He is running across the deck, cannon thundering overhead, the shot of pistols like barking dogs filling his ears. Just beyond him in the thick shadow of roiling smoke, he can hear the fighting, the clash and shriek of steel, the screams high and harsh, Jack sobbing endlessly like a small child hiding under a dock, feeling the incoming tide lap coldly at his toes. His own heart beat high and fast and high in his chest, so high he could choke on it. A railing beside him splinters into a thousand pieces and he shrieks, the flintlock jerking in his hand so that it felt like it would take his whole arm off. He chokes and continues running, sweat or tears or blood trailing down his face, pooling at his feet.
The aft cabins lay ahead, light winking in the windows, fading in and out. It would be safe there, dark there, he could think, he could hide. He was up the stairs, he was at the door, there is no knob but that doesn 't matter as he's able to push it open.
…and he is home, the ground rolling under his feet, weak gray sunlight coming in through the cracked windowpane, Ana-nia gleaming just beyond. There is the table, and the chairs, the old stove, the iron bed, and there is Mother, her hair in two long thick braids that spill on the floor. Her back is to him and her slender hand is rocking a small cradle.
She is singing softly, the sounds of cannons fading to nothing.
'Kua a tipu ra
He kohu e hine
Ki atatu pouri nei
Ka rongo ahau ki to reo
E karanga mai ana i ahau.'
He wants to get up and crawl onto her lap and for her to touch his hair and hold him - but he can 't move. His feet are stuck fast to the floor. Salt stings his eyes and runs down his face.
Mama, he wants to say. I 'm here. I'm sorry. Turn around. But he can't speak -and already hears it coming the thud of footsteps on the deck behind him like heartbeats, heavy and echoing. His own heart stops. Mama, go. Mama, run!
She doesn 't seem to hear it. Just sings and rocks
'Titiro ki te moana
Titiro ki nagangaru e
Kei reira pea, koe hine
E noho mokemoke ana.'
Paulo is beside him now, holding the flintlock high.
'L-lo s-siento, primo.' He says, the thick words falling from his lips like music.
'Don't!' Edward snarls and claws at him, trying to get the pistol from him, trying to pull him to the ground- but he is too small and his shoulder numb with a pain that seems to sing in the back of his teeth. Hornigold grips his shoulders with soft palmed hands, holding him back, blocking the sight of mother who is singing again, her voice even further than before. No. No she's going to die!
'Mama!'
"It's alright, lad," says Hornigold in the voice of the doctor. "You're alright. Lie still."
Edward head butts him hard and Hornigold yelps and bursts into a shower of sparks. Edward charges past him, the room lengthening, darkening, Mother somewhere at the end of it, voice a whisper. Edward calls for her again, tripping over something in the gloom and looking down at Mad Eddie 's sightless staring eyes-
Then it is too late. The darkness is a wall in front of him, lashing with rain. He hears one dragging footstep and then another and a gnarled hand, thick with barnacles, shoots from the darkness and crushes his throat.
Edward jerks awake, breathing hard. He is lying on something soft, a bed, mid-morning light looping whirls on the ceiling. A clean blanket is lying over his hips, and he's wearing a too large linen shirt that covers his thighs. He stares at the shirt, running his fingertips over it. The shirt has no tears or patches or even frayed sleeves and it rests softly against him, smelling faintly of cedar and something deeply floral that rests in the back of his nose. Something white catches his eye and he rolls his head to the side to see bandages wrapped over his shoulder. He can feel them against his chest as well, with a bulky patch just over his heart.
He sits up with a grunt, his shoulder pinching and he rubs it absently. There is a small sea chest just opposite him, as well as a table, a sturdy chair next to it with a dark blue coat thrown over it, silver threads embroidered at the sleeves.
Edward swings his feet over the bed and stands shakily–and then is struck with the urgent need to piss. A second of frantic painful groping under the bed produces some kind of strap, but more importantly a bucket, and he relieves himself with a sigh. A glance at the deck side window shows him the familiar lines of Hornigold's ship. Six strange sacks lie on deck and near them is the heavy bulk of Paulo.
The memory hits him thick and fast like a punch to the gut and Edward grips his shoulder hard. The smell of smoke is in his nose and he can taste iron on his tongue. Mad Eddie staring up, blood pooling the deck behind him- Paulo holding a flintlock to his head, his eyes dark. Edward shudders and rubs his arms, feeling a coldness seep under his skin.
He clutches absently for the silk but his hand bunches in the linen of the shirt. Sudden panic tears at his throat. Shit! The silk! Where is it? He tears off the blankets and sheets, shakes them out frantically. Nothing. He hauls out the strap and satchel from under the bed, combing through dry useless paper. The sea chest is locked and he kicks it hard, bruising his toe. What if they threw it overboard? What if it's gone? The thought makes his eyes grit and sting and he dives his hands through the pockets of the coat.
Please. Please.
A compass, a pouch of herbs, a spy glass folded, a handkerchief which makes his heart start when he touches it and then throws it aside, something inside it clattering across the deck. Another rougher cloth with a silver knife and fork wrapped within… He digs his knuckles against his eye. It can't be gone.
It can't be.
Please…
"So you're awake I see."
Edward jerks to his feet, heart stinging in his chest, the knife gripped in his fist. The dark-haired English doctor stands in the doorway, a faint smile on his face, a bruise high on his cheek. What does he want? What is he going to do? He's the enemy, isn't he?
"Go away," Edward says, holding up the knife, hand trembling. "Leave me alone." The knife is dull but it's not going to matter if it goes in his eye. The doctor holds up his hands giving Edward another hazy memory of the doctor in the cabin in the other ship, stealing something important.
"It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you," the doctor says. "I'm here to help…"
"Help...?" No one helps him. Not really. Not unless he did something first.
"That's right," says the doctor "You saved my life after all. One good turn deserves another, doesn't it?"
"Oh…" Yes, okay that makes sense. "Alright…" Edward slowly lowers the knife but doesn't let it go. He'll still stab the fucker if he has to. The man looks around and his eyebrows raise.
"Well– you're quite the hurricane, aren't you? But I suppose that's my fault. Is this what you're after?" And he pulls the silk from a pocket on his waistcoat and lets hangs from his fingers, vibrant and red.
"Give it!" Edward snaps, tripping over the chair to get to him and stumbling, dropping the knife. It lands by the man's boot, and he unceremoniously tromps a foot on it. That doesn't matter. Edward will claw his face off with his hands if he has to. He scrambles to his feet, feeling something tear and the prickle of liquid heat above his heart.
"There there, steady on," says the doctor. "Take a breath."
"Give it to me or I'll kill you!"
"I am giving it to you, lad. I promise. Take it…" He holds out his hand, the red silk dangling from his fingertips. The doctor can easily reach for the knife trapped under his boot, or maybe he has another weapon, or maybe the doctor will just punch him in the gut. Edward hesitates and comes just close enough to snatch the silk from the man's fingers.
He has nowhere to put it so he bunches it up in his fist, presses it against his throat, the silk soft and slippery against his skin. The man doesn't reach for him, doesn't pick up the knife and slash at him, doesn't even look angry. Instead his face clears and he smiles under his dark mustache.
"There, you see? I was only wanting to keep it safe for you. Still," He raises his hands, palms upward. "It's a horrid thing to wake up to. Mea culpa, I'm afraid."
"Mea…culpa… I'm afraid…," Edward repeats. The doctor breathes a laugh.
"Yes, it's Latin. It means, essentially, it's my fault… Now…" The doctor steps into the room and Edward steps back. There's nothing but a wall at his back and if he wants to escape he'll have to push the man over.
"It's alright," says the doctor again, soothingly. "I'm in your debt, remember? And a doctor besides– and you need seeing to…" He gestures to a chair. "Will you sit so I can take a look?"
He doesn't want to sit. It feels dangerous to sit. But his legs are suddenly wobbling underneath him and he has the feeling that he's going to anyway. He sits where he was asked, watching the man's face and movements. The smile never leaves his mustache nor his eyes, even as he accidentally kicks the compass and sends it bumping against the wall. The doctor raises his hands again as he comes to stand in front of Edward. There are no blades in his palms or hidden in his sleeves.
"I'm going to take a look at you now. I'm going to have to touch you a little. May I?"
Edward nods, dropping his fisted hand clutching the silk to the side so the man can't get at.
"Good lad." The doctor tugs at the strings on the front of the linen shirt, loosening it, then slips it over Edward's shoulder which prickle with goosebumps in the air. The scene of cedar and dark flowers is closer now and Edward realizes it's coming from the man. How weird for a person to smell so nice.
The doctor clicks his tongue.
"I'm going to have to check beneath the bandage. This may hurt a little." He unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up, revealing a tattoo of a snake wrapped around a staff on the inside of his forearm.
"That's really cool," Edward says. He likes how peaceful the snake looks, as if it's just resting there.
"Hm?" the doctor says and Edward points. "Oh, old Asclepius. Yes, he's been my friend a very long time."
"Asclepius…" What a weird word. The doctor leans in and Edward watches him tug at the bandage, pulling out the wad of linen that had been placed there.
"Well it's his staff, really. His sigil– symbol. Asclepius is the god of medicine and healing, according to the Greeks. Once, long ago, in a land far away, Asclepius was going on a long journey and spotted a snake on the side of the road. It was a poor thing, half crushed by a tumble of rocks and quite clearly dying… One moment…" The doctor moves to open the sea chest, pulling out scraps of linen.
"Now let's see– where was I?"
"The snake was dying," Edward says, curious in spite of himself.
"Yes, the snake was dying, and you popped a stitch there, but it'll be alright in the front." He tucks in the linen. "Now I'm going to come behind you and do the same thing. We're lucky the ball went straight through you and didn't get stuck on anything, but it made quite a mess."
The hairs on the back of Edward's neck prickle as the man moves behind him. He doesn't like it. The doctor could do anything and he won't be able to see.
"Just relax, best you can– lean forward a little."
Edward clenches his fists in his lap and does, gut churning. Let the doctor do anything. It's fine. He doesn't care. He's only shaking because it's cold.
"Now snakes are dangerous creatures as I'm sure you know," says the doctor. "One bite can lead to a slow agonizing death. Asclepius, already knowing something of life and death, knew this. He said to himself, one less snake in the world might mean one man that yet lives." The doctor pulls at the bandage and Edward hisses at the sudden tearing pain.
"You bled a little overnight. Nothing to worry about, we'll have it cleaned in a tick…" The doctor strides to the door and then fairly snarls: "Here! You, dog! Fresh water up here on the quick! And not pulled from the waves or I'll have your hide. Move!" Then he turns back in, pleasant as can be. "We might have to stitch you back up, won't be the most pleasant but we'll make do."
"Are they really going to listen to you?" Edward asks. It doesn't make sense, unless he hits really hard. Maybe Hornigold is protecting him somehow.
"They'd better," says the doctor. Once more in the sea chest and he pulls out a brown bottle and a lacquered black box. "Now then, lad. We're going to have to do a bit of a production, I'm afraid. But don't fret. Just keep as you are and drink this." He uncorks the bottle with his teeth and hands it out. The smell of rum hits strong.
"This is for me?"
"It is. Drink up."
Edward takes a swig and the rum goes straight down. It's even better than Cook's stock! Sweet and smooth, sending fire through his chest and belly.
"Now we're just going to have to get this out of the way a bit more…" The shirt slides down. "Now your arms."
In a moment his whole back and chest are bare, the shirt around his hips. He feels like a kid in a wash tub suddenly. He hooks his ankles around the chair and drinks deeply. Any moment the man can stab him or pinch him or slap him upside the head, but somehow Edward doesn't think he will.
"Another sip, there's a good lad," says the doctor as Edward obeys. The bandages start to come off and he watches as they coil white around him, rusted red in some places, looking like a snake itself.
"Asclepius was a practical man, knowing a snake's capacity for death and nearly passed it by," the doctor continues. "But then the snake said in its breathy dying voice: 'Please help me, it hurts so much.'"
Poor snake, Edward thinks with a frown, licking his lips.
"What do you think Asclepius did?" the doctor asks.
"Um…killed it?" That would be kind, to put it out of its misery.
"Well, the thought certainly crossed his mind. After all, one less scurvy snake in the world could only be a benefit."
A shadow appears at the door holding a bucket and Edward nearly stands as Jack stares at him. Fuck. He hides the hand with the silk under his other hand, wishing for the knife back or something to throw at him or shoot him with. Then he remembers Jack against the mast, holding his head, crying with dirt and blood and tears on his face.
Jack looks away and Edward does too.
"Fresh from the rain barrel," Jack mutters.
"Bring it here then, if you would."
Fuck no. Edward straightens and Jack stares at him as if he doesn't trust Edward, which is just fucking fine as Edward doesn't trust him. He will punch him in the gut if he has to.
"Um… I'd rather not, uh, sir…"
"Oh…" says the doctor. "Yes, I understand. Well leave it there and take that other bucket out with you, would you? There's a good chap."
Jack sets the fresh bucket down and hesitates before picking up the other with a wrinkled nose and a glare in Edward's direction as if he'd rather dump it over his head. Instead he goes to the door, stopping just outside it:
"Cap'n says we'll be startin' soon."
"This won't take long," says the doctor absently.
Starting? Starting what? Are they going somewhere? Attacking another ship? And more importantly:
"Are you one of the crew now?" Because Jack is treating him like Cook or the rabbit. The doctor snorts.
"Not if I have anything to say about it." He rises to fetch the bucket and then brings it back. "Now this might sting so drink deep."
Edward does, and even though everything is a warm haze, the sudden pain makes him grit his teeth.
"Hang in there, lad," the doctor murmurs in a soft voice. "Almost done." There's another small jolt of pain that lingers and slides, but the man speaks again, distracting him.
"Let's see, what was happening to our old friend… Ah, yes. Asclepius looked at the snake and, being wise, took a moment to think of what he ought to do. He was a practical man, as I've said, but also a fair minded one. So after a moment, he said to the snake:
'If I save you, will you promise not to bite?'
'No, I cannot promise,' said the snake. 'For I am a snake and know no other way.'
Another reason to kill it, and yet the snake's honestly stayed Asclepius's hand.
'Are there many longing for your return?' he asked the snake.
'No,' said the snake. 'I am alone.'"
"Poor snake," Edward says, feeling an uncomfortable squirm in his gut. Maybe it should die then. Why was Asclepius just torturing it by making it live longer and asking it stupid questions?
"Poor snake," the doctor agrees. "Asclepius also thought so as well and considered one last time of ending its life. But then, he asked himself, was he so different from the creature? For surely a man can kill, and a man knows no other life than what he is, and, like the snake, he was at the time alone. So instead of killing it, he picked up the snake very tenderly and let it rest on his staff as he carried it along.
Hours and days he spent caring for the creature, binding its wound and making for it poultices and salves– medicines-from herbs he found. And slowly bit by bit the snake became better… There, all done. Now, we'll clean you up—going to be a bit cold here."
Edward yelps a bit at the sudden wet and the doctor laughs.
"Told you… Almost done… A bit of a dry now…Annd brilliant… Now let's give you a fresh wrap."
Edward does as he's told, moving his arms when asked and remaining still otherwise. All the while he can't help wanting to know more.
"What happened next?" he asks finally.
"Well, by and by, the snake healed thanks to Asclepius's gentle care," the doctor says. "Then, one sunny spring morning, the snake was fully restored and ready to go back out into the world. Before it left, it slithered up Asclepius's arm–"
Edward tenses, waiting for the bite, the betrayal, the sad end–
"Instead of delivering a bite, or a squeeze, the snake slithered up to his ear and said to him: 'Because you have helped me, I will tell you what knowledge I have.' And, leaning close, the snake whispered into his ear the sacred knowledge of healing, medicine, rejuvenation- it was even said that from that snake Asclepius learned even how to raise people from the dead."
"Really?" Edward's heart jumps. "Like…the one guy from the tomb?"
"Lazarus." The doctor chuckles. "Yes. Though that is a knowledge long gone now."
"Oh…" Edward says, sinking a little. It might be nice if you could really do that. The doctor takes a breath then lets it out as if he was about to say something but changes his mind. Instead he pats Edward's good shoulder.
"Now let's get you back in order."
Edward shifts to help as the shirt is tugged back on and even though it's just a shirt, he feels better once he's wearing it.
"The moral of the story, of course," says the doctor quietly. "Is that anyone can change their skin. Man, or snake or boy. All it takes is one simple choice." The words have weight to them, a heft Edward doesn't understand but it sits in the back of his throat.
The ship's bell begins to ring, the sound flitting sharp and pretty through the air. It doesn't normally ring except to call the crew down from the rigging for food, but it doesn't look like it's time yet- and it doesn't ring like that either-so slow and deliberate.
"Come, lad," the doctor says with a sigh. "Let's go. Can you stand?"
Edward nods and stands. The world spins and he immediately sits again so he won't fall over. The man frowns.
"No, well, I'm not surprised. You lost a lot of blood and you've little enough reserves as is." He shakes his head. "Well we should get you to the railing at least. You deserve that much. Come, my boy."
Edward's not sure what he deserves or what he's coming for, but he doesn't have much choice as the man all but hauls him upward. He staggers after him, leaning against him and his nice smelling clothes and brass buttons. They come to the forward railing and the man keeps an arm around him even as Edward grips the warm wood to keep himself upright.
Down below, the crew are standing in a rough semi-circle around the strange brown sacks, the rabbit setting the bell down on the railing, silencing it. They all look serious, even Jack and Gilead Thorpe has lost his smile. There's another man there too, slender with wild dark hair and leaning heavily on a crutch, his leg bandaged. Edward has no idea who the fuck he is but he seems sad, dabbing at tears with the corner of a ratty handkerchief.
Hornigold seems to be saying something, but whatever it is is taken away by the wind. It's picking up today, as if urging them to be gone. The sky is effortlessly blue, the sea around them ruffling from its fingers. Hornigold finishes and the men all bow their heads, Paulo and the strange man crossing themselves. Scrawny Greg buries his face in his hands and Cook pats him on the back. Jack stares as if he can't see at all.
Then Paulo and Aconi pick up one of the sacks, not burlap but worn bits of sail wrapped around something and weighted with ballast at the end.
"What's going on?" Edward says. "What are they doing?"
"They are burying your shipmates," the doctor says, sadness in his voice. Edward's heart kicks as he realizes that those bits of sail are men sized and roughly men shaped. Five of them lay on the deck like fish at the market while Aconi and Paulo swing the one they're holding wide over the sea. Larks was missing. And Monto and Sepp. Old Hugh. Timbee he had seen die and one of them— one of them is Mad Eddie.
And he had seen him die. Mad Eddie had been alive, and then he hadn't. Paulo had killed him. Death and hell, he'd said. Edward remembers his freckles and the scar on his belly and how hard he'd hit and that he'd almost killed Paulo- but then Paulo had pressed a flintlock to Edward's head. The price of grog is cheap, he thinks.
He watches Paulo and Aconi pick up another body wrapped in sail- stitched in sail, he can see the black uneven threads even from here. Father had gone in without even a sail, like a big stupid turd hitting the water, the backwash sliding over Edward's feet.
"I'm sorry," the doctor says and there is a cool pale hand on the back of his neck.
Edward's blood flashes hot. He whips around, catching that wrist and wrenching the man's arm. The doctor yelps like a kicked dog and twists his body to avoid the pain. Edward could break his arm. He's not strong, but he doesn't have to be.
"Alright, lad, you've made your point," the doctor says, strained, pale skin draining. "Not sure your captain would appreciate you maiming a captive."
Hornigold is watching them from the deck, others two have looked up at them and away. Hornigold meets his gaze and Edward stares back. He'll do it. Why not? It's just an arm. He's not shooting someone through the fucking head. Paulo and Aconi pick up number three and Hornigold looks away again, as if he doesn't care.
And he doesn't. No one does. Edward looks at the doctor to make sure he knows that too. To make sure he realizes how alone he is. How soft he is in a world of thorns; his skin unscarred, his eyes even a soft blue like a cloudless day. He would break under rocks like the stupid snake and no one would even cry over his corpse.
"Please," the doctor says, gentle as the breeze. It's such a strange, soft word. Edward had never said it like that, Mother either. Please doesn't make it stop. Edward lets him go, looking with a twist in his gut at the red marks on the doctor's wrist. It would leave a bruise soon enough and the thought twists something in him.
"Thank you," the doctor says. Then smiles. "You've got a good heart. "
"Don't touch me," Edward says. He doesn't want to hear the man's soft, stupid words and soft stupid lies. With some effort he staggers his way back to the cabin and shuts the door behind him. By the time he's dragged over the chair to block it, he's shaking and drenched with sweat. He has enough in him to retch vomit and bile into the bucket of once clean water and stumbles over to the bed before falling into it.
He sleeps fitfully, silk pressed against his cheek, dreaming of Father floating in the sea, sail cut open, eyes bulging in his bloated face.
xxxxx
When Edward wakes again, night has fallen. Or, almost. There is a thin burnished line of red left that reflects wearily off the sea. Above that, the sky is becoming thick with stars. Edward stares at it stupidly from where he lays on the bed, sweat cooling on his forehead and in his hair. His mouth feels stuffed full of linen and his head full of sea foam, hissing and fizzing away. Somehow he manages to sit up, wincing at the ache in his shoulder, and looks around the room.
With a jolt he realizes the chair has been moved from the door and the room has been placed back in order when he was sleeping. Someone had been in here while he was out. The thought raises the hair on the back of his neck and paws about for the silk with a thundering heart until he finds it half buried under the pillow.
He takes a moment to knot the silk on his upper arm, so it'll be under his sleeve and out of sight, before taking a few deep breaths. Now that his heart is slowing, his body is starting to crawl to life. He's thirsty. His lips are cracked and his mouth is dry. His voice will be a frog's if he speaks. He's hungry too. It feels like his belly is pressed against his spine and he rubs it while it grumbles fretfully.
Dinner will be done by now, but maybe Cook is napping or sleepy enough that Edward can put him down to steal something for himself. He slides out of the bed, waits for the dizziness to fade and notes the doctor's coat is still hanging over the chair. The doctor himself has gone, stupidly leaving his things behind.
Slowly, one foot at a time, he makes his way out of the cabin. The deck is strangely empty. Eerily empty. It is warm enough to sleep outside, but there are no hammocks strung or lumps of men. There is no one in the rigging either and for a moment Edward thinks he's died or is still dreaming and at any moment the ghost of someone will grab him by the back of the neck.
But then the rabbit's thin voice floats down from above.
"Alright, men, pay attention."
Edward moves to the second set of stairs to the quarterdeck, and by the time he gets there, his legs are shaking. The crew is gathered in a rough knot in front of the captain and the rabbit. Jack and Gilead Thorpe flank them like body guards, holding lanterns against the coming night. Aconi and Saladin rest against the railing, hip to hip, Aconi with his face wrapped with bandages on one side, Saladin with his arms folded. Cook stands near them, stroking his mustache, thick arm around Scrawny Greg who is leaning against him. The stranger with a splinted leg is resting on a barrel, the doctor beside him The only one who stands alone and a little further back is Paulo, just out of the lantern light.
And that's it. That's all. There is no one else. Mad Eddie would be in front with the light on his red hair or Larks smoking into the night air or Timbee falling asleep against the railing. They are all sleeping now, under the waves, in the deep.
Edward swallows and tries not to think about it. This would be the perfect time to raid the galley, but curiosity drives him further onto the quarterdeck. He keeps to the shadows and sits in the darkness by deck side railing. So far no one has noticed him.
"We have an opportunity here," the rabbit is saying. "The ships out there are unawares…"
"Not that unawares," the doctor says.
"…like fat cattle," the rabbit continues through gritted teeth. "Ready for the slaughter."
"Even bulls have horns," says the doctor. The rabbit glares at him.
"You have no say here! You can shut up or lose your tongue."
The doctor holds up his hands. There are shadows of bruises on his wrist that Edward realizes are from him-from earlier. His stomach knots and he looks away.
"We have every opportunity here," says the rabbit. "And we should use it before our chance is taken from us. Think of the riches! Twice what we've pulled in already, I'd bet. But if we leave it, men, if we leave the pretty straits unguarded for others to find, then we will deserve the nothing that we get."
He's changed his mind, then, Edward thinks. Though it doesn't make much sense, and the words sound strange too, coming from him. Or maybe he's speaking strangely. He's not annoyed or triumphant but like he's straining for it- like saying you were fine when everyone could see you weren't.
Silence falls then except for the hush of the sea. It's a waiting silence and he watches the others shift. Aconi and Saladin share a glance, Cook purses his lips, Jack pales, Gilead Thorpe bows his head, bringing his other hand, trembling slightly, up to his collarbone. Only Hornigold remains still, the light in his flat, gray eyes.
"O que ele disse?" the stranger says. Portuguese, Edward realizes. And there's something else familiar about him too. Something that's just on the tip of his brain. Edward doesn't know anyone Portuguese though, not even from his hometown. The English man begins speaking in the same language, voice low.
"What are you doing," the rabbit snaps.
"Oh for- I'm translating," says the doctor. The rabbit glances at Hornigold who tilts his head slightly. The rabbit lets out a breath and turns back to the others.
"So we are all agreed?" says the rabbit. "No one has any arguments?"
"Diga a ele que eu ficaria feliz em participar de uma batalha gloriosa quando estiver inteiro," snaps the stranger. "Esta é uma missão de tolos, mesmo para você inglês estúpido."
"He says you're an idiot," says the doctor and Edward snickers behind his hand as the rabbit's jaw works.
"It is not- It is-" the rabbit draws himself up. "If we want to be more than we are- more than common pirates- then we should take this chance."
More than common pirates… Those are Hornigold's words, Edward realizes. That's why it feels so strange. Does the rabbit finally believe in it too? Or is there another reason why he's speaking instead of the captain?
"Toussaint, don't we have the provisions?"
"Oui," says the Cook. "Enough for…" he casts a gaze upward. "Two weeks? Or so. More on grog and rum. Better if we can get fresh before then, but we can survive."
"If we can survive," says Saladin. "It doesn't matter if those boats are foundering with gold and jewels, if we cannot live to spend it, there is no point in risking our necks. The fools who have been sold on unspent promises are gone."
"You're the fool!" snaps Scrawny Greg, his mealy face spotting red as he tries to struggle from under Cook's arm. "I'll skin you in your sleep, you shit stain!"
"Try it and we'll stitch you in sail next!" Saladin snarls, his lips pulling back from his sharpened teeth as he pushes himself from the railing. Cook steps in front of Scrawny Greg as if to defend him and something in Edward turns- makes him want to punch Cook in the kidneys just because.
"Enough," says Hornigold, but Saladin remains rigid until Aconi murmurs:
"Fadel…" in his low thunder voice. Saladin spits on the deck, just missing Cook's feet and moves to the other side of Aconi, sitting on the railing this time and gripping the rigging as if ready to fling himself up it.
"Regardless of la colère des païens," says Cook, tipping his head at Saladin. "He has a point. Dead men tell no tales and spend no treasure." He spreads his hands. "Un peu de patience ne nuirait à rien, non?"
He says it to the rabbit, but Edward wonders if it's for Hornigold instead. Maybe it is, because the rabbit looks back at the captain who makes a gesture, a flutter of fingers as if to say: 'go on'.
"I would say that you are all weak minded men with piss poor ambition," says the rabbit. "Are we going to let our treasure be plundered by something or someone else then? The crown?" And here he jerks his head at the doctor who looks unimpressed.
"It will be plundered anyway if you set out with a crew of wounded men and beardless boys," says the doctor. "You're not unknown in these waters and it will only get harder the further you get and the less chance you'll have to escape." He strokes his fingers over his mustache and looks to Hornigold. "Nassau is a week and a half sail from here with favorable winds. If you really want this treasure, why not pick up men there?"
"Why Nassau?" says Hornigold, his voice sudden in the night and everyone's attention fully on him. His voice was flat, expression calm and impossible to read.
"Why not Nassau?" the doctor counters, meeting Hornigold's gaze. There's a conversation then, one without words. Even the crew look at one another uneasily, or knowingly, or don't look at all, either staring off into the distance or watching the deck in the case of Scrawny Greg. It's interesting to see what people say or don't say. The only one who he can't see is Paulo, back to him, shadow stretching out behind him from the lantern light, now the only specks of light on the ship.
In the darkness he looks like a monster.
Edward gets to his feet, wanting to move so he can at least see the man's profile and shake the feeling that gleaming white eyes won't open in the back of his head. The moment he rises he catches Hornigold's attention. The captain looks up and for a moment his expression falls open, something strange and vulnerable written across his features, but in a second it's flat and still again.
"And what do you think we should do, Mr. Teach?" says Hornigold. The crew startle like a flock of birds and Edward has to hide a laugh. Even Cook looks wary, and Paulo nearly trips turning to look at him as if he's afraid Edward will stab him in the back.
Maybe he will one day. It might feel good.
For now, he comes toward them and the circle of light, watching their reactions, the way Aconi and Saladin's face smooth out, Cook glaring at him, Scrawny Greg muttering a curse, Gilead Thorpe looking alarmed, and Jack rolling his eyes like it's the stupidest shit he'd ever seen. The rabbit has moved behind Hornigold's shoulder and Edward grins at him, his teeth feeling hard in his mouth and sharp.
"Santa Mãe de Deus," the strange man cries, voice like a gull. "A criança demônio que surge da noite para reivindicar nossas almas!" He crosses himself fervently and then wrings his hands together in prayer. "Preserve-nos, ó Cristo!"
It's kind of funny. Edward wonders what would happen if he ran toward him. Would the man bolt? Would he throw himself over the side? He's tempted but then the doctor puts a steady hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Calma, Feliciano. É apenas um menino," he murmurs. But the man… Feliciano? Seems to calma only a little. He is still muttering to himself, fidgeting, flinching a bit when Edward draws nearer Edward comes to a stop by Paulo's side, wondering why he doesn't move away too though his fist seems to be clenching at his side.
"Go on," says Hornigold as if Feliciano hadn't happened. Edward had almost forgot the question. What should they do? And he shuts his mouth to think. Now he and Hornigold are having a conversation, or Hornigold is talking to him, saying things with his eyes and his posture and the set of his mouth. Only Edward doesn't know how to speak back. He feels like a wall or a stick or a stupid kid with nothing smart to add, like a puppet without words.
But everyone is waiting. Everyone is watching. He can't stand there like an idiot.
"We should go to Nassau," he says, because that's the blindingly obvious answer and he feels blindingly stupid answering it. "And get more men." He had wanted to say it with confidence, but his voice had rose at the end, a high question and his face burns as the doctor chuckles.
"Everyone knows we should go to Nassau, dumbass," says Jack and Edward wants to knee him in the gut. "'Course we need more men. Are you stupid?"
"Fuck you," Edward snaps back. He'll get Jack later, he decides. Maybe he'll trip him or dump bilge water down his back or something. Jack smirks and opens his mouth.
"I agree with Edward," Aconi says, startling the anger right out of him. The big man is looking at him, a faint smile on his wide mouth. "Ambition can't succeed without willing men."
"It wasn't even his idea," says Jack.
"I agree with Edward too," says Gilead Thorpe in his quiet voice, watching Edward with a kind of secret smile.
"Autant que je déteste ça, nous devrions écouter la petite merde," says Cook.
"It was the English guy's idea," Jack growls. "Why the hell is everyone-"
Hornigold holds up a hand and Jack shuts his mouth so quickly Edward swears he can hear the click of his teeth. Then he lowers it again and stands, his short coat blending into the night around him.
"Well, if that is what you think, Edward, then that is what we shall do," says Hornigold. "As we all seem in agreement." He makes a fluid gesture. "Shall we plot our course, Saladin?"
And the lean dark man looks uncertainly at Aconi before nodding and murmuring:
"Aye, Captain." And follows him across the quarterdeck and down the steps into the night,
Edward is left staring at the empty center of the circle and the swinging of the lanterns. The crew was watching him, the light reflecting in their eyes and even Aconi seems thoughtful - watching as if Edward has just cursed them all.
xxxxx
Edward pushes the mop across the near empty deck for the thousandth time. They have been sailing for almost a week under cool blue skies and fair winds that send them skipping over the waves. Even now the sails bellies are full and they clip through the water sending up sprays of froth. No one has hit him. He hasn't had a bruise or cut for days. He's been given food and water and grog regularly, even if it's shit and not much. Doctor John has let him keep the oversized shirt, gray and dingy now, which holds the silk. And he's been up in the rigging twice now, but not for long, and is slowly learning the ropes from Gilead Thorpe who is feathery and vague and tends to trail off at important times.
Other than being hungry all the fucking time, things are a lot better for him than when he first stepped on this ship. He doesn't feel so many eyes. He's not dodging so many fists. He is out of the suffocating hell of the galley and the nose of Cook. And despite all of that, he feels cursed, as if always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe it's the silence, the quiet, the emptiness that makes him feel like he died. There's no laughter on deck these days. No cursing. No singing or music or fights. No clatter of dice. The only pipe smoke comes from Doctor John when he sits on the quarterdeck and annoys Hornigold. It all feels strange, like a tooth missing or a lost button. The spaces where people used to be are hollow and Edward can't help but think how far behind they are now, lost to the churning sea.
Maybe it's because hardly anyone talks to him, yells at him or even looks at him. They talk to each other a lot. Aconi seems to pretend he doesn't exist or looks past and through him, words die on his lips when Edward comes near. Scrawny Greg, who is in the galley, talks with Cook. Edward can sometimes hear their voices drift up, deep in conversation. Jack, who is usually up in the rigging these days doing the work of 'three fuckin' people' talks to Gilead Thorpe, though their words are usually lost on the wind. And Jack probably talks to Hornigold too or at least is acknowledged by him when he takes their meals back to the aft cabins.
Even Feliciano gets to talk- to the captain and Doctor John. Paulo will talk to Feliciano too when the man isn't kept up on the quarterdeck, and despite Paulo speaking Spanish and Feliciano speaking Portuguese, they seem to understand each other enough.
Of course Paulo, that fucker, talks to the rabbit. And he talks to Jack. And one time Edward had woken up in the middle of the night to see Paulo with his arm around Jack's shoulders and he'd wanted to punch them both. He'd punched the deck instead and scraped a knuckle and it hadn't even made him feel better.
Paulo does talk to Edward too, but only to give him stuttering orders without looking him in the eyes, as if he's ashamed or afraid.
If it weren't for that and Doctor John talking with him once or twice a day, Edward would feel even more dead than he does already. Dead and cursed and he can't sleep very well because the only place to sleep is out on deck where he's exposed to everything. And when he does manage to sleep he has nightmares. Nightmares of home. Nightmares of here. Nightmares of Paulo standing over him with a pistol or his father or the rabbit pressing the full weight of his crutch into the softness of Edward's throat. Last night he'd dreamed of Mad Eddie with his bright staring eyes, drowning the ship in his blood.
Well fuck the rabbit and fuck Mad Eddie too. In fact, fuck Mad Eddie most.
Edward had tried to do what he'd said. Had tried to navigate and help and do all the right things and still got shit. And it hadn't helped Mad Eddie either. Knowing his course hadn't stopped him from getting a hole blasted through his head. There were things he hadn't known. Or things he'd known too late to do shit about it.
So fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck everyone. Edward scrubs his nose with his sleeve and goes to toss the dirty water over the side, moving past Feliciano who is sitting by the railing, mending a sail. The man flinches and crosses himself as Edward draws near. He's a slender man, but the torn sleeves of his shirt show arms roped with muscle and the line of scars on his broad chest speak of someone who can fight. But he is afraid. Edward wants to make him afraid. The thought makes him feel satisfied in a strange twisted way like a fist around his ribcage.
Feliciano leans away from him, groping for his crutch. It falls with a clatter to the deck and with it an orange, bright as the sun. Edward's stomach gurgles. Cook had given everyone an orange this morning for breakfast, and thick meaty stew and a piece of bread only just going stale. Everyone but Edward. Edward gotten thin soup with rotting vegetables and hard tack. He'd also gotten a bone which Cook had said was good for chien and that Edward should appreciate it. He'd wanted to shove it down the man's throat but had flicked it at the back of Scrawny Greg's head instead.
"Nem pense nisso," Feliciano says, a bit of growl in his voice. "Eu estava guardando isso para mais tarde, seu demônio."
Day mon yo.
Demon.
Maybe he is. Maybe that's what he'll be. Feliciano lunges to the side, nearly falling off his crate but Edward is quicker and grabs the crutch and orange, feeling a burst of power as he holds both. He could throw them over the side and Feliciano will have nothing. He can eat the orange right in front of Feliciano and there is shit the man can do about it. Feliciano's jaw works and with a pained expression he draws himself upright, fine thin nostrils flaring.
Edward notices how stark his cheekbones are against his paling skin and the line of his collarbone. It would feel really fucking good to throw the crutch over the side, he knows, but- he rests it crutch back against the crate instead and holds the orange out. Feliciano stares at him, reaching out tentatively as if afraid Edward is going to take it back. Edward uncurls his fingers to hold it flat on his palm, showing the man he's not going to take. Feliciano looks from the orange to him and a faint smile comes over his face.
"Obrigado," he says. The man reaches out slowly and moves as if to grab Edward's hand. Edward flinches back instinctively, the orange falling with a thump into Feliciano's lap.
"Não tenha medo," the man says, picking up the orange and holding it out. "Eu não vou te machucar. Em vez disso, quero agradecer sua gentileza, embora eu não a mereça. Você é um jovem honrado. Como eu poderia não recompensar isso?" He gestures with it, as if Edward should take it. Then, with a faint smile, uncurls his fingers to hold it on his palm.
"Aqui. Não tenha medo. É seu."
The man's face seems sincere, his eyes dark and earnest. Maybe he does mean that Edward should take it. Or maybe he just wants Edward to get close so he can trick him- like punch him or stab him or put a fucking flintlock to his head.
Feliciano's thin eyebrows furrow. He works his mouth a few times.
"'Ere," Feliciano says in hesitant tones. "Me…" He presses a hand to his chest. "Tu…yyyou." and then "Por favor."
The world startles him. He's heard Paulo say it sometimes, but with Feliciano the 'r' sounds more like a purr. Feliciano makes to toss the orange and Edward hesitantly holds up his hand. The orange sails small and wonderful and ends with a smack in Edward's palm. Feliciano grins and holds up his hand, making a circle with his thumb and forefinger as if to say 'well done'. Edward smiles a little, the citrus scent already filling his nose and making his mouth water.
"Hey!" Scrawny Greg snaps from behind him and Edward can hear him stomping up the deck. "What are you doing? You're not supposed to have that!" A wiry smirk crosses the man's face. "Fruit's not good for dogs."
Scrawny Greg doesn't have much of a stomach, but there's still a pleasant give to it as Edward sinks his fist into it. Scrawny Greg's breath gasps out at him in a foul cloud and slumps to his knees, puking bile onto the deck. Stupid shit. Even worse it doesn't make Edward feel much better and Feliciano is crossing himself again, as if a door that had been open was just slammed closed. Fine. At least Edward has a fucking orange.
But he won't be able to eat it out here. The moment that Scrawny Greg is up he'll talk to Cook. Edward needs to eat his gift before that happens. Turning, Edward gives Feliciano a nod in thanks and hurries his way to the aft cabins. Doctor John's door is closed, but it's not allowed to be locked except at night to prevent the doctor from wandering all over the ship. Since there's still plenty of daylight, the knob turns easily under his hand and he ducks into the room.
He's surprised and pleased to see the doctor at the table, focused on reading something off cream-brown papers. The not quite noon sun streams in over his shoulders, casting him in light and shadow. Edward quietly shuts the door behind him.
Doctor John starts, making a noise like a started horse, and Edward finds himself at the other end of a flintlock that the man is definitely not supposed to have. It's an old scarred weapon, probably loaded and Edward almost wants it to go off— Wants to feel his heart lurch at the earsplitting bang and the smell of scorched powder.
"You scared the life out of me," says Doctor John with a faint tight chuckle, putting the flintlock back on his lap out of sight. "And nearly out of yourself," he adds dryly. "What brings you here, lad? Came to hear more of Odysseus?"
"No," Edward says. "I came here to eat."
And while he's curious about Odysseus's fate, he's really tired of Doctor John ending every adventure by saying Odysseus regretted his life on the high seas and would trade the world to go back home again. But could he really change his skin?
Did he even deserve to change his skin, Edward wondered, if he told the stupid one eyed monster his stupid name? Should have stuck with calling himself no one.
"Fair enough," says Doctor John, already distracted by the papers. "You certainly need it. You'd think Ben would feed you better with the loot you got from the Rosa."
Edward shrugs and wanders around the room, pressing his orange up to his nose, breathing in the citrus smell. He should eat it before Cook comes charging in but the moment he eats it, it'll be gone. He notices Doctor John's coat hung up on a hook and he takes it down and puts it on, liking the feel of the fabric against his skin even as the sleeves flop over his hands. Doctor John clicks his tongue but when Edward looks up, he's still staring at his papers and shuffles them again.
Content to be ignored, Edward settles on the floor, shifting so the coat pools out behind him, and then idly searches through the pockets. It's the same stuff as before. Handkerchief, fork and spoon wrapped up in linen, compass, small folded spyglass, also a scrap of black ribbon. He drops the spyglass and compass in his shirt and uses the ribbon to tie back his hair.
"Put the spyglass back where you found it," says Doctor John. "The others you can keep but I need that one."
Edward snickers and tugs a bit of his shirt from his trousers so the spyglass falls to a clunk on the floor and rolls under the bed. He shifts to his belly, resting his chin on the orange as he reaches for it and his fingers brush the leather strap of the satchel. It was there under the bed where he woke up, and…the one Dr John had taken from the Portuguese ship.
Edward fishes the spyglass out, scraping it along the wood a bit to cover the hiss and noise of the satchel too that he shifts directly behind him. He plops the spyglass back in the pocket with a little clink.
"Good lad," says the man. He lets the satchel sit where it is and shakes the sleeves of the coat down to smell the orange again before setting his fingernails to the rind. It splits open in a satisfying way and he carefully peels it away from the juicy globe underneath that makes his mouth water.
Carefully, Edward wiggles out a section of orange, and after a moment's hesitation, takes a bite out of it. The flavor explodes on his tongue before he's even fully bit down and a trail of juice slides down and trickles at the back of his throat. It's tangy and full and warm and perfect. He drops his head back with a sigh, caging his knees close to his chest. It's so fucking tasty. He's never going to be able to eat so delicious again. He doesn't even want to chew! He wants to hold the flavor on his tongue for as long as he can.
The creak of the boards above them on the quarterdeck gets his mouth moving. It's only a matter of time before someone comes after him and he doesn't want to give them an orange to take away. Still he chews the first slice to a pulp before he swallows and wiggles out a second slice and pops it into his mouth. And he's glad he did, because the next moment Doctor John slaps the papers on the table hard enough to make Edward jump- but the orange slice squirts between his teeth rather than his fingers.
"Lord, I am sick to death of this." The doctor buries his face in is hands, looking like an old man all bent and shriveled. "If I have to look at one more bloody page I'll lose my mind."
"What are you doing?" Edward asks as he takes a third slice. This he bites the end off of and sucks the juice out as best he can, watching Doctor John raise his head with a sigh and flick a paper.
"Translating the Rosa's log book- and not even the full thing but pages some imbecile torn out." He gives a wry smile. "This in exchange for your beloved captain allowing me an evening's shore leave when we arrive at Nassau, under supervision of course. If I wish to slip my traces, as it were, I must deliver unto him either a map of the area, which he seems assured I have-"
Doesn't he? Edward wonders. If he didn't have any maps, what was he stuffing into the satchel that night on the Portuguese ship. Even now the curling flap of the leather bag rests against his hips like a mystery.
"-or some secret from this mess. Some key to his bloody kingdom." Doctor John shakes a paper at him. "As if the late mediocre Captain Ferreira would jot down anything that isn't about heartburn or whores. I know the man. I slipped right under his snubbed nose, sailed with his crew, and not a single doubt clouded his hazy little mind about who I was or where I came from."
He sighs and rises to stand at the sea side window, hands at his back.
"I should have followed my uncle's advice and remained with geriatrics," Doctor John mutters. "The elderly and their diseases will always be with us. As he says. But, no, I craved a different life. A dashing adventurer you will be, thought I, to wile away the secrets of others for king and country. And it should be for king and country! For the glory of England! Not to fill some idiot's coffers!"
He falls silent, seeming content to seethe and stare out the window. Edward takes the moment to eat the last slice of orange, then dries his hand on his trousers and shifts to work one of the papers out of the satchel quietly as he can. It looks like a map and as he lifts a corner, enough to see that he's right. What's so important about them that Doctor John doesn't want to let them go?
"And now all that waits for me is burial at sea or with dancing feet." Doctor John sounds so sad for a moment that Edward almost puts the map back, but instead stuffs it inside his shirt. Doctor John has other maps, he won't miss one.
"But…perhaps you can help me…" Doctor John's shoe scraping across the floor acts as a warning and gives Edward enough time to shove the satchel back under the bed.
"Help you?"
"Yes and help yourself. The truth is even if Ben had a map, he is known in these waters. That's why even with a hundred men at his command, he won't be able to take the straits… Take the straits…" Doctor John rolls his eyes. "He's a pirate playing king and he'll die for his hubris. Either the Portuguese will get him or the Spanish with the Leviatán." Then his face is sad again. "And you, too, lad, if you stay with him."
The Leviatán— Leviathan, it has to be. The ship Mad Eddie was afraid of. A ship probably even bigger than the Rosa. A ship so big and dangerous had had left only four alive from Hornigold's old crew, and only two now. Maybe he would die by the sword or pistol or something else- but what else could he do? Where else can he go?
"Listen to me young Teach," says Doctor John, warm and bittersweet. And then: "Edward…"
The use of his first name shocks him a bit and he finds himself drawing the too big coat around him but smelling the man doesn't help. Doctor John is crouching in front of him now, once again haloed by the light. He seems different somehow, even the set of his shoulders seeming friendly and a little sad. He's good at that, Edward thinks, changing his face, changing his voice, changing his body. Like a snake changing its skin or a lizard changing its colors.
"…you will leave a sorry life and have a sorry fate at the end of a rope. And you've already led some of it, I'm sad to say, bone thin and filthy as you are."
Edward flushes at that, annoyed and ashamed. He can see the dirt under his fingernails of one hand and tucks it away in the overlong sleeve but can't do anything about the thick strands of knotted greasy hair against his neck. He hadn't noticed before, but now that Doctor John says it, he feels like he's caked in dirt and grime— something mother would order him to wash up at the copper tub for. We may be poor but we're clean, she would say.
"I don't know what lead you to this life, this path, but you don't have to stay on it to be crushed under rocks," Doctor John says, resting a hand on Edward's shoulder. Edward can't help but tense, even if his grip isn't hard. "A clever lad like you could be just about anything. A tanner, a bricklayer, a monk or priest, an overseer of some vast estate…"
Edward shrugs. He's not really interested in those things. He knows the stink of a tannery and has seen men working in the hot sun to build. Their old hobbling priest had taken him and a gaggle of other kids when he was really young to see the cell of a monk, and it had been boring and empty with a straw mat and a small window and a pair of worn sandals. He always thought he would be a sailor like Father or maybe a fisherman. Something on the water with the world wide open before him.
"And you'd be fed, Edward, clothed, have a solid roof over your head. You wouldn't have to worry about beatings or theft. And…it would be honest work, work that would make your parents proud."
A future his parents can be proud of…Would Mother be proud of him? Could she ever be proud of him again? He doubts it. But he'd like to make her a little happy- and as for the rest of it— he hugs himself and leans back against the bed. It sounds like a dream. A fairytale. It's not for people like us, Mother would say. And definitely not for someone like him, but he might take it if he could.
"If you're very good," says Doctor John, a smile lifting his face. "You can even work with me as a valet."
That draws his head up. Even if the words were like something you'd say to a kid, they sounded sincere, they sounded interesting. He doesn't know what a valet is but, maybe it's some kind of special doctor, like a young doctor or one that did the cool things. He does like Doctor John and it sounds exciting, running off to sea, sneaking into cabins, wrapping bandages around people and pulling really tight if they annoyed you. And at least Doctor John wouldn't beat him up. Even if he tries Edward is faster and knows how to make him suffer.
"How?" Edward asks. There's a catch. There has to be. The man shifts his weight on his haunches and holds up a single finger.
"First you must promise me to never reveal what I'm going to tell you. We can be friends, you and I. But if you betray me, well, I'll be around long enough to be your enemy." The man's thin smile seemed like the first honest thing Edward had seen from him. Edward isn't really afraid of him, but he really wants to know what the hell Doctor John is going to say, so he nods.
"Shake on it," Doctor John says and holds out his hand. "Promise me with your words."
"I promise I won't tell anyone what you're going to tell me."
Even so Doctor John looks at him hard, though if he really wants to be threatening, he should have his flintlock or a knife. It wouldn't be difficult for Edward to headbutt him in the nose and send him sprawling, put a knee in his chest and pin him to the floor.
"I have a contact…a friend in Nassau, Elias Todd, he will be waiting for me at the Broken Bow Tavern." Another hesitation. Then he digs in his waistcoat and pulls out a square of paper. "I need you to give him this. Stay with him when he reads it. Then you'll be able to remain in the tavern, and you'll want to remain in the tavern. You won't want to come back here." He grips both of Edward's shoulders tight.
"Do you understand?"
He does and doesn't, but nods to say he does and slips the paper into his shirt. Doctor John seems relieved.
"Good lad," he says. "Now, be good, Edward. Keep your head down, mind your elders, control your temper." At this last, Doctor John's eyebrows raise. "A good valet is one with a level head who doesn't fly off the handle."
"Yeah, okay," Edward mutters. He'll be good. He'll keep his head down. He'll control his temper. It won't be hard. And it makes the man smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Excellent… Just think. Very soon now, a new life, a new you. A future you can invest in."
A new life. A new him. With clean hair and good food and all the adventure he wants, with someone who seems to like him. A future maybe… he could tell Mother about one day.
He hears the creak of footsteps approaching the cabin. Doctor John doesn't seem to hear and opens his mouth to say more. Edward holds up a hand, heart beating fast. If anyone sees them, they'll think- they'll know something is up. They might tell Hornigold. Or worse.
Doctor John seems to hear the footsteps now too and stands, taking a few steps back and straightening his waistcoat just as the door opens and light shines in around Paulo's form.
"Hello, my friend," says doctor John, voice tight. "How can I help you?"
Paulo ignores him, shifting to look at Edward, the light shining on his impassive face. His expression is as dull and dead as the eyes of the saint on his chest, nothing left but a hollow dead thing with a heart grown cold.
"C-C-Cook wa-wants y-you o-out on the d-d-d-deck." For what, Paulo doesn't say, but they both fucking know. Paulo sighs. "Y-you ju-ju-just c-can't s-s-stay out of tr-tr-trouble, P-Primo."
"Shut up," Edward says, getting to his feet and taking off the coat to lay on the bed. He wants to tell Paulo not to fucking call him primo, but Doctor John clears his throat and Edward remembers his promise. Head down, polite and keep his temper. He swallows the words instead.
"Do mind telling me what's going on?" Doctor John says in a way that sounds less like a request and more like an order with a blade in it.
"Cook wants my ass kicked," Edward says, cracking his neck from side to side.
"What? Why? For stealing an orange?" Doctor John gets to his feet. "You can't fault the boy for that! He's skin and bones as it is! I absolutely forbid it."
Fortunately, Paulo ignores him instead of backhanding him and Edward does too, slipping past the man out into the sunny day. The whole crew is gathered to watch with the exception of Gilead Thorpe. Their faces are somber except for the rabbit who looks satisfied and Hornigold whose eyes are stones.
"You stupid shit," Jack says from where he's hanging from the rigging. "The fuck did you do this time."
"Made Greg puke."
Jack snickers. "Nice."
"Ay," Paulo mutters and Edward grits his teeth as the man's large calloused hand grips the back of his neck and he's pushed forward like a misbehaving dog. One day he is going to be big enough to knife anyone who does that to him or break their nose or loosen their teeth. Only he won't because he's not supposed to do that kind of thing anymore.
Still, he is about to squirm away from Paulo and go forward on his own, when he sees Cook is the one standing on the deck, alone. Like Cook is going to be the one to do this. Shit. Edward's stomach tightens. Paulo's hand grips, damp with sweat against his neck as he fairly pushes Edward down the steps toward the blond man who smirks, red eye canted sideways as if even if it is afraid.
Well, it can be afraid. Edward isn't. What does he have to be afraid of? Even if his insides quiver and his palms prickle with sweat. Paulo pushes him to stand in front of Cook and remains for a moment, as if he's going to tug Edward backwards or step in front of him. Finally he lets go and steps back, deck creaking under his shoes. Cook's teeth shine ivory-yellow against his mustache.
"You can't seriously mean to do this," Doctor John says emerging from the cabin. Edward hopes he's hidden the damned flintlock. "He's just a boy. It's just an orange."
"Ah, but discipline must be maintained," says Cook. "Especially for these ones. You keep them where they belong, non? Keep them well trained. Or they run right over you."
Cook's hand snaps out and catches the flat of his cheek with his knuckles, sending Edward stumbling, his jaw throbs. It's not like Mad Eddie. Cook wants to make it hurt. Feliciano babbles something by the railing and seems like he would have gotten up but for Aconi's hand on his shoulder. Edward is more braced for the second one, a fucking fist heading right for his jaw, even if it drives a sound from him and makes him bite his tongue.
"Ben, please," says Doctor John.
"Everyone needs to know his place," says Hornigold. "Unless you'd like to take it."
Doctor John says nothing. There's nothing to say. Cook curls his fist into Edward's shirtfront and hauls him up, then snarls a grin at the clean pretty doctor, shaking Edward until his teeth rattles.
"This will be you one day, mon ami, unless you shape up. Lower than shit. Know who you are, know where you belong, know who you serve; and you will escape this miserable existence." And then they are almost nose to nose, Cook's breath washing over him and turning his stomach sour.
"You steal from my stores," the man says in a low voice. "And I know you steal from my sleep," he pats Edward's cheek. "But you will not rise above your head and steal respect from my men. Now you will apologize. Hm?"
Edward doesn't want to. He didn't do much wrong and anyway Scrawny Greg started it. Scrawny Greg could have punched the shit out of him and no one would care. But…
"I'm sorry," Edward says, hating the words even as they cross his tongue- and the way it makes him feel.
"Louder!" Cook snarls. "So everyone can hear!"
"I'm sorry!" he shouts, only just stopping himself from cursing or planting a foot or fist into Cook's gut.
Cook's grin widens and his fists clench hard in Edward's shirt.
"Oui, ma chien, you will be."
But he isn't. Not really. Cook hits hard but not half as hard as Mad Eddie did, and Edward knows how to turn his body so it hurts even less than that. Cook is so stupid he can't even tell what Edward is doing. It doesn't matter. Even if Cook hit like a brick, it would be over soon. He turns his gaze up to where the doctor is gripping the railing, pale as a ghost. He has to be good, he reminds himself, just to get through this— and then— something new, something brilliant.
Something he can look forward to.