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Very rarely in his life did John Silver have the luxury of uninterrupted privacy. Never had that fact been more true than now, aboard the Walrus, chock full of money hungry men and their stolen goods. On that ship, there was only enough room for him to function alongside the rest of the men as one terrible, nightmare-inducing beast of the sea.
Irony was cruel in that way, for privacy was something he not only longed for often, but required, as of late. It was necessary for him to maintain the façade of competent quartermaster to Flint’s cruel and bloody captaincy if they were to accomplish their current endeavor. The unfortunate truth was that his abilities did not go much further beyond his sway with the men, and it was still a goddamned mystery to him what the point of all this was besides serving as an outlet for Flint’s insatiable rage. No escape would present itself; the iron boot strapped to his leg weighed him down as heavily as any ship’s anchor.
And so, that was how he found himself collapsed upon a short stool tucked into a dark corner of the galley, what remained of his left leg stretched out in front of him to relieve some of the pressure afforded by the boot. After pacing the length of the ship all day, bellowing echoed orders back at the men from Flint and DeGroot, the wound was smarting something fierce. In a desperate bid for relief, he ordered their newly acquired cook—a man just as quiet and old as Randall, albeit with his wits about him—out of the galley, so he could wallow in his pain with no one to witness it if only for a few moments.
But soon the minutes bled into hours, during which he took advantage of his solitude and snagged a half-full bottle of rum from the rickety table that served as the cook’s workstation. His dinner ration sat untouched on the floor next to him, cold and unappealing. He traded his meal for swallows of liquor that warmed him up from the inside and dulled his senses. The stinging pulse in his leg had quieted to a more bearable throb. Distantly, he could hear the midnight bell sound from above deck and marveled that he had gone this long without anyone seeking his presence, for matters of ship or crew or otherwise.
Silver still didn’t know what to make of the men’s newfound respect for him. For all the suffering he endured to earn it, a part of him resented their solemn glances and easy smiles, the way they looked to him on the days when Flint was so consumed by his fury that he seemed more tempest than man. What would they say if they knew he’d sold the Urca’s location? What would they say if they knew he sometimes wished to relive that moment in Charlestown if only so he could offer a list of names?
It didn’t matter, now. He was tethered to them as closely as he was tethered to Flint, who would have died a fair few times over if it weren’t for Silver. Who certainly suspected that Silver played a role in Rackham’s retrieval of the Urca gold. He tried not to dwell on their precarious accord too often lest he drive himself insane. His stint as a pirate was shaping up to be the longest he had ever remained in one place, with only the ache of his stump to keep him company day after agonizing day. Silver glared into the dark at the iron peg as he took another swig of rum.
Christ, when did he become such a miserable drunk?
He let his mind drift elsewhere. In a few days time, they would drop anchor in Nassau to sell their plunder and resupply for the next raid. He was looking forward to stepping foot on solid ground again, but he already knew any relief he could garner from being off the Walrus would be soiled by the captain’s attitude once they came ashore. Flint was a nightmare to deal with whenever they returned to Nassau—stalking through town the way an animal paced the confines of a cage and snarling orders as they prepared to set sail again with an impatience not unlike a child’s. Frankly, Silver was growing tired of his temper, not to mention Flint’s willingness to throw himself into danger at every opportunity presented to him.
Regardless of anything they’d shared in the past, Silver had to admit his concern came from a place of selfishness. What would become of him if Flint didn’t return from a raid? He certainly wasn’t fit to be a captain no matter what the men thought of him, and not one capable person came to mind who could take Flint’s place. No one else could command men the way he did or foster fear in the hearts of those who did not follow him. No one else could bend the world to their will. He imagined the crew of the Walrus slowly disbanding until only he was left, a pathetic cripple who no captain in their right mind would take aboard. He would not matter.
Silver halted that line of thought before it could become any more pitiful. He eyed the rum with disdain and gingerly set the bottle on the floor next to his dinner. It served him well in numbing the pain of his leg, but working himself up into such a wretched state would do him no good, especially if one of the men found him.
Of course, that was the moment Flint strode into the galley, boots nearly silent on the wood floor. Silver startled and swore under his breath when the movement jostled the tender skin around his stump. At the noise, Flint glanced his way, but his steps did not falter as he walked to the large bucket of water that served as their wash basin and set to scrubbing his bowl clean.
Silver only stared, perplexed. It was odd seeing the captain wash his own dish, though unsurprising. Lately, Flint rarely left his quarters unless he was needed on deck or they were closing in on the coast of some unsuspecting colonial town. At meal times he would emerge to receive his own portion and take it alone in his cabin. Silver knew well it was the cook’s responsibility to wash dishes after the men finished eating, usually done all at once. But he supposed that job must have been completed hours ago immediately after supper.
Silver ignored Flint’s presence under the assumption that he would finish his task and leave. There was nothing he could think of that they had to discuss which couldn't wait until morning, and he had no desire to speak with Flint about anything other than their respective duties. But after Flint stacked the clean bowl with the others and flicked his hands free of water, he turned to Silver with a furrowed brow. Fuck.
“What are you doing in here?” Flint asked. It sounded like an accusation.
Silver gestured at the rum on the floor, bristling. “What does it look like?”
He only realized his mistake when he too looked at the aforementioned bottle and spotted his obviously uneaten dinner as well. Quickly, he glanced back up at Flint, who was regarding him with an unimpressed stare.
“Is that your ration?”
Silver didn’t answer. He wanted to ask what the fuck does it matter to you, but managed to hold his tongue.
Flint pressed on, voice firm. “You need to eat, and rest. You cannot answer to the men if—”
“Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do,” Silver interrupted sharply. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
"Is that right? Explain to me, then, why the belt at your waist seems to gain an extra notch every week."
Silver cursed Flint's tendency to observe everyone around him down to the finest details. He'd never met anyone else who read other people as acutely as himself.
"It's nothing," he said. Not only did he sound unconvincing, but he couldn't come up with a more elaborate lie. Surely the rum hadn't addled his mind enough so that he was unable to conjure a more clever response? Had he lost his way with words, too? A partial truth would have to suffice. "I'm just not hungry, that's all."
Flint grit his teeth. "Need I remind you that it has hardly been a fortnight since your last bout of fever?"
Anger welled up inside of him so quickly he felt his face flush with it. He was angry at Flint, angry that he'd found Silver at his most vulnerable, angry that all of his strength was sapped from the day when it would have cost him nothing before.
"No!" he snapped, eyes flashing up to Flint's surprised expression. "No, you don't have to remind me because I have to live with it. Every fucking day. You would do well to remember that."
Silver slumped against the dirty wall after his outburst, studying Flint warily. He suddenly looked as exhausted as Silver felt, and old beyond his years. For a moment, the hardened mask had disappeared.
"You're right," Flint sighed. "But surely you can understand my reluctance to ignore this."
"It is none of your concern."
"That's not true. If I don't have you, then I don't have the men. And right now, I need those men."
The I need you was left unsaid, but Silver heard it in the silence that followed. He wondered how much destruction and violence it would take to finally soothe Flint's soul, if there would be anything left of himself in the end. How long could they go on like this together? How much more could he give? Maybe it was only the rum, but he found himself softening to Flint's unusually forthcoming approach.
Silver glanced down at the bowl of food. "I wasn't lying. I don't feel hungry most of the time."
Flint considered him, a thoughtful look on his face that he reserved for plotting out their next course using the nautical charts on his desk. Silver curled his lip at the sight of it, but remained silent.
“I may have something that will help your appetite,” Flint finally said, after a few moments of agonizing scrutiny. He bent at the waist to pick up the bottle of rum and set it back on the table out of Silver’s reach, then turned to leave the galley. “Stay put.”
Silver breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. Beneath the humiliation simmering in his gut, curiosity got the better of him and he wondered what Flint could possibly have in his possession that would make Silver want to eat. Unless Flint had a spare fully functioning left leg, he was doubtful whatever it was would work. Briefly, he considered putting an end to this mortifying interaction by retreating to his hammock, but Flint returned before he could fully formulate a plan to sneak away unnoticed.
Flint held an old metal box in his hands that was similar in size to a book. He put it on the table and reached for the oil lamp swinging from the low ceiling. Silver's eyes followed the long line of his torso when he stretched upwards, lingering on his nimble fingers as they held the lamp steady and turned the knob clockwise. He averted his gaze when the soft light illuminating Flint's face brightened.
Flint handed him the box when he was done. It wasn’t heavy, but that was the only detail Silver gauged before he was distracted by Flint lowering himself to the filthy floor in front of where Silver still sat on the stool, careful of his outstretched leg.
“What are you doing?” he asked, wary of their current positioning. He was unaccustomed to looking down at his captain.
“Open it.” Flint said, ignoring the question and jerking his chin towards the box.
Silver shrugged and slid the lid off the top, his nose instantly recognizing the sweet, heady scent of cocoa. Inside, bars of chocolate lay wrapped in a thin cloth. Most of it was broken and crumbling, but it was still a heavenly sight. Chocolate was rarely an indulgence he’d had the pleasure to enjoy, unless he managed to attain some with a five-finger discount. It was even more of a rarity on a ship, being a foodstuff which didn't keep well in the perpetually damp, warm air.
“Where did you get this?” Silver asked. Flint didn’t seem the type of man to spoil himself this way, especially in more recent months.
“I found it in the captain’s cabin of the ship we took.”
A few days prior, on the first stretch of their journey back to Nassau, they had crossed paths with the Diamond. A long, sleek English merchant vessel that looked to be a sizable prize. The men, still in high spirits from their successful raid the previous evening, had raucously voted to pursue her after receiving Flint’s stoic approval. Silver watched on from the rail as the other crew surrendered to their vanguard with hardly a drop of blood spilled over the matter. They made quick work of moving the cargo of sugar, tobacco, and any supplies they could make use of over to the Walrus before cutting the ship loose, but Flint must have been snooping around as they did so. Of all the items he could have stolen, he'd picked a box of chocolate. The thought amused him to no end, and Silver's lips quirked up in an unbidden smile.
"Something funny?"
He inclined his head, making sure his smile was more of a smirk when he gave Flint his full attention. "I didn't know you had a sweet tooth, Captain."
Flint raised a sardonic eyebrow. "There's a lot you don't know about me," he pointed out.
Silver tilted forward a fraction, caught by Flint’s eyes and the low, raspy lilt of his voice. God, but did he want to know more. Flint’s intrigue would be Silver's downfall, he was sure of it, already deeply entrenched as he was in the maelstrom of events that brought them to this moment. To resist his pull seemed futile in the wake of what he’d lost.
"Is that an invitation?"
Flint didn't answer. Instead, he looked away with a troubled set to his forehead, and the moment broke. It was the wrong thing to say, a remembrance that his closest confidant had not returned from the disastrous attempt at reconciliation in Charlestown. Whoever Mrs. Barlow had been to Flint was irreplaceable; that much was obvious to an onlooker such as himself. Silver suddenly felt like an intruder in Flint’s presence, deeply uncomfortable not with the knowledge that he'd overstepped some boundary between them, but with how much it bothered him that he had done so.
Silver cleared his throat in an effort to dispel the tension between them and brought his focus back to the box in his lap. “I’m not sure I see the purpose of eating this when I have no appetite to begin with.”
“Would you fucking try it already?” Flint sniped. “Sometime this decade, if you please.”
Silver rolled his eyes and plucked a small piece of chocolate from the box, hesitating briefly before he put it in his mouth. Eating was such an arduous task after losing his leg, a development he resented. He knew how important it was to keep oneself fed at every opportunity because food was never a certainty, not in his experience. But he'd grown to despise this version of his body with all of its limitations and pains constantly reminding him of the things he could no longer do. It was no more than a fleshly cage that deserved the punishment of hunger. In hunger there was control, distraction, salvation from what his reality had become.
Though as the chocolate began to melt on his tongue, he couldn't help the way his shoulders dropped slightly nor the little sigh of pleasure that escaped as he savored the bittersweet flavor. He rolled it around in his mouth until it was all gone, already searching for a second piece. Silver peeked at Flint, who seemed satisfied that he was consuming something of substance even if it was only chocolate.
He took a bigger chunk from the box and broke it in half before holding one piece out to Flint. Flint’s eyes flickered suspiciously from his hand to his face, and Silver resisted the urge to squirm with discomfort. It seemed as though an eternity had passed before Flint accepted his peace offering and reached for him. Their fingers brushed when he took the chocolate from Silver, who wondered how it didn't melt all over their laps with the way that touch burned.
They ate in a stilted silence that was only interrupted by the faint groaning of the ship around them. As captain and quartermaster, there were plenty of matters they could talk through, but weariness settled over them like a blanket in the late hour. Both were content to break off small bites of chocolate, sneaking furtive glances at each other that did not go unnoticed. But Silver could only remain quiet in someone's presence for so long before it felt suffocating. He was almost grateful when Flint spoke suddenly.
“I trust you are aware by now of my penchant to collect books from prizes,” he said.
Silver snorted. How could he forget? It was one of the first things he’d learned about Flint, and more than once since he’d lost his leg had he tripped over a crate of stolen tombs that Flint sequestered away in his cabin.
“I am.”
“Well, it's become something of a routine. When we take a ship, I seek out books.” Flint paused, appearing to carefully consider his next words. Silver stiffened slightly, pondering why an offhand comment would warrant such prudence until Flint spoke again. “On the Diamond, I found a copy of Beowulf. Have you ever read it?”
Silver frowned in confusion. “Yes, I’ve read it, though I didn’t much care for it—”
To his annoyance, Flint cut him off before he could fully voice his opinion. “Beowulf was a beloved king towards the end of his life. Despite his age, he believed himself strong enough to solely defeat the dragon razing his kingdom. He marched eleven of his warriors to its den and ordered them to wait for him. Once they saw how outmatched their king was, all but one man fled in fear. Only Wiglaf remained, who bravely fought beside Beowulf to slay the dragon. Beowulf stabbed it in the neck just as Wiglaf ran his sword through its belly, but not before the king was fatally wounded.”
“I know how it ends," Silver said, too tired to be anything but irritated with Flint's theatrics when he normally would have played along. "What are you saying?”
Flint looked down at his hands which now fiddled with his rings. “That you shouldn’t try to carry your burden alone, or it will kill you.”
Silver scoffed. To say nothing of how exceedingly hypocritical Flint’s advice was, he couldn’t see a motivation for imparting it. Of course, he needed Silver because the men were loyal to him. But what good would come from sharing the burden of that toll? Who did he have to share it with?
“So I’m the hero in this story?”
“The men certainly seem to think so.”
Silver smiled humorlessly. “The choice I made was not heroic. I was backed into a corner and I did what I could to ensure my own survival, and this is where it fucking got me. There is nothing noble about that.”
“Your intentions behind your choice don’t matter. All they see is the sacrifice you made which saved their lives.”
“And you?” Silver asked, intrigued by what the answer may be and frightened despite himself. “What do you see?”
Flint reached for another piece of chocolate, unperturbed. “I see the truth. That you are struggling beneath the false persona they have assigned to you, when you are still the same cunning, selfish man that I’ve known since the beginning.”
Silver swallowed hard, rendered mute. He set the box on the floor and wrung his hands together between his legs to conceal their shaking. A part of him was horrified that Flint could read him so easily and conclude that the way the men treated him bothered him worse than the loss of his leg itself after they disregarded his pleas not to take it. At the time, it didn’t matter to him that he would have died otherwise when his only alternative was to become a spectacle. But mostly, he was relieved. Flint’s lack of pity for his condition since Charlestown was refreshing. Sometimes he only felt human, felt real, when Flint’s eyes rested upon him, unclouded by some delusion of grandeur. A stark contrast to the poor creature with a missing foot he was apt to think of himself as when the men expressed their concern for him.
How strange it was that he felt comforted knowing he was still recognizable to Flint—a truth that conflicted with his desire to be invisible. The men looked at him like he was someone important when he had always been no one, nothing. Though that facet of himself could no longer be truly reconciled. He was forever trapped within the role he'd created, but at least Flint understood that it hadn't happened in a way which accurately reflected who he was becoming.
“What does that make you, then? Are you the Wiglaf to my Beowulf?”
“Only if you want me to be,” Flint said, as if it were a simple matter. As if he believed they could exist together in such a capacity.
“Or maybe,” Silver began, lowering his voice to that silken tone he used for storytelling, “you are the dragon I am meant to slay.”
Flint’s face darkened. “I cannot be a dragon if I have no pile of gold to lay upon.”
Silver winced, upset by his lack of foresight as to where that particular topic of conversation would lead. He searched for a distraction and quickly found it in the chocolate smeared on the corner of Flint’s mouth.
“Hey, you have a little—” Silver gestured at his own mouth, and watched with triumph when the anger in Flint’s eyes dimmed as he became preoccupied with wiping the chocolate away.
He didn’t anticipate that Flint would completely miss the spot where the chocolate was, nor that he would look up at him through his eyelashes with a silent question asking if he was successful in removing it. A sudden boldness urged him to reach forward, his hand still trembling from Flint’s earlier insight, to thumb away the chocolate from his skin with a gentle pressure. Flint’s breath hitched at the touch and their eyes locked together with an intensity that Silver had craved for months. Slowly, he pressed his thumb harder to Flint’s mouth and swiped it over his lower lip in a stuttered drag.
In the next second they were surging towards each other, lips meeting with enough force to bruise. The last time they had touched like this was prior to their departure for Charlestown, both too wrapped up in their own individual grief and anger in the months afterwards to acknowledge the pull that existed between them. That seemed like a lifetime ago to Silver, the men they were then merely figments of the past, unreachable to him.
His hands scrabbled at nothing where they had once fisted handfuls of thick auburn strands, unused to the shorn hair atop Flint's head. He wrapped one arm around the back of Flint’s neck instead, pulling them closer together while his other hand traveled downwards to tug Flint’s shirt from his breeches. All the while Flint’s mouth moved fervently against his own, the lingering sweetness of chocolate between them yet another detail that was so different from their previous tryst. Flint shuffled closer until the insides of Silver's thighs pressed snug against his waist, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to jostle Silver's injury. He tensed in response to the careful treatment, a jarring reminder of how much his own body had changed since Flint last laid his hands upon him out of pleasure rather than necessity, but Flint admonished him with a painful yank to his hair. Suddenly, he remembered that he was kissing the most feared pirate in the West Indies.
Silver pulled away slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his captain on his knees before him. The sight of Flint, his Wiglaf, with spit-slick, swollen lips and a flush high in his cheeks as he knelt between his legs had Silver dragging him into another kiss with renewed urgency. Flint's blunt nails scratched through the curls at the nape of his neck, the rings on his fingers cool against Silver's skin, and both sensations sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.
Flint sighed when Silver's hand finally made its way under his shirt to stroke over the knobs of his spine. The soft noise brought forth memories of how unexpectedly gentle Flint could be in this act despite the danger he posed outwardly. All of the flesh beneath his hands was pliant and wonderfully, achingly human. Silver pressed the pads of his fingers into the muscles of Flint's back and sunk his teeth into his lower lip, savoring the ragged breath he elicited as he soothed the bite with his tongue.
It was so easy to lose himself in the push and pull of their kiss, rhythmic as the waves which never ceased splashing against the hull of the Walrus. After weeks of not much else besides pain and the stress of keeping up his appearance, this allowance was nearly overwhelming in its pleasure. Something inside of him was awakening, a yawning, selfish expanse so greedy for anything Flint was willing to offer him. It thrashed and snarled in his chest when Flint broke the kiss to mouth over the tangled beard on his jaw, moving lower to suck a mark where his pulse was throbbing in his neck. Even that short distance was too far away. He wanted—needed Flint to kiss him again. Silver couldn't help the wounded noise of protest that escaped, hands flying up to cup Flint's face.
"No, come here," he breathed, guiding their mouths back together. He felt rather than saw the bemused smile that graced Flint's lips, awed by the sweetness of it as they curled up against his own. "You taste like chocolate," he offered by way of explanation, licking into Flint's mouth again to chase that flavor on his tongue, his mind quieting once more.
Silver's world narrowed to that slick, soft point of contact between them. They kissed for what could have been minutes or hours, for he wasn't aware of time passing. Flint's hand settling on his right knee was a distant weight, one he didn't pay any mind to until it began a slow trail up his thigh. Arousal hit him with such force that his mouth went slack and he inhaled harshly, nails digging into Flint's waist where his hand had halted its caress.
"Easy," Flint murmured. The heat of his palm was a brand through the fabric of Silver's breeches as it traveled closer to his groin. Flint continued to kiss him, but Silver struggled to reciprocate as his chest heaved with panting breaths. All of him had gone completely still aside from the minute twitch of his hips, eager for Flint's hand edging closer and closer to where he was straining inside his pants.
Flint’s hand disappeared just as suddenly as his mouth, and Silver's eyes shot open to see him sitting back on his haunches. The loss of his touch left him feeling cold and empty. Silver was unable to staunch the plea that ripped from his throat.
"Fuck, please—"
In his desperation, he hadn't noticed Flint moving. The words died on his tongue when something was pushed into his hands, and he looked down to see it was none other than his dinner. Silver's brow pinched as he raised his head to return Flint's steady gaze.
"Eat."
Flint’s tone brooked no room for argument. It was a command, through and through, one that had Silver seething. How dare he? Had he orchestrated the seduction from the beginning, all of it a manipulation to convince Silver to eat, to feed his body so that he could be Flint's puppet later on?
He was tempted to throw the bowl across the galley and leave, removing this encounter from his mind entirely. But his eyes caught Flint twisting his rings again, betraying his apprehension even as his face remained unreadable to Silver. Despite this, the evidence of what they'd done left him disheveled and vulnerable in a way he normally did not allow himself to be. With his loose shirt untucked he seemed smaller, the fabric swallowing his frame in its folds. Silver drank in the sight of his bared throat beneath the open collar, shimmering with sweat, freckles standing out against his blushing skin.
No matter what Flint's intentions were in the beginning, he'd succeeded. Silver was hungrier than ever. A desire beyond pure physical need gnawed at him as his eyes roamed over where his hands and mouth had just been on Flint's body. To want something other than a reprieve from his pain was enough to marvel at on its own. Pain which he’d just noticed the near complete absence of in favor of other bodily reactions. More pressing, however, was the way his stomach cramped uncomfortably around the meager amount of rum and chocolate he'd managed to consume, which only seemed to aggravate the chronic lack of food in his belly.
Silver examined the contents of his bowl. It was only salted pork, peas, and a soggy piece of hardtack, all of which looked unappealing. Any water that had been added to the meal earlier was now absorbed into each food item, leaving it bloated and mushy. The warmth had left it hours ago.
But Silver had eaten far, far worse meals in the past. He picked up the fork resting in his bowl and gathered a bite. Flint’s expectant gaze felt heavy as he brought the fork full to his mouth and slowly chewed it. The first taste made him realize how ravenous he truly was, and he hurried to take another bite.
Before he could, Flint rose to his feet once again. He set his hand on Silver's shoulder and let Silver's body bear his weight as he brought their heads together. Their temples bumped gently.
"When you've finished, come to my cabin," Flint whispered in his ear, the hot wash of his breath making gooseflesh rise on Silver's skin. Flint’s thumb stroked over his neck as he pulled back, pausing in his withdrawal to press his mouth against Silver's forehead. He offered a brief, tired smile when he stepped away completely that made Silver feel as though they were both in on some grand secret.
Once Flint left, Silver had to shake himself out of a daze. The only thing keeping his whirling thoughts at bay was the loud protest of his stomach. He forced himself to finish his food at an unhurried pace, it being the first full meal he'd eaten in days, which sat like a stone in his belly when he was done. Silver used the table to help heave himself up with a groan, several bones cracking as he straightened and limped over to the wash basin. The task of cleaning his bowl required little focus, allowing him a moment to think.
Would it be wise to go to Flint's cabin? The rational part of his mind, the one that had ensured his survival thus far, told him no. To become one with Flint, to devour him, seemed a monstrous act that would only lead to his own downfall. Though how could it be when this was the most human he'd felt in months?
Perhaps giving into this, all-encompassing as it was, would mean succumbing to Flint's darkness. But the thought didn't terrify him as much anymore, not when he knew now that Flint liked books, and chocolate, and being touched without ill intent. Not when he suspected that Flint’s darkness was borne of suffering. Not when he had his own demons to contend with, looming in their enormity to make all else seem trivial in comparison. It was becoming increasingly difficult to deny himself that which brought him pleasure, no matter how dangerous it could be. Such was the life of a pirate.
So the decision was already made. Silver set his bowl aside and braced both hands against the edge of the wash basin, leaning forward to stare at his reflection in the murky water. He wondered when he became the kind of man who faced his fears instead of running from them. Bitterly, he thought that it must have happened when his ability to run was sawed away and left to rot at the bottom of the ocean.
Silver pushed himself up, and began the arduous walk to Flint's quarters.