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Stede came back. He was always going to come back, he just needed to think about things, first.
Leaving and thinking about things had seemed like a good idea. So many things had changed. The wake up, for one—not a guard—and the bullet, for another—not Stede's, but Chauncey's—and Ed, who had changed too, although maybe not that much.
Perhaps Stede had changed. That would be something to think about.
There were other things, too. Other truths that started before the wake up and the bullet, that no one had dared to say out loud. Not even Lucius, who appeared now quite comfortable addressing the things that no one else and most especially Stede didn’t want to look at head-on—it had turned out rather well, until now when it had all fallen apart. Lucius and the rest of the crew knowing the things that Stede didn’t know, and doing something with those things they knew, and letting Stede come to know them too. Or at least try to. Or at least pretend to.
Ed did that, too, of course.
The converse was also true. If the crew didn’t know something and Stede did, there was no reason or justification to ignore it. The crew wasn't here so they didn’t know about this body. Goodness, they barely knew about the last body, even though they thought they did.
Stede knew about both bodies. And he knew about himself. And he knew about his family, a brief enough walk away on a chilly, desperate night, if you had nowhere else to turn, or too many ways to turn.
The Revenge.
The Navy.
China.
Ed.
That was why Stede had to go away.
So that no one else ended up dead.
And so that Stede could think about things.
Everyone would be fine without him. Everyone always was, eventually. It would be sad, to start with—Stede himself lay in bed with his wife to do his thinking, and felt the sort of sad that was hard to put words to. It was a gross, sour, poisonous sort of feeling in his throat and chest that later spun him into a despicable and unearned panic when Fettering mentioned Ed’s name, and no one was there this time to pull him out of the spiral with a sure hand a little higher on his arm than his elbow and a story ready to go about this one-eyed girl I met once, fuckin hell, the guns on her, mate, you wouldn't believe it if I—
Other people might be sad for a little while, it would be a shame, but they would move on quickly enough. Stede wasn’t so foolish or so arrogant as to think Ed had told him untruths on that sunset beach, but that didn’t mean it was Ed’s only not-untruth. He had his own crew. He had Stede’s, if he wanted. And he had a guy’s dinghy to get to them. Ed would be fine.
And one day Stede would come back.
Going away and thinking about things didn’t seem like a good idea anymore. Not from where he stood on deck watching the door sweep silently open, pulling him below like a yawn, and not from the steps that led him there. Not with half an inch of seawater underfoot as he drew deeper into the belly of the ship: not a hungry space, but a wasting one.
Ed, Stede mouthed quietly from the bench without actually saying it. Ed.
There was nowhere else to go, and nothing left to think about.
Hard to sit in silence though.
The groundwater was soaking his slippers, and the crew was clapping and laughing on deck.
Stede tried out some questions in his head, as practice. Questions like you’re so thin, have you been eating? and didn’t you get my letters? not even one? and I missed you, dear. And when did you give up. And why did you give up. And don't let this be the last time I look at you. The last time I touch you. Your lovely face. Your hair. Your mouth.
At last when he felt brave enough, Stede whispered, “Why’d you have to go and get yourself killed?”
As if Ed might wake up to explain.
Of course that was a fool’s hope. If Stede had been here then he wouldn’t have had to ask, and that was answer enough.