It had all been a whirlwind from start to finish – in the past few days, Thomas could honestly say he felt more alive and human than he had in the past eight years combined. It was terrifying, how all of it had crescendoed into a blazing inferno – as if fire alone could wash away the damaging erosion of time and bring forth from the ashes an untouched whole.
When he had first seen James again, Thomas had lost track of everything he had lost long enough to reach toward the impossible and hold on to it. Touching him, feeling him in his arms had solidified the reality of the man’s presence in ways his visage could not. He was changed – hardened and wild in ways Thomas did not recognize – and as he had watched James and his companion stir the plantation into action, he had felt something in him slip.
It had been so inspiring, so breathtaking to watch those two at work that at first – in the midst of simply having James back, of having something solid and firm to remind himself that he really had existed beyond all this once, that the bitterness had slept in his breast unnoticed. Yet the clearer it became that action would be taken – that James now possessed the ability to set hearts on fire, to weave placid acceptance into a righteous shield with which to hammer the path to freedom, it woke and it bloomed deadly inside of him.
Where had this passion been, when Thomas’ father had sent him to Bedlam? Where was the man who could stir up a riot when Thomas had most needed one to rally? Now – when he had finally reached acceptance of his fate – James swept back into his life with all the force of a hurricane, and with his words tore away the last vistages of an understandable reality.
Thomas had run with the others – there was no desire to linger, no loyalty to speak of to the place that had transformed him into whomever he was now – but there’d been no choice in the flight, either. It was run or perish, and frustrated and impotent as he felt inside, Thomas could at least acknowledge that death was not the window through which he wished to escape just yet.
Choice had not been his for so long, that lamenting the lack of it in the wake of what was meant to be freedom seemed foolish and petty. He had hated the anger inside of himself as surely as he had hated feeling as though he were obligated to be overjoyed at all this, like some swooning maiden rescued from the clutches of a horrible dragon despite years of peace with the beast standing guard over her tower!
Then – to his astonishment – choice was offered to him in the form of Jack Rackham and his most unexpected proposal. Thomas understood the man to be Vane’s quartermaster, and blissfully unaware of the complicated history between himself and the self stylized ‘Captain Flint’ the man had offered him a place aboard the Ranger when everyone had seemed to take it for granted that he would be joining the Walrus. One Captain Flint included.
Since then, Thomas had churned the idea over inside of himself, determining if he wanted this for himself or out of some damning internal need to lash out. In the end, he realized it mattered little – for so long as this anger existed inside of him and the question remained of who he even was anymore, standing in James’ shadow would only poison the good in their memories and leave them holding on to ashes in the wake of this blaze.
It was with this conviction that he reached out and gently laid a hand upon a stubbled jaw that had once been so intimately familiar, his lips could recall its secrets in silent moments of sinful reflection. His thumb traced beneath a devastated gaze that tore him asunder, but he did not grant himself the mercy to look away. He had to accept the damage here, as surely as he must face his own.
“I have to, James,” He could not bring himself to use any other name or title, not in a moment so dire as this. “Too much – there is too much I must come to terms with, to go with you right now. I have an opportunity to find myself again,” His gaze was imploring as he quietly withdrew his hand, “I will not forget that I have you to thank for that – but I cannot promise that in finding myself I will return to you. I will not leave you with that false hope.”
It was cruel, the depth of those honest words, and he felt sick with himself for them. He had to step back, to keep himself from crumbling, from taking hold of James and apologizing, throwing himself back into this without giving himself a goddamn chance, if it meant easing the hurt in that man’s face.
“I am so sorry,” His voice wavered, and he knew there was no denying that this was affecting him too. “It’s been eight years,” He managed in a final act of placation – for himself or James, he could not say. “What’s a little more time, in the face of that?”
Ocean Archive 