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After six months at sea as Blackbeard again, Izzy finally convinced him it was time to visit land. The Republic of Pirates was a little boring and bloody, for sure. But it was still land, something Blackbeard had avoided ever since he last left it on that solitary dinghy.
“See, boss, doesn’t this feel nice? Stretch your sea legs a little, yeah?” Fang asked cheerfully.
“Nice. Right.” Blackbeard nodded distractedly, his gaze focused intently on a pirate who was putting up a poster with the likeness of a man he could never forget.
“Don’t speak to our captain like that!” Izzy snapped at Fang. “Give him respect.”
“Izzy-” Blackbeard cautioned, but lowered his hand as he read the poster. Stede Bonnet, Dead, it announced.
“Fine.”
“Blackbeard,” the man pinning the poster greeted him. “Here’s news: Stede Bonnet finally kicked it!”
“Dead? No, that can’t be true.” Blackbeard tried to find words beyond that, words that would carry him across the sea to Stede. He fell silent.
“Aye, so it is,” the pirate putting up posters said. “Tragedy, really. Gentleman Pirate and all that.”
“What happened?” he finally managed to choke out, trying to keep an even tone. However, Izzy’s scowl of disapproval showed that he had failed.
“Not sure. Got eaten by some wild cat, I heard,” the man said cheerfully.
A passerby leaned his head to the poster. “Gentleman Pirate? I heard a piano fell on him!”
“No, he got run over by a carriage,” the man’s companion dismissed.
“You’re all wrong; it’s all three. In a row. Right proper tragedy,” another man insisted.
“Sounds like a fuckery. Too bad it was real! Fucking fool couldn’t even do a proper fuckery on his own,” Izzy cackled gleefully.
Blackbeard listened to them with dead ears. He heard their words but couldn't comprehend them, their meanings blurring at the edges as his world faded to grey. Stede was gone. Stede had left him already, but there was still that tiny piece of his heart that held on tightly to the promise Stede had made him. They would see each other again. They would run away together. They would be happy, finally. Blackbeard’s breathing became erratic as that part of his heart shriveled up and began to die.
He continued walking with Izzy, but he wasn’t the same. He laughed mechanically at Izzy’s jokes. He threatened passerby blindly, his knife hand shaking. Fang held him back, and Blackbeard watched himself in horror as he struck Fang across the face.
Blackbeard returned to the ship with a stone face, not letting tears ruin his kohl in public. Izzy would always affectionately refer to his kohl as his warpaint. Blackbeard would always nod along blankly; the kohl had never been warpaint. Stede would have known that.
When he was alone, he cried for hours like he had that first day back on the ship. But this time, something different happened. When his sobs finally began to subside, he swore he saw a hazy vision of Stede comforting him. This hazy Stede wiped the tears off his cheeks, leaving no smudge before fading away.
For weeks after that, Blackbeard saw apparitions of Stede. Stede, smiling and drinking a cup of tea. Stede, carefully dusting the now empty bookshelves, making a reproachful face at him. Stede, tucking him into bed with a ghostly touch. Each time, Blackbeard watched mournfully as these visions of Stede would fade away into the same gentle greyness that now inhabited his world. He had no use for colors now; he hadn’t for some time.
He hardly took comfort in Stede’s ghostly form, though. Stede, who used to be so vibrant and chattering and alive, was reduced to a grey specter that haunted him, just another stain on Blackbeard’s flag. He had reduced Stede to this pale form, he told himself. This was the same as killing him.
He watched blankly as Izzy silently took on more and more responsibilities. Izzy still wanted him to be everything he wasn’t. Izzy wanted him to be a killer, cold and insane and alive. Izzy was asking far too much, so Blackbeard hoped he would settle for cold.
He fell ill after a raid went bad. A Spanish soldier had gotten lucky and ran him through on the right side. Blackbeard didn’t make mistakes like that, Izzy reminded him. Of course, he didn’t. He was Blackbeard. And yet, his right side still ached with a deep stabbing pain that only grew stronger. He tried to pretend he was fine. The visions of Stede grew more frequent, the spirit asking him to just please rest and take care of himself. He hated upsetting Stede like this, but a small part of him clung onto the hope that this was the quickest way they would be reunited.
However, everything truly went to shit when he was unable to hide his stab wound from the crew any longer. He had crumpled to the deck, clutching his side. Fresh blood that was the color of ash spilled out of him then, soaking his black shirt and staining the grey deck. Ivan and Fang had carried him to Stede’s, his room, where he would remain while he recovered.
He was in bed for days. Barely eating, barely drinking. Izzy would come in occasionally and give different versions of the same speech, but Blackbeard ignored them all. He knew Izzy would never leave him. Then, one day while he was in bed, Blackbeard could swear he heard Izzy shouting, followed by a large splash outside. He was too weak to leave his bed and didn’t feel like investigating, so he went back to sleep.
Stede’s apparition never left him anymore, remaining faithfully by his bed. No matter his protestations, Stede remained with him, resting his ghostly cool hand on Blackbeard’s, no, Ed’s own. His dreams and days blended together, but it was all Stede, Stede, Stede. Ed imagined it might always be Stede now.
One day, Ed broke down and told Stede the truth. His pained confession of how he had reduced Stede to nothing but a pale reflection, how he pushed Lucius overboard, how he cut off Izzy’s toe. He was a monster, a grieving, and horrific monster. Stede’s face flickered, and Ed watched in horror as the apparition wept and clutched him, his ghostly form offering no warmth.
His health kept getting worse. Ed became almost listless, despite Apparition Stede’s attention. He soon began to see Lucius, and that was when he became convinced he was going insane.
Lucius would glare at him at first while watching over him, gently tending to his bandages and blankets. Frankly, it was disconcerting. Ed would ask him about Stede’s death, but this vision of Lucius always had the same response. “Ask him yourself.” Ed’s protestations about how it would be rude to ask a ghost about their death were also always met with the same response: Lucius’ laugh that would turn into a nervous giggle. At least his life had consistency.
Finally, Ed began to heal. His vision slowly started to regain color. First, it was the red of Lucius’s scarf. Then, it was the way the candlelight flickered from white to yellow. The stitching of the blanket, which Ed now realized was actually one of Stede’s robes, cut and repurposed, was once again golden. Almost daily, more snatches of color returned to his formerly grey world. And then, during one of Apparition Stede’s daily visits, Ed clutched his hands and felt warmth, and the rest of the colors came flooding back like a tidal wave. He laughed as his world became alive with color and vibrancy at its impossibility.
“You came back,” Ed breathed, cradling Stede’s hands and pulling him closer.
“Never left,” Stede smiled and kissed him as the mist cleared.