DISCLAIMER: I don't own Black Sails. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This update came a little sooner than expected, so yay!
Also, some of the terminology used here references things in the time period and might be unfamiliar, so I included some definitions below and a nifty little diagram of a flintlock mechanism for anyone who's interested. Here is the link: wiki/Flintlock#/media/File:Flintlock_ignition_
Swivel Gun: A small cannon mounted on a swiveling stand or fork which allows a very wide arc of movement.
Royalist: A person who supports the principle of monarchy or a particular monarchy. Most often, the term is applied to a supporter of a current regime or one that has been recently overthrown to form a republic. Term originated in the 1640's.
Flotilla: A group of small naval vessels, especially a naval unit containing two or more squadrons.
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Charles woke to find her curled into him. Her arm still lay across his chest, her hand never having shifted too far from its place above his heart. But now she was also tucked tightly against his side, her head on his shoulder, her left leg bent and lying transversely over his in a tangle of skirts.
Before he was fully conscious, before he'd actually begun to process the situation, those first few waking moments had held a sickening sort of serenity. Laying there against her had felt natural, all too comfortable and reminiscent of simpler, more affable times.
It left him feeling almost panicked, angry with himself for once again allowing her mere proximity to lull him into a state of heedless placidity. He repeatedly fell victim to her gravitational pull; finding himself perpetually caught up in her orbit, as though she were the Goddamned sun.
It was near nauseating. Moronic. Pathetic.
But there it was, staring him in the face like a patch of rancid flesh that he couldn't quite bring himself to cut away. Without making that cut the infection would only spread, consume him, eventually kill him. But every time he tried to cleave her out, it seemed she only burrowed deeper. She ran rampant in his very blood, poisoning him from the inside out. Perhaps it was already too late, perhaps he was too far gone to have her removal make any discernible difference.
The thought was almost as irksome as it was depressing.
He gently and swiftly untangled his limbs from hers, slipping free of her grasp as he swung his legs off the edge of the bed. She made a small and unintelligible sound of irritated protest as she shifted with his loss, but otherwise did not rouse to consciousness.
He sat there watching her for a moment, frowning down at her prone silhouette and cursing himself for this loathsome and interminable adulation. Even as the irritation and distaste rolled heavy in his gut, his chest still tightened with the sight of her. His mind drifted extemporaneously back to the hours prior; to the way he'd heard her breath hitch before she'd reached across the bed to lay her open palm over his chest.
She hadn't tried to get closer, hadn't tried to rouse him or draw attention to the contact. Her touch had been light and hesitant, almost apprehensive. It hadn't felt as though the contact had been initiated out of any desire to manipulate or subdue him; he was quite certain she'd assumed he was asleep and none the wiser. And that made it all the worse. It caused his resolve to waver, to weaken just ever so slightly. For in that moment, he'd longed to offer her the comfort of his arms.
And that was dangerous. Foolish and dangerous.
With a frustrated sigh, he turned from her and quietly set about donning a new shirt. A part of him hoped to sneak out of there before she woke. He could have one of the men rouse her and give her instruction after he was gone. He didn't want to give her the chance to impair him any further. He needed a clear head for what was coming.
She opened her eyes to find him dressed and moving about the hut. For a moment she didn't move to sit up or say anything, she just watched him. It was still just dark enough that it was unlikely he'd catch her gaze even if he turned around. As he collected his weapons and a few other essentials, it occurred to her that he intended to leave, to slink off toward the beach without a word.
What made him think he had the right? Was she not as entitled to these last few moments as he was? Who was he to make this decision for the both of them?
Fuck that, and fuck him.
The thought was selfish and irrational, she knew it. But she didn't bother fighting it. It was easier to ride that wave of indignant rage than it was to face the burning in her throat, the ache in her chest. She wasn't quite sure how to react, how to process the onslaught of conflicting emotion. On one hand, the desire to lash out was present; to scream and kick and slap at him. Whether he deserved it or not wasn't really a factor in play, it was just a simple, base reaction. On the other hand was the desire to simply take hold of him and prevent his inevitable departure with sheer force of will. But both of these were childish notions, and neither was really a viable option. This plan had to be carried out with haste and precision. It was the only real chance they had at making any headway in this coming war.
Getting emotional was not an option. It rarely was.
She clung to that rationale, used it to steady herself. She watched him as he approached the bed, stopped beside it. She held her breath, waiting to see why he'd wandered back over here. A part of her wanted him to say something, touch her, anything. Anything to indicate she wasn't the only one feeling so damn compromised.
He reached out and laid his double barreled flintlock pistol down on the table next to the bed.
She swallowed hard, reality dealing her a considerable fist to the gut. That gun was for her. He was leaving her that pistol as a means of ensuring her freedom, a way out should everything go south. Her heart lurched. This was real. It was all really happening.
He moved to turn away from the bed.
She sat up then, his name tumbling from her lips without a plan or even conscious consent. Her hand once again snaked out on its own accord and her fingers curled, desperately fisting at the cuff of his sleeve. At the tug on his arm, he turned to face her and the room was just light enough to see that he wasn't looking at her face, but rather at the hand still clutching his sleeve.
Why did this keep happening? Was she not in control of her own Goddamned limbs?
A heavy silence hung in the air. A sickly panic and dread rolled in her gut. She hadn't meant to say anything, hadn't meant to grab hold of him. She knew such action to be futile, that nothing she could say or do would make a difference. What was between them was fractured, maimed beyond repair by virtue of her own ambitions. What they were trying to accomplish here and now was monumental, held the potential to insight a revolution. It wouldn't last forever, but it could make a difference, give people a reason to resist acquiescence for at least a little while longer.
She shouldn't have been allowing emotion to cloud her judgment. There was too much at stake, too much still left to accomplish. Yet she still felt compelled to halt his departure. She was still plagued with these ineffectual thoughts and desires. There were so many things she could have tried to say in that moment.
Godspeed.
Give no quarter.
Come back.
I love you.
I'm sorry.
But she found herself at a loss for any of it. The words caught, refused to form around the crippling knot in the base of her throat. There was so much to say that just couldn't be said. There was no way to convey into words what laid between them. How effectively he'd wormed his way inside her. How thoroughly they'd both loved and destroyed each other.
But perhaps he already knew. Perhaps it was better this way. Perhaps they didn't need a sappy goodbye; no tender words or comforting lies. They didn't need those things. They never had.
So instead she said nothing. She just sat there on the bed, her hand gripping his sleeve and the silence stretching painfully onward. Slowly and with great hesitation, she unfurled her fingers and slid them down his wrist to grasp at his hand.
He still didn't move or look at her, just continued to stare at her hand as though it were somehow offensive.
She struggled to make out the expression on his face in the fading darkness. From the angle of his head, she assumed he was still eyeing their joined hands, but she longed for him to lift his face and meet her gaze. She might not even be able to see it clearly, but she still wanted it anyway.
She swallowed thickly, her chest tight as she moved to brush her thumb lightly across the back of his knuckles. It was a subtle but expressive gesture, one that caused him to lift his eyes to find hers in the ill-lit room. She could just make out the furrow of his brow, his tightness of jaw and stiffness of shoulders. She didn't need to see the look in his eyes to know he was torn.
That was fine, he had every right to be. She just wanted him to know that this had mattered, that all of it had mattered. Regardless of what happened later today, this had all meant something.
Another quiet moment passed before she finally felt his fingers tighten around hers. He gave her hand a brief but heartening squeeze before his fingers slipped gently free of hers. Her arm dropped heavily to her lap as his hand slid from hers and he turned to move away from her without a word.
His retreating form drifted across the room and wrenched open the door.
With muted grief, she watched his broad shouldered silhouette disappear out into the nautical dawn. As the door latched behind him, she closed her eyes and fought the urge to curl into herself.
This was enough. It had to be enough.
But Jesus, it was so much harder being left behind than it was to be the one to leave.
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Charles' body hummed, tingled with an edgy anticipation. His blood raced through his veins like wildfire, setting his nerve endings ablaze. His muscles tensed, screaming for action, demanding an outlet for this jacked up energy. But he didn't move, not yet.
Not until they were closer.
These moments always held a certain bitter sweetness. There was always an agitation, a strange kind of trepidation stemming from a hyper awareness that the next few moments could potentially be his last. It wasn't fear per se, but something of a kindred spirit. And while that feeling advised caution and precision, it also served as a rush, a high that nothing else came close to.
Well, except sex. It was a close second to sex.
He watched tensely as English skiffs nudged the shoreline, Redcoats clamoring quickly from their vessels and out onto the burning sand. They began to advance, pushing forward in a line spread out across the beach, no doubt with the intention of getting close enough to effectively form a line of volley fire.
"Hold!" Charles heard Flint bellow down the rigid line of free slaves and pirates.
It was a command to delay their fire until the enemy was more assuredly within range. The closer they were, the harder they'd be to miss; such a tactic helped account for a weapon's inaccuracy and propensity to misfire.
The air thrummed with tension, a wild and impatient apprehension. As the sweat trickled down his spine, Charles found himself once again grateful for the sea. If not for the breeze coming off the water the heat would have been even worse, stifling. Which wouldn't have helped the men any; they were already twitchy, aching to act. It was a compulsion Charles understood, one he was intimately familiar with.
But instead of catering to that compulsion, he echoed Flint's command. "Hold!"
A jittery little man crouched behind the barricade beside Charles, shifting uncomfortably. He steadied his flintlock musket against his shoulder, flicking his eyes nervously between Charles and the oncoming soldiers. Charles sent the man an admonitory look.
"Easy..." Charles mumbled warningly. "Wait till that musket's liable to actually hit its mark..."
The man swallowed thickly, nodding his understanding and readjusting the weapon on his shoulder.
As the English advanced a few more feet inland, Flint's voice boomed. "Fire!"
The sound that followed was vociferous; a riotous free firing of weapons and the screaming of men. The sound roared across the beach, blending with the chorus of the waves against the sand. The simultaneous discharging of firearms brought with it a thick haze of gun smoke that burned the eyes, tasted bitter and astringent on the tongue.
But none of that mattered. The bloodshed still progressed; the struggle for dominion and survival provoking both sides and pushing for the endorsement of brutality.
The thrill of the fight rushed through Charles' veins, set his blood ringing in his ears and his mind straining to keep up. His breath quickened as his senses heightened with the slew of chaos erupting around him. In these moments there was no pain, only strength and a wildly sharpened focus. He knew enough not to let the feeling rule him. He was all too aware that the impression of invulnerability was little more than a sensory illusion, that a bullet could still leave him just as dead.
But that didn't mean that there wasn't still a part of him which enjoyed that hair-raising stimulation, the mad rush of it all.
This was what they'd come for. They believed destruction would be the harbinger to their new world. The English thought they'd ferry in a civilized refinement, orchestrate the tidy removal of piracy and the notion of free thought. They thought they'd do so with little resistance.
They were about to be shown just how very wrong that notion was, how dangerous it was to demand fealty where fealty wasn't due.
After firing off another round, Charles crouched low behind the barricade, hands moving quickly and efficiently as he set about reloading a battered old musket. His leather powder flask hung from its cord in his teeth as he pulled back the gun's trigger mechanism to the half-cocked position and sprinkled powder into the flashpan. Closing the frizzen, he moved to shake more powder down into the gun's muzzle before using the ramrod to force the cloth-wrapped lead shot down the barrel to the breech. Setting down his powder flask, he moved to shoulder the weapon. He raised himself to kneel behind the cover, turning his body toward the fray and preparing to take aim.
"Mortars!" He heard Flint roar. "Concentrate on the mortars!"
They had mortars. Of course they did. Why wouldn't they? Fucking Royalists.
Charles picked a target and took aim. But an explosion to his left rocked him backward, splinters of wooden shrapnel from the barricade slicing into his shoulder and bicep. His ears rung as the world spun for a moment. He turned his head and caught sight of the jittery man from earlier. He was sprawled across the sand not six feet from Charles, a large portion of the side of his skull missing and the sand beneath him stained nearly black with gore.
If there was a twinge of pity for that man, it was swiftly overlooked, buried under the importance of the task at hand. Charles forced himself to roll over and back into the cover of the barricade. He sat up as his fingers began nimbly prodding at his wounds, quickly assessing the damage. A little shrapnel, some lacerations that would likely need stitches, but overall nothing too serious.
Scooping up the musket he'd dropped, Charles took a quick moment to survey the field. The English had begun forming another line of two ranks, clearly intent on releasing another onslaught of volley fire. The newly formed line obscured the men manning the mortars, allowing them the time to prepare another set of rounds.
Perhaps it was time to show these bastards that pistols, muskets and a few swivel guns weren't the only weapons at their disposal. "Fire the cannons!" Charles barked above the noise, praying the men manning the ties to the half-buried cannons would be able to hear him.
Charles didn't know if Flint had heard him, or if he'd simply recognized the coming threat and the time to act. But it was a relief to see Flint raise his arm and give the command to fire the obscured cannons. A second later hidden ties were being pulled from the sand, setting off a chain reaction of cannon fire. The first couple shots went off perfectly but the last cannon failed to fire, its tie caught on something indistinguishable. A nameless pirate vaulted over the barricade in an attempt to clear the obstruction, but was felled by musket fire almost before his feet hit the sand.
Their men were dropping like flies. The English artillery was proving more than they could withstand. It seemed that for as many Redcoats that were downed, more rolled up from the sea. They were an endless barrage of locus, a plague upon the free world.
The English unleashed another devastating round of volley fire, quickly followed by more mortars. The mortars dropped behind what was left of the barricade, ripping men apart and tearing holes in their defensive ranks. It was quickly becoming apparent that they would need to fall back far sooner than they'd originally anticipated. They couldn't last much longer here on the beach.
Charles stood up and fired once more into the fracas before hurrying down the barricade line towards Flint. Upon reaching him, Charles found another man already trying to convince Flint to give the order for retreat.
"Captain, it's time." The man insisted.
"Not yet." Flint asserted sternly, stubbornly turning his attention back towards the English.
Another blast of mortars rocked the barricade. It sent more shrapnel and debris flying and forced the trio to drop for cover. Men were shouting, others screaming. Bodies lay broken, dead and dying in most every direction. The massacre aspect of this plan had certainly been achieved; they'd decimated their own forces in an attempt to embolden the enemy with a false sense of superiority, and Charles was certain they'd been successful in at least that much.
All that was left now was to coax the English into doing something stupid.
"Captain, we need to fall back!" The man reiterated more firmly, though an edge of panic was now evident in his voice.
Flint ignored the man.
Charles finally intervened, shuffling closer to Flint so that he could be heard above the noise. "We can't take much more of this." He growled. "If we don't fall back soon, there won't be any of us left to lead them into that jungle."
Flint gave no indication that he'd even heard him, but Charles knew damn well that he had. Flint's brows were knit with stubborn determination as he continued to observe the English, quietly assessing the damage to both sides and no doubt weighing his options.
"If you don't give the order," Charles hissed, leaning menacingly closer to Flint. "I will."
Flint turned his head then, fixing Charles with a grave and dangerous look. Charles simply stared back, his palm resting heavily against the hilt of the blade fixed to his hip. He watched Flint's jaw set as he glanced toward the English and then back at Charles. Flint must have decided they weren't wrong, because he finally gave Charles a small nod.
They needed no further exchange of words.
"Smoke!" Flint bellowed, turning away from Charles dismissively.
The men began echoing Flint's command down the line and within seconds the order was carried out, gas bombs being swiftly tossed over the barricade. Suddenly the air was thick with the haze of smoke. The fumes acted as a kind of shield, preventing the English from getting a clear line of sight and allowing for the opportunity to retreat with less chance of being shot in the back.
"Fall back!" Flint shouted. "Fall back!"
Charles and every other man who'd heard it began hollering out the order, making sure it was well understood by both their own men and the English. They were retreating.
The English ordered a hold fire. It wasn't entirely clear whether they'd done so because they couldn't see what they were shooting at, or because they intended to prepare to follow the retreat and finish what they'd started. Charles could only pray it was the latter. They had near another hundred men waiting in the jungle to ambush, and more hanging back to guard the outskirts of the village.
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Eleanor was going mad, absolutely stir-crazy. She huffed out a restless breath and raked her fingers through unbound and disheveled hair, pacing the hut like a caged animal. She was not a creature fashioned for patience or passivity. She needed a purpose, a task, something productive with which to occupy her mind.
How could she possibly have thought that tarrying about this hut was a good idea? She was as useless here as she would have been cowering with the women and children. Initially, she'd thought maybe she could be useful here; perhaps allocate her time to going through their ship's logs or planning their next move. But after she finished sifting through the logs and tallying inventory, she'd run out of things to busy herself with. She'd tried to occupy herself with formulating a cohesive plan for future action should they manage to survive this encounter, but she found herself terribly distracted.
She could hear the cannon blasts and gunfire echoing up from the beach, and it was a less than comforting acoustic. If she wasn't mistaken, those sounds were getting closer, more aggressive and pronounced. She was inclined to believe that meant they'd managed to lure those royalist bastards into the jungle, but that didn't mean there wasn't still a chance things could go south. She had little doubt that Hornigold was among the men sent here, and he was a cautious man. He knew Flint just a little too well, and Eleanor was concerned that he might be inclined to somehow throw a wrench into things.
The fact that the gunfire seemed to be getting closer and closer to the village was unsettling. If things had gone exactly as planned, the English should have been completely massacred in the jungle, a considerable distance still from the village. But the sounds appeared to still be advancing, and that was disconcerting.
A single gunshot sounded loudly from within the village and Eleanor jumped. Without much forethought, she rushed towards the door and yanked it open. Lou stood before her, his back turned to her and a musket in his grip. She stood frozen in the doorway with a frown as he turned his head to glance at her over his shoulder.
"Ma'am?" He asked with an arch of brow.
Ma'am? Really?
She continued to frown but attempted to ignore the fact that she'd so obviously been assigned a prison guard. There were more important things to be concerned about at the moment. "The gunfire, where is it coming from? Have they breached our perimeter?" She asked seriously, her tone regal and demanding.
He gave her a strange look, and it occurred to her that he was probably wondering why a whore sounded so refined, demanding and authoritative. She reeled herself in a little, tossed a lacing of fear into her voice and asked "Should we be concerned?"
He stared at her for another considering moment before answering. Eleanor got the distinct impression that perhaps Lou wasn't quite the utter moron he made himself out to be. She'd have to be more careful around him if that was really the case.
"Seen movement in the trees and one of the men fired on it." Lou clarified, somewhat warily. "Fighting still sounds far enough off, but it coulda been a scout."
Her frowned deepened. "It doesn't sound very far off."
Lou shrugged but his face remained serious. "Far enough."
She wasn't quite sure how to respond to this. It was clear that Lou wasn't going to be of much help to her, and if she berated him like she wanted to it would draw unwanted attention. It was also clear that leaving the hut wasn't a viable option either. So instead, she simply turned around and headed back inside, closing the door firmly behind her.
She paced and fret and cursed all over that hut for what felt like an eternity. And all the while the cannon and gunfire continued in the distance, the sound of it seeming only to further mock and harass her. Just when she'd finally begun to consider throwing caution to the wind in favor of storming from that hut in a blaze pent up restless energy, gunfire erupted from within the village. It sounded too close to have been coming from anywhere else.
Immediately, her heart leapt into her throat and she suddenly found herself clutching at the flintlock pistol Charles had left for her. Her chest heaved as she retreated to the back of the room, leaning her back against the far wall so that she could face the door.
If their perimeter had been breached and the English were inside, then there was a good chance they'd failed, that this was the end. And if that was the case, then everyone who mattered worth a damn to both her and the cause was likely already dead. The thought had her chest tightening and her throat burning. She would not go back to that life. She would not cower or beg or submit. She would not give them the satisfaction.
She swallowed hard, listening past the pounding in her ears to the commotion outside. The shouting and gunfire had died down a little, but that wasn't necessarily a good thing. The lack of gunfire just meant one side had been subdued, it didn't specify which side. Her hands shook as she raised the pistol, pressing its barrel into the soft flesh of her temple. Her eyes remained fixed to the door.
Let them come. Let them try to take her alive. They wouldn't succeed. She'd spatter her own brains across this hut before she ever gave them the chance. Her only regret, aside from her betrayal of Charles, would be that she hadn't found a way to take more of these pompous pricks out with her when she went.
She cocked back her weapon, prepared herself for what was almost certainly the inevitable outcome.
And the door crashed open.
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Earlier That Day...
"What the fuck is that?" Dooley inquired, pointing out toward a small fleet of English ships who'd seemingly opened fire upon their own."Why are they shooting each other?" He said frowning.
Flint and Charles moved to stand on either side of Dooley, squinting and shielding their eyes from the sun as they took in the fight still taking place across the water.
"That's the Walrus firing along side the smaller fleet..." Flint said frowning.
Charles arched a brow, a dry and bemused laugh slipping from slightly curved lips. "How the fuck did they manage that?" He stated incredulously and to no one in particular. The question was rhetorical, more a outward musing than anything else.
"They didn't." Flint protested. "Annexing six warships in a matter of hours with that few men? It's impossible. Get me a spyglass." He called to one of his men.
Charles shrugged, face blank as he turned his gaze back out to sea. Jack was a clever man, but Charles was inclined to agree with Flint. Such a feat was unlikely.
A few seconds later, a spyglass was being pressed into Flint's hand and a disbelieving bark of laughter burst from his throat as he raised the device to his eye. "They're flying the black. They're ours." Flint said with an aporetic sort of awe.
Charles held his handout for the spyglass and Flint handed it over, watching Charles silently and perhaps a little expectantly as he brought the glass up.
"Not just any black..." Charles muttered as he lowered the glass from his face, a slight smugness pulling at the corner of this mouth. "That's Teach's flag."
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