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.
AN: I know, I know, I'm a terrible slacker! It's been months since my last update! I admit it, I've been procrastinating... a little. Ok, maybe more than a little... Yeahhhh, pretty much all the time. I'm sorry! I have terrible writer's block! I have a general idea of where I want this fic to go, but I'm having a helluva time getting it there. Also, I'm not gonna lie, the lack of reviews in the last couple chapters have been a little discouraging. Hearing from you guys is usually just the kick in the butt I need to get things moving along again. Knowing people are waiting for the next chapter usually helps spark some much needed motivation and inspiration. I still have every intention of finishing this story, but I'd really love some feedback as it helps me soldier on through the black hole of terrible plot points and bad dialog that always try to rise with writer's block. So, send me some love!
Thanks to everyone still following & reviewing! Despite my horrible delays, I hope you guys continue to enjoy!
DEFINITIONS & PERIOD-SPECIFIC TERMINOLOGY:
Swash: The turbulent layer of water that washes up onto the beach after an incoming wave has broken. Swash consists of two phases:uprush(onshore flow) and backwash (offshore flow).
Cyclicity: Revolving or recurring in cycles; characterized by recurrence in cycles.
Palliative: To relieve or lessen without curing; mitigate; alleviate.
Anodynic: Anything that relieves stress or pain.
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Seeking a moment's peace and quiet reflection, Eleanor sought the amenity of the seaside. Standing alone by the water's edge, the surf lapped softy against the sand, barely grazing the toes of her boots upon each uprush. The roar of the sea married cordially with the whispers of the breeze and the distant cries of gulls overhead. Turning her face toward the surf as the sun began its decent behind the horizon, she watched with quiet and pensive austerity as the waves rolled in. They rose and broke against themselves, sliding up along the sands of the shore in a delicate foamy wash before receding softly back into the sea.
She loved the sea. She always had. The constant ebb and flow of the tide was steady and consistent. The waves would always come in and they'd always wash out, such was the nature of things. It was strange but the solid and steady predictability of that cyclicity had always been a source of comfort for Eleanor. She'd often sought out its palliative influence after particularly grueling or painful days. Sometimes it was because of an exceptionally onerous argument with Charles, her father, or some other blissfully ignorant fuck. Other times it was just to think. But regardless of the cause, time spent by the water had always felt somewhat anodynic.
She was seeking that comfort now. Too much had transpired today. So much had changed in what felt like the blink of an eye. It was difficult to wrap her head around it all.
In all honesty, relations with the men had gone quite a bit better than she'd expected. The crews had all been informed of her presence, involvement and continued engagement in their future plans. And lone behold, she still wasn't dead.
Though admittedly, there were points in which it had come close.
The men had been outraged and raucous at first, gunning for her head at the mere mention of her name. The tyranny of her rule over Nassau and subsequent betrayals were still fresh in all their minds. This was hardly shocking, as they had never much cared for her in the first place. After all, she had been a woman in power, and females in such positions were rarely smiled upon. But it had been about more than that. After everything she'd done to both those men and Nassau, she couldn't really blame them for hating her. She'd basically handed Nassau to the English on a silver platter.
So yes, at first they'd seen no reasonable reason to allow her continued existence. They'd been understandably incensed by the notion of her return and they'd called for her blood as a result. It hadn't been surprising, and it certainly wasn't libel to change anytime soon. But that lack of love wasn't really an issue. She didn't need the men to love her, she only needed them to accept her immersion in all of this and layoff the pursuit of her imminent demise.
Luckily, between the promise of bountiful coin, uninhibited freedom, and the wagging of silver tongues, the men had been convinced to mellow. They still hated her, and she doubted even one among them truly trusted her, but they had been swayed to tolerate her existence. Flint, Silver, Charles and Teach had made one hell of a fearsome, charismatic and deviously persuasive coalition.
But she was not so foolish as to believe that all their grievances had been quelled. She knew there was still a very real threat to her life while she walked among the men. But for the most part, things had settled down. Most of them had accepted her involvement like a bitter pill; unsavory and repellant but necessary.
However, she did understand that each of them likely followed along only for their own reasons. And people's motives tended to be fickle and ever changing when placed in the face of danger and adversity.
Some men followed out of fear, for power or for greed. A few perhaps for loyalty, honor or a misplaced sense of justice. Others sought freedom, vengeance or a simple adherence to their own twisted set of personal ideals. And for some, just the rush of blood and battle was enough. There were also those who complied simply out of convenience or cowardice.
It didn't really matter why they'd decided to comply, only that they had and that they'd continue to do so. But being aware of the diversity in their reasoning was important. When you knew what people wanted and why, they were easier to understand and manipulate. It wasn't always necessary, but sometimes it was the crux, the one thing that would make all the difference. So she'd pay attention. She'd stay one step ahead of the game, just like always. Only this time, she and Charles wouldn't be standing on opposite ends of the board. This time it would be different.
She'd come this far and she wasn't about to let it all fall apart now. She'd lost too much. God help her, she'd lost Scott. Scott, the man who had essentially raised her. The man who'd loved and cared for her far better than her own blood ever had. Legally, he'd been chattel property of the Guthrie estate, merely a favored slave assigned to her care by her father to avoid the inconvenient burden of child rearing. But Eleanor had never thought of Scott in that way. She'd never considered him as anything less than family.
For a very long time he'd been the closest thing she had to a true friend and confidant. She'd valued and respected his opinions and advice, even if she hadn't always agreed with him or taken his words to heart. She'd gone to him for all manner of things; from skinned knees and the cruelty of other children, to the budding desire for unorthodox teachings and ambitions unbefitting of the fairer sex. From the ignorance of pigheaded men and her dealings in Richard's business, to the trials and tribulations of ruling an island wrought with murders and thieves.
Of course, that wasn't to say that they'd always gotten along. She'd been a particularly stubborn and unruly child. Even then she'd had no use for the delicate teachings of young ladies. Propriety and tradition had never held much value for her. She'd much preferred pants to any sort of frock, roughhousing over tea time, and skirting lines rather than following them. And it had only got worse as she got older. Pants had returned to skirts, but only to make a point of the fact that she was indeed a woman successfully awash in the business of men. Roughhousing had turned into drinking and cussing and colluding with pirates. And eventually, she'd forgone skirting lines in favor of abandoning them entirely.
It was around this time that she'd begun her shameless affiliations with Charles.
And by God, she'd nearly driven poor Scott mad. He'd probably spent more time trying to corral and caution her than he did much of anything else. And when he wasn't trying to reign her in, he was covering for her, acting as a buffer between her an her father's rigid expectations.
The man had been a Goddamned saint.
Her gut churned and for a moment she closed her eyes, fearing she might be sick. How could he be dead? How had she not known about this? She opened her eyes again, deep breaths having momentarily warded off the threat of retching. Her gaze remained fixed upon the horizon, eyes misted but refusing to weep.
Scott had been the one and only person she'd ever allowed herself to trust explicitly. Even Charles, a man who'd possessed her heart for nearly a decade, had never managed to pry such unequivocal trust from her. She'd always been so markedly guarded, always wary and suspicious of others. She'd learned very early on that a woman in her position couldn't afford not to be. If she was to be taken seriously, she needed to be twice as ruthless, stringent and clever as any man ever would need to be. But Scott had slipped under her defenses too early in life, before she'd properly fortified her walls and while she was still too young to know any better.
She'd let him in, grown too accustomed to his support and guidance. Now he was gone, and she felt adrift. She wasn't quite certain what she was meant to do without him.
True, he'd left her side many months before his death and she'd survived. But death wasn't the same as simple distance.
His departure from Nassau had been a direct result of her own careless action. She'd lied to him, betrayed his trust by attempting to bully Bryson into handing over the cannons. And while she certainly hadn't appreciated Scott's conspiring with her father to capsize her plans, she did understand why he'd done it.
He'd only been trying to protect her, aiming to save her from herself. He'd told her as much upon returning from the slave ship. And upon learning this, she'd forgiven him his indiscretions. She'd even requested that he remain at her side as her adviser. But he'd claimed that staying would only tempt him to continue running interference in her misguided plans. He was convinced that she was marching brazenly toward her own death, and he'd chosen not to watch her do it.
So he'd left, abandoned her to head off to sea with Hornigold's crew.
And in his leaving, she'd never felt quite so alone. By that point she'd already alienated Max, discarded Charles and inadvertently chased Scott off to sea. As a result, there had been months in which she'd had no one left to turn to, no one left to blame but herself. And while she'd been loathe to admit it and convinced she knew exactly what she was doing, she was still terribly lonely. She'd endured, of course. She always did. But those losses had been keenly felt, her mistakes too plainly lain out before her.
Now she stood on the shores of an island not her own, with her life in tatters and only her regrets to keep her company. How could one woman have fallen so far? How could she have been so foolish and blind? She should have told Scott she was sorry. She should have told him he'd been right. She should have told him that she loved him.
Now she'd never tell him anything.
The thought burned and stung, like salt in an open wound. But still, the tears didn't come. She didn't curl up in the sand to quiver and shake and wail. She wasn't even sure she could have if she'd wanted to. Instead she simply stood there, breathing slow and deep.
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When Eleanor had left the village square, Charles assumed she'd been headed back to their hut and resisted the misguided desire to trail after her. He understood what Scott had meant to her and that this loss would no doubt torture and pang. But he also understood that her pain should no longer have been his problem. It shouldn't have been any of his concern.
She wasn't his. She didn't need the comfort of his arms or his shoulder to cry on. He wasn't even entirely sure that she ever had. And so despite his irrational and erroneous desire to offer solace where solace most certainly wasn't deserved, he'd opted to give her space instead.
That is, until he'd eventually gone back to the hut and found it empty. Then he was angry. Angry and just a little afraid. What was she thinking wandering off without a word? Walking alone among the men was a dangerous undertaking. Despite whatever deals they'd agreed to, those men still very much hated her. And just because they'd agreed not to kill her, didn't mean they couldn't still change their minds on a whim. It didn't mean there weren't many other things they could still decide to do to her.
With a curse, he'd stomped from their hut and back out into the village to look for her. They couldn't afford any more mishaps or setbacks. He told himself that that explained his current state of unease. He told himself the knot in his gut had nothing to do with the thought of possibly finding her broken and bloodied in the sand somewhere. He told himself that he was only looking to secure their victory in Nassau and needed her to do it.
But even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't entirely true.
That woman was just as deeply wedged beneath his skin as she'd ever been. He'd just learned to better manage it, to ignore the voice that whispered of loyalty and devotion and a life by her side. Placing any stock in that voice only ever fucked him over. He'd learned that lesson good and well, more times than he could count.
But still, that knot persisted just the same.
After a brief search of the village, Charles had almost instinctively began heading for the beach. Half way there his mind caught up with his feet, and quickly he realized just where he was headed and why. He should have thought of it sooner, but he'd gotten caught up in that initial rush of dread that had reared up with her sudden disappearance.
In the past, she'd often gone to the shore when she was angry or upset. He would commonly find her sulking or seething or mulling about by the water's edge, and it hadn't been terribly uncommon for him to occasionally meander over to her side during such occasions. Sometimes he'd simply sat there with her in the sand and silence, offering only a quiet understanding or wordless consort. Other times he'd listened to her rant and rave and curse. Occasionally he'd call bullshit and attempt to talk slivers of sense into her, and now and then they'd just settle for trying to fuck each other stupid. He had countless memories of these occasions, most of them more wistful and nostalgic than he'd ever care to admit.
But regardless of the feelings those memories stirred up, he still recognized that for her the waterfront had always been a place of placidity and contemplation. And so it was not unprecedented that she might well have gone down to the beach after the matter with the men had been settled.
As he pushed past the treeline and spotted her standing by the water, a rush of relief that he'd prefer not to analyze washed over him. For a moment he simply stood by the treeline and watched her. Much to his dismay, he could practically feel her anguish from here. Despite the steady gale coming off the sea, the air seemed thick and stifled with it.
She wasn't weeping.
She hadn't curled into herself to wail and quiver or wallow in her obvious heartbreak.
Instead she stood pale and regal and composed, spine straight and hands clasped firmly against her stomach. Ever the pillar of unequivocal fortitude.
And yet still, her sorrow was near palpable.
He knew what it was to loose someone so close to you. One didn't live the sort of life he did without having had experienced that sort of thing at one time or another. He understood it, and he understood her need to cling to those last tenuous scraps of composed endurance.
That was the problem, he understood it. He understood her. And that understanding brought with it an uncomfortable poignancy. He knew damn well he should leave her be, that getting much closer to her in this state could very well be the mistake that pushed him right back over that dubious edge.
But something nameless and sickeningly familiar prevented his departure. Despite knowing it was likely a terrible idea, he found himself making his way towards her. He wasn't even entirely certain why. He shouldn't have bothered, because he knew damn well there wasn't anything that could be said or done to ease her pain. Nothing could alleviate that sort of grief. You just had to ride it out, wait for it to fade into something reasonably bearable.
And yet still he crossed those sands to stand beside her, all the while anticipating the loss of another tenuously clutched shard of his self control.
Some people just never learned.
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Eleanor didn't need to turn around to know he was standing just behind and a few feet to the right of her. She couldn't have said how she knew, but she did.
For some time, neither of them spoke. They simply stood there in a strangely easy and companionable silence. The only sounds came from the surge of the waves and squall of gulls as they watched the sun crawl leisurely toward the sea. Several more minutes passed between them before Eleanor finally spoke, her eyes still trained upon the horizon.
"How did you know I'd be down here?" She asked with quiet composure and without bothering to turn and look at him.
He shrugged, heedless to the fact that with her back to him she couldn't see the careless motion. "You've always liked the water..." His tone was soft and matter-of-fact, as if the statement wasn't an obvious admittance of his understanding.
She closed her eyes at his words, pulling a slow and steady breath in through her nose. Of course he would know. How could he not? They'd stood like this on countless occasions. He knew exactly why she'd felt the need to come here. And somehow, she couldn't decide whether his understanding made things easier or harder.
There was another stretch of silence, neither of them really feeling the need for further elaboration.
As the sun began to creep into the sea, there was a shuffle of movement that indicated her was sitting himself down on the beach behind her, dropping his weapons in the sand with a muted plunk beside him. She still didn't bother opening her eyes or turning to look at him. She wasn't entirely sure why exactly he'd come, and she didn't want to dwell too much on the wondering. She feared she'd stubble across something she didn't want to find. So instead she remained where she was, eyes closed and with the fleeting rays of the sun still warming her face.
Eventually there was some more shuffling, and his voice finally sounded over the waves.
"Eleanor..." His tone was at first gentle, somewhat low and coaxing. But when she failed to respond, he repeated himself. This time sounding more gravelly and less patient. "Eleanor."
With a somewhat exasperated sigh, she finally opened her eyes and turned her head enough to cast an irritated sideways look over her shoulder at him.
He was sitting in the sand a few feet from her. His legs were drawn up with one elbow resting causally upon a knee while his other arm hovered outstretched in her direction. In his extended hand he offered a flask of what promised to be an intoxicant both pungent and strong.
When she only stared at his outstretched hand, he lifted an inquisitive brow and gave the flask a little shake, as if to say 'well? Do you want it or not?'
At that she huffed out another frustrated breath and gave a halfhearted roll of her eyes before turning and tramping through the sand toward him. Not terribly concerned with looking graceful, she plopped down in the sand to the left of him, fighting her skirts for a moment before snatching the flask from his fist. In one smooth movement she'd uncapped it and tipped it back against her lips, taking a good few solid gulps of fire and scowling with the burn before recapping the thing and thrusting it back into his hands.
He watched her wipe her mouth on the back of her hand before he spoke. "Your welcome."
She sent him a look at suggested he'd have had better luck trying to pry gratitude from the shrubbery behind them. His mouth twitched with what might have been a smile, but never quite evolved into anything substantial. Removing the flask's lid and shoving it into is pocket, he lifted the drink to his own lips.
They sat sharing that bitter flask for some time, neither one feeling overly compelled to press the other with conversation. It was strange but comfortable, and almost painfully nostalgic. After they'd finished off the drink, Eleanor was grateful for the delicate fog that had settled over her mind in the alcohol's wake. She wasn't drunk, but the liquor had left her feeling warm and considerably less on edge. Her chest still ached and she still felt miserable, but she appreciated what Charles had tried to do for her.
She wasn't stupid. He hadn't had to stay here and finish off that flask with her, he'd done it because he'd assumed it was what she needed. Despite all she'd done to him, he'd still offered her the quiet solace of his presence. He was more than she deserved, more perceptive and compassionate than was likely good for him.
Which was a funny thought, considering the notorious Charles Vane had gained a reputation for cruelty and was one of the most feared and respected pirates in the Bahamas. It was a strange contrast to witness, and she couldn't help but be touched by it. She knew full well that it was a very select few who ever saw this side of him.
Perhaps it was the melancholy of the moment or perhaps simply the influence of alcohol, but when the urge to lean into him presented itself, she didn't bother fighting it. Before he could protest, she'd shuffled closer to his side, closed her eyes and lowered her head to rest against his left shoulder. As she felt him tense beneath her, it occurred to her that this probably hadn't been the wisest of actions. But in this particular moment, she couldn't quite muster up the strength of will to give a damn.
She just wanted the contact. She needed it.
"Eleanor." His voice sounded cautious, almost regretfully admonitory. And when she tried to ignore the warning in his tone and fact that he obviously didn't want to encourage this level of intimacy, he tried to shift away from her.
With his movement, her left hand shot up to grip the front of his shirt and his right moved to grip her offending wrist. But she didn't relent, only pressed her temple more firmly into the side of his shoulder and whispered harshly, "Don't."
He took a breath as if to say something, shifting like he was going to try and pull away again and a part of her welled up with an irrational panic. The word left her lips before she could think to stop them, its whispered timbre sounding desperate and pathetic even to her own ears. "Please..."
She almost pulled away from him then, feeling somewhat mortified by the melodrama of her own display. But he'd stilled beneath her and his grip on her wrist had loosened into something less rigid. For a moment there was an utter stillness. So much so, that she barely dared to breathe for fear of disrupting the tenuous stability of the moment. But as the moments ticked by and neither of them tried to move, it became clear that he'd conceded to her commiserable plea and a delicate sort of repose was established between them.
He might not have pulled her close or slung an arm around her waist, but he hadn't pulled away either. The grip he still had on her wrist had become something more tender and comforting, even if the thumb resting idly against the back of her hand never lapsed into the gentle stroking motion that he used to be so fond of. The grip itself was anchor enough.
And she was grateful for that.
Though she did understand that this allowance had likely cost him. And knowing this, she felt an unusual desire to offer up some sort of condolence for her behaviour, a compensation of sorts. It was silly, and perhaps a little irrational. But then again, emotions were rarely grounded in sensibility and reason.
So there, in the soft fading of the light, she murmured two words that scarcely ever passed her lips. "Thank you..."
He offered only a muted grunt in response, but she knew enough to take it for the acceptance of gratitude that it was.
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