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: A while back, one of you lovely reviewers pointed out that I had claimed Charles' ship was still the Ranger, this was an oversight error on my part. I had somehow managed to forget that the ranger had been destroyed after Eleanor deposed Charles of its captaincy and gave the ship to Flint & Gates. I've yet to go back and edit the mistake, but just to be clear, Charles' current ship is the Fancy (Which he liberated after murdering its captain Ned Low.)
Also, if there are still people following this story, all I can say is that I'm awed you are still reading even after my repeatedly long delays in updates. I'd apologize again, but I imagine that by now you're all probably pretty sick of hearing it. I truly appreciate the interest and it's honestly what keeps this fic going, even with my horrible lack of consistent updates x.x So thank you! Please keep reviewing! I love the feedback & you guys are the best!
DEFINITIONS/PERIOD SPECIFIC TERMINOLOGY/FACTS:
Factious: Given to faction; dissentious; quarrelsome
Brusqueness: Abrupt in manner; blunt; rough
Pewter: A malleable gray metal alloy made of tin, copper and antimony. Pewter was used to make tableware as far back as 1450 BC, but was gradually replaced by the more common use of porcelain and pottery. In the late 17th & 18th centuries pewter came back into style & was used for unlidded mugs, lidded tankards & many other types of tableware.
Top Rail: The highest horizontal piece of the back rest of a chair
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The next few weeks passed in the usual frenetic hustle that accompanies the engineering of conspiracy and warfare. Among the men, the sweeping rebel victory on Maroon Island had lent credence to the notion of a more encompassing and overarching triumph against the English. This notion had in turn granted a considerable boost to their confidence, courage and morale. Which was good, but it wouldn't do to allow them to get too cocky. Too complacent.
Many men had a tendency toward misguided hubris wherever women or violence were concerned. Whether it be about sex or bloodshed, they tended to attribute to themselves more clout and prowess than was often warranted, especially shortly after experiencing a perceived victory. Such propensities made people careless and vulnerable.
Eleanor was not about to allow such an avoidable mishap to occur.
There would no doubt be enough mishap of the unavoidable variety as it was. Nothing ever plays out just exactly as one plans and there must always be a plan of contingency. Eleanor thought she knew this better than anyone. She held firm to the opinion that it was far better to overestimate an enemy and be proven wrong, than it was to underestimate them and be crushed beneath their weight.
Hence why she'd insisted on being so heavily involved in the planning of this upcoming battle. She had every intention of quashing any brash notions borne of inflated egos and impatience. Not that she wasn't feeling impatient herself, of course she was. Such rural living was hardly her preferred lifestyle choice, and being so far removed from Nassau and it's workings had proven more agitating and galling than even she'd expected.
She missed her home, her tavern, the ever present noise and lawlessness... The hold she'd had over it all. Christ, everything that had been hers. She missed all of it.
And though she intended to go about things very differently this time around, she was no more willing to abandon her claim to Nassau than she'd ever been. At the cost of her soul, she'd dragged that place up out of the mud and forged it into something entirely innovational, unique and unabashedly factious. It was beautiful in its own right, and she knew now that she never should have tried to shackle it. Charles had always been right about that; it was far better to live free and die fighting than it was to live trussed up and complacent. Figuratively or otherwise.
At this point, after everything that had happened, she'd honestly prefer to watch Nassau burn than calmly agree to cede it to the crown. Unfortunatley, if Nassau was to burn, she and all her pirate conspirators would likely be burning right along with it. They were pitting themselves against the entire English Navy, after all. The goal was indeed to take back Nassau and declare her independent freedom, but Eleanor more than understood there was only a bleak possibility of success and that the consequence to their probable failure would be dire.
Nassau would be free, or they'd all perish in the attempt to deliver her. These terms were bitter, but agreeable. The odds didn't matter so much as the cause itself, what it meant.
And so here she was, once again among among pirates and cutthroats, discussing the terms of their latest invasion. Unfortunately, and much to Eleanor's frustration, these pirates and cutthroats were no more reasonable or agreeable now than they ever were.
"And if that isn't the case? What's to stop them from simply opening fire on our ships? How do we know they haven't already made the necessary repairs to the fort?" Eleanor attests staunchly and with no small level of frustration. From her seat at the long stretch of table, the wide-eyed glare she casts across the room's other occupants is caustic, though none of them seem terribly phased by it.
"We've received no more word on the completion of the fort's repairs." Teach snaps, clearly loosing patience with the long-winded and circular nature of this discussion.
Flint interjects, seemingly only slightly less agitated than Teach "The last we heard from Billy, the fort was still in disrepair. If we're going to move, it has to be before they're able to utilize the fort's offenses."
"That was weeks ago!" Eleanor argues exasperatedly. "The repairs could well be finished by now. If we sail into port with our gunships armed to the teeth, and that fort is operational–"
"We'll take heavy damages." Charles interrupts, finishing her thought with an edge of irritated brusqueness. Though it doesn't sound so much like he's agreeing with her as it does that he's just stating the obvious and being disgusted by it.
"Exactly!" Eleanor cries, grateful for at least the acknowledgment of potential catastrophe, even if it wasn't an outright backing.
Jack sighs. "Yes, but what choice do we have? The longer we wait for word, the more likely it is they finish the repairs. The men are ready. Perhaps this is a risk we ought to consider taking."
"If the Fort was operational, I'm sure Billy would have sent word." Silver appeals genially, no doubt hoping to allay the room's rising tension. "He's as invested in this war as any one of us."
Teach scoffs. "Agreed. From what I hear, he's about the only one among you – aside Charles, I suppose – who's worth a Goddamn thing."
At the mention of Charles, Eleanor glaces over at him. But judging by the tight-jawed look of him, it appears he intends to do little more than cast dangerous and withering looks about the room. He's probably concerned with how it might look if he supports her argument. Which admittedly, is probably wise but no less aggravating. With a irritated huff, Eleanor turns back to the fray. Flint looks as though he might be inclined to retaliate against Teach's jibe and Silver has subtly begun trying to deter him. Jack looks mildly insulted, though otherwise unmoved, and Maddi has simply been watching the proceedings with a keen eye and tight lips.
"This is hardly the time to be hurling insults." Eleanor concludes haughtily. "We need to make a decision."
"Right," Silver agrees immediately, apparently having finished dissuading Flint from violence. "while I do admit there is considerable risk involved, I think it's probably best we move ahead. Billy has assured us that the danger from the fort is minimal, and if we wait much longer that might not remain the case." He turns his attention to Flint, obviously waiting for some sign of approval or agreement, and after a moment of contemplative staring, he gets it.
"I agree." Flint intones firmly. "We can't afford to ignore this opportunity, we've no guarantee we'll be granted another."
Jack gives a slow nod. "I don't particularly like it, but I think there's a necessity to it. We can't afford to give them the chance to heighten their defenses." He looks toward Anne. Who as usual, is standing by the door wearing her signature scowl. The look he's giving her must strike a cord in some way, because her face shift ever so slightly before she gives him a curt nod. He grins and she rolls her eyes before redirecting her attention to the table.
For a brief second, Eleanor closes her eyes and takes a deep and steadying breath. Upon reopening them, she cautions, "This is an unnecessary risk. Send for word from Billy, get confirmation that our information still holds up."
Flint sighs. "Your opposition is duly noted, Miss Guthrie," His formality stings a little, given that he and Eleanor used to be fairly close, but she isn't about to let her discomfort show. "but we don't have the luxury of time right now. If we're going to move, it has to be now. Everything is in place." Flint concludes with that potent sort of self-assured certitude that so often makes even his maddest of plans seem almost reasonable.
Madi chooses then to finally speak up. "Flint is right. We are not equipped to take on the gunships in the bay in addition to the fort's guns. If there's a chance we can avoid the fort's offenses, we should take it." She paused, a somewhat troubled but decisive expression drawing her forehead into a considering frown. "However, I can't say I'm fond of the notion of going into this blind..."
Latching onto Madi's expressed doubt and rapidly switching tactics, Eleanor adds, "Fine, so we haven't the time to acquire certainty, but might I suggest we at least consider ensuring our losses will be less substantial in the event of failure?"
"We fail, and we're all dead anyway." Teach deadpans with an arch of brow.
Certain that Teach is being obstinate simply for the sake of being obstinate, Eleanor sends him a withering look.
Oh, Thank you, that's so very helpful.
Eleanor stands, ignoring Teach's uncooperative comment and pointing down at the map splayed on the table before them. "We take only three of our ships rather than six. If the fort isn't operational, a Man O' War and two gunships should be plenty to take the bay. If it is operational, then we're going to take some heavy damage and I'd feel better knowing we had other options should this one go awry."
"This is sensible." Madi comments. "Eggs in separate baskets, yes?"
Silver's bottom lip juts out in consideration before he nods and sends Madi a wry sort of grin. "Divvying up our investments allows us to cut our losses if we have to, but we still keep from total ruin. It's a decent strategy." Madi doesn't quite smile back, but the look in her eyes conveys her agreement well enough.
Jack looks wary. "Are we sure that's wise? Dividing our forces like that?"
"The Man O' War and two Frigates should be adequate enough." Teach declares definitively as he pushes away from the table and stands with the obvious intent of leaving. "Ready your men and we should be underway in a day's time. Now, I need to take a piss." He gestures dismissively as he heads toward the door and swiftly disappears through it.
"I suppose we are..." Jack mutters resignedly. He glaces at Charles, who offers a subtle nod full of what Eleanor imagines to be a form of reassurance, then Jack shifts his gaze to meet Anne's. After a moment or so of weighty eye contact that may as well be a whole serious conversation, Anne abruptly turns and leaves the room. Jack stands and calmly follows her, no more at ease with the whole situation than he was going into it but apparently willing to roll with the punches.
"Well at least that's something." Eleanor grumbles and turns to glare pointedly at Charles. The look she's casting conveys her question clearly.
Where were you during all that?
"It's plenty." Charles remarks casually, ignoring her unspoken question as he stands and moves to follow Teach, Jack and Anne.
Eleanor sighs. While she might have found some relatively civil ground with Charles over the last few weeks– civil might be kind of a generous term, but at least he'd lain off threatening to kill her –she could hardly say as much about her relationships with the rest of them. The rest of them watched her like a hawk watches a snake; wary of it's strike, but not above going in for the kill should the opportunity present itself. She supposed she couldn't very well blame them, but it didn't make their mistrust any less irritating or inconvenient.
Flint seemed especially put out by her.
Thinking of Flint, Eleanor turned her attention from the door Charles had slipped though and back towards the table. As if he'd been reading her thoughts, she found herself already caught under Flint's hard gaze. His face is relatively blank aside from slightly narrowed eyes and a mild crease of brow, but the expression is still full of suspicious scrutiny and a keen sort of probing inspection. Almost as though he's hoping that if he stares just long and hard enough, her skull might simply spit open to spill countless secrets he's sure she's been holding back from them.
If Flint meant for that stare to rattle or intimidate her, it wasn't going to work. He ought to know better by now, she wasn't one to advertize fear and fragility. Not even when doing so might prove the wiser option. Case in point: Ned Low.
She simply stared back.
For the most part, Flint had avoided her almost entirely since she'd come here. But whenever interaction did occur, it was usually quite bitter and resentful in nature. Eleanor knew well enough why; the two of them had been friends. Or at least, as close to friends as two people of their position and dispositions could be. They'd trusted one another, which wasn't something that came easily to either of them, and she'd betrayed that trust.
She was sorry for it of course, but that hardly mattered now. Flint wasn't a man disposed to forgiving and forgetting, he was far more inclined towards grudge holding. Grudge holding that, more often than not, was eventually followed by some sort of blood-soaked reprisal.
Eleanor was not looking forward to that reprisal. For she was certain that, alliance or not, there would be reprisal. What she wasn't certain of, was when. She trusted he'd enough sense to hold off until Nassau was within their grasp, but it was the afterward that concerned her. When he decided her usefulness had run it's course.
On that note, Flint wasn't the only one she found herself needing to be wary of. Near everyone she'd aligned herself with here was just as likely to stick her with a blade as the enemy they were united against. Though enduring this was a necessary hardship, the thought was hardly a comforting one.
The stare down ended unexpectedly when the pewter pitcher that had been sitting a ways down the table from them, was abruptly knocked to the floor with a loud and startling clatter. All eyes turned to Madi, who had apparently been the one to upset the pitcher.
"Apologies." Madi stated with that cool sort of calculated composure of hers.
The word itself was polite enough, though her tone and expression looked anything but apologetic. Eleanor suspected the pitcher's downfall was little more than a diversionary tactic intended to end her and Flint's little pissing contest. Madi didn't seem terribly fond of those.
And if the amused glint in Silver's eye was any indication, Eleanor would bet that her suspicion was right on the money. Eleanor was quite certain that no one really believed it had been an accident, but no one moved to voice that opinion either. The tension of the moment had passed, and Flint was already moving to stand. Silver shifted to retrieve the pitcher from the floor and place it back on the table as Flint left the room without another word. Madi rose.
"You'd do well not to antagonize him, you know." Madi advised, eying Eleanor with an analytic tilt of her head and crossed arms. Silver arched a brow, standing between the door and table regarding Madi with a curious sort of interest.
Eleanor only scoffed, leaning back in her chair to look up at Madi. Eleanor knew Flint better than most, and she was well aware that being on his shit list was a less than pleasant place to be. He was one of the most devious and cunning men she'd ever met. It was one of the reasons she'd been so damned fond of him in the first place. But at this point, there wasn't a whole lot she could do about getting off of it. She certainly wasn't about to start begging or grovelling, and she doubted such things would've made a difference to him even if she had been willing to stoop so low.
"He's dangerous." Madi countered bluntly.
Eleanor gave a wry smile. "Aren't we all?"
Madi snickered, a minute smirk pulling up at the corners of her mouth. "Perhaps... But I'm sure you're aware he is not a man to be trifled with. He is..." Madi looked toward Silver, holding eye contact as she concluded, "a serpent."
Silver chuckled, making no attempted to correct Madi's assessment of his friend and Captain's character. Likely because he knew it to be true, and knew Eleanor knew it too. She wasn't telling Eleanor anything she didn't already know. Regardless of whatever affections they might hold towards Flint, neither of them was likely to forget who he was or where his ambitions lay.
Seemingly satisfied with Silver's reaction, Madi's attention slid back to Eleanor, who's brow was arched incredulously.
"I know what he is," Eleanor declared gently. Her tone was steady and affable enough, but it left no room for argument. "and I've proven no better myself. So why are you so interested in convincing me of his nature? Am I to be trusted any more than he is?" She wasn't exactly making a good case for herself, but she wanted insight into this woman's angle.
After what seemed like a moment's consideration on Madi's part, she shook her head. "No, I don't trust you, but my father loved you. My father was a wise man, a good man. And he spoke very highly of you despite your short comings. So I implore you to take heed of Flint's nature. Not because I've any particular care for you myself, but because I think my father would have wished it."
At the mention of Scott, Eleanor's chest tightened. Her throat constricted harshly with Madi's words, silently threatening to choke and stifle. Outwardly she remained relatively composed, the only indication of her discomfort being in the brief flicker of her eyes and the stiffness of her stature. Those words had meant more than Madi could possibly know. She hadn't needed to share them with Eleanor, hadn't needed to offer warning simply because Scott would have, but she'd done it anyway.
And that meant something. If Eleanor hadn't respected this woman before, she certainly did now.
Swallowing down a well of emotion, Eleanor nodded, holding eye contact with Madi as she pushed away from the table and rose. "I appreciate that. Truly..." She took another steadying breath, pushing past the sudden tiredness that that had crept up on her out of nowhere, and frowning softly as she chose her next words carefully. "I'm well aware of the threat he poses, and that in the future he may well become a problem, but as of yet he needs me as much as I need him and the rest of you."
The two women stood in quiet consideration of one another for a moment longer, a strange and mutual sort of esteemed understanding hovering between them. Then Madi nodded and turned toward Silver and the door.
All the while, Silver had remained between the door and table observing the encounter, and Eleanor couldn't help but suspect that his continued presence was due more to being curious and nosy than it was because he was simply awaiting Madi's departure. It was likely he was just looking to garner whatever information he could, wherever her could. She knew that he knew as well as she did that information was power, and she hadn't forgotten his propensity towards cleverness and managing people.
But right now, she couldn't quite bring herself to dwell on it too much. She watched idly as Madi reached Silver's side and his hand came up to rest against the small of her back as they exited the room. Filing the intimacy of that simple touch away for possible later use, Eleanor huffed out another tired breath and headed outside.
There was still a lot to do.
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The discussion he'd had with Jack a few weeks back hadn't done much to ease Charles' qualms regarding the issue of Eleanor, but that didn't mean he couldn't see Jack's point. Trying to rid himself of the dominion Eleanor held over his heart had proven little more than a waste of time and energy. It would be better to just accept the inevitability of his condition, and move on. Jack was right; it didn't matter that he still loved her. It only mattered that he not let it rule him.
Admittedly, this information wasn't exactly revolutionary. He'd had similar thoughts himself. But however disagreeable he'd considered discussing such things to be, having this reiterated out loud by someone outside of himself had been helpful. It was somewhat validating, a moderate relief to be assured he wasn't simply mad for still feeling what he felt.
While he might not be capable of ever fully extricating his soul from hers, he had found a relatively comfortable middle ground. It wasn't perfect and there were still moments he was convinced he'd be better off if he just did away with her, but after her admission and their subsequent pairing, things had been different. He'd by no means forgiven her and things were still fairly strained between them, but the tension had eased to some degree. Her poignant confession had moved him, shifted something between them because it had been an admittance of frailty, one he knew had cost her considerably.
He knew this shouldn't have made any difference after all she'd done, but he'd come to terms with the fact that it did. While he didn't regard the suffering she'd caused herself to be commensurate with the suffering she'd caused him, he wasn't blind to the fact that she did indeed suffer. That she was still suffering, and it had more to do with her feelings towards him than she would prefer to admit. He believed she'd been telling him the truth.
That held value, an emotional weight. Even if it wasn't the sole reason for her treachery, it still mattered. Even if he wished it didn't.
That said, this little revelation hadn't caused him to forget where he stood. Where they stood. Things between them could never return to how they'd been. Too much had occurred between them. While he'd stopped trying to convince himself he didn't want her, he wasn't looking to forgive and forget either. He had no intention of falling into step with her again. He wasn't hers, and nor was she his. They'd simply found some common ground, some mutual miseries on which they could commiserate.
When this was all over, they'd go their separate ways. Or they'd die, whichever came first.
Regardless, whatever they did share would inevitably be something entirely new; achingly familiar and dangerously analogous, but still distinctly disparate from what they'd originally shared. And although he wasn't entirely sure he liked the idea of that either, he was willing to accept it.
Because really, what difference would it make? If they were inevitably going to collide, it may as well be on his own terms.
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The following day had been spent preparing the ships, informing the men, and gathering up what supplies would be needed for the upcoming battle. It had been a day filled with productivity, summation and necessary groundwork, but it had also been taxing, tedious and exhausting. They'd gone over everything an innumerable number of times, checked and re-checked every ship, man and weapon. Every detail had been rehearsed, every man knew their role. Whatever could be done, had been and by the time the sun had begun setting, most everything was in place.
However, this did nothing to ease the tension rolling through Eleanor. She'd been terribly restless, unable to quiet her mind even as she lay she lay beside Charles' sleeping form in the dark. Tomorrow was a turning point, a day that would decide the direction of the war. They would take Nassau, or they wouldn't. Either way, there were demons she was going to have to face. She'd tried to command her body to relax, to muffle the insistent whispering of her mind by concentrating on Charles' breathing. She lay there in the dark with the muted sounds of the night chirping and buzzing softly outside their hut, and listened to the slow and steady sound of his breath beside her.
It was usually somewhat of a comfort. To know that he was close enough to touch, alive and free and stretched out beside her. It had often eased her suffering in the past, if only just enough to find the solace of unconsciousness. But lately she'd been having more and more trouble sleeping. Each night she grew more and more troubled and restless. The closer they came to retaking Nassau, the more uneasy she felt.
She couldn't explain it, it didn't make any sense. She wanted Nassau back. She wanted her home and her life back, even if she was going to be met with ample setback and considerable change. She should be excited, enthusiastic even. She was dedicated to this cause, after all. And yet still she felt anxious, uncomfortable despite the fact at all that could be done, had been.
It confounded her, left her rolling softly from their bed to pad across the room and fold herself into the rickety wooden chair by the only window. She considered lighting a candle, as the only light was that of the moon through the open shutters, but decided against it for not wanting to disturb Charles. Just because she couldn't find the sweet relief of sleep, didn't mean she ought to disrupt his. Besides, her eyes had adjusted to the dark quite some time ago anyway.
She didn't know how long she sat in that chair, it somehow felt like only an instant and an eternity all at once. She thought about Charles and Nassau, about the past and the future. She thought about everything and nothing. Her mistakes and the entirety of her life's choices, the good and the bad, they had all led her here and she was determined to see things through. Regardless of how things played out, she'd be in this until the end. Discomfort and anxiety be damned, she wasn't going anywhere. Sleep or no sleep.
She stared into the dark almost blankly, eyes fixed upon the shadowed silhouette of the man she'd been in love with nearly her entire life. She'd been merely a child when she'd first lain eyes on him, a mule-headed girl of only thirteen with a wild heart and callow dreams of dominion and a father's resulting affection. She'd hated Charles at first, was convinced he was the very type of man that would threaten her rise to authority, and had done her very best to appear as authoritative and unconcerned with him as was humanly possible for a girl her age.
It wasn't until she was sixteen that she realized most of that hate was grounded in attraction. By then she'd begun noticing the the looks he occasionally gave her. She'd become aware of the insinuation behind all the inciting harassment, banter and flirtation that they were both too guilty of. And she had come to enjoy those encounters. As time went on, she'd discovered something even more interesting; she generally held the advantage in these games they played. She wasn't stupid, she'd known she was attractive and that he had no doubt noticed. She'd also become aware of the fact that he wanted her, even if she'd didn't quite fully grasp the entirety of what that want consisted of. Like the foolish child she'd been, she'd begun finding excuses to be near him without ever admitting she was there because of him. She'd pushed and pulled at his buttons nearly every chance she got, took advantage where she could and dished out just as much vexation as she got from him.
They'd danced around any real form of physical contact for years before she'd finally gotten tired of it. She'd been eighteen when she'd finally decided to put an end to all the figurative foreplay. She'd crept through his camp full of hard determination and butterflies, then slipped in through the open the flap of his tent, climbed into his lap and fucked him stupid.
She smiled fondly at the memory. He'd been so keen to appear unmoved as she'd settled into his lap, but she'd put an end to that with little more than a firm tug at his belt and a few simple words brushed against the shell of his ear.
They'd been nearly inseparable after that, at least whenever he wasn't out at sea or she neck-deep in her father's business. They were together nearly three years before she'd realized her original assessment had been correct; he was indeed a hindrance to her rise in Nassau. She'd cut him out and spent the next year and a half trying to cauterize the bleeding. There were even a number of times she'd been convinced she'd succeeded, but he'd always found a way back inside. And in the end, she'd always caved. Even if it was sometimes only in a carnal sense.
They'd spent the next couple years being on and off again, culminating with her ultimate betrayal at the fort, her father's murder, her consequent attempt on Charles' life, and her sudden change of heart. Christ, she'd made a mess of things.
She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, tipping her head back against its top rail. With a gentle sigh, she wondered if the distance between them was perhaps a key source of her discomfort. Save for the three oddly sublime years they'd spent together after their initial coupling, they had always been on opposite sides of just about everything. They'd always spent almost as much time aggravating one another as they did doing anything else. And yet she'd never felt closer or more connected to any other person. He'd always been the one constant, the one thing she could always count on being there despite her frequent and desperate desire to believe otherwise.
And so here she was, having abandoned all her dreams and everything she'd thought she wanted, to sail off into a war she didn't truly believe they could win. All because she'd come to realize her dreams of legitimacy were just that; dreams. With legitimacy came servitude, a surrender of autonomy and any real form of power. And as it turned out, autonomy and power were the entire reason she'd been willing to cede Nassau to the crown in the first place. Without those things, Nassau wasn't worth giving up. She wasn't even sure they'd ever been worth giving up Charles for.
Nassau and Charles had been the only two things to ever truly reach in and touch her. There had been other people, other hopes and dreams, like Max and her father's unattainable affection. But those had been more like something of a consolatory blanket; a surface coating that warmed and comforted, but never quite managed to reach inside to take hold of your heart and squeeze.
Nassau and Charles had always known just how to squeeze.
She wasn't quite so sure that all this reminiscing and guilty wallowing was doing her any good, but she was too restless to stay in bed, and it felt necessary in some way. Like hashing it all out in her head might make things clearer somehow. Sitting up again, she reached up to rub at the back of her neck and readdress the notion that Charles might be at the center of all this discomfort.
Hell, he usually was. The troublesome bastard...
What more could she possibly do to ease this guilt? To make him understand? To return them to something that at least remotely resembled a kinship before one or both of them ended up dead or worse? She'd already bared her soul, admitted to him a weakness that she hadn't even wanted to admit to herself. He had to know already that she loved him, he'd insinuated as much more than once. What more was there to say?
Nothing. There wasn't anything, and that was the problem. She realized it with a sudden jolt of unadulterated mourning. She didn't understand why this felt like a revelation. She'd already known there wasn't anything she could have done or said to return them to what they'd been. She'd known there was no going back and while the knowledge had pained her, she'd accounted for it. But some small, stupid part of her must have been hoping, holding out for some kind of miracle.
How stupid was that? How impossibly out of touch with one's own feelings could a person possibly be? She needed a drink.
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He woke long before dawn, while the air was still heavy with darkness and the chirp of insects, to find himself alone. She no longer occupied the expanse of lumpy mattress to his left, and with her absence his blood ran cold.
His first thought was that she'd fled, turned on him yet again in favor of some unknown scheme she coveted more than anything they'd ever shared. He fought the urge to bolt upright, to fling the blanket from his thighs and onto the floor. Instead he sat up slowly, forcing himself to orientate and let his eyes adjust to the dark.
"Eleanor?" He called out gruffly, his voice holding a curious mix of anger and panic.
His call was met with a painful silence that made his gut clench. This could not be happening. He knew better. He could not have fallen victim to her again. He moved to push the blanket from his thighs, robotically scanning the darkness of the room for his boots in anticipation of a search.
"I'm here..." A soft voice intoned wearily from the opposite end of the room.
His head snapped toward the sound, his body inadvertently relaxing with the sight of her. He found her sitting in the rickety chair that faced the bed across the room. The moonlight filtered through the window behind her left her gently silhouetted in the darkness. Her legs were folded up under her in the chair. Her elbows rested on the chair's arms and there was a mug of what he assumed was rum cupped between her hands. He wondered how he hadn't woken when she'd gone to acquire it. It was still too dark to see her expression, but he was quite certain she was watching him. He tried to ignore the wash of relief that flooded though him with the knowledge that she hadn't left.
He sat there, half covered by the thin blanket and waiting for her to say something, but she didn't. Finally, he decided he'd had enough.
"What are you doing?" He grunted, annoyed with himself for getting so flustered by her absence so quickly.
She shifted in the chair and readjusted her legs as she rested back a little. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft and contemplative. "Thinking." She breathed.
There was another beat of quiet between them as he considered whether or not to ask her what about. She was unusually quiet, and there had been an almost mournful sort of lilt to the one word she'd spoken. Whatever it was, it had clearly upset her at least somewhat. Apparently enough to pull her from their bed to drink alone, quietly in the dark.
After another few seconds of contemplative staring at her silhouette, he pulled back the blanket beside him in reticent invitation. "Come back to bed." He grunted softly.
He heard her swallow from across the room, the sound confirming his suspicion that she was feeling less than tip-top. He didn't know what had moved her and knew he shouldn't care, but as usual, the slightest display of weakness from this woman had his gut tightening. She took another second to compose herself, and he let her.
She didn't make a sound as she set down her mug and stood, padding back toward the bed and climbing in without a word. He rolled onto his back and pulled the blanket upwards as she settled down about a foot from him. It was only another minute or so before before she suddenly rolled towards him, curling into his side and coiling an arm around his torso. One of her legs quickly followed suit by tangling up with his. He stiffened briefly with the initial contact, but relaxed almost as quickly as he'd seized up. Surprising them both, he shifted to slide an arm beneath and up around behind her to rest a comforting hand against her hip, then readjusted the blanket to accommodate their positioning.
He ignored the casual intimacy of the gesture and the fact that her shift had bunched just high enough to have his fingers skimming the bare skin of her thigh. He told himself it was because he'd decided he wasn't going to fight the small things anymore. He felt how he felt, but he didn't need to let it rule him. He told himself that it was better this way, better that she was here beside him rather than running off into the night to do God knows what. At lest this way, he could keep a closer eye on her.
Tangled up together, neither of them spoke another word before daybreak.
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AN2: I hope this longish chapter made up somewhat for my horrible delay! The next chapter is already mostly plotted out and it's gonna be action-packed, so hold on to your hats, folks! Please remember to review! Your comments feed my soul and brighten my days, thank you!