“Of course you did,” There is no mockery in his tone – nor scorn, or even anger as he looks up at the man whom the saints themselves would point to when asked for a definition of marking the road to hell in good intentions. “That’s the problem with angry dreamers – they tend to build their own nightmares.”
Raising his tankard in salute, he took a long drink before setting it back on the table and waving for Flint to sit down and join him. There is no fear, despite the way in which they had parted ( there were nights when his mind replayed it, nights when he wasn’t able to maneuver enough and catch the man’s throat with a forceful blow from his elbow, and the results were never all that pleasant ) and although it had been almost a year now, Hal seemed content to act as though nothing had changed.
And in essence, nothing had. Flint was still chasing an impossible dream because there was too much pain in him to swallow and war was easier to face than grief. Guthrie had still been latched on to the strongest man in town like a fucking barnacle, convinced that manipulating stronger and more connected people meant she was the one with all the power. Fat lot of good it did her when the Spanish came calling again.
Max and Jack were still, arguably, the smartest and most business savvy people on the entire fucking island, and Anne was still by far the scariest – which Hal could only assume was the reason none of them were present at this particular gathering of force. Everything else was in some state of for Flint or against Flint which was pretty much par for the course if not for the scale of it all now.
And that, right there, was the only real difference – how many people were dead along the way and how many people rallied now that piracy itself had martyrs by the names Vane and Blackbeard. No. Nothing had changed in Nassau beyond the fucking body count and who was taking tally of the corpses this time – but the world. The world was shifting, and somehow, against all fucking odds, Flint was standing at the dead center of the storm.
“Interesting choice in quartermaster,” He observed flatly, wondering how in the hell the thief even worked into that position with all that was stacked against him. And if Flint had somehow not picked up on the fact he was unimpressed by the choice, his next words might prove a fucking clue.
“My ship leaves the harbor in an hour. We’re not lingering more than that,” After Silver’s little showdown with Julius, Hal honestly didn’t see anything here that would prove profitable for him or his men. “We’ll take those who have no desire to fight this war with you, but I’m not saying anything for or against this venture.” The not yet, anyway, hung heavily in the air. If Flint wanted Hal to pick up a stake in this fight – this was his one, and only opportunity to do it.
Ocean Archive 