Chapter Text
We do what we need to be free
And it leans on me like a rootless tree
It was past midnight and the reflection of the moon danced and shivered upon the surface of the sea. The world looked like a blur of dim lights and darkened, lumpy shapes.
Captain James Flint stood on the deck for no apparent reason whatsoever. The Walrus was anchored in the port of Nassau and, except the two sentinels he had placed on the ship, the men were all ashore, presumably enjoying the company of Dyonisus and Aphrodites. Well deserved indulgences, too - they had been at sea for a very long time, chasing after prizes and well-kept secrets, Flint always pushing them right on the edge of their breaking point. He knew that he wouldn't have been able to keep their loyalty for much longer, not like that. They were going to start mumbling in discontent behind his back and sooner or later someone among the crew was going to doubt and question his authority, his captaincy.
Maybe it had already started.
That was partly why they had returned to Nassau and were going to be anchored there for a couple of days at least - the men had been growing tired and fatigued and Mr Gates had not so subtly suggested that he gave them a fucking break, for fuck's sake.
Actually, there were a lot of reasons for the Walrus to be there that night: the one that had been used as the official reason (and that was also the one furthest from the truth), which was to unload what they had taken and settle business with Miss Guthrie; the second one, which Flint supposed to be a bit closer to the truth, being that the men needed to set their feet on the ground and smell the sweet, inebriating scent of a woman (so they said); and ultimately, there was that deep, intimate reason that truly had driven Flint back to Nassau, the one that nobody need ever know: Miranda.
They had been away for a very long time, and every second had been excruciatingly increasing the dull ache produced by the absence of a fundamental piece.
He didn't have any home anymore, nor any faith in either God or Man. Ha didn't have hope and he could find no peace or solace anywhere.
He didn't have anything left of the man he used to be and the happiness he used to feel - he had only Miranda.
When they had lost their home, their love and their peace, she had done the only thing she could to honour what their lives had been and try to keep them anchored to their truest and best selves: she had become his home, she had given him love and her warm embrace had become the only place where he could find a precious moment of peace.
He had missed her more acutely than ever, this time: it had come to a point where he could not focus on much other than the constant nagging thought of her absence (which was no good for his plan, no good at all, especially not at such a crucial point).
He needed to see her, talk to her, just be with her - he needed her. Otherwise, he would just drown.
But even so, now that he was finally back in Nassau, he couldn't even bring himself to get off of his fucking ship.
He sighed, feeling frustrated at himself.
He knew why it was like that. He knew why he had such a desperate need for Miranda, and why, at the same time, it was suddenly so difficult and the mere thought of seeing her and telling her everything that had been going on in his mind scared him away.
Because there was no way of omitting anything: he would tell Miranda everything, every last little thought hidden in the far away dusty corners of his mind.
That was just the way it was between them, the way it had always been. For him, with her there was simply no hodling back, no need nor any desire to. It was a strange feeling for a man like him, but a refreshing one noenetheless. He was well aware that his relationship with Miranda, the deep love and understanding they shared, was what had saved him countless times.
And yet, right at that moment, confronting Miranda felt like both something he wanted incredibly bad and, at the same time, something that scared him without mercy.
This kind of thoughts was what was keeping him, sleepless and restless, on the silent deck of the Walrus. Only the creaking of the wood kept him company, and the sporadic rustle of the wind over the calm sea. Besides these slight sounds, it was just him standing under the unforgiving white moonlight.
James Flint sighed deeply as he looked up at the stars and saw nothing but inconsequential spots of light tightly buried in the vast depth of the night sky. The stars were something that he needed to navigate, a tool as any other that he used in order to achieve his ends. Other than that, they had lost all meaning in his eyes.
Someone who might have met him in his present life and know nothing of his previous one might have been surprised upon knowing this, but, curiously enough, he uused to love the stars. He would look up with clear, enamored eyes and name all the constellations, one by one, as if they were dear and intimate friends. Of course, that was a long time ago - another life, led by another man on another continent. Very little was left of that time - and as for what little still lingered, most of the time it was too painful to face anyway.
The sky above him was growing oppressively darker.
James Flint knew that he could postpone no longer. With a last, lingering glance, he turned his back to the open sea and made to get off of his ship.
**
The further away you get from the sea, the more peaceful the night feels - at least, such was the impression he had always gotten. But maybe his perception was tainted by prejudice and by the dark events in his life that he linked with the sea, for one reason or another. Maybe it was simply because he fucking hated the bloody sea.
As he approached Miranda's house in the darkness, llike a moth drawn by the light shining within and the promise of warmth that it held, he briefly wondered if he would ever be able to turn his back to the sea for good.
He knew that he wanted to, but he also knew very well that so frequently what stands between a man and the fulfillment of his deepest desires is that man himself. And he also knew that he would never be able to rest until he had accomplished what he had set out to do. At this point, it was no longer a goal or an ambition, not even a mission: it was a feverish obsession that consumed him from within.
How many times had Miranda called him out on that? He had lost count.
He knew that she was right (was she ever completely in the wrong about anything, after all?), and yet he could not bring himself to do anything but stubbornly press on along this hellish path of his.
Oh, Miranda.
He could now hear the faint melody of the piano coming from within the house - she must have heard of the Walrus returning and was waiting for him - waiting for as long as he needed to finally find his way back to her. Because, no matter what, they both knew perfectly well that that was the way it was always going to be: no matter how far away he might push himself, he would always come back to her and she would always be waiting for him.
That was a small but fundamental consolation in such lives as theirs - or rather, what had become of their lives.
Mustering what little courage he still could through his sleep-deprived mind and fatigued body, Flint dragged himself to the door and gently pushed it open. Whenever he was near Miranda, all the display of strength and authority he had to maintain in front of his crew simply crumbled: he was again only a scarred man, clay in her loving and firm hands, with wounds that had yet to heal and may never completely do so.
He leaned against the doorframe as he took in the warmly lit room, and there she was - sitting by the piano, her back to him; her hair was tied up in a simple and elegant braid, a plain cream coloured dress making her skin look soft and delicate. She must have heard the door, for she stopped playing but still didn't turn around. She must have known it was him - and who else would come to her at such an ungodly hour, unannounced?
"Finally, you've come."
It was not a reproach, her voice was gentle as always, and yet Flint could hear in it a slightly strained undertone. Miranda was suffering from their situation much more than he was - or rather, in a different way: while he could give himself completely to action and forget himself in the process at least for a while, she had nothing here, nothing but her solitude and a house full of dull mementos of a much brighter life. Flint knew this, and yet he usually chose not to aknowledge it in any way, not even to himself, because he didn't know that he could do anything to make it better for her. He had committed himself to an end and to see that end accomplished he was willing to do whatever it took. He didn't want to drag Miranda into this, but he knew that she would never leave his side, whatever the cost. From where he stood, there was no way out of this, which made things even more painful than they already were or than they needed to be.
"I'm here", he said softly, for lack of anything better to say. She deserved better, but he didn't know how to give it to her. Every day he thought about it and every day he felt like he was failing her a little bit more.
As an answer to his words, Miranda turned around and gave him a soft smile, with only a barely visible touch of something akin to sadness.
They stood there for a precious moment, just looking into each other's eyes and letting the relief of the other's presence wash away a few of their cares.
"Come inside," Miranda finally said, her melodious voice light as a feather in the night air. "Let's go to bed, you must be so very tired."
Flint smiled thankfully to her and let himself be engulfed by the feeling of safety and warmth which emanated from anything that in some way held Miranda's touch.
The bed looked softer than he remembered, white covers neatly folded and plush pillows making up the most inviting sight James had seen in a while.
With a contempted sigh, he let his body sink into the mattress and inhaled the fresh scent, clean linen with a pleasant note of lavender. For the first time in ages, he felt like he had finally come home. He must have spoken that last thought out loud, because out of the corner of his eye he saw Miranda smile as she lay down beside him. He turned to face her, her dark eyes shining in the shadows, reflecting what little moonlight filtered through the window. James lifted a hand to her face and traced gentle fingertips over the curve of her eyebrow, the straight slope of her nose, the little swell of her lips; he caressed her cheek and her neck and finally stilled his hand over her left shoulder and let it rest there. Miranda sighed and let her eyelids flutter shut under those gentle touches.
"Your hands have grown so rough," she whispered.
"My hands have always been rough."
"I know, but they used to be less rough. Like many other things about you."
James didn't answer: he had nothing to say that could be good enough.
"You know, this doesn't have to be the exception," Miranda continued, opening her eyes and looking straight at James' in that peculiar way of hers, the one that instantly made him feel ready to do anything she wanted, to climb up the sky and take the moon for her if that was what she desired. "We could go away from Nassau and build a new life somewhere. We could simply go, find a way to have a pardon granted to you, live quietly and away from the sea, from politics and from wars. We could. We could build a new home for ourselves."
She looked both hopeful and resigned: she already knew his answer - she had always known his answer - but nevertheless she always tried and never completely gave up on the idea of the two of them finding some peace and rest, together.
James appreciated this, he really did, but at the same time it forced him to answer and state every time the reasons why he could not do what she asked of him, and that was painful.
"Miranda," he started, keeping his tone gentle and soft. "You know how much I hate seeing you unhappy. How much I would want things to be different - were I another kind of man, had I ever been another kind of man, we would have this possibility you imagine for us: a new life, away from everything that has destroyed our previous one, away from painful memories and burdening duties. I envy the kind of man that could do this, but I cannot become that man. All I can do is press on along this path and fight with everything I've got to see our dream become reality. Our dream, Miranda. Ours. I cannot give up on everything we have done so far, and most of all I cannot give up on that which brought us together and changed our lives forever. I cannot. It is my duty, it is my burden and it is my privilege. And I know that you are suffering, here alone, but I promise you, we are so very close. I can do this, Miranda. Please, trust me. I need to know you are by my side... otherwise, I'm just another thief with no hope of redemption."
With sadness in her eyes, Miranda held out her arms and threw them around his neck, bringing him closer to her heart.
She rested her foreheads together as she spoke softly.
"He wouldn't want you to suffer so much, you know it. Sometimes, I don't understand anymore if you're doing this because you believe in it, or if it is your way to atone for some guilt that you feel burdening your soul. But I do know this: he wouldn't want you to bury yourself so deep in such darkness that you would struggle more each time to come back into the light. And I don't want you to do that either."
James closed his eyes against the sudden, sharp surge of pain he felt biting through his soul and body.
"Please, do not tell me what he would want. You cannot know it, there is no way of knowing it because he is dead. There's only you and me here, Miranda."
His voice was shaking with so many suppressed feelings that it would have taken him ages to name each one of them, and still he would have probably fallen short.
Miranda fell silent for a moment; when she spoke again, her voice was sweet and soothing.
"He is still with us, James. You know it, you feel it. Don't let the pain overwhelm all the goodness and wash away all the happy memories - all the love."
"He's gone!", James burst out, louder than he had meant to.
He felt Miranda's arms tense around him.
"I didn't mean to --", he fumbled, unsure as to how to continue. "I -- It's just too much, sometimes."
Silence stretched between them, and it felt so long and tense.
Finally, James was the one to break it.
"I've been having nightmares. They have gotten worse again, just like right after -- Just like when we first came here. I keep seeing him in that awful place, and I try to go near him but I can't move, and I try to call for him but my voice is too feeble. Other times, I manage to make myself heard, but he just looks at me with empty eyes and does not know me."
He could feel himself shake in every fiber of his being, and only when Miranda wiped a gentle hand on his cheek did he realise that he had started crying.
"Other times -- the worst times -- I am the one who does not recognise him. I pass him in the street and he stops me and calls my name and I know that I should know him but I don't..."
His words were cut off abruptly by a sob that wrecked his whole body and gave way to many more. He hid his face in the crook of Miranda's neck and let himself give in completely to the pain. She just held him silently, rubbing circles on the back of his neck, every now and then placing feathery kisses on his temple.
As the sobs subsided and were replaced by silent tears, she moved her hands to tilt his chin upwards and get him to face her.
"James," she began, and her tone was loving and firm, like that of a mother. "You need to forgive yourself for this guilt you are placing upon your shoulders. You cannot keep torturing your mind like this... It was not your fault, do you hear me? Please listen to me, please believe me -- it was not you fault."
James was looking at her but his eyes were lost far away from that house, far away from Nassau and the Bahamas and the unforgiving sea.
"Sometimes, I feel so much pain that I'm afraid I could burst into flames at any moment and let the fire consume me inside out. And I try to keep it all at bay, busying myself with action, but when I am alone it still hurts like the very first day. And I miss him, Miranda. I miss him every second of every day and every night, I miss him in every way. Don't you miss him like that? Like the very heart had been torn from your body? Like every breath is scorching salt water? Don't you miss him like that?"
He could feel the tears again, hot against his cheeks, accentuating the pain evident in his cracked whispers.
"Of course I do, my love. Of course I do."
She held him tenderly with the force of a woman who has lost everything but still can fill her heart with the purest love.
"At night, when I close my eyes, alone, I still feel the touch of his body on mine, I can still smell the scent of his skin, I can still hear his quiet laughs and loving whispers. I feel him but when I open my eyes, he is never there. It's driving me mad, Miranda. I am going mad with grief."
Miranda sighed sorrowfully and cradled his face in her hands. It felt like only her gentle touch could hold him together, if only for a moment, precariously balanced right on the edge of the abyss. She slowly leaned in and softly brushed her lips on his.
James felt like the only way to breathe was through that kiss; he opened his lips ever so slightly and wished he could get lost in that sweetness and warmth, and never come out of it ever again.
They parted after a few minutes of slow lips and loving touches; on their faces, small tentative smiles through tears that had mixed together.
James gave her one last fleeting kiss on the corner of her mouth and once again buried his face in the crook of her neck.
"I love you", he murmured into the warm skin of her shoulder, hoping that it could be enough.
Miranda held him tighter against her heart and didn't say a word, letting silence settle over them like a merciful blanket.