There was nothing left for Edward now.
Charles was dead.
Hung by the order of that accursed Governor who, as fate would have it, shared the name Rogers.
There was an irony, in that by wanting to make right his past actions through trying to draw his friend away from making the same decisions, history has seemed to repeat itself, in an inescapable cycle of loss.
Now, Edward had no choice but to seek his vengeance by making Charles's vision for Nassau a reality, because it was all he truly had left in the world, risking nothing else but his own life, which he had never feared losing.
He wished he could have been there for Charles when he died though; to be among the men who hastened his end mercifully if he couldn't stop him from hanging at least.
What happened to the corpse thereafter, it has only been his duty once before to dispose of one respectfully, and he doubted Charles was in as grave a state as that had been.
Running his hands over his face, Teach could taste the salt of the sea on his lips as a man fresh from a swim.
As the last to leave the Howler, it was he who had ignited the trail of gunpowder which led to the barrels Roger's had stored aboard his ship, to enrapture the creaking wood in the folds of a mighty explosion, while Edward leapt into the ocean where his men awaited.
Clean of ash and his sweat washed off his skin, he watched as a second sun burned atop the water's surface, more powerful than a ship taken by lightening, as such fires were slow to engulf its victim. At a safe distance, he could feel the heat battling with the chill of the night and saw the smoke strangle the air when it was illuminated by the red of the flames.
Rowing for the harbor, his men pressed their faces into their arms, coughing up the foul impurities their lungs rejected, while their eyes stung from the irritation, but Edward remained strangely indifferent to these elements, despite making no attempt to shield himself from them.
Without even a hint of pleasure, the ship was just a ship on fire and did not provide the satisfaction of getting one over on his enemy, that you might expect.
Deep down, Edward knew that no victory was had here, and he knew not why he felt this way, only that his senses were screaming at him to turn away from the Howler, and look instead towards his tent, and the nearer he came to it; that indifference was beaten by the hammering behind his chest.
A man like Blackbeard; he could separate his mind from his heart to become a more rational being, so when that skill failed, and both could concentrate wildly on only one thing, it gave great cause for worry, and when the sensation came over him, what else could it be about besides Elizabeth's welfare.
Soon as the boat made grooves in the beach, the panic coursing through his veins was an efficient drive to propel him to his destination, when Edward's body felt not his own. Somehow, it was like he knew how this was to end, but he couldn't stop himself from wanting to face it, not because he hoped it to be a lie, but to validate it for truth.
Gasping for breath, when he came to a sudden stand still, Edward was in the midst of the strains of a hard run, with his mouth filling with a tang of iron the more his chest heaved, raising his shoulders up and down.
Nothing eased, making him realize it was not the maddened dash to get within his tent which caused this, but the emotional turmoil of what his mind and heart predicted his eyes would see once he reached it.
Limp; Elizabeth resembled a petal plucked and blemished by unworthy hands, already fading in color, since her life's blood had choked her before it could escape from the wound cut across her throat as she lay on her back.
Sickly-sweet like a butcher shop, the scent was hardly a stranger to Edward's nose and as he recognized it for what it was, the notion of it being Elizabeth's blood churned his stomach, until his whole form was trembling as he wretched, and as the odor could not dissipate, his earlier indulgence on a bottle of rum was replaced by the heaving of bile.
Cold, despite the bead of moisture rolling down the side of his face, Edward almost wished to be back before the burning ship, to embrace its heat again; but he could not move.
The world yond the tent was forgotten, while it was like a wall was erected between him and the body, to keep him at a distance where Elizabeth could only be spectated.
On the floor, a wave had hit Edward with a force hard like steel to wound him; then with an hour to him, becoming more like twelve in reality, the tide slowlypulled back, leaving Teach with a necessary vacancy that allowed him to stand again and march, gathering like blackened wings behind him, a mass of supporters.
An endless charade of battle, the conflict was not between these men if there was any to be had now in any case.
Blackbeard was to collect a debt, where by the sword an innocent life was taken, so by the sword would the guilty fall; and though he himself was not a good man, his moral compass had always steered right by Elizabeth, and her death demanded justice, more than any stolen horde!
It wasn't a question of winning.
Edward knew that he would.
He just wanted the deed to be done with, so that when he returned to his tent, he could finally approach Elizabeth's body, knowing he had at least avenged her of all the years she'd been robed, to ease a little of his guilt for leaving her alone.
Try as he might, Edward could scarcely remember the act of killing Roger's, though his wretched figure swinging from the brothels staircase, with his guts spilt on the ground below him, was enough to assure him it had been done.
It was just a shame it happened so fast, since through it all, Edward only wanted to return to his love, so when he did, he was able to close her dry eyes shut, as if she only slept, and with her wrapped from head to toe, Blackbeard's crew set out, where the ocean was at its deepest and calmest, so when he was ready; he could release her into the arms of the ocean.
Though his heart, never let Elizabeth go...