's just a useless poser - "
The golden-haired man lifts his weapon a few inches and Izzy's hair parts as a bullet whistles a gnat's-arse distance past his scalp. "Shut up or the next one goes through your heart," says the stranger pleasantly. He returns to his previous aim. He hasn't taken his eyes off Ed.
"Stand down Izzy," says Ed.
The stranger's men swarm forward and disarm Izzy and tie him up. Ed sees him out of the corner of his eye, knelt on the deck with a knife at his throat, snarling.
"Now," says the stranger, flinging a lock of his hair back from his collar. The pistol is pointed once more at Ed's softest parts. "This is my ship. Accept my captaincy or leave. Now."
"Captaincy? Who says that?"
"I do. You have one minute to decide."
"Ok. Let me think."
Ed relaxes back against the mast and looks around. The nearest men he doesn't know - scallies in striped shirts and bare feet. Harmless enough. "I dunno," he muses. "I like this ship."
"Then death it is," declares the stranger.
"That's not been a full minute. Thirty seconds at most. If I'm being generous." Ed scratches his beard.
"Fine. Thirty seconds to change your mind, and your fate."
Ed smiles. "What do you call yourself?" he asks, flicking some dirt from his fingernails. "Reckon I deserve a name."
"I suppose so." The man advances, pistol unwavering. He stops three feet from Ed and the pistol is almost touching Ed's nose. Ed doesn't move. If he tries to grab the gun now, chances are it will go off and blow his brains out. Or not. He has a strong sense that the man in the (Chinese watered silk) mask does nothing by accident.
Beside him, Izzy mutters and gets a kick for his trouble.
He never was a popular guy.
"My name," hisses the open-shirted pirate, so close to Ed that Ed can smell his floral perfume, "is my business. But I'm told people call me the Ghost."
"Not bad. Nice to meet you," says Ed. "I've decided now by the way."
"And?" The pistol's brass muzzle gives Ed's nose a little tap. That's a fucking deadly thing to do.
Ed glances down at it, momentarily cross-eyed, and back up at the stranger. "You can have the ship."
"Edward!" protests Izzy.
"Gag him," suggests Ed over his shoulder to the men subduing Izzy. "Or he'll harp on all night."
The golden-haired pirate gestures at his men to obey. "So, you surrender this vessel and are willing to work under my command?" His brown eyes gleam mercilessly at Ed from behind the mask.
"Yeah. Ok. Sounds good. I've been thinking of taking a step back from management, to be honest."
"Very well then." The man holsters the pistol and snaps his fingers. "Nails! Mooney! Secure the prisoner!"
He marches to the foredeck and stands, shirt billowing in the breeze, as Ed is surprisingly well restrained in ropes and a chain.
A chain! A compliment, or a sign that Blondie isn't as certain as he ought to be, that Ed will not escape. Interesting. Ed tucks that idea away for future consideration.
"Take him to my quarters," commands the Ghost imperiously. "And, ah, give him some rum. A captain retains his rank, even in defeat," he adds quickly.
Turning away, the man catches hold of a rope and springs lightly into the rigging. He climbs past the main sail as if born at sea. Ed watches, mesmerised by the leather breeches and tight black sash.
Balanced on the yardarm, the stranger surveys his new possession. No hint of a smile. He is all sinewy shoulders and cold efficiency.
Ed loves it.