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One
Thomas' lips taste of parchment. Of a fire crackling in the hearth, of clean sheets and powdered wigs. A whiff of sweat in the air, the trickle of sunshine on fair skin so unlike his own. The sensation of fingertips gentle as the wind's breath, trails of light down his back.
His lips taste of love.
It is the taste of home.
Two
The numbness persists for weeks. He feels dazed, like in a dream. Burning rage has given way to ice flowing through his veins and he seems unable to do anything but stare at the endless water in front of him. By the time his senses are tingling again with feeling they are far away from London already, more than halfway across the sea towards the New World.
He cannot stop thinking about him.
Three
The letter comes and he does nothing. He feels nothing. Miranda shouts and weeps and exhausts herself in her rage and grief. He holds her but the fingers on her skin aren't his, the voice that whispers useless words in her hair belongs to someone else. He is a strange guest in his own mind, trembling by night, still like a statue by day.
Until he tears them down, the walls around his heart, and builds new ones, stronger and harder than before. He buries it all in a small case inside himself - Thomas' words, the name McGraw, the feeling of what it is like love and be loved, the softness, the willingness to compromise.
No longer.
The world has taken from him and now he will take from it in equal measure.
Four
Becoming captain is remarkably easy. So is commandeering his own ship. It was like he was born to it and he knows Hennessey was right when he talked about the darkness inside him. There is a certain freedom in letting it run rampant and letting it take everything in its path. He knows what he is doing, who he is doing this all for, but there is a part now inside him that rejoices at seeing the blood of men on his planks. He wonders if Thomas' blood was as red as theirs when he choked on the noose he made for himself.
When those thoughts come he goes under deck and drinks until he cannot remember anymore.
Five
Sometimes, the whisper of the sea reminds him of Thomas' voice. But then he knows, it's all but a fantasy, a delusion of his mind that wants to see the dead in everything that is still living. Thomas sounded nothing like the sea, even though in some nights he can see the white dead arms of his corpse beckoning from the waves of the ocean. He wonders whether Miranda can see him too.
He hopes she doesn't.
Six
The looming spectre accompanies him day and night. It is the ghost of Thomas' life, the ghost of his ambitions, of the plans they had together that is draped around his neck like a noose; but if he continues climbing, if he continues moving, it will not tighten, it will not kill him and so he goes on and on. Satisfaction blooms inside him like a rose when he kills Alfred Hamilton and it is the first and the last thing that he has done for Miranda but also for himself, himself alone. It feels good.
Suddenly he is glad Thomas never has to see him like this.
Seven
He can taste the salt of his tears and sweat the moment he kills Gates. A decent man he was; in another lifetime they might have called each other 'friend'. But not here, not now, when the future lies all in shards around him that are cutting his hands bloody. He cradles him and he does not know why, maybe it is because he wishes he could have cradled Thomas' body like this, maybe it is because he wants to stop time to take a moment and scream in the face of fate.
But the corpse lies limp on the ground and time continues flowing.
Eight
Miranda is dead and the world is burning. Inside his heart, inside his soul, all round him, it doesn't matter. Rage consumes everything and burns it all, the walls around him that he has drawn up, Thomas' ghost, the future and the past.
The path in front of him is painted in blood, bright red and clear in his mind.
He is ready.
He always was.