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you won't make a dime on this grey granite mountain mine/
from the dirt you're made and the dirt you will return/
so while we're living here let's get this little one thing clear/
there's plenty of men to die, you won't jump your turn
-"rox in the box", the decemberists
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The first time they sit down at the table eye to eye, Silver’s pulse thrashes like a bird trapped in the cage of his throat. Beside him sits Jack and on his other side is Madi, the true queen of this fragile castle of wood and reeds. Teach is scowling at the tabletop, at his hands, at the canopy overhead.
And Silver watches Flint.
He isn’t looking at him, of course. He has affected good-natured disinterest, a habit, like a man might cross his legs or prop his elbow on a bartop. But he is watching him; every inch of his skin is aware.
That is habit too, in a way. Finding a target to orient himself by—a leader, a mark, the most dangerous person in the room. Flint is all of these things, and yet he isn't. The space he occupies in Silver’s head is utterly unique--pure ether. Whenever he tries to grasp hold of it or bring it closer the thoughts scatter, sliding away like fingertips in fog.
And yet he tries.
For instance, he has concluded—through his thorough understanding of the human condition—that Captain Flint’s morality does not hinge on the goodness or foulness of an act, but on its ability to carry him closer to his goal. Silver has never met anyone so relentless, and so adept at holding a crowd in thrall. And he does it without a hint of personal charm—just sheer will and rhetoric.
Across the table, Flint is watching him too.
When he had told Silver his story, the grooves in Flint’s forehead and at the corners of his mouth had deepened, etched like carvings in stone, the firelight playing across him in bold strokes. He had looked vulnerable in that moment, and Silver had felt a hot flash of euphoria as the pieces of Flint finally fell into a pattern that made sense. Thomas Hamilton had been the thread that held it all together.
Since that night, the weight of Flint’s gaze has changed. Or perhaps it hasn’t, and Silver is simply assigning meaning where none exists, overactive mind forcing patterns from chaos. Flint’s eyes have always been assessing, caution with a healthy edge of disdain. But now Silver suspects there might be something admiring there as well, and that makes him feel…oddly hollow. Echoing and discordant, like a bell that has been struck too hard.
Rackham is talking. With difficulty, Silver drags himself back to the present. It is just more sniping between him and Teach, however, which Silver finds amusing but ultimately uninteresting. He lets his eyes fall to the table. It is round because it was the only one available that was large enough to seat them all and small enough to be maneuvered into the space, but when Flint had seen it the first time, his eyebrows had gone up in amusement.
“Your idea?” he’d asked Rackham.
Rackham had grinned and pulled a loose thread from his sleeve. “Equality. Camaraderie and all that nonsense. No man shall sit above the other.”
It had sounded like a quotation. Silver hadn’t caught the reference, though he could tell Flint did. He himself may be able to commit large blocks of texts to memory and talk a man out of his carriage, coat, and all of his accounts, but there was not much in the way of literature at the orphanage, apart from the Bible.
“I suppose we all know who the real power is here,” Rackham’s voice drifts back in, like he is responding to Silver’s thoughts. Are they still arguing over who will be in charge, should the need ever arise?
The five of them share a glance, passing it around the table, man to man. Flint’s mouth twitches and Madi laughs shortly. “I would wager every man here fancies themselves in charge. This is a meeting of chieftains. I say let it remain so.”
“Although…” Silver says slowly, pulling the others’ attention on to him. Flint’s eyes flick his way, and to his horror he realizes he has nothing else to say. No point, no segue, no plan for a redirection of the conversation. He had simply wanted Flint to look at him. A fierce longing for the days when it was just the two of them fills him, laying their plans together, even though the threat of sudden and nonnegotiable execution was much higher. But he knew where he stood. Here, there are complications. Confusions.
He remembers Flint’s advice from when they had first been the maroons' prisoners. To do what he wills so long as he does't pretend he is seeking the greater good. To lie to everyone, but not to himself.
They are all staring and he has yet to speak.
Abruptly, he stands up. Like any actor who has missed his cue, he flees the stage.
Where is he going? He doesn’t know. He doesn't expect anyone to follow him, and he certainly isn’t prepared for the familiar scent of damp leather and lemon-scented soap, flowing over him and hitting hard in the chest like a physical sensation. Heat furls up from the impact, suffusing his cheeks. Perhaps he should pretend to be ill. Perhaps he is ill.
He cycles through a list of quips and discards them all. He honestly doesn’t know what to say. It occurs to him, with a pang of unease, that Flint may very well believe his odd behavior is a result of the revelation of his relationship with Thomas, the man into whose shadow Silver, however unwittingly, has placed himself.
Everyone who has grown close to Flint has died, by his own hand or not. Silver knows that eventually it may come down to one of them or the other, and…
Ah, and here lies the root of the trouble.
It isn’t the realization of his fascination that unsettles Silver; he is a man like any other, and his desires have always been like the wind, fickle and aimed in many directions. What truly disturbs him is his reliance, his…fondness. The reality that if there comes a time when he has to choose between Flint or himself…well, he will choose himself. That aspect of Silver is immutable. But he will hesitate. He will struggle, he will regret.
What a debauched specimen of a man he is, given unrest at the thought that the slaying of a comrade might trouble his sleep.
“No need to pause the scheming on my account,” he says, the words drifting out of him, as meaningless as any of these worthless thoughts.
“Are you sick or something?”
Silver stiffens. The voice is gruff and humorless, but it is certainly not Flint’s. Silver turns to find Rackam’s girl, Bonny, watching him from beneath the brim of her hat.
A bubble of hysterical amusement blooms in his throat, escaping as a ragged laugh. Idiot. There is no shortage of damp leather here, and they have all been using the same soap. Well. Those of them who bathe have. His willingness to believe that it is Flint who came after him, Flint who needs him back, is evidence of just how much trouble he is in.
“I’m just—yes, sick. No need to worry.”
“Wasn’t worried. Just wondering.” She’s been circling the meeting like a bird of prey, or a sheepdog, eager to keep its charges together. She doesn’t trust the maroons anymore than they trust her.
He returns to the table. “Apologies. Must have been something I ate.”
He doesn't look at Flint, but it’s only a matter of time.