Horatio could not have said how long he had stood looking out over the sea as the waves crashed in against the cliffside. He had known that between Napoleon and Tia Dalma his hands would be sure to mire themselves in blood once more – but he had forgotten for a time how truly unforgiving war could be. Though they were no longer men of the crown, living as pirates did not change the fact that the war between France and the rest of the world could leave them untouched.
He had known – even as he had called upon the water he had known some part of him would lament his choice. Fury had been cold in his breast as he had pressed his palms against the bleeding chest of one of the Indefatigable’s gun masters, the sound of canon blast deafening as the screams and groans of men both terrified and dying rose up around him.
They had been outmanned and outgunned from the start, but short of magic there had been no escaping the fight. At first Horatio thought they might have evened the odds – but as it became clear no honest men could win this fight, he had done what needed to be. Tia Dalma’s instructions were clear – and he could not afford to lose the Indy or her crew.
He had meant to draw them away – impossibly so upon wave and wind that didn’t touch another ship. It was not the usual working, and his recollection of the spell was limited at best. In the end, the Indy had suddenly surged away from the battle and toward the coast – and waves incredible in height had crashed against their enemies, devastating their ships and overturning them.
In the wake of it, the men were shaken and Horatio had not missed the way Matthews seemed to know who the responsible party was. The Indy had anchored safely, parties rushing ashore for supplies and the desperate need to hide their panic while still more stayed aboard to work on repairs and assisting the wounded.
Though Horatio knew he ought to be part of the latter, having worked a magic so powerful he had ultimately drawn off to settle his spirit and come to terms with the devastating aftermath. And to wonder how many of his own men he might have spared if only he had been brave enough to act sooner.
A firm, calloused hand slid into his own and drew him away from all of it. From horrible contemplation and guilt – for those dead unintentionally, to those dead because he had not killed sooner – to the simple act of comfort presently being offered to him, sure and steady as the man who offered it.
Turning as the wind drew upon his hair, whipping it over his shoulder and making a banner of the curly lengths, Horatio examined Edward quietly for any sign of what he might be thinking. In the end, he stepped forward, shielding himself from the wind by shifting to his knees before the man and bowing his head in a display of surrender even as he held on to the anchor of his captain’s hand.
It was not judgement that he feared. In truth, Horatio’s heart was calm – his surrender an act of choice. With his strength gone, it was his display of trust and vulnerability both, letting it be known that he was not well – and showing that he believed in Edward enough to let the man stand for him, when he himself could not.
Ocean Archive 