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You can’t cheat fate. You can try as you might to avoid a destiny which is set in stone, but it will catch up to you eventually.
Barbossa mused to himself sat in the captain’s quarters of the Queen Anne’s Revenge. Last he was here it was bright, oddly comforting, the candles casting an almost serene glow on the stacks upon stacks of books researching fate, telling of different things to leave out or consume which increased your chances on avoiding an uncomfortable end. Now it felt cold, the stacks now telling of a tragedy. Hector had learnt to live with his impending death, learnt to cherish every moment he had left on this planet after his own demise on Isla De Muerta. Memento mori, he thought to himself idly. He had often repeated those ideas to Blackbeard after the two had joined in the search for the Fountain of Youth, eager to beat Jack Sparrow. The man had huffed, insisting on changing the subject.
Blackbeard was a man consumed by superstition. The quartermaster had told him that he would succumb to the blade of a one legged man and he lived in constant fear, well concealed in a gentle but constant tap on his thigh as he maintained his calm and collected facade. Barbossa had grown to know to the man well over the months they travelled together, and the slow descension into intimacy seemed just so right at the time. Two captains of their infamy, working together? They were nigh unstoppable.
Through their intimacy, Hector only learnt how much deeper the man’s superstitions went. Hector took sailors tales more seriously now than when he was a lad, being redheaded and often being told he would bring bad luck upon voyages. He had became so lax on the subject of superstition from being considered a bad luck charm his whole life that he didn’t heed the warning of the Aztec gold, realising through that experience that some tales bore a truth to them. One evening Edward had gently braided a strand of Hector’s hair, insisting that braids countered the bad luck - Angelica also had a braid in her hair for similar reasons. Hector hadn’t heard of that one before, presuming it was something the man’s daughter had made up in order to guarantee herself passage with such a superstitious crew. He gradually learnt to live with these preventative measures - Edward insisted that Hector got a pig and a chicken tattooed on his feet to match his own as a preventative drowning measure and Hector had laughed and accepted. He would also help the man hang hot cross buns in the galley to protect against fire - he didn’t encourage the superstitions, but wouldn’t shut them down either, going along with whatever Edward wanted. For the first time in his life he was so in love that he was happy to live with it.
Until Hector returned from one outing with a lost leg. He had limped into the captain’s quarters upon his return, deep anguish in his features and a deep yearning to just be held hidden in his battle worn expression - any form of comfort from the man he had grown to love.
Blackbeard had been mortified. His obsession with his prophecy too strong, apparently stronger than his love for Barbossa. At the sight of his stump Blackbeard had chased him off the ship with the sword of Triton, the latter barely escaping with his life. He had felt so deeply betrayed at the time, so angry that betraying his own distinct moral compass by turning himself in to the King and becoming a privateer hadn’t seemed such a big deal.
When he had bumped into Jack several times along the way his heart had ached, hearing of the man he still couldn’t shake his love for only further confusing his condition. He didn’t know what he was going to do when he encountered him, but telling Jack he wanted to run his blade through the man’s heart seemed to come too easy. When they finally crossed blades it was everything but easy.
Blackbeard had fought hard, still set in his belief that Barbossa had a scheme up his sleeve. Convincing him seemed so futile that at one point Barbossa had given up, his heart aching too much for him to continue this battle. He had dropped his blade, fallen on his back, and insisted that the man strike him down. After all, being deceased would be far easier than living a lifetime knowing the man he loved would forever be convinced that he was trying to kill him.
Blackbeard had paused then, a moment of clarity seeming to finally pass through his thick skull, the bastard. Barbossa thought back on that moment fondly - the way it seemed to finally click that he had all he needed before him - what good were prophecies and destiny when you had met someone who cared for you to such a degree? He had knelt before Barbossa then, slowly moving towards him before a blade slid home through his stomach, making him gasp out loudly.
Barbossa still remembered the feeling of wet blood flooding his hand as he clutched at Blackbeard desperately - the dark red staining his perfectly white privateers attire. His eyes had burned, his nose pressed into the man’s hair. Blackbeard - Edward - had clung to him in his final moments, looking deep into his soul with bloodshot eyes. He had struggled to utter out a sorry, Barbossa’s trembling lips on his before he could finish.
There had been a man at the fountain they had not considered - a man with the Spanish military. A man with one leg.
And wasn’t Edward such a fool? If they had remained together, both remained vigilant, surely they would’ve spotted him together? The obsessive man had been so focussed on his unnecessary fear of Barbossa that he hadn’t considered that there could be another threat.
He had cried that day - ugly tears spilling into Edward’s matted hair. He held him close, so close he could feel the slowing of his heart rate as he passed on. If only the damned bastard had trusted him. If only.
The Spaniards had completely destroyed the chalices, and so with no sign of any revival of the man he bitterly loved he wept, hands running almost hysterically up and down his cold, rubbery skin.
No one had spoken to him since.
He was idly flicking through one of Edward’s open books on his desk, one page catching his eye - a page talking about how you shouldn’t trust a redhead, about how they’re a bad omen-
His knife hit the page with a loud thud. He stood and hobbled towards the balcony, breathing in the sea spray deeply. One last lingering look at the island fading off into the distance was all he allowed himself. One more shed of a tear, and as it curled into his beard he stood a little straighter, turning and marching towards the helm. It bode ill to linger, and he had places to be.