Chapter Text
Thomas Hamilton never thought he would get to be on the sea again once he had been transferred to the Savannah plantation, convinced that the earthen scents had embedded themselves in his skin. When news of his brother’s death reached the colonies he had been saddened, but he had forced himself to dismiss it in favor of the feeling of hardened callouses on his palms and the rhythmic pound of the shovels. But Oglethorpe was a man of honor, and as much as he liked to say that the men he owned “ceased to be,” that wasn’t how existence worked. Thomas Hamilton had spent long enough in Bedlam trying to remember who he was to know that men couldn’t just stop existing—ghosts loved to haunt far too much for that to happen.
It was a month later and here he was, standing on the deck breathing in the salty air as they sailed towards London for the funeral. Although he had lived on an island for the first part of his life, he never had much reason to go visit the water. If Thomas closed his eyes right now, he could imagine that the salt he smelled wasn’t from the water below but from pressing his nose into James’ hair after his three months away.
Thomas kept his eyes wide, unwilling to press that particular bruise underneath the glaring daylight; no, he’d indulge himself later in his cabins, although it would be much harder to pretend that the wetness on his face was anything but the sea.
The cry of “Sails” is what startled him out of his stupor, causing him to wrench his head not to the horizon but to the screaming man right next to him whom he somehow had not noticed. Isolation had seeped into Thomas’ bones quietly but firmly, leaving him adrift in the world. He might not know anything about the sea, but he knew that sails meant nothing good. The feeling of apprehension was only amplified by the clamor of the sailors behind him as they began to prepare for the incoming ship.
“Sir,” the captain said, walking up to Thomas with intent. Once Thomas used to make it a point to learn everyone’s name but now they passed through his mind like the wind.
“Sir,” the captain said again, this time more forcefully. “We need to get you somewhere secure below deck, I’ll have one of my men bring you to my cabin.”
Thomas nodded mutely as he was led along by a man who quite clearly wanted to be doing anything else. He didn’t let himself think that he was being led to the captain’s quarters because he was more important than any other man on this ship, but because he was a rather expensive piece of cargo to replace.
The underbelly of this ship was cool and dark compared to what was above as the approaching ship sailed ever closer. The man leading him pulled out a pair of keys, opened the captain's cabin, then shoved Thomas in and locked the door behind him. Life had not provided much color for Thomas in the past decade, his once fanciful wardrobe turning into the rags of Bedlam to the bleached clothes he wore now. Gone was joy, enter practicality. For a moment Thomas let himself bask in the minor luxury of the captain’s quarters, with its plush-looking rug and chairs that gave no sign of age. There was even a chandelier, although its light was inconsequential compared to the sunlight streaming in through the massive windows. Before Thomas, the only thing was empty ocean.
The Cythera, the cargo ship Thomas was currently on, had only been sailing towards England for a couple days now, with Thomas spending most of the time sleeping in his hammock or wandering like a ghost on deck. Thomas suspected that the only reason he had been able to leave the plantation was because the timeline for transporting the sugar to England squarely lined up with his brother’s funeral. So far, no word had been made as to giving him proper funeral garb, and he dreaded the idea of having to show up in this dirty white. How quickly one’s problems could change when faced with the past.
At that thought, the commotion above increased, taking on a distinct screaming quality. Thomas quickly moved from his perch in the doorway to one of the benches pressed against the wall, completely avoiding the captain’s chair looming in the middle. He situated himself facing the doorway with his back to the windows, allowing himself to drink in the change of scenery. Thomas glanced to make sure the door was locked securely, then rested his head against the wall behind him.
Thomas had never had any cause to be in a battle before, but judging by the sharp clang of metal on metal and thud of bodies penetrating the wood around him, he could tell he was in one now. Despite how being treated as cargo bothered his nerves, he was grateful that it ensured his current survival. He drew his legs up on the bench and settled in for a long day as the fighting waged on around him.
A pounding jerked him out of his stupor, and he turned his gaze back towards the door which was shaking quite violently on its hinges. Thomas hadn't quite fallen asleep, but whatever skirmish had happened was clearly over, and now it was time to face the winner.
“Yes?” Thomas said, voice cracking. He cleared his throat and tried again, overly aware of the fact that he couldn’t remember the last time he spoke. “Yes?”
The knocking on the door quickly ceased and was replaced by murmuring between two voices. Thomas couldn’t make out anything they were saying but could hear how low and rough they sounded, unlike any of the cargo men. The accents were English but very much unlike his own; these men were Britons once, but now they were hardened pirates.
“Is there anyone else in there with you?” one of the voices called.
Thomas looked around at the empty room and weighed his options. “No, just me.”
“Are you going to let us in?” another voice said, different from the first.
“Are you going to give me a reason to?” Thomas countered. He rested his chin on his pulled-up knees, marveling at how quickly his voice could go back to normal. On the plantation, he had felt no reason to speak and now, without any visuals, he was being forced into it. For the first time in a decade, Thomas realized he held power.
Thomas tried to picture them in his head, knowing that seeing them as faceless assailants wouldn’t do him any good in whatever conversation ensued. The person who had spoken recently had sounded rough but young and naïve—or as naïve as a pirate could get. The man who had spoken first was obviously hardened by both time and experience, meaning that he would be the more dangerous opponent. Well then, he’d just call them the young man and the old man; it’s unlikely he’d have any reason to learn their names.
“We won’t kill you if you do,” the man said. Thomas snorted at that. He died the day Peter Ashe visited him in Bedlam, begging for forgiveness while trying to share his story. Mentally pushing away the memory away before more of it could surface, Thomas mustered up a response.
“And how can I know that you’ll be true to your word?” Thomas said, relying once again on questions to avoid having to answer. Obviously, these men wanted something in here, and Thomas would just have to find it before they could.
The pirates began bickering again as Thomas slid off his perch and crossed the floor towards the captain’s desk, relishing in the ability to move with no restraints, physical or otherwise. He bent over the desk and just as he was about to pry open one of the drawers, his ears caught the name Flint.
Ah, Flint. Thomas shut his eyes tight against the flood of memories that tried to pour in, all filled with the never-ending filth of Bedlam. It was only the slight rocking motion between his feet that reminded him that he was on the ocean, not trapped inside his mind. Thomas gave up the mental fight he had been partaking in the entire voyage, dimly allowing himself to hear Peter Ashe inform him of his lover’s death at the hands of feared pirate captain James Flint.
Sometimes Thomas wishes that he could force the adjective former onto that word lover, but it would never stick. Whenever he thought of James, the sensation of simultaneously being too full and too empty overwhelmed him, leaving him flat on his back, lungs paralyzed and gasping for air. Thomas clutched the edge of the desk until his knuckles stood out like a string of pearls, pulling himself back into reality.
Whoever’s ship this had once been, it was now James Flint’s. Somehow, everything in Thomas’ life led back to Flint. The knocking on the door resumed, and Thomas used the noise to cover the sound of him wrenching the drawers open, revealing nothing but papers. Trying again, he pulled open the remaining drawers, the swollen wood creaking with his efforts. Empty rum bottles clanked against each other in the otherwise empty compartments.
“You do realize that isn’t going to work, right?” Thomas said as the knocking got ever-louder.
“People like to say that until it does,” the older man said.
How true he was. Once Thomas had tried to force the world to change with the same attitude. Thomas had so many “onces” he didn’t know what to do with them. All he knew now was that England would take root in everything it touched, keeping the status quo because it was comfortable, no matter who tried to say otherwise. When someone did try to say otherwise, Thomas served as a good warning.
“What is in here that is so valuable?” Thomas asked.
“The captain had his logs on him, said they would store the most important cargo in here in case of emergency. We’ve already found the sugar,” the younger man said.
The most important cargo. Thomas laughed grimly as he once again scanned the bare room and empty drawers. This mismatch of luxury and utility wouldn’t be anything of value to the pirates. Oglethorpe’s handsome fee was going to waste; what was supposed to protect him would now make his end.
“I am the only thing in here, gentleman,” Thomas told them, overly aware of his accent and posture as his past emerged once more. Just as they were faceless beings for him, so was he to them. To their ears, they were currently conversing with a prime subject for ransom. Nothing more valuable to a pirate captain than a defenseless English nobleman.
The men didn’t respond, instead now talking to a third figure that had arrived. The tones of their voices had quite clearly changed from annoyance to something tinged with respect. Much time had passed since they had taken this ship, as was evident by the light now slanting through the windows behind him. Their most profitable good had been locked away the whole time, likely spurring the attention of one feared pirate captain. A chill set in as Thomas realized who must now be on the other side of that door.
“What is the problem here?” the newcomer called through the door.
Thomas sank to his knees.
The world turned white and then came back into color around him, but the only thing he could truly sense was how the rug he had shoved his fingers into was much more uncomfortable than it looked. The voice on the other side of the door rang in his ears, the accent so familiar and unlike what Thomas was now used to, with weariness and anger clear in the tone. Thomas couldn’t breathe as he mouthed the words that were spoken to him because that was not Captain Flint.
It was James McGraw