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Blinding light. That was the first thing you noticed when you opened your eyes that morning.
Why did the sun always have to be so fucking bright?
Groaning, you roll over and wish to yourself that you could afford to go back to sleep. But you can’t. You have a job to do.
Tossing the sheet off your body, you ooze from the comfort of your bed and dress yourself. You slip on your clothes, hissing as the fabric chafes on your skin. Once you’d worked a bit longer, you’d be able to afford some nicer clothing.
—
You used to live in Kingston. When you were young, your mother died. To be honest, you didn’t remember much about her. Any memories you had of her were happy, but distant and didn’t hurt to think about.
But then a few years back, your father remarried, and your new stepmother didn’t like you one bit. She’d dug her claws deep into your father and controlled him like a puppet, eventually convincing him to cast you out on your own, sending you off with only a few months worth of money. At the young age of sixteen, your own father had kicked you out.
You stayed with a close friend, though insisted they only need provide a bed. You could get food on your own, though you often went hungry in the interest of preserving as much of your money as you could. Eventually, you became sick of Kingston, and were able to spare some funds for passage to Havana on a merchant ship…or so you thought it was.
But of course, with your terrible luck, the ship was set on by pirates before a week had even passed. The captain shoved you down below deck just as the cannonballs crashed into the hull and sent splinters of wood flying through the air. You caught a glimpse of the opposing ship just before you were shut in, and God, it was massive.
It was over within minutes. Though the other ship was just a frigate, compared to the galleon you gained passage on, it was armed to the teeth. Sending a silent prayer to whatever deity that may be listening, you waited for the final cannon fire that would send you and the rest of the ship into the salty waters, but nothing came. You heard a few unfamiliar voices, and your heart raced. They were boarding.
Most of what the pirates were saying was muffled through the door. The light that poured through the crack in the bottom of the door had a few shadows creating gaps in the light, and you realized that someone must be on the other side of the door.
Without warning, the door was flung open. A gruff-looking man with a beard dark as ebony that reached just above his stomach stood confidently in the entrance. His eyes immediately landed on you.
"Well, now, what have we got here?" he said in a thick English accent. You scramble backwards until you can feel the wall pressing against you. He chuckles as if it were not your life that he held in his hands.
"Easy now, lass," he said, holding up his hands as if in surrender, "I won’t hurt ya."
"How do I know I can trust your word?" you stuttered in reply. The words came out before you could stop them, and you instantly wished you hadn’t said them, but this man didn’t seem to think anything of it.
"You don’t," he said simply, "but as it happens, I’m your only way off this ship. This ship, which won’t be afloat too much longer. So what’s it gonna be? Come with me, or sink with the slave ship?"
Slave ship? What was he talking about? This was a merchant ship…wasn’t it?
"What do you mean slave ship?" you say, your voice low. He raises a brow.
"This ship was on its way to pick up its cargo. What did you think this was?"
"A merchant ship…"
"A merchant ship of this size? Fat chance, girl."
"So, would that mean that I…if you hadn’t…" The unspoken assumption being that if he had not attacked the ship, she would have become ‘cargo’ as well.
"Most likely."
God, there was too much happening all at once. Pirates, slavers…your head was spinning from confusion and fear. You felt sick to your stomach, but managed not to let yourself succumb to the feeling.
He steps closer, but at this point you don’t care. You had nearly become a slave. Hell, you’d even paid to be allowed passage. You’d essentially paid to be enslaved.
And at this point your options weren’t good either way: go down with the ship, or go with this pirate and be subjected to whatever treatment awaited you. While there was still a chance of it…
Death was only a guarantee in the first choice.
"…fine," you mutter, resigning to your fate. He offers you a hand, and you take it. He places his strong arm around you, almost protectively and you both walk towards the door.
"What’s your name?" you say, stopping just before he can take you out into the sunlight. He chuckles.
"Aren’t you a brave one, asking questions," he growled. He terrified you, but you didn’t let it show.
"I’ve got nothing to lose," you reply.
He looks at you, his dark eyes pensive. After a moment, he huffs and shrugs.
"Edward Thatch."
You recognize the name. Anyone would.
Blackbeard.
Before you can even think about reneging on your decision to go with him, he hauls you out into the sunlight. You hadn’t been below deck for long, but it’s been long enough that the light seared at your eyes and you winced.
Once your eyes adjusted, you wished to god they hadn’t.
The crew of the ship lay in piles, slaughtered like dogs. Their blood leaked from their opened necks and seeped into the tiny spaces between the planks of the deck.
Looking away from the bodies, you stare out into the ocean and notice that there were more ships than you’d originally seen. There were three others, each with a small black flag at the top, flailing in the wind.
On the deck stand three pirates.
One was blonde with a white hood. His face is shadowed, and the only part of it you can see is a solemn mouth and strong jawline that is peppered with stubble.
The next is dark haired and wears a dark blue coat trimmed with gold thread, which reaches down to mid calf on him. He has the most gravity-defying sideburns you’ve ever seen before. Though obviously a pirate, his face seems amiable.
It’s the third man that sets the fear in your heart.
At first, his face was mostly hidden by the high red collar of his brown leather coat. But as you and Thatch emerged from the hold, he turned to glare cold hazel daggers at you.
His brown hair was wild and looked coarse. It was matched with a beard that was not as luxurious as Thatch’s, but certainly more than stubble. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken a few times (you wouldn’t have been surprised). As he saw you, his eyes darkened and his lips turned upward in a grin. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Found someone to keep your bed warm, eh Thatch?"
His voice was deep and resonant, so much so that you could almost feel it rumbling within your ears even after he’d finished speaking. But it was his words that scared you.
Glancing up at the man who had you in his grip, you could tell he was glaring at the man, though he had a devilish smirk on his face.
"Not my intention, Vane," he said with a small chuckle. "I won’t touch her in any way she don’t want me to."
Vane…now you had a name to put to the face. The terrifying face, which now has a hungry expression. He rakes his eyes over you, and though most of your skin is covered, you feel exposed and uncomfortable. Thatch notices this.
"And neither will you," Thatch growls. He raises his voice to a menacing shout, addressing the issue to any member of any pirate’s crew. "No one will. If any of ya so much as look at her in a way I don’t like, I’ll skin ya!"
This did as much to frighten as it did to comfort you. Yes, he seemed to be acting honorably now, but you couldn’t forget - wouldn’t forget - that these were pirates, and they were dangerous.
Vane rolled his eyes, clearly not impressed by Thatch, but seemed to head his warning well enough.
Thatch helped you onto his large ship, the Queen Anne’s Revenge. He showed you to the captain’s cabin and told you that was where you’d be staying until they reached shore.
"Where exactly are we going?" you ponder aloud.
"Nassau," he said simply. "Not sure where you were headed, but that ain’t my problem. When we reach shore, you’re on your own."
He wasn’t willing to give up his bed for you, and honestly, you didn’t expect him to. The world isn’t all chivalry. Instead, he pointed you to a large cushioned chair and informed you that was where you’d be sleeping for the half week’s time it would take to get to Nassau.
You supposed that was more than you could have hoped for.
It wasn’t until a few hours after he’d already sank the slave ship and you were well on your way to Nassau that you realized you’d left all your belongings on board.
All your clothing, trinkets…money…gone.
—
You waited in the cabin for a small while, but since it was still the middle of the day, you eventually stepped out of the cabin. It probably would have been smarter to stay inside and out of the way, but you hated being cooped up.
Thatch doesn’t pay you much attention, perhaps a small greeting and a nod. But it isn’t him that you notice.
It’s Vane.
You had guessed before that one of the other two ships that attacked the slave ship were his. You’d been hopeful, actually. He terrified you.
But you must have been wrong, because here he was. Staring at you.
Walking towards you.
"Hello, pretty," he purred in a way that was almost unsettling. You felt yourself backing away from him - more like tumbling, really - but he kept advancing until you had your back pressed against the door to the cabin.
You mumbled a small, timid “hello” in return. He chuckled at your shyness.
Easily a foot taller, Vane towered over you. He emanated a masculine scent that was a mix of sweat and gunpowder, and you weren’t sure if it was unpleasant or not. His hazel eyes burned holes into your own.
He bent down and placed his lips against your ear, almost to the point of contact.
"Thatch may be protective now, but once we get to Nassau, he can’t keep me from you," he growled in your ear. You whimpered in fear of the implications.
"Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Vane!" Thatch shouted from the helm. He walked slowly until he was just within your peripheral sight. He looked furious. "My threat still stands. Leave her alone."
Vane rolled his eyes and backed off, but as he put some small distance between your bodies, he shoved something into your hands.
"Alright, alright, don’t rip my head off, Thatch," he said, returning the glare and walking off. He leaned on the railing and looked off into the open sea.
While he terrified you without even trying, you had to admit he looked quite dashing with the ocean breeze ruffling his brown hair.
Vane tilted his head slightly so that your gazes met. His gaze flicked down to the item he had given you, and back to your own eyes.
You tore your eyes from his and stared down curiously at the item. It was a pouch full of money.
No, it was your pouch full of money. The one you thought you’d forgotten on the slave ship. You recognized the mahogany color and the slight wearing of the leather in specific areas. You looked back up at Vane, but he had returned to staring at the water.
Retreating back into the cabin, you hastily opened your pouch and counted the money.
No…that couldn’t be right.
You had more than the last time you’d counted. Way more. At least fifty pounds more. Did Vane just give you extra money? Or was it Vane at all?
And for that matter, if it was him…why?
You didn’t know much about him, except two things: first, he was a dangerous man. Second…he was tip-toeing the fine line between friend and foe.
And you really weren’t sure which side of the line he’d end up on.
—
After a few days of sailing and avoiding Vane (whose first name, you learned, was Charles), Thatch’s ship arrived in Nassau. Quite the impressive island.
Not.
The air was constantly foul with the stench of rotting animal carcasses, bilge water, and vomit from the drunks who drank too much. When you first stepped off the ship, you fought to control the wave of nausea that hit you from the smell.
You’d managed to keep your pouch of money hidden from Thatch during the trip, but as you stepped onto the sand, you felt you owed him something. He did, after all, spare your live and give you passage on his ship.
You sorted out the extra fifty pounds that (you assumed) Charles had so generously gifted you and pressed it into Thatch’s hand, who accepted it.
"I know it isn’t much, but I lost the rest of my money on the ship, and this was all I had on my person," you said, lying and hoping he bought it. He seemed to accept your word, though.
If he were any other man, he would have refused to accept the money upon discovering it was “the last of what she had”. But Thatch was a pirate.
As the two of you parted ways, Charles gave you one last chilling stare before he shouted to Thatch that he was off to some place called “The Old Avery”.
You stop and ask a random passerby the directions to an inn, and they gave you an answer, vague as it was.
This dreary island that was littered with pirates and lowlifes was your new home. At least until you could save up enough money to get yourself off the island.
You just hoped that when that time came, it wouldn’t happen the way that it did to you now: with pirates and a complete detour.
—
A year passed. You turned seventeen, and in order to have enough money to continue living at the inn, you got a job as a barmaid at The Old Avery, which you’d learned shortly after arriving, was a tavern.
The job itself wasn’t bad. It was the customers that bothered you.
As it was a Pirate Republic, just about all of said customers were pirates.
Thatch, his two friends from the ship, and (most importantly) Charles frequented the place. The blonde pirate and the pirate with the sideburns - Edward and Benjamin, you learned eventually - were always making eyes at your younger friend, Anne, who worked there as well.
But not Charles. His quartermaster, Jack, sure. In fact, he was one of the few men that Anne didn’t flat out refuse.
But…not Charles. He didn’t seem to care about Anne.
He was always teasing you.
Though Thatch was always friendly enough towards you, he was true to his word when he had told you that once they’d reached the island, you were on your own.
The first few weeks working at The Old Avery had earned you little more than several lecherous, wandering hands. Charles was often the owner of one of those wandering hands.
You’d secretly hoped Thatch would do something, but he just laughed at the way you squealed when his hand slid up your skirt and gave your rear a squeeze.
Even Anne laughed sometimes.
Fucking pirates.
—
Another two years passed, which brought you to this morning.
You were still stuck on Nassau at the age of nineteen. Three years after all of this started. No good friends, no loved ones, and trying desperately to salvage as much coin as you could spare that wasn’t being spent keeping you warm, dry, and fed in order to get you off this hellish island.
At this rate, though, you weren’t sure if you would ever make it out of here.
You sluggishly walked down the sandy trail to The Old Avery, putting on a false smile for the customers.
It was a busy day, and you were busting your back rushing around doling out rum and other refreshments as people streamed in and out of the tavern.
By midday, you were supposed to be given a small break to feed yourself, but due to the sudden rush, it was postponed by several hours. It didn’t help that Anne had been terribly late that morning.
About four hours after it should have happened, you finally took your break and walked the short distance to the inn and were going to lie down for a few minutes.
Dragging your tired feet up the stairs, you waved hello to the innkeepers and opened the door to your room, ready for a good rest.
A rest you wouldn’t get.
As you opened the door, you were met with your room in a disarray that was not how you left it. The bed sheets were tossed and bunched about, pillows leaking down feathers. Your clothes were strewn on the floor, undamaged but dirtied.
You’d been robbed.
You stifle a scream of utter horror. Heart pounding, you lift back the small floorboard where you kept all your money and more valuable belongings - including your mother’s necklace.
Empty. Completely empty.
Sobs wracks your body and you shake violently with their force. Sinking down onto the floor, you can feel every single ounce of hope that you’d ever had of escaping this terrible place leaving you with the tears you shed.
You have nothing left.
—
You had no choice but to return to work. It was the only way to get the money that you needed to continue living at the inn.
You return to the tavern, putting on your false smile once again. It seems to have calmed down, thank goodness. After everything that’s happened today, you weren’t sure if you could take much more stress.
But, of course, luck wasn’t on your side, for in waltzed Charles Vane like he owned the place.
He sat down at his usual table and quickly waved you over, a devilish grin on his face. You fought the urge to groan and roll your eyes. Walking over, you stand by his table and force yourself to allow him to place a hand on your hip and pull you closer.
He paid a smidge extra when you let him.
"How’s my favorite barmaid today, hm?" he rumbled, his tone deep.
"Fine, Charles," you lie. You were not fine. Far from it, obviously. But you were working. This wasn’t the time for you to lose your temper. "What can I get for you this evening?"
"The usual bottle of rum, love," he said, slowly descending his hand lower and lower down your leg. You nod, giving him a brief "right away" before walking away from him and his wandering hand.
You grab a tankard and a bottle of rum from storage. He typically drank straight from the bottle, but you were supposed to give him a tankard anyway.
You returned to his table and placed the bottle down gently. He grinned and took a sip. Confident that he was satisfied, you turned to service another customer.
That’s when you felt a sharp smack on your ass.
You whipped around, hand half-raised to land a slap on his smug face, but you couldn’t. You might get fired. And that would be the end of you.
Tears were welling up and your breathing sped up at an alarming pace. Charles merely raised an eyebrow, as if challenging you to do it. Daring you.
And, God, did you want to.
But you didn’t.
"Anne, I’m leaving early," you shouted, your voice wavering with the effort it was taking you not to cry.
You slam your tray down and fly down the small set of stairs.
"Oi!" you hear Charles yelling after you, and you can hear his heavy boots thumping against the stairs not too far behind you. Ignoring him, you walk faster, intending to return to your ruined residence.
"Hey, I’m talking to you!" he growled, getting closer. He grabbed your shoulder, and you reacted quick as lightning.
With speed that had even you impressed, you grabbed his wrist and flung it away from you. Enraged and filled with a sudden bravery, you stomped closer and with all your might, you slammed both palms on his chest and shoved him as hard as you could. Charles stumbled and stared, shocked.
"Fuck off!" you scream, the tears still threatening to spill past your lashes.
You want to turn tail and run. But you stand your ground, staring him down, hoping that he will understand.
You do not want to be fucked with anymore.
"What’s gotten into you?" he said, his voice lowering dangerously. You should have taken that as a warning, but you couldn’t help it. You needed this.
"Just…fuck off, Vane," you say. "Fuck. Off."
Oh no. Your lip trembles and a tear finally escapes your left eye. You quickly swivel on your heel, walking quickly to escape. You sniffle as more tears fall.
His hand again lands on your shoulder, but as you were going to turn to slap him, Charles did something you would have never expected.
His arms encircled you and held you tight to his chest. Immediately, you felt more noiseless sobs leaving you. One hand softly stroked your hair. His touch was so comforting.
God, how long had it been since you’d just…let someone hold you?
Charles stayed with you like that for what seemed like an eternity. It was a few minutes of wordless comforting, but even from him, it meant everything in the world to you.
When he finally let go, he looked down at you. His face was so soft, so sympathetic, so unlike himself, you almost didn’t recognize him. You wiped some tears from your cheeks and looked away in shame.
Charles carefully took you by the arm and led you to the side of the building. He gently pushed you down so that you sat in the grass, and he took a seat beside you.
Somehow, he’d kept a hold of the bottle of rum you’d served him. He was about to raise it to his lips, but thought better of it and offered you the bottle for the first sip.
"It helps," he muttered.
You took the bottle and eyed it questionably, but took a swig anyway. You’d never had rum before, and it burned like nothing else, but you powered through that first gulp. It left a sweet, warm aftertaste that was rather pleasant. Handing the bottle back, he took the second sip and looked at you.
"Talk," he said simply.
So you talked.
You told him everything. About your mother, about your father, and how your stepmother cast you out with barely enough to keep yourself alive.
About your mother’s necklace, and how much it meant to you. About how you wanted to leave Nassau and go somewhere, anywhere else.
About the robbery. Your dashed hopes of a new life.
All between sips of rum. Charles was right, the rum did help.
One look into his eyes now, not before, but now…you wondered if there was something he held back. Some sorrow he drowned in drink.
That was for another day, if any day at all. For now, you scooted closer and basked in the comfort of his warmth.
—
Charles carried you as you slept to your room at the inn and left.
He walked somberly on the way to his own residence on the island, but passing the market, he heard a voice calling out loudly.
"Beautiful jewelry! Genuine gems and metals!"
Stepping closer, he glanced at the trinkets the peddler had and something caught his eye.
A silver necklace with a single blood red garnet.
—
You woke in the morning with a headache, in your own bed. You didn’t remember how you got there. But you remembered everything else.
You remembered Charles.
Perhaps you had misjudged him. Or perhaps you hadn’t. After all, one tender moment doesn’t make up for three years of mocking and teasing.
But you were willing to give him a chance.
Dressing yourself slowly, you prepared yourself for a day of working. Yes, you were sad. But being sad doesn’t change anything that’s happened.
Only hard work and patience.
About halfway through the day, Charles arrived at The Old Avery with his usual group. You served him his rum with a genuine smile.
He glanced at you several times through the day. He probably didn’t think you’d catch him, but you did. He kept fiddling with something in his pocket.
What was he up to?
—
Charles’ friends had all left, too drunk to carry on drinking. Charles had remained remarkably sober - not completely, but he was only a bit buzzed.
You had been just leaving, when Charles stopped you again.
"Wait, hold on," he said, catching up with you. You smiled, weak and tired.
"Hello, Charles," you said, voice a bit raspy. "I wanted to thank you for last night."
"Wasn’t nothin’," he said, waving it off.
"No, really," you say firmly, "even if it didn’t mean anything to you…you’ve helped me a lot. And it means a lot to me."
He was at a loss for words.
For the first time in years, he’d done something good.
"So…thank you, Charles."
He shook his head, reaching into his pocket.
"Don’t thank me just yet," he said. He held one hand out and, with only his index finger extended, he twirled the finger in a small circle. "Close your eyes and turn around."
You raised your eyebrow, but staying true to your decision to give him a chance, you did as he asked.
You heard him step closer, and without warning, a cold, light metal tickled your collarbone. You shivered lightly, and he fiddled with something at the base of your neck briefly.
"Okay, open ‘em," he said. You obeyed and looked down to see a necklace.
Not just any necklace.
"I know it’s not the same as your mother’s, but-"
"No, Charles…" you say, trailing off. You would recognize it anywhere. "This is her necklace. This is my mother’s necklace.”
He blinked in surprise. Chuckling, he shook his head.
"Well, how about that?" he said, smirking.
You could feel the sheer joy building up, ready to burst from your body. You were literally shaking from excitement.
"How did you find it?" you asked, bewildered.
"Some peddler was selling it."
You grasped the gem, sending a silent prayer to your mother, and vowed never to remove the necklace again.
You could almost feel tears again, but this time they would have been of joy. You fought them away and gazed into Charles’ eyes.
"Charles, you’ve done so much for me…" you whisper. "And I have no way of repaying you."
Charles scoffed.
"You don’t have to," he said. "Really."
You looked down at the necklace again. He’d returned your most treasured possession to you. Not repaying him…didn’t feel right.
Charles said a quick goodbye, and began to turn away, but you grabbed his sleeve. Without thinking, you yanked him towards you, stood on your toes, and connected your lips to his own.
He was taken aback for a split second, but relaxed into the kiss and returned it without hesitation.
One hand traveled to the small of your back and pulled you in tight, the other held your head in place.
You busied both of your own hands by caressing his cheeks and neck softly as your jaws moved together. You could feel your heart beating wildly in your chest as you pulled yourselves apart. He rested his forehead against yours as you both regained your breath.
"Is that sufficient payment?" you breathe, eyes flickering up to meet his. He is silent for a moment, but smirks.
"Not quite," he growls and captures your lips again, and you sigh contently as his hands wandered, now welcome.
His touch was comforting.