Never Shall We Die

by Tresdem

Great pirates are not born, they are made through fire and water, grit and determination, fearless cunning and by developing a really cool persona. Edward Teach is nothing right now, but if his time on Hornigold's ship teaches him anything, it's how to become the best pirate the world has ever known.

3. Red Skies

The morning is coming, but it is not here yet. The moon still sits on the horizon, casting weary silver-white freckles on the plane of the sea and the stars seem tired in the yawning blue. Even Ana-nia looks spent in her eternal place. Edward tips his head to her, as he emerges from the stuffy heat of the galley, hoping for her luck. A fresh breeze stirs down from the topsails, lifting his hair, and the deck is cool under his bare feet as he makes his way, sly and silent as a cat.

The men are strewn over the deck, sweating and stinking in their sleep. Everything is stinking. The days have been hot lately, and heavy like trying to breathe through a blanket. The water around them is floating with swill from two days at anchor. What they're watching for, Edward doesn't know. No one seems to know…

He stops as Monto rolls over in his sleep, nearly on Edward's foot. He's a tall man and a light sleeper and Edward holds his breath as he steps over him, holding the tankard high. He'd nearly woken Scrawny Greg last night when some drops of rum had fallen on his cheek and almost kicked the man back to sleep. Monto is bigger and would be harder to kick. But in a second Edward's safely on the other side of him, and once more on his path to the forecastle.

For three nights now, Edward has been bringing grog to first watch, tosser's watch, as Larks has called it. It's not easy as he has to wake himself up and shake the lead from his bones from long days cleaning or scraping or moving things in the hold or stuck in the galley, ground down to the bones by Cook, who has called him so many things since that night on deck. Every insult seems to get worse and Edward feels like his blood is going to boil out of his ears.

But Edward has said nothing, done nothing, has kept his head down and his murder eyes pinned to the deck– he was starting to learn to swim, after all; to navigate the waters and avoid the shoals, to learn his way without bleeding for it. So he'd waited until Cook was asleep to have his revenge. It had been nice. It had felt good. And he was able to get that revenge because he had known Cook's secret, because he had had that secret of his own- and secrets meant power….

And that's why it's worth coming out here at the ass end of the morning with stolen grog for whoever is on duty. Tosser's watch is the worst one and the men assigned to it were usually the only ones awake; and are too lonely and bored and sober to refuse an offer of grog that's more rum than water. Even if they're not supposed to have it. Maybe because they're not supposed to have it.

That first night it had been Timbee, who had taught him how to make all sorts of different knots from a spare bit of rope, and little laced mermaid nets with twine. As they'd worked, and Timbee got drunker, he had talked about his sweethearts in every port. How he'd started out robbing fishing boats just outside of Santo Domingo until forcibly recruited by Hornigold who had had Mad Eddie beat him raw and take out five teeth until he'd agreed to join.

The next night he'd seen Larks, who had been happy to see him and had even taken the tankard as if he knew it was for him. Edward had heard about Larks' time in prison for murder and buggery, how he'd escaped and joined up a few smalltime pirates before discovering Hornigold. From him Edward had learned seventeen different ways to gouge a man's eye out with a spoon, how to shoot snot from his nose, and how Mad Eddie had killed his own lover in a fury, but for the love of God don't tell anyone.

Old Hugo had only been half awake, but had let Edward take a pull from his pipe and had laughed when Edward nearly died on it. Then right after had jumped and looked over his shoulder to mid-deck where everyone was sleeping in the muggy night, his pale skin going milk sour. 'We're good mates, thee and me,' Hugo had said in a low voice. 'Les keep it our little secret.'

Secrets are piling up in Edward's palms like copper coins. He had never had secrets like these before. Usually his secrets were bent and rusted, meant to keep hidden or kicked under the dirt for shame. These are bright and new and he isn't sure what to do with them yet. And most of these secrets had something to do with Mad Eddie. Mad Eddie who is on tosser's watch tonight and no one knows why. Mad Eddie who everyone is afraid of. Who is wiry and thinner than a lot of the men, but they still startle out of his way when he storms across the deck.

So tonight, Edward's bringing a tankard that is full of mostly rum, pulled from Cook's special stock- the ones that he likes to hide secret in the bottom of the pantry. Just ahead, a few dozen footsteps away, Mad Eddie stands on the forecastle, fingers laced against the rigging as he stares out over the ocean. He is shirtless despite the faint chill and Edward can see the mass of scars on his back.

Edward tries to scrape some kind of fear out of his gut as he watches the man. He can remember the taste of fear, the sour stink of it, the way his heart leapt hard in his throat and wet stung his eyes. How he'd wanted to hide and make himself small in some closed dark space.

But Mad Eddie is just a man. A man with a scarred back and sharp knuckles and a lilting accent that's more pretty than harsh. What about him is scary? What about him makes the men flinch and start and not want to be caught? Is it because of the punishments? It has to be, because why else would they let him?

Edward is not sure he'll find out this way. He's not sure if he'll find anything out this way. Bringing rum, even the best rum, when he's not supposed to bring anything at all is going to get him punished –if he's not clever about it. But Edward's been thinking about this since that night on the deck. He needs to know Mad Eddie. He needs to understand him and how he does what he does and why he does what he does, and why he's out here on tosser's watch.

It's a shit shift. Edward has sat it before. You watch the stars fade and the morning come and then when it comes you might get a nap before you're put to work with sand in your eyes and barely banked fire in your blood.

So why is Mad Eddie out here? Why tonight? Is he looking for something? Waiting for something? Is he just bored?

Edward takes a hesitant step forward and stills as Mad Eddie suddenly glances up, attention caught by a movement in the rigging. Edward looks too and curses under his breath as he sees Aconi the Gunner making his way down in slow, careful, movements– before jumping the final few feet, landing with a thump on the deck before rising; a solid figure in a white shirt and bone beads in his swinging black braids. It's really cool but also tweaks his blood a bit that Aconi is interrupting his plans.

"I was wonderin' when ya were comin' down," says Mad Eddie, as if he'd been expecting him. As if Aconi isn't leaving any time soon.

Edward scowls. He hadn't counted on both of them. He doesn't know anything about Aconi. No one says much about him and he's always with Saladin or sometimes standing with Hornigold and the rabbit. They haven't fired the cannons once, so Edward's never seen him in action to know how his face changes or anger takes him.

Should he forget it tonight? Edward grips the handle of the tankard. If he's caught, he's fucked. Mad Eddie might have to beat him in front of Aconi to make himself look good and Edward will spend the rest of the day limping around the ship.

On the other hand, if he leaves right now, he'll never know what they're talking about and why they've met on tosser's watch. If it's good it'll be another coin to add to his pile. Edward holds his breath as he slips closer. A dinghy under repairs has been lashed to the deck here, with a ragged white canvas over it to keep it from getting further damaged. Edward presses one shoulder against the side, coming out of its thin shadow as much as he dares, straining to hear.

"Nah, nothin' tonight," Mad Eddie says, and rolls his neck. Edward is close enough to hear the faint crunch of shifting bone. "Not even a pig in shit. Anythin' on your end?"

"No. Nothing."

"Thank Christ. Here." Mad Eddie passes over a brown bottle that glints a little in the moonlight and Aconi drinks deep. Edward realizes he should have brought a bottle instead of risking a fucking tankard.

"I'm tellin' ya, we don't move on her soon, we're fecked," Mad Eddie is saying. "The men won't hold out. Too many will start spoilin' for a fight. I say we should just go in and take the chance."

"Then we'd really be 'fecked'," replies Aconi in his deep bass. "We go in those seas and the shoals will grind our hull to bones, even if we catch that current. And if we're spotted…" The words linger like a chill in the air.

Mad Eddie spits over the side as if to ward off bad luck.

"I'll swim out meself afore I face the Leviathan again."

Aconi puts a hand on his back, between his shoulder blades, dark against Mad Eddie's white scars, and something stirs in Edward that he doesn't have a name for. It's a feeling both old and new all at once, like the hunger for a rope across his palms, but different. He lets out a slow careful breath and tries to ignore it.

"It won't come to that," says Aconi.

"It had better not," Mad Eddie says. "Ben needs to stop chasing dreams and clouds of fart, afore we all drown in blood."

Ben… They must be talking about Hornigold… This is a secret bigger than anything he's had so far beside his own. What can he do with it? What can he use it for?

"I have a better idea than this shite," Mad Eddie says, dropping his voice. "Listen…"

Aconi leans in. Edward holds his breath and leans forward. The sudden scuff of a foot against the deck makes him start and turn. The movement sends a small wave of rum pattering to the boards that seem too loud in the still night. But no one calls out. No one grabs him.

In fact, aside from Mad Eddie and Aconi, there is no one close on deck or in the rigging… but he had heard it— It had been too loud to be a rat, maybe it had been the lap of some strange wave?

But then it seems that something moves under the frayed canvas. Or someone. Should he pull back and see? Should he risk being seen? He tries to crane his head to peer into the darkness. The canvas has tented a little here between the dinghy and the deck, and there is a little gap that maybe can tell him a thing or two.

"No," Aconi says, suddenly sharp and Edward realizes he's missed his chance to hear. Damn. On top of that, now someone knows he's spying.

The realization makes a sharp thrill go through him and his heart tick up, beat into his throat. He wants to bolt- or kick whatever bastard is hiding under the canvas until they realize what a fucking bad idea this was.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. That was what young, stupid, Edward would do. He's smarter now. Cleverer. He takes a moment to think it through. The only way to stop someone from knowing his secret– is to not have a secret to begin with.

So, fuck it.

Edward squares his shoulders and heads for the forecastle. He's a little wary about confronting Mad Eddie and Aconi with only one tankard, but this will either work or it will kind of work or it won't work and he'll get the shit beat out of him- it might even kill him, but if he's dead, it doesn't matter.

"Yer a feckin' coward," Mad Eddie is saying to Aconi. The bigger man doesn't punch him or drag out a knife or even clench his hands into fists. Instead he just shakes his head, the bone beads clacking faintly and says:

"And you are an idiot."

"Ta death and hell, then," says Mad Eddie with a resigned sigh, lifting the bottle to the moonlight. "May we visit her on every other fecker and never get a taste of her ourselves."

"To death and hell," Aconi echoes, taking the bottle and doing the same.

"To death and hell," says Edward stepping to and a little behind Aconi, sipping from his tankard. He remembers that it's rum not grog as the full tilt of it hits the back of his throat and he inhales it accidentally. The coughing fit keeps him from laughing as Mad Eddie shrieks:

"Jaysus God!"

And then he spills most of it, sloshing it down his front to avoid Aconi's fist. Edward staggers a little way onto the deck in front of them, wiping his mouth with his sleeve and trying not to laugh as the coughs die away. It's hard. Their eyes look like they're about to fall out of their head and Mad Eddie is white as a ghost-

Then red as his hair, lips curling back from his black teeth.

"Teach! What the feck are ya doin' out here?" he snarls. Even in the dim light, Edward can see a vein at his temple throbbing.

"Drinking," Edward says and takes another little sip, the rum slipping warm fire through his veins. Aconi's teeth flash white in the moonlight and then he quickly passes a hand over his mouth and when it's gone he looks stern again.

"Aye, I heard ye've been doin' this shite. Givin' rum ta the feckers on watch. Why?"

A hot snarl of anger rises in Edward, cresting in his throat. Some fucker had told. Who? Hugh? Larks? Timbee? He's going to–

No, no it doesn't matter, he tells himself taking a full breath to push that sharp feeling away. He'll find out whoever told later and then worry about it. He can't fuck this up now. Not when he's so close.

"Well? !" Mad Eddie snarls. Edward huffs, shrugs a shoulder. He can't remember what he'd been going to say, but maybe it doesn't matter. The truth is all he has left.

"Just wanted them to talk to me."

It's strange… how that gives Mad Eddie pause. Edward doesn't like it. Doesn't like how he had sounded, doesn't like how he feels, doesn't like being young and stupid and sounding lonely - it's not who he is. It's not who he fucking wants to be.

But all the red leaves Mad Eddie's face and he straightens. Then sighs:

"Lad, there are better ways to do that. And grog is a cheap gift."

"But an effective one," Aconi says with a hint of a grin. Mad Eddie glares at him.

"Don't encourage him, ye'll get him killed."

Aconi chuckles in a way that makes Edward's stomach flip a little strangely and the anger fades away.

"I am going back," Aconi says. He grips Mad Eddie's shoulder with a broad hand. "Remember what I told you."

"I'll remember. I'll remember."

"And…relax. Saladin says that Zorah will bring her shroud tomorrow, so we should be safe for a little while at least."

What does that mean? Who is Zorah? What shroud?

Mad Eddie snorts and lightly shoves Aconi's hand off his shoulder. Then Edward finds himself under the gunner's gaze and straightens, not wanting to be seen as small and dripping with rum. He tips his head to Aconi as Mad Eddie had done.

Aconi moves toward him, a board creaking under his weight, and Edward tenses, but refuses to lower his head, instead looking up at him at his dark eyes and his short rough beard. He smells of tobacco and gunpowder and whiskey and Edward's heart lurches somewhere in the region of his throat. He wants to be like Aconi when he comes into himself, large and solid and unmovable like a boulder.

"And you, Young Teach." Aconi's big hand rests on his shoulder, swallows his shoulder, it's a hand that feels like it can crunch his bones to powder, but it doesn't. "Keep your head up and your eyes open, and you'll outlive us all."

"For god's sake," Mad Eddie mutters.

"Yes, sir," Edward says before he thinks about it, feeling breathless, feeling charged. He's going to be even more alert now. Even more ready. Aconi breathes something like a laugh and turns away, steps like low thunder.

For a moment Edward wants to say fuck Mad Eddie and to follow Aconi wherever he goes- but that is easy and not brave or bold. So Edward remains instead to face Mad Eddie who is shaking his head, arms folded. It's just light enough to see his freckles now and x tattoos that run down his inner arm.

"He just wants ya for a powder monkey." The man scoffs. "I should let him shoot yer ass out of the cannon. I should beat yer ass to dirt. Yer lucky that I don't." Mad Eddie waves a finger.

"Why don't you?" Edward says. It's stupid to ask, but he wants to know. It would make more sense for Edward to get beaten at least a little. In fact no one has been beaten at all… Not Larks or Timbee or Hugh. Does Mad Eddie not know about them really? Has he not been told everything? Or is there something else?

"Because I'm a fecking saint, that's why," Mad Eddie says. "And yer a feckin' flint in a powder keg. Gimme that." He snatches for the tankard and Edward lets him have it. A flint in a powder keg… He keeps that phrase, turning it over and over in his head, trying to piece out what he means. Mad Eddie takes a sip out of the tankard and then rears back, eyes wide like a startled horse.

"Holy Christ is this what ye've been givin' them? No wonder everyone likes ya these days." Mad Eddie peers into the tankard as if thinking, swirling it around. "Ya know yer done for once Cook tacks into it," he says and tips his head back to drain the rest of it.

Cook won't. Or he probably won't. And even if he does, so what? Edward can figure a way out of it. He wonders if Cook finds him a flint in a powder keg too. He wonders if other people do. He wonders what he can do with it.

He goes to the railing to peer out over the sea. There is nothing but water and the thin rind of sky, paler in the way that means that false-dawn is coming soon. He has a sudden memory of staring at the pale blue eggshell of a sky, stiff with old bruises, and Father brushing a callused hand against his forehead, pushing his hair back gently before staggering out for another month long voyage. Thank fuck , Edward had thought then. Thank fuck. Never come back. And he had hoped the dark waves would drown him.

But the dark waves never had gotten a chance.

Edward can feel himself smile as he grips the railing. The boards creak as Mad Eddie comes up beside him. He is also barefoot, Edward sees, and the realization pleases him somehow.

"What do ye see out there?" he asks. Edward looks, leaning forward to scan the horizon and the waters before it.

"Nothing," he says finally. "Sea and sky." And then noticing a faint bluish smudge. "An island?"

"Same old shite," Mad Eddie mutters, pouring the remains of the rum from the bottle into the tankard and tipping his head back. What are they meant to be looking for? Edward wonders. The need to know is like a hunger, gnawing at his belly. But Mad Eddie might not tell him if he asks right out, especially if no one is supposed to know.

So instead Edward asks:

"Who is Zorah? What's the shroud?"

Mad Eddie snorts. "Zorah is pagan nonsense. Sal means th' mornin' star. What some feckers call Venus."

He doesn't like that Mad Eddie calls Saladin 'Sal' like it's a dirty word. There's nothing he can do about it though so he holds his tongue and focuses on what the man just told him.

"Venus…" He knows about her kind of. She's a very pretty woman and also a fairytale. "So… in the morning…" He considers. What could a shroud mean? "There'll be fog? Rain?

"Fog, aye. " He takes another long swallow and then says: "Away with ye," and hurls the tankard. Edward watches it arch high in the air before landing with a 'splotch' in the water. "Shit…" Mad Eddie says. "I wanted ta throw the bottle."

Edward laughs and Mad Eddie smacks him in the back of the head, but not hard, and then his hand lingers there for a moment against his hair before dropping to lightly grip the back of his neck. It's…good. He feels anchored. A little like he's Aconi already, tall and strong with someone at his side.

"Pagan or no, if he's right, and he usually is, the filthy bugger; we'll be safe for a little while." Mad Eddie's hand tightens against the nape of his neck, but it feels more like something instinctive. The man is staring out over the sea, pale eyes narrowed, sucking in a deep breath through his nose. He is afraid of something.

"Safe… from the Leviathan?" Edward says.

He realizes immediately he's said too much as Mad Eddie's grip tightens, his lips pulling back from his black teeth. Edward braces for a hit, But Mad Eddie only snorts a fetid breath and spits over the side.

"Ye've got big ears, ya little shite." Another slap upside his head, this one a little harder; hard enough to make his head jerk. "One day they'll get so big yer brains will fall out."

No shit , Edward thinks, heart picking up a bit in his throat. That had been stupid. Now Mad Eddie knew that he knew. But maybe Mad Eddie didn't know how much he knew? Either way it is a secret bent and if Edward wants to use the ones that he has, he'll have to be more careful.

"What is Leviathan though? Is she a ship?"

"Aye, a big ol' piece a shit galleon that patrols these waters. Son of a bitch nearly scuppered us last time, near on six months ago. We lost ten good men before we could run and the rest turned tail as soon as we made port. The only idiots that stayed behind were me, the ball and cannon-" Aconi? He means? And who else? Saladin? "and Timbee, but he ain't nothin' to no one. That's how I got this."

He pulls down the waist of his trousers a little to show a deep scar that runs right across his lower belly. "I ain't lookin' ta face her again, not with this sorry lot- but cap'n won't stop chasin' the damn dream."

"What dream? What are we looking for? Why are we here?" It's easier to ask the questions since Mad Eddie brought it up. What could be out there that's so valuable? So worth dying for?

"Hornigold's ambition," Mad Eddie says. "Fecker can't be a simple pirate like the rest of us, nah. Can't take a ship at a time. Can't pick off fat bellied merchants or raid coasts like anyone fecking sensible. He wants to be a king."

A…king?

"And you don't agree with it," Edward says, looking up at him. "Are you going to do something about it?"

Mad Eddie's face changes to sudden rage, red flashing up his cheeks- and Edward has only just enough time to brace himself before Mad Eddie's fingers knot in his hair, yanking his head sharply back, and he can feel the notched blade of a knife against his throat and the tickle of blood.

Damnit. Damnit, what had he said ?

"Alright, ya little bastard, who sent ya?"

"No one," Edward growls, then sucks in a breath as his arm is wrenched behind him. His shoulder is screaming but he knows better than to pull away, even as arm is pulled, dragging a noise through his clenched teeth.

"Like I believe yer shit lies. Like I don't know what goes on in this ship. What little games that stupid little man is playin'," Mad Eddie snarls. "Well ya listen ta me, ya shite, and listen well. The rabbit hates ya, Cook doesn't give a shit about anything but himself, and the only other dick bigger on the ship than mine is the captain's, and he don't give a shite about ya either. He won't talk to ya, he won't listen to ya, he won't believe ya," The knife digs and Edward's pulse races in his ears. " I'm yer only friend."

He won't fight back. If he fights back he dies.

"If anyone gets word of what happened tonight, I will make ya regret it." He is leaning close now, breath reeking across Edward's face. "Don't even tell yer little friend Larks or I will skin ya both. Aye?"

"Aye," Edward croaks just to get away. Mad Eddie shoves him away and Edward trips and falls hard on the deck on hands and knees, blood dripping onto his shirt and onto the deck. He's so fucking tired of bleeding. He drags the collar of his shirt to his throat, to stem the flow and to let the sting override the bristling anger.

Larks. Larks had fucking told. He was going to kill him. He was going to wrap his fingers around the fucker's throat and squeeze until his eyes were bulging and his tongue spooled out of his mouth like a slug.

"And, Pisser…," Mad Eddie says. Fuck , is he still talking? Why is he still talking? Edward doesn't want listen to his stupid fucking voice anymore. But that knife is still out, red with blood. If he fights back he'll die. Sail the waters, navigate, mind the shoals and the reefs- Mad Eddie grips his hair once more, wiping the knife against Edward's cheek and he grits his teeth, fists bloodless at his sides.

"Tomorrow I'm gonna werk yer little balls off," Mad Eddie continues, sounding bored. "And I don't wanna hear a single feckin' complaint. Aye?"

"Aye," Edward says again, gasps it so he won't say it through his teeth and earn a kick to the ribs.

"Good. Now get lost." The bottle thumps hard against his back and bounces onto the deck, where it cracks and rolls. Edward manages to stagger upright and move away from the forecastle rather than toward Mad Eddie, blood running hot under his skin and also wetting his shirt. Still he breathes in and out, trying to make the heat leave as he pads across the deck.

xxxx

By the time he gets down to the dim galley, he is still seething. All kinds of revenge had slipped through his mind, but he knows he can't do any of it. He feels young and stupid, grasping at nothing but air. He casts a glare at Cook, snoring in his hammock, looking more like an old man than a threat. Edward fights the impulse to kick him awake. Instead, he yanks the empty rum bottle out from under the man's arm, hard enough to jar him.

Cook snorts, jerks, his good eye flicking under the pale lid, his open, red eye gleaming in the light.

"Qui es dans ma chambre?" he growls soft.

'Me,' Edward wants to say. 'And I'm not afraid of you.'

And he isn't. And he isn't afraid of Mad Eddie or Scrawny Greg or the rabbit or even Hornigold. He isn't fucking afraid of anyone .

Cook snarls louder: "Qui es dans ma chambre?"

And begins to stir, his lip curling, the fingers of his large hand twitching, clutching his blanket. For a moment Edward considers letting him get up, letting him start for the deck. For a moment Edward wants to hear the screams of frightened men. To watch them run, and scream and cower. But it wouldn't just be Larks and Mad Eddie up there- but Paulo and Jack and Aconi too…

Most importantly, Hornigold would be angry and though Edward isn't afraid of him, he doesn't want to get shot either.

With a huff he uses his own secret, the brightest coin in his hoard that none else knows about. He leans in, murmuring near Cook's ear:

"Les monstres sont partis."

Cook tenses, lip twitching, then drops back into the hammock and Edward watches as he begins to snore again. It feels good. It's like the good rum which sends flecks of fire through his blood, but the kind that warms and makes him want to stand up straighter. It feels good. It feels so good that Edward does it a few more times before the anger boils away to a spent exhaustion creeping behind his eyes. He sighs, tucking the empty rum bottle back under Cook's arm watching him snore.

This he had learned from Hornigold. This Hornigold knew how to do. Had stood by the railing with gentle confidence and told Cook to go back to bed and like a little boy, Cook had obeyed. Hornigold who had sat in the tent with shadowed eyes, who commanded this restless crew who were not brave enough to do something about it.

That is what Edward wants to be. More than anything. To be the one standing up there by the railing looking down on everyone and knowing they will do whatever he says. He needs to talk to Hornigold. He needs to see him. To learn from him. Only how can he even get near him?

A hollow frustration fills him as he makes his way back to his little nest in the pantry, made of pilfered blankets and rags. Edward takes a moment to get settled, to drink a handful of precious water he had stored here in a flask, to tuck the blankets around him, lie his head on a near depleted sack of rice– the last step is, as always, to pull out the red silk.

Here in the pre-dawn he can almost see its full color, the deep vivid red, so far free of blood. He runs his fingers over it as he holds it up above his head and watches the frayed edges move; breathing deeply in and out. He remembers how Mother had shown it to him, this soft scrap of something almost like magic. He remembers the warmth of her hands and how she had held him. How she had looked on dully and bruised as Father sent him crashing against the wall. The way her eyes had grown wide in fear when she'd realized what Edward had done, though he hadn't said- and hadn't needed to.

He turns on his side, holding the silk to his cheek, taking in deep breaths of the dusty dark until the stinging warning subsided from the back of his closed eyes and left him more spent than he was before. Hornigold, he thinks. Hornigold . He has to find some way to get up there and talk to him. Only he doesn't really have a secret strong enough. Aside from Cook's, the biggest one he knows is Mad Eddie's and even then he doesn't know what Mad Eddie said to Aconi- and anyway a secret that two people know isn't much of a…much of a secret…

Edward opens his eyes and stares at the thinning larder. No… not two. Three people. Him and Aconi and whoever had been hiding beside the dinghy.

Jack is short enough to fit under a bit of sail without being spotted right away… and he is working for the rabbit. Anything said against Hornigold would go right in the first mate's ears. And if was Jack, then Edward has a shot. It may only be one shot, but if he's careful, that's all he'll need.

xxxx

That afternoon is hot, the sky a hazy blue dome above them, cloudless and hard, wet heat pressing down like a fist. Edward sits on his haunches, dropping the dirty rag into the dirtier water and wipes the sweat from his face with his sleeve, wincing at the smell of soured rum still on his shirt. He wants to scrape back the sweat damp strands of hair back under the rag he's using to keep it contained, but one look at the dirty water by his knee and he changes his mind.

Not that it matters. Everything reeks. The men are sweating through their clothes, the sea around them now smells of three days at anchor, plus the water from the bilge that they had emptied searching for a leak that was never found. Edward had spent a long hot mid-morning with passing full buckets and accepting empty ones from Paulo who had also stood shin deep in fouled water—full of piss and shit and the floating bloated corpses of rats.

Paulo had ignored him completely. Hadn't even looked at him. And Edward would have been more tempted to dump a bucket over his head if Jack hadn't hung on the ladder as part of the bucket chain. Every time Edward had been tempted to do something stupid, he'd stared at Jack until the moment passed. Their eyes had met more than once in the dimness and each time Jack had scowled at him and looked away again. Edward knew his secret, and Jack knew he knew-and every time Edward thought of it he felt a small sunburst in the center of his chest.

That thought had carried him through the stinking work of the bilge and had kept him from breaking Hugh's nose with his face when the old man had laughed and said that the turds had walked out on their own. The price of grog is cheap, as Mad Eddie had said and Edward had been tempted to spill the old man's secret out in the open, watch it clatter and spin on deck, watch the blood drain from Old Hugh's face as Mad Eddie ascended on him.

He hadn't though. Had kept his tongue between his teeth and the precious secret to himself, standing as still and silent as Paulo as the men had taken turns splashing freezing filthy sea water on them to wash off the stink of the bilge. They had laughed and shouted insults at them so barbed it had made Edward's blood sing in his ears and even Paulo's fists had curled. The big man hadn't moved, had stood silent under it all as fucking usual.

Edward had been two steps from sinking his fist into Larks' stomach when Jack had saved him again, passing by the knot of men on the way to the aft cabins, holding drinks on a tray- to Hornigold.

The man, their captain, had stood just outside of his cabin, hands braced on the railing, watching with cool gray eyes. A stray breeze pecked at the hem of his short coat that he always wore whatever the weather, and teased the hair across his broad forehead. He seemed suddenly like the most important man Edward had ever known, that Edward had ever met. Edward had watched as he'd accepted a drink from Jack and realized with a jolt that was where he needed to be; at Hornigold's side, watching the dregs of the ship with him.

And it has to be soon— Because Mad Eddie is right… The men aren't going to hold out. A storm is brewing. Edward can feel it prickling along the back of his neck; and not one of wind or rain or mist, but a tide of men that will roll over the deck, drowning everything in its path. The men are restless, they're hot, rations are thinning and so is the grog. All it will take is another hot day like this, or another day at anchor in the stinking water and they will snap.

Hornigold knows it. He knows Hornigold knows it. He knows it's all part of Hornigold's plan. The captain wants to be a king, he must have predicted this- Must be waiting for a reason. And once that plan is finished and Mad Eddie is able to sleep again, once he's not breaking up fights— once everyone is full of food and good grog, Edward will lose his chance.

It's not like Jack is just going to let him go see Hornigold, Edward thinks, glaring at where the older boy is kneeling with his own bucket and rag, further down the deck, still puffy and bruised from Scrawny Greg's morning beating. Edward wouldn't if he were him. He would have laughed in Jack's face- or punched him- or asked him why he wanted it and then found a way to use it against him.

And, yes, Edward knows Jack's secret and could tell Mad Eddie- who would beat the shit out of Jack, leaving Hornigold without a cabin boy, but Mad Eddie would just make Scrawny Greg serve Hornigold and make sure to fuck he was loyal first.

So, what can he do?

Edward stares down at his hands, browner than usual and filthy. Everything about him feels filthy from his frayed sleeves to his ragged breeches. He looks like one of the beggars that used to sit in the gutters, hands raised, eyes tired and desperate. Mother had given them coins sometimes until Father found out and then she'd walked ahead, chin up, eyes hollow as if she hadn't seen them. Edward is not a beggar. He clutches his hands in his breeches. He won't be that. He won't end up like that.

He needs a plan.

Can he spend one of his secrets, maybe? Press it into Jack's palm? But which? Mad Eddie Jack already knows. He wouldn't care about Timbee, Hugh or Larks— The only thing Edward really has is the secret about the Cook. He considers it hard, worrying the inside of his lower lip with his teeth. It's a huge risk. Jack might keep it, or he might tell the rabbit, and if he tells the rabbit the rabbit will tell Hornigold and then Edward will be really fucked.

Edward hears the creak of rope and the tap of feet hitting the deck behind him and has just enough time to brace himself before someone smacks the back of his head hard enough so his teeth crash together.

"Back to work, Pisser," says Scrawny Greg idly as he moves past. "Or I'll put you up the rigging."

"Fuck off, you don't tell me what to do," Edward snarls. He's trying to fucking think! Scrawny Greg turns slowly and smirks at him. Then his hand moves snake fast and grips Edward's cheeks between his bony fingers, pressing hard, striping more bruises against his skin. Edward clenches his fists, nails cutting into his palms. He wants to punch him, to bite his thumb, to break his stupid fucking nose. Greg is nothing but a fucking dreg himself and not that much older than they are!

"Don't be so sure, brat," says Scrawny Greg, looming in, his breath smelling of onions- onions not hardtack like everyone else got. Edward had used the last onion this morning in the salted beef broth that had been split between the ones in charge, the captain, the rabbit, Cook, Aconi and Saladin, and the leftovers for Mad Eddie. How did Scrawny Greg get some?

"Things might be changing around here," Scrawny Greg continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And I can't be brought with a little grog. I'm not Larks."

It had been Scrawny Greg then, not Larks who told Mad Eddie. Instead of heat and anger, though, Edward feels a flash of something else. Something interesting– That leaves a sweet taste on his tongue. He can… do something with that. But what? The fragments of an idea are there and if this dumbass would just go away, Edward could pull them together and it would be— fucking amazing.

"And you don't want to end up like your little friend, do you?" Scrawny Greg says. "Hm?"

Just like that, it all slots into place, the perfect idea. He won't give Jack his secret, but he can give him something even better. Something he will love. Something that will fuck over Scrawny Greg and Mad Eddie— and Larks a little too, but Edward will make it up to him somehow.

"What the hell are you grinning for?" Scrawny Greg snarls, and Edward realizes he is. Realizes he's fucking happy. Almost ecstatic. He's almost there. He's so close he can taste it.

"You're fucked," Edward says, feeling his grin grow. Scrawny Greg snarls and shoves him back on his ass. Edward tries not to laugh, but can't stop the grin— At least until Scrawny Greg picks up the bucket like he's going to throw it over Edward's head. Maybe it would be wiser to take it, but Edward has had enough filthy water today.

"I won't spill the rum next time," Edward says in a low voice. "Nothing's going to wake you up." Scrawny Greg pales to his pimples and scowls to throw the bucket over the side, rag and all.

"I'm not scared of you, Pisser ," he snaps; then storms down the deck, kicking Jack in the ribs on the way. Jack protests in a yelp and Scrawny Greg drags him up by the hair and punches him full in the face. Edward's good mood fades a little as he watches Jack hunch, holding his nose, blood dripping to the deck. But it's fine. If this plan works— if Jack is smart enough to agree to it, they will both get what they want.

First though he has to make a distraction before Scrawny Greg gets up Mad Eddie's ass about it. Fortunately he knows just what to do, and he has to practice anyway. He glances around, spotting Monto restlessly pacing the deck and decides that's good enough. Edward gets to his feet and crosses to where Timbee and Gilead Thorpe are playing at dice by the main mast.

"Hey, Ed," says Timbee. "Want a toss?"

Gilead Thorpe giggles but Edward ignores him.

"Nah." Edward crouches in front of them. "Greg just told me Monto said you couldn't take him in a fight. Is that true?"

Timbee's smile fades and his thin brows draw to knot the scar on his forehead.

"The fuck it is."

xxxx

It turns out Monto and Timbee really hate one another. Edward watches idly as Monto launches himself at Timbee again, the deck vibrating as other man's back hits the wood hard. Monto is punching him hard, fists flying, and only stops when Timbee grabs his face and headbutts him with a resounding crack.

All the dregs are watching, hooting and shouting encouragement and taking bets. No one seems to be willing to help Mad Eddie who is in the thick of it, trying to break them up without being elbowed in the face or punched in the gut.

It's beautiful, really, and had been so fucking easy. He takes a moment to appreciate Timbee's right hook that catches the meat of Monto's face and sends a yellowed tooth skipping a bloodied path along the deck before sitting himself beside Jack, who has knelt to watch, still clutching his nose though it's no longer bleeding.

"Who do you think is going to win?" Edward asks.

"Your mother," Jack says, sitting back and wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve. Edward punches Jack before thinking about it, glad afterwards that Jack had shifted just enough so Edward had gotten him in the shoulder rather than the face. It's… kind of a compliment after all.

"Fucker," Jack says and punches him back so hard that tingles race down Edward's arm. He scowls and flexes his fingers. "Anyway, I'm thinkin' Monto. He's skinny but he doesn't go down easy."

"Yeah? Maybe." Edward flexes his arm, absently. "Or maybe Sepp." Because the larger man has joined the fray, maybe trying to help Mad Eddie, but a gut punch by Timbee has got him going, windmilling his large arms while Old Hugh grabs the back of Monto's legs only to get kicked in the face and sink his teeth into the man's calf.

And then because he wonders if it will work:

"Wanna make a bet?"

Jack snorts. "With what money? You ain't got nothin' else I want."

That's true. At least nothing he can bet with. And he might lose anyway. He considers, watching for a moment.

"I bet you wish Greg was in there too. Bet he'd get his ass kicked."

"Yeah, bet he would," Jack snickers. "That'll teach him. Walkin' around like he's got bigger balls than anyone. He ain't no better than me. He just sucks everyone's rocks and I don't. That's the difference. "

Edward supposes he means sucking up as he's not sure what rocks have to do with anything.

"Anyway, we all know who the better man is. Greg signed up. I got recruited." Jack jerks his thumb at himself.

"Yeah?" Edward absently rests his cheek on his raised knee, curious in spite of everything else he has to do to make this plan work. "How did that happen?"

"I nearly shot some jackass's head off with his own pistols." Jack grins, holding up his fingers like guns. "Stole them right from his holsters and went 'bang bang', right at the fucker's head."

Edward snickers. "Yeah, right." If that were true, Jack would have a pistol right? Or he'd be set up with Aconi instead of in the rigging.

"Fuck you, it happened." Jack punches his shoulder again though it barely hurts. "I mean, I missed, but the captain was so impressed he asked me to come along."

Edward still doesn't know if it's true or not. Maybe Hornigold had.

"I don't know how the fuck you're here," Jack says. Then: "Holy shit, Sepp." Across the ship, Sepp has Timbee in a headlock while Monto is kicking Old Hugh in the head.

"Dunno either." Would Edward recruit someone who had stabbed his first mate in the hand? Maybe, he thinks, if it was funny. Maybe that's why Hornigold had brought on Jack.

"Well, it ain't gonna last," Jack says, leaning back against the railing. "Maybe he thought you were interestin' once, but you fucked up big time that night." He shakes his head. "You're nothin' but a piece of shit floatin' by now and once we get what the captain's after, the rabbit's gonna kick your ass and no one is going to stop him. And I ain't gonna stop him either," Jack says with a glare.

"Mr. Harvey's got my back. Always has," he continues as he shifts to sit cross legged on the deck and scrubs his nose with his shirt. "So you can stop suckin' up to me and actin' all friendly. We ain't mates. I don't even like you and you stink like a shit pit." He spits on the deck between them, then curses and slaps the dirty rag onto the wood to clean it off.

"I'm not sucking up," Edward says. "And so do you."

Jack scowls and throws throws the rag at him. It hits his leg with a disgusting wet slap. Edward peels it off and flings it back, frowning as it misses.

"Like hell you ain't suckin' up. Sittin' here chattin' like a washerwoman- Not puttin' the blame on me that one time when Cook lost it, punching Greg in the back— " he hesitates, like he's going to bring up being caught hiding under the canvas, but instead says: "-which was pretty fucking cool-"

"Thanks," Edward grins. "He kinda deserved it."

"Yeah, he did, fucker." Jack spits again, then groans. "Goddamnit."

"Use the bucket, moron."

"Shut the fuck up," Jack says again, but doesn't bother to clean the spit this time. "But I ain't playin' your stupid game. You think I wanna end up like that Spanish jackass over there? Cowerin' from everyone's shadow? No way. Nuh uh. Not me. I'm goin' places."

Does he mean Paulo?

"What's that got to do with me?" Paulo's fucking business is his own.

"Cuz you were mates, shithead, and Mads knows you care so of course they're gonna go after him and give him the shit jobs. That's why he was in the bilge. That's why he's gonna stay in the bilge so long as you keep pissin' people off. Everyone you touch is gonna get sucked under the wake cuz you pissed off the rabbit and he's the power here. If I were him I wouldn't let you do it. If I were him I'd find a way to take you down."

A thin prickling thread goes through his chest at the thought. It's something like fear and he holds onto it, trying to figure it out. He doesn't want Paulo to get hurt because of him- to get shit jobs because of him- and maybe worse.

Edward tries to imagine it again, being like that, bowing his head, stepping out of the way, knuckling under.

"Obedience is strength," he mutters under his breath.

"Damn right it is," says Jack.

But Paulo is not being very obedient, hiding in the shadows like that, keeping out of the way, not helping, though Mad Eddie is losing the battle, snarling for the man to get his 'shit ass over here'. Then again, it's almost over. Edward can see the men are tiring.

In a moment, he's proved right as Monto punches at Sepp and hits Timbee instead, knocking him back into Mad Eddie and they both go down. Edward winces a little, knowing whatever happens next is going to be bad news for Monto. And Monto realizes it too because he scrambles to his feet and tries to bolt.

Except Aconi has come down from the rigging and in two swift strides, has grabbed the man, large arms coming up under Monto's and curling over his shoulders, holding him up, pinning him in place. Gilead Thorpe cheers from the rigging and on the sidelines he can see Scrawny Greg and Larks with their heads together like they're discussing bets.

"Obedience doesn't stop Greg from kicking your ass every day." Edward says, glancing over at Jack. "The rabbit doesn't stop it either." And the rabbit could stop Scrawny Greg if he wanted. Mad Eddie couldn't do anything about that.

The fight is starting to break up now as Timbee and Sebb scramble to move away from Mad Eddie's wrath, Timbee nearly knocking Gilead Thorpe off the rigging in his desperation to flee. Mad Eddie rolls to his feet and spits out a blackened tooth before cracking his long angled knuckles.

"Yeah, well one day the rabbit will," Jack is saying and Edward has to think a moment to remember he was talking about the rabbit stopping Jack's beatings. "One day, that'll be me. I'll be just like Mads." Mad Eddie is sending punch after punch into Monto's flesh, stomach, ribs, face, the fleshy bulb of his nose. It doesn't feel like punishment anymore so much as revenge.

"Mads isn't really anything though, is he?" Edward says, trying the nickname and deciding he likes it. "You'll still be stuck under someone. And he's only Mads because he doesn't get his ass kicked." That is also important, Edward thinks. Mad Eddie's strength is that he can fight and he can hit hard and fast. "Also people are scared of him. Whose gonna be scared of you? You can't even grow a mustache." He taps his own upper lip while looking at the three pathetic hairs on Jack's.

"Fuck you."

"And he's got Aconi. Who have you got, Jack? You told the rabbit about what you heard, didn't you?" It's just a guess, but given how Jack scowls, Edward guesses he's right. "What's he done for you?"

"It's comin'." But he doesn't look like he believes it. Then his expression hardens. "And I ain't bein' mates with the likes of you."

Bastard. Edward is tempted to take Jack's knife from his hip and press it under his chin, like Mad Eddie had done to him last night. To hold the older boy's life in his hands. To be the one to make that decision. But he can only hold the knife so long on Jack's throat and Jack is stronger than him right now. And even if he wasn't, that would make Edward just like Mad Eddie who is tiring now, but is straightening himself up as if he isn't- because he can't look tired. He can't stop prowling. He can't let up even for a moment.

Strength isn't strength either.

Edward considers the best way to bring up his idea. It's a big one, a huge risk, even with his promise to Jack, there's no saying Jack will go along. He wishes they were mates like Aconi and Mad Eddie, standing side by side, not jostling or snarling one another, but speaking quiet plans and secrets like men. Maybe one day when Jack isn't scared of the rabbit. Maybe when they're older.

"Okay, it's over," Jack says as the men start to stir, Scrawny Greg and Larks rising. "Now get back to work, Pisser, before you make shit for us both."

"I'm not looking for mates," Edward says. "I'm looking to make a deal." Jack scoffs and Edward tries not to let the annoyance show in his voice as he continues: "I can get Greg's ass kicked."

Jack pauses from grabbing the moldy rag that's lying on a heap on the deck and gives Edward a narrow eyed look.

"How the fuck are you gonna do that?"

"Don't worry about it," Edward says, moves a little closer. "The point is I can do it. And it'll hurt. And maybe Mads won't feel so good about the rock sucking."

"You don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about," says Jack giving him a dry look. "Wait til yours drop before you talk about shit like that."

What the hell does that even mean? It doesn't matter, he tells himself, because now Jack is looking thoughtful, fingering one of the sparse hairs on his chin.

"And what the hell do you want then?" Jack asks. "If I say yes, what's in it for you?"

Edward tries not to grin. He hasn't won yet, but he will. He can feel it.

"Let me take dinner to the captain tonight."

Jack blinks. Stares at him. "Are you crazy? Why the hell do you wanna do something like that? He hates you now. They both do. You'll be gutted like a fish."

"Doesn't matter." He wouldn't tell Jack even if he did have a solid plan.

"Cook ain't gonna allow it."

"Let me worry about Cook." It wouldn't be so difficult. He'd just tell Cook he was taking the meal out to Jack to deliver, like a good little serving boy. Cook would probably be too irritable and distracted to care. He hadn't been sleeping well after all.

Edward smirks at the thought and Jack leans away from him.

"They'll knock the piss out of me," Jack says uncertainly.

"I'll carry it out to you and just keep on going," Edward replies. "No one will know it was your idea." If all went well anyway.

"Fine," Jack says slowly, then scowls and jabs Edward's shoulder with a finger. "But only if you get Greg's ass kicked first."

"No." He doesn't trust Jack that far. Even if he means it now anything can change. Jack's jaw sets and his expression goes hard. Edward thinks quickly, planning out the steps in his head like a puppet play or a story. Jack's gaze cants to the side and Edward realizes they've caught Mad Eddie's attention and the man is rousing as if he's about to come after them.

"Listen," Edward says. "Bring Larks to the stern at dinner time."

"Larks? Why the fuck— They are mates. You ain't gonna be able to convince Larks to do anythin'."

"Just shut up and do it." It's possible he won't be able to, but even if he can't convince Larks, he'll be close enough to the cabin to slip in. "Greg suffers, you don't get shit for it. Deal?" Edward considers shaking hands, then decides to spit in the bucket instead as a form of agreement so no one will know what they're up to.

"What do ya feckers think yer doin'?" Mad Eddie's voice rumbles over them like an approaching storm.

"Well?" Edward says. "Come on. I've only got one shot."

"Ah. Fine. Fuck it. Deal," Jack says and spits as well. Then his face creases. "You fucker. I'm gonna have to put my hand in that."

Edward laughs. It's bright and stupid, though it feels so good- even if it brings out Mad Eddie's black toothed scowl.

"Get ta work!" Mad Eddie snaps, punching Edward in the shoulder and kicking Jack in the ribs. But the man is tired and it barely even hurts. Even Jack just winces and grumbles. "Or I'll lock ya in the bilge til ya rot."

Edward ducks his head and grins as he goes to fetch another bucket. He has plans to make.

xxxx

By the time evening sets in, Edward is fidgety, and annoyed. The captain's dinner was only a few moments away and he has nothing, less than nothing, no plans and arms like lead and an aching face and a split lip. Mad Eddie has been on his ass the whole day. He and Jack have scrubbed the deck from stem to stern, until Jack was allowed to escape into the rigging to take a watch. And then it was just Edward and Mad Eddie had loomed over him, ready with fists or feet or encouraging others to give him what for.

And they had, the fuckers, because the price of grog is cheap.

Currently, he is standing over the last of the salted beef, simmering in the cook pot that he'll have to clean later, the steam making him sweat. The delicious wafting smell of it makes the hollow ache in his gut that much greater. There are vegetables in it, what's left of them. Beets with the rot cut out, wilted carrots, chunks of a potato that peer up now and then- and meat, real meat, shining brown in the liquid before disappearing like a ghost.

Cook is sitting at the table, a ledger open on it, nodding his head over lines and numbers- counting what is left, how long they have. Edward wants to steal a ladleful or two of the broth- but even if Cook is starting to nod off right now, he's not asleep yet. Anyway, Edward is not about to risk it. If he gets caught he's fucked and he's come so close. Instead he licks his dry lips and tries to think about what he can do or say when he gets to the captain's cabin. Jack is right, Hornigold isn't impressed with him at all. He's even tempted to wrap the red silk around his neck and look presentable, but then Hornigold might ask about it and Edward isn't sure he wants to answer.

From the table, Cook snorts and jerks his head up like a startled horse. He rubs his bristled chin and scrubs at his real eye with the heel of his hand. The other must be glass, Edward thinks. Or wood.

"Merde," Cook mutters, looking back down at the ledger. "You are getting old Jean-Luc."

Edward almost feels bad for him, but then remembers the glossy scar forming on his inner arm and decides he doesn't feel bad at all. The man shakes his head and picks up the quill, scratching away at the paper in whorls of words and tally marks.

"Too much longer at anchor and maybe we'll have to eat you, chien ." He smirks through the steam. "What do you think? Should we fatten you up?"

There doesn't seem a good answer to that so Edward ignores the question.

"What do you think we're out here for anyway?" he asks. Cook shrugs and rises from the table, massaging the small of his back before tap -thumping over to him.

"Une chance pour la grandeur. Here, let us plate this up."

"A chance…at being grand…" Edward says and Cook smiles, shakes his head, puts a rough hand in Edward's hair and Edward tenses, gritting his teeth as he's shoved forward, nearly against the cook pot which would burn like a motherfucker.

"Just so," Cook says, laying out the tray and the fine bowls the captain and mate use.

"Mad Eddie says he wants to be a king." Edward says carefully. Cook hands him the captain's bowl and Edward holds it between his hands while Cook fishes through the broth for the best bits, the tenderest meat, the fullest carrots, all the chunks of potato, it seems.

"Oui . He is a man of great ambition. So much so that he can barely see over his own nose, eh? If I didn't owe him my life, I would put to port. Perhaps the next one. Or Benjamin's kingdom should he succeed." He pronounces it Ban ji man, the words flowing together like water, and Edward mouths it experimentally, then presses his lips together when Cook gives him a steely glare.

"I didn't say anything."

"And see that you don't."

"What kingdom?" Edward asks, wincing as the heat of the bowl starts to burn his palms and fingers. Cook doesn't answer and after a moment he allows Edward to put the bowl on the tray.

He shakes out his hands and Cook jabs the iron butt of the ladle into his ribs, hard enough to leave a bruise. Edward sucks in a breath and grabs the other bowl, gritting his teeth as Cook starts to fill the bowl with the bubbling stuff.

"I wonder, chien," says Cook in a low voice like the rumble of thunder. "If you know what has been happening to my good rum." His knobbly fingers fit too warm around Edward's throat, brushing the scabbed cut that Mad Eddie had made on tosser's watch. It's so boring. Edward can kick his wooden leg out from under him and send him crashing into the cook pot, let the boiling water pour over him for once.

But he had learned things by being still and quiet when he'd wanted to smash someone's face in- and anyway, Cook didn't scare him. This close he looked even tireder, his skin pale and grimy like an onion, dark shadows under his eyes. Edward has a fragment of his life in his hands and Cook doesn't even know.

"The bottle's under your arm in the morning," Edward says. "I've seen it." And he had. And he had seen Cook's face when he stares at it, without knowing how it got there. Cook's throat moves as he swallows and Edward frowns like he cares.

"Tant pis," Cook says, letting him go. Then scowling at the door says: "Where is that little vagrant?"

"I don't know." Edward puts the bowl on the tray and grabs some of the tarnished spoons to put on the tray as well, the spoons clattering a bit in his slightly shaking hands. "I could bring it out to him."

Even as he says it it feels like a trick, something thin and sneaky that Cook will pick up on right away. The man says nothing and when Edward looks up at him, he sees Cook's eye is closed and he's weaving slightly back and forth with the roll of the ship.

Edward licks his lips. He can send him to sleep now, maybe, send him crashing to the floor. The thought almost makes him laugh and he has to bite his inner lip to stop himself before saying:

"Cook?"

"Mmh?" Cook opens his eye. Then grunts and flaps his hand: " Aller, aller . And don't spill anything or your eyeball will flavor the next."

"I won't." Edward says. He picks up the tray in both hands and, heart in his throat, heads up to the deck.

It's cool out now, the sky starting to burn with sunset. Nothing smells great but a downpour not too long ago made it smell better and brought with it a fresh breeze. In a way it's worse. The dregs are restless now, wanting to be sailing toward something. They are clumped in twos and threes on the deck except for Monto who is still recovering on the hammock, sallow, breath rattling in his lungs. Mad Eddie stands by the capstan, arms folded, muscles still knotted with tension.

Edward avoids his gaze and moves aft. Jack is standing by the stairs with Larks, his own arms folded. Even though he's taller than Edward, he looks small and shriveled, his shoulders caged, eyes darting back and forth before landing on him. Jack pulls himself up with a scowl but that doesn't mean he looks any less afraid. Edward clutches the tray, glaring at him. Even if Jack was pissing himself in terror it wouldn't stop Edward from getting in that fucking cabin.

"Hey there," Larks says, pushing himself away from the wall. There is an uncertain look on his face and he tucks the knife he was whittling with in his belt. "Jack-o says you've something to tell me?"

"Yeah," Edward says, keeping his eyes locked on Jack. "Greg heard everything the other night. He says he's going to tell Mads. All of it."

"That little bastard !" Larks is charging past him. Edward watches him go and practically tear Scrawny Greg from the rigging where the other man had been starting to frantically climb. Greg lets out a gull harsh cry and catches Larks' blade in his arm rather than his heart. Mad Eddie snarls in wordless frustration and charges after them.

"Holy fuckin' shit , " Jack breathes. "What the hell did he overhear?" Immediately the other boy shakes his head. "Nevermind, I don't wanna know."

"Good, I wasn't going to tell you." Edward moves to go up the steps but suddenly Jack is in his way, holding up his hands.

"No, man, shit. I can't do this. They're gonna kill me if you go in. Thanks for - whatever, but I'll make it up to you."

Larks' high pitched yell is the only thing that saves Jack from a face full of salted beef broth. Edward can feel hard edges of the wooden tray pressing against the web of his thumbs and even though Jack is gripping the railing like he wants to bolt, the fear of the rabbit, or maybe Hornigold himself, keeps him in place. But that's fine, that's fucking fine. There's more than one fear and more than one secret.

"If I tell Mads what you saw, they're not going to have a chance to get to you, are they?" he says through clenched teeth. For a second it looks like Jack is going to kill him and Edward almost welcomes it. He wouldn't mind fighting with him, to punch something that punched back. If it wasn't for that fucking knife it would be a fair fight.

But Jack only curses and spits and curses again.

"Fine. Shit. I'll say you snuck by me. You better fuckin' stick to that story or I swear I'll cut you guts out. Now go on, get, before anyone sees us."

He moves and Edward feels something in his gut unknot only to knot again at his chest as he moves up the stairs. The goal is in sight. A dim light spills from the deck facing window, like a beacon, like a welcome, like coming home- almost, but he has to keep on his guard because neither of them will be happy he's there.

Edward stops by the door, closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths. He has to sail this course well. He has to keep his eyes sharp and his mind sharper and not get angry and not be stupid. If he can do this- if he can grab hold of Hornigold's interest then maybe- maybe there will be something greater opened up for him.

He jostles the tray to one hand, jumping a bit and spilling salted beef broth at Jack's sharp:

"Hey!"

And nearly slams in the door to claim his prize.

But he doesn't. He turns the knob instead and slips in quietly…

…into a different world.

The first thing that strikes him is the scent. It smells of wood and cinnamon from a precious rolled up stick in a brass plate. A table takes up most of the center with elegant legs and two chairs with blue and gold swirled cushions. There is a bed against a wall, under a bank of windows, enough to fit two men if they laid on their sides, with a soft pillow and a thin blanket. A dark sea chest is at its foot, deep brown with a brass lock, the key still in it. The room isn't large, only about half the size of his old house, maybe even less, but it feels full and rich and magical.

Hornigold and the rabbit are standing by one of the windows just opposite the bed, backs to the door, the sunlight slipping an orange-red square over the captain's sleeve. His short coat was set to the side and he was just in his waistcoat and shirt now, his hands behind him, a single silver ring shining on his index finger. In that moment he is more a man than Father ever was.

"You need to give this up, Captain," says the rabbit in his strangely sonorous voice, buzzing lightly in the golden nose. "The men are slipping. We need to be pirates. Actual pirates. We can't wait for the Leviathan to strip us bare again."

"Last I heard she was just leaving drydock in Bristol," says Hornigold. "It will take her a month or more to reach these waters."

"That doesn't matter," the rabbit replies. "You know it doesn't. You are chasing a dream. I don't understand what it is you're hoping for"

Edward knows he should speak, at least to clear his throat to let them know he's there- but first he'll lay the meal out so they'll see what he's there to do, that he's not just spying. With care he approaches the table and notices there's a map laid across it. He carefully sets a bowl on either side of it, well away from the precious vellum, and the spoons beside the bowls before leaning in to take a look.

It's a beautiful map, with thin black lines that carve out islands and the big chunk of land he had learned is called a continent. There are all sorts of words- clear ones with letters like bricks of a house. Some of it was spidery, written at the sides in darker sharper ink. There are a couple ivory pieces there too, one placed just a little away from the islands, the other in a protective bay of an island, and around that island were small jagged lines in the same sharp black.

Reefs, maybe? Shoals? But nowhere else… Maybe these are just the ones Hornigold knows of.

"I don't expect you to understand it," says Hornigold. "I need you with me. The Rosa is out there. She'll make for the open sea soon, she'll have to, and we'll have to get her before the English do- Once we have her, once we have her secrets…."

The word touches Edward like a spark in a fuse, he can almost hear it hissing away inside, his heart picking up the temp. Secrets. Like him. The captain is collecting treasures in his palms, or wants to. He wants to know what they are too. He wants to hold them in his hands to watch them shine.

Edward raises his eyes to watch as Hornigold braces a hand against the window frame, the hand at his back clenched in a loose fist.

"Pirates live and die by the wind and tides," the man murmurs. "But we can be more than that, Harve. We can be more. All we need is our foot in the door."

Edward wants to say he'll help, to shout it out, to be pulled along by Hornigold's wake because even though they are man and boy, they are the same . The need to speak presses against his lips, but somehow he keeps silent even as his heart is jerking about like a fish on a line.

He can't just say he can help. He has to prove it somehow.

"And how the hell do you propose to get it?" the rabbit hisses. "There's only a chance she'll come out of the northwest! If she's smart she'll go south. If we sneak up on her like a wolf in the night, she will go south. Once she catches the current she's gone and the men will have lost their patience." And then, more gently than Edward had heard the rabbit speak to anyone. "The men have no use for secrets, Ben."

Edward glances at the map, twisting his head to get a better look at it. He looks for the crook on the compass rose that tells him North. The island the one ivory piece is as at has jagged lines around most of it except for the wide open patch to the North West, and a smaller thinner break between the lines at the South.

He doesn't know much about reefs and shoals, except that these must not easily be seen- or seen at all– and maybe that's what the map is for. Maybe that's why they can't sneak in at night because it won't matter if the Rosa can see or not.

A thought glimmers in Edward's mind and he closes his eyes to look at them. Sneaking up at night, they'll be spotted. There will be a mist tomorrow morning, as Saladin says and Edward wants to blurt that out, but it won't be enough if the Rosa really wants to leave, because she'll know the way out. But what if she doesn't want to leave? What if they can draw her toward them?

But how? Edward thinks. Drawing people toward you. Father did when he wasn't in his cups, but he was friendly and laughed a lot. Mother did, but in a quiet way, because she was kind even if she didn't speak much and she had fewer friends and soon none at all. He thought again of her giving coins, when she had, to the beggars, the needy, the diseased, reaching out with bone thin hands.

"We can lure her in," Edward says. The rabbit startles and even Hornigold's shoulders jump. As one they both turn toward him like the opening of double doors, letting light slant in through the window. Edward can't see their expressions but it doesn't matter.

"Zorah will bring the veil tomorrow, that's what Saladin says," he continues. "It's a mist, a fog, or something like that. If we get close enough and pretend we need help, maybe she'll come to us- and we can pull her away from her passage. And maybe if she gets scared she'll scupper herself if she tries to run."

It's good. He knows it's good. Even as his fingers dig into the wood of the tray and he feels his breath catch in his throat. He feels a charge in the air, exhilarating and terrifying and it's all he can do to keep himself still.

It's the rabbit who speaks first, voice low barbed menace.

"Motherless whoreson, I knew it was only a matter of time." He hops closer on his crutch, lank hair swinging, groping for something near his belt. He is backlit and Edward can't really make it out. It could be a knife or a pistol but Edward isn't afraid.

"I'm bringing food," he says, keeping his gaze on the captain.

"Taste it," the rabbit snaps. Edward blinks.

"What?"

"You heard me. Both bowls."

Shrugging, Edward does as he's told. First he takes a sip of the captain's broth, hot and delicious, though it only carves his stomach open for more and his teeth long for something to sink into. From the rabbit's he takes the one and only chunk of potato, letting it hang on his tongue for a moment before biting into it. It's soft but there's just enough give to make it feel good and the full flavor of it mushes into his mouth and slides warm down his throat.

"Bringing food and advice it seems," says Hornigold. Edward hears his tread on the floor and opens his eyes to watch him shift out of the sunlight and into the dimmer room. His face is impassive, gray eyes flat. "Who told you to say that?"

"No one."

"Liar," the rabbit says, lifting his hand and Edward sees it is a pistol, the light slipping against the gold of the muzzle. "Who was it? Aconi? Toussaint? Darby?"

Toussaint sounds like it belongs to Cook, Darby is probably Mad Eddie unless there is someone else the rabbit distrusts.

"They would have told you themselves, right?" Edward says.

Hornigold raises his eyebrows as if he had made a good point and Edward grins.

"I still call you a liar, boy," says the rabbit, pulling back the hammer and the first flash of true anger goes across Hornigold's face.

"Put that way, for fuck's sake," he snaps. "If it goes off in here, you'll start a war."

The rabbit curses under his breath and gingerly sets the pistol on the table, though keeps a hand on it as if realizing how close it is to Edward's grasp. Edward keeps the tray in his hands and Hornigold sighs gustily, shaking his head. There are lines around his eyes that Edward doesn't remember seeing and a wrinkle between his sandy eyebrows.

Even he seems worried about the tide of men crashing over them and the fuse in Edward's chest grows brighter for some reason. Even Hornigold doesn't own all the power. The men give it to him just as he gives it to them. That means that Edward has some to give on his own, something more than the coins of secrets; he just has to find out what it is.

"So why are you here, Mr. Teach," says Hornigold, sitting in front of his bowl and his map. "Fetch the bourbon, Harvey."

"Me? Captain…"

"The rat doesn't know where it is and I'm not having him poking around." Hornigold jabs his spoon in Edward's direction before flicking it at the rabbit. "Get it and get yourself some. Leave the pistol."

With a curse the rabbit turns away and Edward glances after the man, watching him hop to the sea chest with the brass key.

"Well?" Hornigold says, drawing his attention back.

"I wanted to see you," Edward says. "I want to learn to be like you." A ghost of a smile flits across Hornigold's face before it fades. The rabbit huffs.

"Impertinent toe rag."

"And Jack?" says Hornigold, blowing on the broth. "What did you do to him?"

Edward shrugs again.

"He's more scared of Mad Eddie than he is of the ra— Mr. Harvey," he corrects at Hornigold's look. "If you don't want to make it so easy you need to protect him better."

"And you're not afraid of Mad Eddie?" There's something about the way Hornigold says it, almost mocking, though Edward can't tell who he is making fun of.

"I'm not afraid of anything," he says. Hornigold stares at him, as if trying to see the truth behind his eyes. Edward meets his gray eyed gaze, trying to make his own expression just a stony, just as still as a cloudless day. What would it be like to be able to look like that one day? All emotions hidden away.

Almost all emotions, Edward thinks, remembering the flash of anger from before. He glances at the pistol and Hornigold does too. In the background the rabbit curses and clatters with pretty glassware, and Edward wants to look at it but is distracted as Hornigold's short fingered hand slides over the pistol's smooth wood grip. In a moment, Edward finds himself staring down the barrel of it, gold at the rim where the light hits but deepening into shadow- with death at the end.

"And now?" says Hornigold. He waves the pistol in a short, graceful arc as if making a point. "You will die. I have no use for you. You cause trouble on my ship. You start fights. There hasn't been a moment's peaceful voyage since you came. I should make an example of you."

Hornigold rises enough to press the muzzle of the pistol to Edward's forehead. The metal is oddly warm, like a living thing.

"Have you found your fear?" Hornigold asks.

Edward looks for it, tries to scrounge it up. His heart beats steady, his breath comes even, his palms are dry. Not even his neck prickles with warning. He doesn't doubt Hornigold will kill him either and wonders what that would be like. It'll hurt maybe but then is it darkness like sleep? Or is there something else that happens?

"Well?" says Hornigold.

"No." Which is annoying. What kind of person isn't afraid? From behind them the rabbit curses and there's the sound of breaking glass. Hornigold starts and his finger taps against the trigger. Edward sucks in a breath, sharp anticipation hammering in his heart. Is it excitement? It feels like excitement. It shouldn't be that should it?

Whatever it is he likes it.

Hornigold's eyes narrow and his expression goes still and flat.

"Give me a reason not to kill you, boy."

The 'boy' sends a sharp hot twist through him but the way it was said made it too interesting to hook any anger. Hornigold had said it like an order. Like he wants to be convinced. They are the same. They want the same thing.

"Because I know what you want."

"And what's that?" says Hornigold, a flicker of surprise in his cold gray eyes like he was hungry too. Edward might not understand the details, but he knows. What else could a king want?

"A kingdom." He meets Hornigold's flat gray eyes, holds them, feels himself grin- expects any moment for the pistol to go off and to see black and red and nothing. "And I can help you get it.

How, he doesn't know. But he can do it. He can do anything. He feels like he could take apart the ship board by board and put it back together again with his own hands. Hornigold smirks, tracing the flintlock from Edward's forehead to his cheek and tapping it lightly with the side of it, making his skin prickle at the feel of warm metal and smooth wood.

"You're a menace," Hornigold says with a grin pulling the corner of his thin mouth. All at once Edward feels seen, feels understood, even if he doesn't understand himself. The rabbit snorts from the back, the cut glass of the bourbon bottle sending freckles of light around the room.

"Don't listen to him, captain, the boy can't even climb the rigging."

"I can now," Edward says. Hornigold breathes out through his nose and rises, placing the flintlock on the table between them.

"And so you will," he says. "You will know every scrap of this ship from stem to stern. You will work your fingers to the bone for me and thank me for the privilege. You will learn how to serve–"

"Captain-" the rabbit starts. Hornigold holds up a hand. Edward grins.

"-and you will learn how to behave. Yes?"

"Yes." It doesn't matter what he has to do. What he has to be. Being in here is his first step toward something. Toward being something more than just a dreg, a scrub. No one can look down on him now.

"Remember that," says Hornigold, coming around the table. "Remember what I've told you."

"Yes, sir," Edward says. How can he forget? Hornigold looks down at him, a strange pull at the side of his mouth like a smile but not- until that too fades into his sand-glass face.

"Come, Mr. Harvey, forget that for now. We have work to do on deck."

The rabbit mutters something under his breath and Hornigold waits, patient, as the man puts the bottles away and swings up to them on his crutch. There is something about that. Something big that Edward doesn't understand but it pushes a feeling low in his chest. That feeling turns high and sharp as Hornigold rests a hand on the back of Edward's neck, sturdy and callused and dry, and leads them to the door.

Everyone is going to see this. Them. Everyone is going to know. Going to understand. No one is going to call him Pisser any more because he is with the captain now.

They step out under a vivid sky, throbbing orange and red and blue. The crew are scattered around the deck and rigging and almost as one turn toward them, as if pulled by Hornigold's very presence. Even Cook comes from the galley, rubbing his thick hands on his apron.

Edward rolls back his shoulders back and lifts his head, a sweet brush of wind coming from the stern and scooping down sends fingers through his hair and flits the edge of Hornigold's short coat against his back.

"Mr. Darby," says Hornigold, barely raises his voice, but it rolls across the deck anyway like thunder. Mad Eddie steps forward, bloodless, sharp knuckled fists caged at his side.

"Aye?"

"I found this in my quarters." Hornigold gives him a little push forward and Edward stumbles a little, turning to look at him on instinct. Hornigold's hand is raised, the last of the sunlight glints deep red in the stone of Hornigold's ring.

There is flash of black and red and a lancing bolt of pain in the back of his head that makes sparks dance behind his eyes. When he opens them again, the world seems fuzzed around the edges, his jaw aches, his head feels hollow, he's on the deck, half braced against the wall.

Hornigold is speaking, his words falling sharp like broken shells.

"-uninvited. If you can't keep control of your men maybe you should spend less time chattering at tosser's watch." He shakes his head and grips the railing. "Look at all of you. I've never seen a worse pack of mongrels in my life. Half of you aren't fit to spit let alone fight. But you'll have to. Tomorrow morning, thanks to Mr. Harvey's genius, we will bring the storm."

There is a silence then like the roll of a wave, waiting for it to break.

"What's the target, Captain?" says Aconi, deep voice full of fierce pride.

"The Rosa. A sow full of fat merchants and thick lined with plunder. Something for everyone. Rum. Meat. Sugar. Gold.

At each flat word ragged cheers rise from the deck. Gold sends their feet stamping on the boards.

"And more than that," Hornigold says above the noise. "The Rosa holds the key to the straits. To plunder, riches, beyond your wildest dreams. To fat bellied ships like pigeons ready for the catching."

Another roar, this louder than the last time, the air seems to be shivering with noise.

"To blood and fortune, mates!" The rabbit cries, his voice high and thin, blade sharp.

"Blood and fortune!" the men echo.

"And who do we owe our thanks, curs?" the rabbit calls.

"Hornigold!" the crew echoes. "Hornigold! Hornigold! " The captain's name comes like a chant, rising and rising until Hornigold says:

"Rum for all!"

The cheer seems to rattle the deck. Hornigold moves down the stairs to join them and they gather around him like pleased dogs, happy to see their master. Edward's heart beats slow and sluggish in his chest and he comes back to himself, the captain's absence seeming like the air's been sucked out.

The rabbit hops over to him, the full weight of his crutch coming down on Edward's hand, pinning him hard to the deck. Edward yelps and then bites the back of his knuckles so he won't scream, the pain is searing and even more when the man leans his full weight on it and Edward is sure he can hear his bones shift and start to break.

"Get to work, Pisser," the rabbit grins hard and harsh, the light spilling off his gold nose. "The men need their rum."

xxxx

Edward sits at the galley table, feeling the pitch of the ship as she rides the waves which have become a little choppy as the day has smoothed away to night. He hardly notices it anymore, but right now it's as if he can feel everything- the ache on his hand, the bruise on his cheek and the cut there that he hadn't noticed before from Hornigold's ring. His clothes are rough and frayed against his skin and his fingers are scraped and swollen from scrubbing, the center of his left palm a blue/purplish bruise like a black spot. A mark of death. He stares at it, his mind fuzz, empty of everything but existing, his breath warm in his lungs.

At the head of the table, Cook is snoring, passed out on his ledger, the candle by his hand burning low. The light shines and slips against the glass of his watchful eye-which is nothing- which is meaningless. He's just a man.

Everyone is just a man, but he feels less than, like a shadow, a spirit in a graveyard ready to slip from one place to the next, or maybe disappear altogether. Sometimes he feels like he should have. Should have died in his cot, as Father had bellowed once, taking up all the money -always needing new clothes, new shoes and what has he done for the family? Nothing. He's just a child, Mother would say and Father would raise his hand…

The creak of the steps makes him start and nearly fall off the bench. His hands try to clench and he winces at the bruise, heart thudding in his ears. It will be Mad Eddie. Mad Eddie will kill him. Will cut his throat and feed him to the sharks.

But the bulky shadow that comes into the warm faint circle of light isn't Mad Eddie, but Paulo. Edward stares at him. Somehow the man seems more real than anything else in the room, as if it's made of smoke. He smells like the sea and rum and sweat and in the candle light, the eyes of the saint seem to watch him, mute with sympathy. Edward swallows hard and wishes he could stand and lay his head against her, wishes her arms would come up and wrap around him say: it will be alright, you'll see. Tomorrow will be better, hey? Now dry your eyes. There's my good boy.

He isn't a good boy though. He doesn't deserve a saint. He deserves what he got and more. Perhaps Paulo will be the one to do it, with a gun or a knife or a bit of rough rope. The man doesn't seem like he's coming to kill though. His mouth is flat and eyes as somber as the saint. He casts a wary glance at Cook and makes a gesture to follow.

Edward shrugs and rises, the faint scrape of the bench rousing Cook who mutters a slurred: "Qui es dans ma chambre ?" As if he's mostly asleep still.

"Les monstres sont partis, " Edward says, his own voice sounding dull and flat to his ears. Cook relaxes back into sleep but it seems uneasy. Edward looks up to find Paulo staring at him. Edward stares back. Let him know that secret. Let him tell the captain. It doesn't matter. Finally Paulo mutters something under his breath, shaking his head. He motions Edward to follow again and starts up the stairs.

Edward almost wants to stay behind in the dim galley, or to go to his closet in the pantry- but instead leaves the table to follow him on deck. Though the ship hasn't moved, the air feels fresh out here, the sky is full of stars but scudded with clouds. Paulo sits by a pile of thick rope and Edward sits beside him, curling his knees to his chest.

"I t-told you. A-a-actions have co-consequences, p-primo ."

Edward shrugs, picking at a splinter in the deck with a fingernail.

"You c-can't j-just w-w-walk into the ca-captains room and e-e-expect to b-be wel-welcomed."

Hornigold had said things to him though. Good things. They don't feel good now. They feel empty. Gutless. He rubs his bruised swollen cheek against his shoulder just to feel it hurt. Paulo sighs in a great gusty breath and puts a hand on his back between his shoulder blades. Dangerous wet stings the back of Edward's eyes and he closes them so they won't spill over, resting his forehead against his knees, teeth grit against it. He won't. He won't .

"E-está bi-bien ," Paulo says. "M-Mads may h-h-hate you n-now, b-but the r-r-r… c-conejo is s-satisfied."

Satisfied? Edward scrubs his eyes with the back of his good hand and blinks at the palm of the other, the mark even blacker now in the darkness. Why? Because he'd left a bruise on him?

"Th-that m-means y-you ha-have a ch-chance of s-s-surviving the mo-moth. Th-that is if you s-s-survive the r-r-raid."

Paulo grips the back of his neck, hand large and cool and hard as iron. Edward's breath comes narrow in his throat. His cheek throbs and he sucks in a shaky breath, gripping his leg with his good hand. Paulo leans in, his breath hot and smelling faintly of rum and thin peppery gruel.

"M-Mads is a p-perro that wi-will b-b-bite wh-when s-s-scared," Paulo murmurs, close to his ear. "He wi-wi-will t-try and k-kill you wh-where n-n-no one c-can s-see."

It isn't that different from before, is it? Just more and more people rising up like shadows, reaching tendrils wanting him dead.

"S-s-so wh-when we b-board, s–s-stay cl-close to m-m-me…"

Edward looks up at him, sharp warmth filling his chest like relief. His eyes are burning again and he blinks hard so nothing will fall. It doesn't make sense. Won't he get hurt or punished? That's what happened before, didn't it?

"Why?" Edward asks, hating how his voice wavers high and uncertain. He's not a man yet but he almost is and that was a child's voice. Paulo seems to smile and ruffles Edward's hair.

"W-we're m-m-mates, s-sí ?

"Mates…" Edward echoes. Is that right? Is it true? He wants it to be true. He wants to be able to come up on deck whenever and sit beside Paulo, work side by side with him- and not get angry at him no matter what he says. He'll be better this time. They can fight and work together. It'll be amazing and Edward knows he'll learn so much. Maybe even more than he'd learn from Hornigold.

"Sí ," Edward says and Paulo pats his head once briefly before pulling his hand away.

"B-bien . Now g-go g-get s-some r-r-rest, p-primo," Paulo's face becomes serious. "A-and k-keep the d-d-door sh-sh-shut."

xxxx

Zorah's shroud hangs thick in the air, rolling across the deck in curling thin tendrils. Edward grips the line as he stands crouched on the railing, heart thudding so loud in his throat he's sure everyone can hear it. He is wide awake, too awake, hot thick coffee seeming to coat the inside of his guts.

"Ajude-me!" Edward calls again, his voice going a little raw and seeming swallowed by the fog. The words are echoed and carried down the line of men standing by the railing. The Rosa is Portuguese, the captain had said, and would respond better to tongues of their own land- but for the love of God make sure you can pronounce it.

So Edward and those who could speak it had been calling into the fog for what seemed like hours, the others standing by weapons at the ready, knotted with tension. The air smells like smoke and charred wood from the fires that they'd lit in the two heavy cookpots and hung from the rigging, the black smoke churns through the thick fog and makes it seem thicker somehow, and more like a shroud every passing moment.

Edward eyes the rabbit who is standing further away from them down the deck, nearly lost in mist, head tilted toward some sound. The man had woken all hands in the early hours, Edward doesn't know when. It was early enough that Zorah was already starting to work her magic, the fog thick and heavy in the air as they dropped sail and headed closer.

After they'd anchored, as close as they had dared to get, they had all gathered around Hornigold who had stood on the deck with them, the rabbit holding the lantern which flickered orange-gold light across his face and in his eyes.

'Kill everyone,' he had said. 'Not a soul leaves alive. Take everything, destroy nothing. Man with the greatest treasure earns a reward.'

'Kill' had stuck with Edward, fluttering in his head like a feather, catching in his throat.

"Ajude-me!" he calls.

The thought shouldn't be so strange. He has killed already. He's seen death up close. Pushed it into the water, chest heaving and knotted….

Except he doesn't have a thing to kill with. So maybe he won't this time. He'd tried to get a weapon. Gilead Thorpe had handed them out just a short while ago; pistols, shot, oiled cutlasses. When Edward had come up, Gilead's gaze had slid off him like water. Even Jack has a weapon. He is standing a little ways down the deck, looking gawky and stupid with a too big cutlass at his hip and two pistols jammed into his thin belt.

Edward wishes he'd gotten a knife at least from the kitchens but Cook is awake as well— maybe he doesn't need it though.

Paulo stands beside him, hand on Bertha, a slim muzzled cannon, bronzed and stuffed with grapeshot, which, as Edward has learned, has nothing to do with grapes. He has a cutlass too, and two pistols and a knife at his side. Edward had thought Paulo might give him something- might slide it into his hand while Hornigold was speaking or weapons were gathered- and he hadn't– But he had stood by Edward the whole time even with all the evil looks Mad Eddie had sent their way.

Maybe Paulo will pass him something on the ship— like the knife, or maybe even the pistol, and they'll fight back to back, cutting down any fool that gets in their path. The thought makes him grin and his stomach churn. He swallows and takes a breath to call for help again.

Then he hears it. An echo of waves against a wooden hull.

Voices come thin through the fog.

"Quem está aí?"

"Você está bem?"

Edward hesitates. Rabbit has his hand raised. Edward's heart drums in his throat.

"Pelo amor de Deus, ajude-nos!" Hornigold's voice comes somewhere in the fog, half hidden on the aft deck, rough and desperate.

"Estava aqui. Aguentar! " comes the voice in return. Edward can see the ship now, looming suddenly out of the mist like a dream. She is beautiful, a long dark sloop with trim sails— He can see the others too, men in orange and dark green or maybe blue tunics. His throat knots.

Out of the corner of his eye, the rabbit drops his hand.

Paulo sets the fuse. Edward has only a moment to stare at it before the world explodes in with a shaking roar that knocks him off the railing backwards onto the deck. He might have screamed, he can hear something like a scream echoing in his ears. Or maybe it's the men who are screaming. Mad Eddie's mouth is wide open, black teeth gleaming, veins on his neck extending as he draws his shining cutlass. The others are screaming too.

"Piratas! Piratas!" the voices seem to echo and Edward smacks his ear to fix it. A hand grabs him rough on the back of his shirt and he flails, nearly getting Paulo in the ribs.

"V-vamos!" the man snaps hauling him up, shoving a rope in his hands. Edward sees the others are taking ropes too, swinging over onto the deck which is already full of gleaming swords, flashing in the lamplight. Edward grips the rope, feeling it rough in his palms and steps up on the railing. Across the way Scrawny Greg splits a man open and he goes down in a spray of blood.

Edward forgets how to move, forgets how to breathe, his knees shaking. Paulo moves violently behind him and that giant hand slaps into his back sending him swinging over the sea and the splintered railing. Edward can hear himself screaming now. The rope starts to swing back and Edward lets go before he changes his mind. For a second he's weightless, flying- then hits the deck hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

The deck trembles around him. There are roars and pops all around him from pistol fire and he covers his head as splinters from something rain down around him. The cannon goes off in another roar and Edward watches iron shards tear red across a man's skin before he turns his head and chokes up bile.

"Morra, seu merdinha!" a voice snarls behind him and Edward twists, the shape looming over him dark and ominous; like it was framed in the doorway, stinking of rum, mother clutching at him and telling him to go for a walk, it's night now but he'll be fine it will be fine.

The shape hoists a gleaming sword. A darker thicker shape lands behind the blackness and suddenly it's not a shape of a monster full of anger and hard fists, but a thin man with a cutlass through his chest. Paulo drags it out, blood slick, leaving the man gagging and punches him over the side down into the deep.

"I-idiota! Va-vamos!" Paulo snarls. Then charges across the deck, slashing men out of his way. Edward scrambles to his feet and follows, ducking out of the way of men and showering splinters. He can't just follow like a fucking duck. He needs something! Anything.

A man screams and too late Edward sees the body falling toward him. He falls under the weight and shoves him off— staring for a moment into Timbee's vacant stare, his throat a mass of blood. The one who had struck Timbee glares and bears down. Edward pries Timbee's flintlock from his curled hand and fires. The kick knocks him onto his back, his ears ringing again. The swordsman falls to one leg, the other gouting blood.

Edward staggers to his feet before the swordsman can get up again.

"Paulo!" he cries. "Paulo!" He can't see him through the dark and the fog and now the roiling smoke from where a part of the ship has caught on fire. He wants to scream. He wants to look for Paulo frantically, pulling up bodies.

He can't fight. He has no shot, no gunpowder, nothing to make the pistol useful again! Fuck!

Another man catches sight of him and Edward bolts, charging across the deck. A flicker of light shines over the window of the aft cabin like the swinging arc of a light house. Edward charges up the steps, a man at the top swinging at him with a thick club - -

Edward ducks out of the way just in time and punches the man in the balls as hard as he can. The man screams and topples forward- Edward dances out from under him and kicks him down the stairs before pivoting and slamming into the room, breathing hard- chest heaving.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shit. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight. He needs to do more than just scream and puke and run. He needs to fight like the rest of them. Otherwise he's going to die here. Worse they're going to know he is nothing. Nothing but a boy. Nothing but a pisser.

There is a soft curse and Edward jerks the flintlock up. There is a man in the shadows, standing behind a heavy oak desk. He is slender and grave, dressed all in black, hair askew as if he'd just woken. The captain, maybe? Edward thinks, chest heaving. The mate? The man slowly raises his hands.

"Paz. Abaixe a arma. Eu não vou te machucar. Eu sou um médico."

Should he kill him? Hornigold said no one left alive. But with what? He licks the blood and bile from his lip. The man slowly comes toward him and Edward raises the pistol higher, pulling back the hammer. The dark haired man steps back.

"Paz, Paz, " the man says calmly. "Médico. …Médico? Voce entende?"

Edward stares at him, trying to figure out what he's saying. Me…jico? Like one of the three magi? That doesn't make much sense.

"Ah," the man says in a familiar tone. "¿Hablas español? Comprenez-vous le français ?" The man makes a face. "Do you speak English?"

"You're English…" Edward says. What is an English man doing on a Portuguese ship? He looks pretty fancy too, but in a dusty rumpled way.

"Guilty as charged," says the man with a faint smile. "My name is John Harrow. Doctor John Harrow."

"Méjico… " No… that wasn't right. "Médjico. "

"Yes," the man says, then cautiously. "And you are?"

Edward hesitates. "A pirate," he says, because he's not giving some weird English guy his name.

"I see that," says the man wryly. A cannon booms again and men scream. Edward winces "Do you plan to shoot me?" says the man. "Only you don't look like you like this very much."

"I might," Edward says. Then straightening. "I love this. This is amazing." His voice is too thick in his throat but that's what he should say. He's a pirate after all. If he's going to be great he should be right there in the thick of it.

"Forgive me if I'm skeptical," says the man and Edward glares. He doesn't know the word, but it doesn't sound like a nice one. He jerks the pistol, finger light on the trigger and the man flinches now. "Alright, alright, you've made your point. Listen, lad, I assume that you lot are taking a no prisoners approach to this."

"No soul left alive." Edward echoes. It's interesting, he can't really shoot the doctor, not like this. Not with nothing left to shoot him with. But the doctor doesn't know it. He's just afraid of it. Cautious maybe. There's something to that–

Not that it matters, because the doctor will die. Someone else is bound to come in here and kill him. Someone will definitely kill the doctor if he leaves, without caring who are what he is. There is nothing but death waiting for this man. Edward swallows hard, seeing the man's blank eyes, blood and spit trailing from the corners of his mouth.

"Perhaps you ought to tell your captain I'm here then," the man says. "And what I am. As a doctor I could only be of use to you. And you could be rewarded for it." And then almost kindly: "Escape your hurts for a while."

Edward grins, feeling his face sting. Escape from hurts? There is no escape from getting hurt. Not anywhere. Not until he is a man and is too big to hurt. And there is no escape for the doctor either. Unless… Edward thinks as an idea picks at the back of his mind. This is the captain's quarters, no doubt about that. The captain's sea chest is open and there is a full satchel of something at the doctor's side. Hornigold was worried about the English getting this treasure.

The maps. The logs. Maybe the doctor has sailed this sea before and knows everything Hornigold would want to ask him. But Edward can't bring him alone out into that. The doctor might get murdered just because he is with him. But maybe— Paulo can help.

"Stay here," Edward says. "I'll go get someone to help."

From outside there is the thin call of: "Incêndio!"

The doctor licks his narrow lips.

"I don't think I should wait. I'd rather go with you."

"Then you'll definitely die. Stay here ." Edward repeats sternly. "I'll be back." He glares at the man until he's sure he understands, then, taking a breath, ducks back out into the chaos. There's less of it now. Only a few fighting men.

He can see Scrawny Greg helping Larks across the deck, hand covering a bleeding wound. He can see Paulo not far from him, cutting at three men who are trying to get at him- he is good, but seeming to stagger. Edward grabs a knife from someone who is sprawled bleeding nearby, and trots down the stairs

A man comes at him and he flings the knife on instinct, it sinks up to the hilt in the man's gut and he staggers back against the mast, dropping, clutching at it with bloodied fingers. Shit. He doesn't have time to get another knife. Edward comes up to the man and avoids his face as he pulls it out, feeling the resistance, hearing the man gag as he wrenches forward.

Jack is there too, against the other side of the mast. At first Edward thinks he's dead, then sees that he's curled up into a ball, hands over his ears, shaking like a kicked dog.

"Don't die, stupid," Edward says. "Either fight and survive or go home."

Jack looks up at him, blood and wet and dirt tracking down his face. Edward turns away and hurries toward Paulo. One man is coming at Paulo from behind and Edward slams the knife into his back. It's like when he stabbed the rabbit's hand, the flesh gives, the knife sinks, there is a juddering scrape. Edward's stomach lurches, he ignores it. The man yelps and staggers back, grabbing at it, but not able to get it. Paulo cuts them both down in one stroke and a spray of blood.

Edward startles out of the way as Paulo turns toward him sharply, cutlass raised– then after a moment, slowly lowered, his big face somber.

"Bien! That was awesome!" Edward says and Paulo gives a half smile. There is a sound like rushing air and Edward sees the fire at the fore catch onto the sails, sending them bright as a torch. They are running out of time. "There's a man," he says quickly. "An English doctor, back in the cabin…"

"I-Inglés?" Paulo's thick eyebrows crease.

"Sí," Edward nods. "I think we should get him to Hornigold."

Paulo gives a shaky sigh and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Ay, primo," his voice is thick as he sheaths his cutlass and seems to reach for one of the flintlocks. There is the bark of a pistol and a spray of blood from Paulo's arm. He curses and grabs at it, red thick blood seeping through his fingers. Edward jumps and yelps.

What happened? What– Why is he bleeding? Who the fuck-

"Ya think I don't know what yer up ta?" Mad Eddie snarls, the fog curling away as he approaches him, as if it's afraid to touch him. The man is soaked in blood, skin and clothes nearly as red as his hair. "Ya think I don't know what yer plannin'? Ya think I'm gonna let ya fuck me over?"

"We're not trying to fuck you over!" Edward snaps. He touches Paulo's arm but the man hisses and jerks away. A fleck of blood is running down the Saint's throat. Her eyes look hollow and scared, as if she's bleeding too.

"Oh, I think ya are." Mad Eddie says; pulling another primed pistol, aiming it for Paulo's head.

"No!" Edward snaps, moving in front of the man, arms spread. "Don't! Leave him alone, you asshole!"

"Ya don't know what yer askin," says Mad Eddie "It's too late, laddie-buck." The man grins, black and horrible, Edward can hear the roar of rain or blood in his ears. "This fecker is goin down." He pulls back the hammer.

The click is loud in his head, the saint is crying, crying and crying and won't stop. Will never stop.

"Say goodbye!" Mad Eddie screams and Edward finds himself screaming too, his own voice loud in his ears, rattling through his bones. He is running.. The report of the pistol jumps and knots his insides as it jolts in him, a flash of bright pain right above his heart—

It's over-

It's done-

Paulo-!

"Nooo!"

He slams into Mad Eddie, knocking the man to the deck. Paulo was his mate! His friend! Goddamnit! Goddamnit! His fist flies, he can feel the man's nose break under it, feel the hard crack of his teeth. Mad Eddie's hand flies out and the blow knocks his head to the side, but he can barely feel it. He can barely feel anything.

Mad Eddie curses underneath him, struggling, starts to rise. Edward grabs him by the collar and head butts him hard, sending him back to the deck. He wraps his hand around the man's throat and he squeezes, digging his fingers in as hard as he can, stinging wet dripping from his face.

Mad Eddie snarls and his sharp knuckled hands wrap around Edward's throat, squeezing and squeezing. He can't breathe. He'll die like this. Let him die. Let him go. Down into that black. He doesn't care. So long as this fucker comes with him. So long as they both go down together into that deep. Let it crush their bones to nothing. Black closes around his vision and he can taste salt on his tongue.

Another roar, distant and echoing and Edward gasps as Mad Eddie's grip slackens. He watches the man fall to the deck, eyes wide, blood seeping from his forehead and making a sticky patch on the deck behind him. Edward heaves and retches for breath, clawing at his throat with his hand. Paulo is standing over him, arm bleeding, alive, flintlock smoking in his hand.

Edward sobs, rough and hard in his chest, his face wet, his arm wet, flooding, dripping tears from his shoulder and down his fingers. He's alive. He's alive . Edward wants to cling to him, to rest his head against the man's warm side. He can't seem to reach for him though. Can't seem to move.

Paulo throws the spent pistol away and pulls another and presses the muzzle to Edward's head.

Edward stares, feeling himself tremble, feeling the world and sea shift.

"L-lo si-siento, p-primo. Con la obediencia, viene le fuerza." He pulls back the hammer. Edward can't even close his eyes. He deserves this. He does. He deserves it like the rough rope on his hands and the salt water in his mouth. For leaving mother behind, for killing her husband. 'My love,' she had called him, used to call him, and Edward would see them holding each other close in the square of moonlight, foreheads touching, and now she is alone.

Mama , he thinks, hoping she can hear. I'm sorry.

Paulo's hand shakes, he swallows and there is wet on his face too. His thick finger rests on the trigger.

"Basta." Aconi's voice rolls low over them, making him shudder. Paulo's attention is caught. Edward doesn't move. He can see the man standing not far away, another shadow, backlit by fire. He is holding a pistol too.

Edward doesn't move. Can't move. He is weak and empty and cold. His fingers drip tears on the deck.

"Ya le vendiste los cajones al conejo," Aconi says. "No vendas también tu alma." Whatever it means makes Paulo close his eyes tightly, then lower his pistol and slowly turn away.

"Th-there is a d-d-doctor here," Paulo says gruffly. "I-Inglés. "

"Bien, " says Aconi. "Fetch him. We'll spare his life tonight." Paulo nods and leaves. Edward is alone. The world is closing in. Aconi is suddenly by his side, leaning over him like a warm shadow.

"Young Edward," he says. "Are you alright?" But the last is a whisper or maybe it's just in his head because he's falling and all he can see is darkness.