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He’s said goodbye to a lot of his things. Tossed them unceremoniously into the ocean, while trying not to think about how much Stede treasured them. Well fuck him. I gave him my heart, Ed thinks furiously, watching a wet, waterlogged book sink into the waves. And he didn’t treasure that.
He still doesn’t know why. Why would he look so fondly into his eyes after they kissed? He didn’t exactly pull away. Maybe he was just humouring him. Maybe it’s a rich person thing. You’re not startled by affection, you just blandly tolerate it while thinking all the time how embarrassing it is that someone would dare to feel -
Well fuck him.
Oluwande comes forward reluctantly with one final book. Stede’s logbook. Diary. Whatever it is. Shuffles over to the rail, ready to consign it to the deep. He can’t! Ed rushes over and snatches it.
“Give me that!” Ed snaps.
“Uh, sure, if you say so, Captain.” Oluwande gives him a wary nod and backs off, raising his hands. “Not even going to ask why, but -“
“Shut it,” Izzy Hands snarls. Ed wishes he wouldn’t. He can pick his own battles, thank you very much.
Stede’s cabin is empty now. Ed can almost pretend that his ghost isn’t still there, an apparition in frilly shirts, looking at Ed with perplexed eyes. Maybe he was judging me the whole time, Ed thinks furiously. Thought I was an idiot. Just a stupid idiot. Laughing at me. The books don’t just remind him of Stede, they whisper stupid at him, with their unknowable contents, the black busy text and creamy paper shaking, laughing at him.
But this journal -
He saw Lucius drawing sometimes. Wonders if there’s any pictures.
He flicks through the log and he’s angry that none of this is in Stede’s own hand. Too lazy to even write his own fucking book.
Has Stede even done anything by himself in his life?
Well he ran away to sea, Ed thinks, before revising the thought. He ran away. From me, more like.
He wants to howl.
And this stupid book -
He can’t fucking read it.
“We’re making port, soon,” Ed says flatly to Izzy that evening, as he measures the horizon with his eye.
“Why?” Izzy says in that growling husk of his, sounding ever more like an angry bulldog. Although why in God’s name he’s so het-up, given that the man he loathes the most has already left the fucking ship, even dumped his crew. Fickle. Not like Izzy, who sticks around grimly, sinking his teeth into things.
He saw a dogfight once. The little one won.
“We’ve got enough supplies, Captain,” Izzy growls. “Don’t need to make port. We need to be making money.”
“We’re making port,” Ed says, punctuating his words by grabbing Izzy by his collar. He doesn’t know why, but being rough seems to be the only way to get his way with Izzy. With Stede, it was words, but with Izzy, it’s like he won’t get it unless he’s slapped or grabbed or kicked. It’d bother him more if Izzy didn’t keep scraping his way back, waiting for whatever Ed throws at him.
“Have it your way, Captain,” Izzy says, and Ed’s not sure if he’s imagining a lascivious glint in Izzy’s eye.
He doesn’t even know where they’re going, but when the ship enters the harbour Ed bothers to look out of the window, and realises they’re in the republic of pirates. It makes sense, given that it’s the closest port, but Izzy’s predictable, unimaginative choice angers him.
Roach, supplies. Much of the crew, maintenance.
He briefly entertains the thought of leaving them all here. He’s got his guys, that should be enough. But it would require too much effort, and he’s not sure he wants to humour Izzy. He’s a mean bastard, that one.
But after all, he’s his mean bastard. And maybe that counts for more than anything.
He’s never wanted Izzy, though. Never imagined what it would be like to build a life with him. And yet, he’s always just there, tagging along, hanging on my every fucking word. Funny, Ed realises. I’m basically in a loveless marriage of my own.
He’s looked at the book again. Tried to make out the letters - he knows the odd letter, the odd word, can sound out no and yes and recognise the shape of the letter his name starts with, but he’s so slow and poor at it that he can’t get to the heart of it at all. He wishes he hadn’t thrown Lucius overboard. A pang of regret for that one, but he had hated the way Lucius had seen him at his most vulnerable, and could take that knowledge and ruin it.
He hopes he hasn’t killed him.
He doesn't want to be a bad man, not really. But sometimes, it seems the only way to live.
“So, what are you doing, Captain?” Roach says warily as he sees him stalk off down the gangplank. “Should I keep back vittles for you?”
He hears the tremulous question from Pete, not directed at him. “Has anyone seen Lucius? It’s not like him to -“
Enough. He pushes past them. His boots eat up the horrible, filthy road into town. His hair is in his face, in his mouth, in his eyes. Couldn’t be bothered tying it. Doesn’t want anyone to see his face.
He’s halfway past the tavern when he realises that he’s still got Stede’s book wedged under his arm. Now’s the time. He can throw it away now. Just - doesn’t even have to be dramatic, he can just put it down somewhere. Set it on fire, throw it into one of those braziers they’ve got, burning through a midden of shells and ropes and bits of old tar. But he burns with a need to know what it says, and yet there is no one to read it.
The smell of hot lead assails his senses, and for a moment he’s back in the heat of battle, a slug in his shoulder, burning, burning, hot, he cries out in the memory, power, you’re strong now, the pain spurring him on as he fights for survival in a war of his own making.
Only the strong survive among this crowd. Stede was right to run.
Ed takes a deep, sobbing breath, realising he’s standing in the middle of the street, rigid, hands braced on his knees. Paper, tacked up. Great big sign of a quill, big letters. He’s outside of a printer’s shop. He can see a man working at the presses through the window. The lead - the molten metal. It’s the hellbox, where they melt the slugs and mangled type.
Hell, that’s right. Seems appropriate.
Ed gapes at the sign, the letters -
Printers can read. He pushes on through the door.
A young, fair man with ink-stained arms and leather apron turns away from the press, wiping his hands on a grease rag. “What can I do you, for?”
Ed stares at him, hands clenched tightly around Stede’s journal.
“Wanted poster, sir?” The man’s sandy brows are furrowed in a way that reminds him distressingly of Stede. “Broadside? Lewd literature? Visiting cards?”
Ed wordlessly tries to shove the book in his direction.
“You - do you want me to print this book?” The man looks taken aback. “That’s a big job, sir.”
“No,” Ed says hoarsely.
“I mean I can but - I’m a small operation. It’ll take me a while to set all the type.”
“No!” He is louder than he intended; the printer shrinks from him. “No, I don’t want you to print the fuckin’ thing! I want you to read it.”
“You want me to…read it?” The printer looks pale and shaky. “Why?”
“I want you to read it aloud. To me!”
The printer sits down at a tall stool in front of a jobcase. He begins fiddling with the type, hands shaking. “I’m - I’m a bit busy, sir. Perhaps you’d like to hire a secretary if you want to take dictation - “
“I don’t want to take dictation, whatever the fuck that is!” Ed slaps down the book in front of the printer, causing letter sorts to leap out of the jobcase, and the printer to shriek. “I want you to read it to me!”
“Why in God’s name -“
“Because I can’t fucking read, that’s why!”
“Oh.” The printer stares at him with growing awareness. Stupid, Ed can see written in his eyes, stupid, stupid, this is a stupid man. “I’m…still a bit busy,” the man says, fingers curled tightly around his setting stick.
You busy now? Ed thinks, contemplating pulling out a knife, pressing it to the printer’s slender white throat. But he doesn’t. Reaches in his pockets for a handful of coins.
“You busy now?”
“Perhaps not,” the man says, looking at the tarnished gold in Ed’s open hand.
They’ve repaired to a desk at the back of the shop, the printer motioning Ed to a chair.
“Can I look over your shoulder?” Ed finds himself saying, trying not to sound needy.
“Alright, if you’d prefer.” The printer sounds uncomfortable, but Ed’s desire to not only have the writing read to him but to see it, to follow with every page, overrides any vague wish he might have to not irritate the one man who can help him. The thought occurs to him that he could force the man to do it - but who’s to say that what he reads will be accurate? He might make up every line, lie through his teeth, do anything that will make Ed leave faster. So he doesn’t draw his chair too close, sits alongside him, but far enough away that the man won’t feel too scrutinised. He hopes.
“Now sir, this is a whole book. Do you want me to start from -“
“Just - open it. Anywhere. I don’t care.” Ed tries to sound convincing, as if he’s not desperate for every word.
“Well, if that’s what you’d prefer,” the printer says doubtfully, and his fine slim ink-stained hands open the book at random. “Good lord!”
The page in front of them depicts a very vividly drawn cock and balls.
“What on earth is this?”
“Well,” Ed says. “It’s a cock and balls.”
“No, I mean to say - is this entire book lascivious?”
“I thought you were all for las…lavicious - dirty books.”
The printer folds his arms over his apron and glares sideways at Ed. “No, I’ll set them. I’ll print a bawdy pamphlet. This is Nassau, for land’s sakes. If I refused anything the least bit lewd then I wouldn’t be able to afford to eat. But I didn’t say I’d read them to you!”
“Well I’m paying you to read it to me.”
The printer looks suspicious. “You’d better keep your hands on the table at the very least, where I can see them.”
“Suits me fine, mate.” Ed thumps down his hands on the table, palms up. “I’m not holding onto my knife, I’m not holding onto my cock either. Now. Are you going to read the fucking book to me or not?”
The printer sighs, looks back to the handful of money Ed’s put on the table, and opens another page at random. It’s dense with script.
“I awoke in pain, gravely wounded and half-dead,” the printer begins. “I had been plagued with the most terrible dreams. Mary, cursing me; my children, condemning me to my own death. Scoundrels spare no one, my own darling daughter had cried, brandishing a weapon at me. I felt sure that this was a prelude of my passage into a hell of my own making - the punishment for my sins of abandonment, me letting down my crew - “
“Does he mention -“ Ed interrupts, only for the printer to continue loudly, glaring at him.
“When I awoke I was confronted by the most singular vision. A fearsome man, clad in black, who reassured me when I cried out, touched me most tenderly on the hand. It appeared he swabbed my brow as I slept, as if I were an ailing child.”
Ed suppresses a gasp.
“The fellow introduced himself himself as Ed. He seemed remarkably taken by the layout of my parlour, and my fine cashmere shawls I had neglected to put away the weekend before. I decided to show him my auxiliary wardrobe, as his good humour was distracting me from the inconsiderable pain I found myself in.” That bit’s crossed out,” the printer interjects. “The writer’s put “the mild twinge in my abdomen from my injury,” instead.” He rolls his eyes.
“No commentary,” Ed replies, feeling a little breathless. “Just read it.”
The printer clears his throat. “Imagine my surprise when we were in the auxiliary wardrobe and he revealed himself to be the notorious pirate Blackbeard -“ He drops the book with a clunk. “Is this fiction?” he says, in a measured tone, staring at Ed, sweat beading on his forehead. He doesn’t look so well.
“Oh yes,” Ed says hurriedly. “Totally fictional. The - imaginings of some mad guy.”
“Which you want read to you.”
“Well yes. Because he - uh,” Ed hurriedly improvises. “he stole something really important from me. Really valuable. Really cool. And I’d kind of like it back, and I think he wrote where he put it.” He taps the page. “In the book. Only I don’t know where.”
“So he has written the whereabouts of this stolen treasure, which is factual, in the midst of this book, which is fictional,” the printer says, sounding unconvinced. “And he has also included lewd depictions of some man’s wedding tackle within the pages.”
Ed forces a laugh. “Yeah, clever, huh?”
“Really.” He turns back to the offending drawing. “Perhaps there is a clue in the pubic hair.”
Ed forces that same unconvincing laugh, wishing desperately that he were a better actor. “I mean, totally stupid. What an idiot, right?”
“Well, if you wish me to continue reading these ravings of a madman,” the printer says, with a sigh. “I think I’m going to need something to drink.”
He can’t believe he’s doing this. He can’t believe he’s just gone to the tavern to pick up a tankard of ale for the man whom he’s paying to read Stede’s stupid fucking journal, which appears to mostly consist of rather overblown descriptions of the minutiae of his day, screamingly oblivious musings on what his crew thinks of him, and rather florid words about -
Me, Ed thinks, feeling the bile rise in his throat. He should just run. Fuck the money. Fuck knowing what’s in the book. It’s dangerous. He should have paid attention to the fact that he wasn’t meant to read it. Christ, he can’t even fucking read, and now he’s gone and complicated things, gone against the natural order by paying -
He has to hear the end of it. Why was there a drawing of a penis right in the middle of it? Is that - is that a self-portrait? Is that Stede’s penis?
He feels light headed.
“Thank you,” the printer says, as Ed sets down the ale with an exaggerated care. He tries to settle himself down as easily as the ale, but can’t do it. There’s fucking ants in his pants, making him pace about, fiddle with things, and the shop’s full of all these weird little things he can fiddle with.
“Stop that,” says the printer, as Ed slots leads between each of his fingers. “I mean it.”
“I’m paying you,” Ed counters.
“I don’t come to your place of work and clatter around in all of your bricolage,” the printer says tartly.
“Alright,” Ed says, dropping the leads, which plink onto the floor. “But you aren’t stopping reading until I fucking say so.”
“Very well,” says the printer, and begins to read.
“…He looked different, all dressed up. A fine man, worthy of respect. But they weren’t kind to him at the party; they made him feel as if he didn’t belong. It reminded me of how cruel the boys were to me at school; taunting me. Every overture of friendship snatched away in a nasty joke. I saw boys being great friends, and I was always pushed aside. Excluded. I didn’t want Ed to think that he was ever worthy of that treatment.
When we returned to the Revenge I found him holding a delicate piece of china silk, in finest carmine. I complimented it, and I could tell he felt ashamed, to be clinging onto such a small piece of luxury, when he felt as if he didn’t deserve it. I tucked it into his waistcoat, and told him how fine he looked in it. He was thankful. Very kind. But he drew away from me, no doubt thinking that I couldn’t have been sincere in my compliments…”
The silk, flying away in the wind. He remembers Stede’s fingers at his chest, tucking the square into his pocket. How finally, he felt worthy of it. He dearly wishes he hadn’t cast it into the ocean. He might have liked to remember that…
“I was astonished, when he begged for me to stab him. It felt wrong, sickening, my sword, driving into his flesh, but he offered up his body willingly for me…”
God, it sounds so sexual, Ed thinks. The sword in his gut had hurt, but nothing worse than anything he’d had before. What struck him was the strange look of frightened ecstasy on Stede’s face, as he plunged the sword within him. And he had been gentle when he drew it out, and ministered to Ed’s wounds.
But no, he shouldn’t be swayed by that.
“…Today we went on a treasure hunt. I had purchased a map from a trader; a fine looking thing that promised great riches. Lucius expressed great trepidation, no doubt concerned that we would run into danger. Ed enthusiastically asked to accompany me, expressing great delight and surety in our success of finding treasure and fulfilling an old pirate tradition-“
“Oh come on,” Ed mutters.
“I’m only reading what’s written,” the printer says archily. He clears his throat, takes a swig of the dregs of the ale, and continues.
“I felt safe when he was there.
The danger that we expected came to pass - a snake fell from the trees, nearly on top of my friend. However, my valiant companion thrashed the fearsome beast most adeptly, and we were able to use it as sustenance. Grilled snake is significantly better than I had ever expected; most delicious. I was thankful to Ed for accompanying me, and for providing me with such a fine meal. Unfortunately we lost the map to the flames of our cooking fire; but in the end I can’t say I minded. There aren’t many days I’ve had as lovely as the day I spent with him…”
The printer’s voice is growing hoarse. He tiredly turns the page, and continues.
“I have asked Lucius to write this. My hands are bound, and I have not had much time to dictate to him. I am fearful of what is to come, but I accept it. For too long, I’ve lived unpunished. I had thought I would be hanged; drawn and quartered maybe, and I only had the wish that I could go to my gallows with a bunch of my beloved flowers in my hand. Not that the British navy and crown is fair at granting wishes.
And yet, I have been saved. Ed has stood in front of me. At first, he gallantly tried to take the blame for my doings. But I could not lose him. Not to this. Not to anything. And so he saved me again; begged the king’s grace, and joined me in punishment. We belong to the crown now. He has lost his freedom for me; his ship, his crew. I have not been a well-liked man over the course of my life. Too frivolous for most; too weak, lacking in something. But he sees something in me that I could not see in myself. Someone worth cherishing. Never have I imagined a dearer, and truer friend.”
The printer turns the page, to find nothing but a few blots of ink. He closes the book, looking drawn.
“Please tell me that isn't the end,” Ed begs.
The printer shakes his head. “There’s nothing else in this book.” He sighs. “Did you get the location of the treasure?”
Never have I imagined a dearer, and truer friend.
Ed takes one look at the printer’s hands, folded on the book, and his eyes fill with tears. He’s lost him. Oh god, he’s lost him.
Stede’s sweet face, looking at him on the beach, a tender look in his eyes. Stede, kissing him tenderly, holding his hand, leaning against his body as if he needed him.
He loved me, Ed thinks, and it has to be past tense because he knows now that Stede would never have left on his own. He sobs, the printer growing watery before him, sobs because after everything he tried, he still couldn’t save him.
The printer presses a square of cloth into his hand. “I have never seen a man so overcome,” he says, in that strained, hoarse voice.
“Take a good look then,” Ed says bitterly, blotting at his tears.
He loves him. He loved him. He can’t stop loving him.
His pain is interrupted by the shop door rattling. The printer looks up, exhausted. “I’m sorry, sir, but that will be my printer’s devil.”
Printer’s devil?
“I must go out and talk him through setting the evening’s presses.”
Ed’s chest is still heaving with sobs. He waves the printer away, and watches bleakly as he walks around the cases of type. He feels as if he had fallen overboard into dark water, with chains around his feet. Heavy, drawn down into grief. He manages to pull the book to him, tucks it to his chest, hand clawing tightly on the spine. This is all he has left of him, after all. Can’t let go.
As he stumbles out to the front of the shop, he hears the murmur of voices.
“Christ, you sound awful,” comes a man’s voice oddly familiar in cadence and tone. “What happened, screaming a lot or something?”
“I’ve been reading a book aloud,” the printer says huskily. “It’s -“
He stops dead.
“Fuck!” the printer’s devil yelps. Ed jerks his head upright, wondering what the fuss is about. His eyes are still blurry. He rubs them. And no - it can’t -
It’s Lucius Spriggs. A presumably not dead Lucius Spriggs, leather apron over his gear, eyes wide in shock. Before Ed has a chance to react, Lucius has scuttled into the corner, and pulled a jobcase in front of him. “You aren’t coming near me!”
“Lucius?” the printer says, coughing.
Ed stares at Lucius, feeling regret. Lucius stares back, defiantly, and then blinks himself, narrowing his eyes. “Hang on - you haven’t been crying, have you?” He shakes his head. “Oh fuck. You must have heard.”
Heard what? Ed stares, confused.
“Captain, Stede’s dead.”
Ed collapses anew into tears.
“God knows why I’m doing this,” Lucius says drily, leading Ed to his writing desk. “Here, sit down.” He sighs, rubs his forehead. “You know, I actually wanted to help you once?”
“What?”
Lucius laughs reluctantly. “Thought you and Stede were cute together. And God, you would have done anything for him. Well, aside from act enthusiastic about his stupid treasure hunt.” He smacks his forehead. “Fucking hell, why didn’t you just kiss him?”
He feels wrung out. Tired, waterlogged. Dead, already. Why else is the ghost of the man he murdered helping him?
“I did.” He wipes his nose on the back of his left hand. His right is still clutching the book.
Lucius is staring at him in shock. “You did?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter now,” Ed says bitterly. He lets out another desperate sob. “What happened to him?”
“I - uh, something about being killed by a jungle cat? Or maybe it was being run over by a carriage,” Lucius stammers. “I honestly don’t remember.” He pats Ed on the shoulder. “And to be honest, you crying as much as you are right now is making me very uncomfortable.”
“You’re a dick, Lucius,” Ed sobs.
“Says the man who tried to murder me midway through planning a talent show,” Lucius says furiously. “Christ, nobody’s more of a dick than you.”
“Alright!” Ed cries. “I was horrible. I’m a complete bastard - and you, you didn’t deserve that, but what can I - what could I do when you were all just going around with your little book and your scribblings and every time I heard the scratch of the quill I was just reminded of him -“
“If it makes you feel better,” Lucius says, “I’m particularly good at swimming.” He gives Ed’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon. Get some rest now, will you?”
“Will you come back on the ship?” Ed says, desperately. Being reminded of Stede by Lucius was bad when he thought Stede hated him, but now - he’d do anything, anything to have him near, in any way, even if it’s just through his words.
Lucius scoffs. “Not on your life, mate. Not while you’re on the ship. No hard feelings and all that, but it just so happens that I’m happy here, nice and dry, using my skills for something for once. I’m not risking you chucking me overboard again, you, you psycho.”
“Yeah, I get that,” Ed says dully.
“Alright,” Lucius says reluctantly. “You’re not a psycho. You’re just - God, I can’t believe I’m going to say this but it was better when you were doing the mopey songwriting and wearing Stede’s robe. I mean don’t get me wrong, it was weird, but at least it wasn’t -”
Ed tunes out the rise and fall of Lucius’ voice. He feels as hollow as an eggshell, and as breakable. He just - he can’t. Stede’s dead. He’ll never see him walk through the door again, happily twirling as he shows Ed his outfit. He’ll never hear him reading stories to the crew, his voice gently rising and falling in the night as the men lean against barrels and each other, rapt, as Stede weaves magic from paper and words. He’ll never touch him, never have his hand brush his as they stand on the deck at night. Never discuss what it’s like to be captain, never learn about Stede’s family, never meet his children, never kiss him. Never hold him. Never say goodbye.
It was worse than when he thought he’d had to kill him. Far worse, because now he’s really gone.
“I would have said so many things to him,” Ed wails. “I would have told him - I tried, I tried to tell him and he - I don’t even think he knew.”
“Didn’t get it, did he?” Lucius says sympathetically. “God, you two were made for each other.”
I don’t think I can go on.
“Have a rest, dear. It’ll all feel a little better in the morning. Who knows,” Lucius says. “I only read it in the paper. Maybe it’s fake.”
“If they print it in the paper it has- to - be - true,” Ed says, chest heaving between sobs.
“Not necessarily,” Lucius says. “I know as well as anyone that you can print complete bullshit if you want to. Just have to arrange the letters that way.” He sighs, and crouches down next to Ed, puts his arm around his shoulder. “But yeah, you’re probably right. And you know what, I’ll miss him too.”
“Not like I will,” Ed whimpers.
“No,” Lucius agrees soothingly. “Not like you.”
Never have I imagined a dearer, and truer friend. When he makes it back to the ship he sleeps, exhausted, alone. He dreams of a sweet face, next to his, wrapped in pink velvet. Picking fresh flowers. Treasuring the hum of a bee, the delicate wings of a moth. A man they might call mad, but only - because he felt so much. For everyone. For me, Ed thinks, and wraps his arms tightly around his waist, begging for the ghost of Stede to hold him.