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It’s been two days, and Israel hasn’t seen much of Edward, though whether by happenstance or Edward’s design, he’s not sure.
There have been short glances, passing nods on deck, but it’s not until the second night, when Israel goes to scrape his dinner plate, that Teach approaches him.
“Mr. Hands, are you willing to train again tonight?”
The formal way he’s used to the younger boys talking to him sounds strange now, stilted coming out of Ed’s mouth. Something about hearing the man moan Israel just before he came (and the way that he’d replayed those sounds over and over in his head as he lay in bed last night) seems to have inconveniently altered the way Israel reacts to hearing him speak. He clears his throat.
“That will be fine,” he says. “Meet me on deck in one hour.” Israel doesn’t make eye contact and Edward only hums quietly in acknowledgement before wandering away.
“Come on, Teach, you’re losing your head.”
They’ve been sparring for nearly forty minutes now, and Israel hasn’t moved from the same three-foot radius all night. Edward’s been circling him for close to sixty seconds without making any move to attack, and while a less trained eye might think he was calculating his next angle, Israel could tell his opponent was just buying time to covertly catch his breath.
Edward goes to strike again, trying to catch Israel off guard by leaving his swordarm dangling loosely until the last second, when he goes to slice at Israel’s left leg. He doesn’t bother trying to block the hit, simply stepping out of the sword’s path before it can make contact.
Teach has been more reluctant to ask for guidance tonight, and Israel hasn’t offered any. He’d brushed off the preparatory drills at the outset and asked to spar again right away, and Israel figured the lad needed to get the overconfidence borne of his recent victory out of his system before he’d be ready to absorb any more lessons. Without bothering to go on the offensive, Israel’s been letting him wear himself out for the better part of half an hour, knowing that anything he says right now will go in one ear and out the other.
When his latest attack is unsuccessful, Teach lets out a growl of frustration, sweat beading on his forehead and rolling down to stain the neck of his dark shirt. His hair is tied up messily with a few pins, and Israel considers the way the damp curls stick to the back of his neck. He allows himself a moment to admire the long line of Edward’s neck as it slopes down towards his bunched trapezius muscles, angulated by the leather cord of his necklace that disappears under his clothes. The cool breeze coming off the sea as she sparkles under a waxing moon, combined with the relative lack of exertion, have kept Israel comfortable in his own heavy leathers.
Israel lets his opponent suffer for a few moments more before taking pity on him. He lunges at Teach forcing him to stumble backwards in his surprise that Israel has finally attacked. Edward manages to block the first few swings weakly, but Israel knows he’s tired and refuses to give him even a moment of reprieve until the tip of his dull cutlass catches just beyond where Edward’s fingers clutch the grip of his own sword. An upward jerk of Israel’s wrist sends the weapon flying out of the boy’s hand and clattering to the deck a few feet away.
Edward says nothing, simply drops his hands to rest on his knees, bowing his head as he sucks in a few deep gulps of air. When he finally looks up at his teacher, Israel gives the slightest raise of his dark brow as he asks, “Now, are you ready to listen to me?”
Teach’s eyes narrow, but a spark in his gaze belies the frustrated expression on his face. The corner of his open, panting mouth twitches upward as he says, “Yes sir, Mr. Hands.”
Israel pulls out the old glass rum bottle he keeps around to carry drinking water and takes a long, slow draught. He can feel Edward’s eyes tracking him, but he doesn’t give the man the satisfaction of looking back. Feeling uncharacteristically generous, he hands Ed the bottle when he’s gulped down half of its contents. Ed finishes the water, giving an exaggerated “Ah” when he’s through.
“So, what did you do wrong?”
“Agreed to spar with the fucking ghost of Donny McBane, for starters,” Ed retorts.
Israel shoots him an unimpressed look. “You were relying on strength rather than technique. It doesn’t matter how hard you swing if you give your opponent three days’ notice to step out of the way.” Israel points to a spot near the center of the main deck. “Stand here.”
He lines up beside Edward and goes through each of the moves they’d practiced in the two months prior, now instructing him on how to avoid telegraphing his movements, to keep his opponent off-balance.
“Good. Now try them on me,” Israel says as he turns to face Edward. “Attack number one.”
The two men go through each attack angle in sequence several times, Israel choosing to ignore the frustrated huffs of breath from Edward when he’s told to start over, until he is satisfied with the lad’s progress.
“Much improved, Teach. Now we’ll try to spar again. Attack as you’ve just learned, I’ll only defend. Begin.”
Israel blocks the first three attacks easily and barks out, “It’s your eyes, Teach, you’re looking directly where you’re going to strike as you decide on it. Look at my face, and don’t take your eyes off me. Again.”
This time, when Edward swings horizontally at his right side, Israel isn’t quick enough to block the attack, and the edge of Ed’s cutlass contacts the tender flesh of his waist. Israel gives him a small nod of approval, and as Edward breaks out in a self-satisfied grin and opens his mouth to talk, Israel smirks back and smacks down hard with the butt of his sword, narrowly avoiding smashing Ed’s fingers as he knocks the weapon to the ground.
“What the hell, man, I– ”
“You looked away, let your guard down because you thought you’d won. You haven’t won until I tell you I yield or I stop breathing. Again.”
When Ed hits his mark, this time the outside of Israel’s left knee, Israel pauses and waits, assessing. The practice swords they’re using aren’t quite sharp enough to hurt each other accidentally, but Ed holds the toe of the blade carefully anyway, putting only the barest pressure on the tendon that runs down from his thigh. True to his instructions, Edward’s determined gaze hasn’t wavered from Israel’s face. His feet remain a solid foundation in the dueling stance Israel had drilled into him over the weeks prior, and the muscles in his arms remain taught, his free hand at the ready to defend his open side.
“So, you gonna yield, Hands?” Ed challenges, softly, aware of the casual attention the crewmembers on night watch tend to give their little lessons. “Or do you want me to make you stop breathing?”
Israel looks at Ed for another long moment, darting his gaze back and forth between each of the dark brown eyes opposite him, before drawing back, his feet in line and his arms falling down by his sides.
“I yield. Good work tonight, Teach. I have second watch, so we’ll end early.” Israel sheaths the training sword in his empty scabbard, his usual weapons waiting for him in his room.
Edward gives him a searching look as he passes, and Israel notices the way his fingers twitch where they hang by his hip, as though he wants to reach out. Israel walks briskly down to his rooms to change for the watch and doesn’t look back.
Israel leans against the railing along the forecastle, gazing out over the calm, black sea. His loose green shirt billows around him, freed from the confines of the leathers he wears during the day. His hair has worked its way loose of the black ribbon he uses to tie it back while he works, and the straight brown strands blow aimlessly as he faces into the wind.
He doesn’t mind night watch; the lack of boisterous noise from a crew that’s excited or mutinous, drinking, laughing, fighting, or fucking as the day’s mood may have it, it allows him to devote his full attention to the simple task, entering a tranquil state more restful than any sleep his ancient bedroll would allow.
His mind tends to drift on these quiet nights, memories visiting him on waves of nostalgia or melancholy, as fleeting and irrelevant now as those which break against the bow of the ship below him.
Memories surface from the couple of years he spent in one of the few Catholic preparatory schools left in England, before his father died and took the family’s source of meager income with him;
Of his sisters, born not long after Israel but on their way into the world taking both their mother’s health and the little joy she still carried;
Of the hot, smoky warehouses of his later youth, disreputable for being the only kind which would employ boys of thirteen who looked barely ten;
Of the way his full name looked signed on the yellowed paper of the contract which enrolled him in the King’s Navy on his sixteenth birthday, committing him to crossing the Atlantic with little chance of ever returning, but with a small advance for his mother and the promise of more to come, to keep his little sisters’ bellies full in his absence;
Of the fateful day he saw his commanding officer slaughtered just feet in front of him, when Israel was given the choice to die or take up the life of the slaughterer.
He’s pulled from his musings as he senses another presence. Edward moves forward and leans against the railing as well, mere inches from where his own elbows rest.
After a few beats of silence, Edward says, “Did you ever learn to read the stars?”
“Polaris, Sirius – enough to navigate with the charts in a pinch.”
Truthfully, Israel had never been a particularly skilled navigator, nor was he destined to be a great naval tactician. He has ambition, wouldn’t have made it this long without it, but his ambition is to command the necessary respect to survive, to remain at a level above the very bottom of the pecking order. He could give orders, often used the rasp of his voice and his natural talent for putting the fear of God into inexperienced and often lazy sailors, but he doesn’t relish being in charge.
Edward hums quietly. “Love learning about the stars. My mother, when I was young, told me all the myths, all the stories behind the names of the constellations. Fucking weird coming out to sea to find that most people know Cassiopeia and her daughter for their magnitudes and sidereal angle and not as a warning about trying to rise above your place in life.”
Israel doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.
Eventually Edward turns to look at him. “I’m going to be a captain one day.”
The utter confidence in his voice is unsurprising to Israel, who holds his gaze out over the horizon just barely beginning to lighten, imperceptible to anyone who hasn’t been observing its unchanging, inky blackness for hours on end.
“I’m going to be a captain, and you could come with me.”
There’s a note of youthful hope in Edward’s voice as he continues staring at Israel’s profile in the dim light of the watch lantern.
“Captain Edward Teach and First Mate Israel Hands. That doesn’t quite work. Israel Hands, First Mate Hands…Hands-y? First Mate Handsy? Now that would get us a reputation fast.” Ed chuckles at his own joke, and it’s abundantly clear that he’s rambling, trying to get his stalwart companion to crack a smile. “So not Handsy. Israel, then, or Iz? Izzy? That could work. Captain Teach and his fearsome first mate, the Dread Pyrate Izzy Hands.”
“Izzy’s a girl’s name.”
“It won’t be when you’re done with it, Izzy Hands. Bet there’s never been another pirate ship second-in-command named Izzy. Puts you on the map right away, now, doesn’t it?”
Israel doesn’t have any way to refute that, but he’s not done being contrary. “Captain Eddie suit you then, as well?”
“Nah, Eddie doesn’t sound intimidating enough,” Edward huffs and looks back out over the sea. “I’m going to be the king of the sea, can’t be walking around as Eddie. Gotta come up with something better, something worthy of a legend. Like Black Sam, or Black Cesar, or something. A lot of Black-somebody names, huh? Though I guess White Ed doesn’t sound very scary, now does it?”
Israel has fought valiantly to keep a straight face in spite of Teach’s goading efforts, but “White Ed” gets to him, and his stern façade cracks. Ed guffaws in obvious delight and punches him in the arm. A mess of black curls fans out around his head and halos his face, the moonlight shining bright behind him.
“I knew you were a real person under all that surly wax!”
“Well, you’ve got plenty of time to figure out your Captain’s name, given how far you have left to go if you hope to become a swordsman worth his salt,” Israel drawls. “Though a word to the wise, do it quietly. Burns and Davis are stirring up enough rumors of mutiny without you going around spreading the word that you’re looking for a vacant Captain’s position,” he warns with a drop of real concern settling hard and queasy in his stomach.
Edward brushes him off, saying, “Oh don’t worry so much, Izzy. There’s no way I’d want to run a ship full of useless ingrates like Jack Rackham and the rest of this lot. No, I’m going to build my own fleet, my own empire. And I’m taking you with me, Izzy, just you wait and see.”
He gives Ed a real smile for that one, the far corner of his lips just barely twitching upwards. Ed’s eyes shine with unfettered optimism, an utter surety that his plans will work out, that the world will structure itself to accommodate him. If anyone could reshape the world, bend the sea to his will, he thinks it probably is this glowing, insane boy in front of him.
“I suppose I will. Not much else to be doing while we all wait for a bloody death.”
“Speak for yourself, old man – legendary pirate captains don’t die. And I probably get a plus one at the immortality party, so if you want in on it, you’d better start sucking up to me now,” Ed says with a cheeky wink.
They look back out over the bow of the ship, and after a moment Ed yawns.
“You should get some sleep. I’m not taking it easy on you in training just because you were too hard-headed to rest up when you had the chance.”
“Sure, sure, Izzy. Us young folks can sleep when we’re dead, but I’ll give you time to practice your threatening sneer. You’ll need it perfect by the time you’re my First Mate.”
As Ed turns to leave, this time he does reach out, brushes his fingers over an elbow, quick as lightning and gone before he can really register the touch.
Edward slips below deck as Izzy turns his eyes up to the stars, and the memories of his life before this, before Edward, leave him be for the rest of his watch.