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As he lay in his dank little cabin that night, Izzy could still feel the bruise on his Adam's apple every time he swallowed, and the bump on the back of his head where he had roughly met the wall. He relished those marks with a defiant smile in the dark, remembering the shift in his captain’s expression. In a glorious instant, weakness and vulnerability had been replaced by a deep, dark rage, like storm clouds obscuring the glaring sun. Finally.
Choose your next words wisely, dog! - and he had, making it perfectly clear where his loyalties lay, whom he wished to serve. Truth was, he had been called far worse and less accurate things. Perhaps he was a dog of some sort. A watchdog, always alert, looking out for the safety of captain and ship. A bloodhound, sniffing out the weak spots in his enemies’ stance, and in his own captain’s mind, if necessary. And like any loyal dog, he was prepared to live off scraps and the knowledge that he had served his master.
Touching his bruises to reassure himself, he did feel like he had served today. As much as Izzy wanted to blame all of this on Stede fucking Bonnet, he had to admit his captain had not offered much resistance. Ed had gotten himself sucked into this world of silks and feelings that now threatened to undo decades of hard work they - he - had put into creating Blackbeard’s fearsome reputation. And in piracy, reputation was a matter of life and death. Ed was not just his boss, or his friend, he was his project - his destiny, if you wanted to be all sappy about it. And Izzy refused to see his life’s work go down in a flurry of velvet and snail forks, refused to accept this pathetic, blubbering mess of a man as his captain. He had known Edward long enough, seen him face enough death and injury, to know how fast his sadness could turn to rage, how his grief could fuel destruction and chaos beyond human comprehension. Someone just needed to help him get there. As usual, Izzy had to do the job himself. So he had sensed the weakest spot and struck with surgical precision, sinking his teeth straight into the most painful parts of Ed’s shame and loss. It had worked, the bluish-purple handprint on his neck was proof of that.
The night was calm. Over the gentle lapping of waves, Izzy heard a shout and a splash, then hard soles of boots on the wooden boards, coming closer. He pretended to be asleep as the smell and creak of leather filled his room. A metallic rasp, a bony crunch, then all was pain and fear for a confusing moment. Charcoal-smeared eyes glinting in the moonlight, his skin prickling with growled threats, the taste of his own blood. The boy is dead. Then silence.
As Izzy lay awake in the dark, pain shooting through his leg, the sickening sound of his own bone between his teeth still ringing in his ears, an unfamiliar chill crept up his spine. Blackbeard is my Captain. But whatever had just been in his room was neither Ed nor Blackbeard, but something else entirely. Something with the potential to do more damage than cashmere robes and tea parties ever could. Maybe for the first time in his life, Izzy asked himself if he had done the right thing. Had he saved the man he admired or destroyed whatever was left of him and inadvertently unleashed some unpredicatable, monstrous force into the world? And without Blackbeard, who was Izzy Hands? A scrawny stray with no master, home, or purpose, that’s what.
Maybe it was the blood loss or the shock taking over his mind, but an idea began to take shape. That idiot Bonnet had been the first to break his captain. So maybe now he could put him back together again? And what better way to lure in a pathetic rich boy than his own precious belongings strewn over the high seas like bread crumbs. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain and get some sleep. There was work to do in the morning.