The Ghost They Whispered Of

the-empires:

“Hmm,” said Edrington, seemingly unamused. “I would be honoured nonetheless by your presence from beyond the grave.” As much as it would have been easier to, he knew he could not turn the man away. Good hospitality was not only a passion of his, but simply a way of life. And though Edrington wondered what was left of the man that served, he would never turn away an officer to His Majesty’s Navy. Edrington was no blaspheme. 

However, his genteel code was pushed to the brink; he was wary of the wild man that turned up at his doorstep. Bram could hardly blame the maid for not wishing to answer the door, and he would not fault her for feeling so. Hornblower’s unkempt appearance ( a grandiose understatement ) pushed him far from even the very fraying fringes of society – any society. Save piracy, perhaps. Surely, Hornblower would not drift so far, no matter where the winds of life pushed him. Edrington simply did not know the trials that could push one to being such a scoundrel. 

“I suppose you should come in and sit and I’ll have my maid pour out for us.” Edrington figured that, Hornblower allowing, he would quarter him at his estate until he could get word to the Admiralty about their missing pup and further action could be taken. Action being a court martial, most likely; who was to say where this young man had gone and why when his person belonged to the British Navy? In the meantime, he could make himself presentable to befit anyone who was allowed a room in Lawrence Bram Edrington’s home. “Perhaps a bath would do you good, as well. New clothes, too, if you wish.”

Horatio’s lips twitched slightly – Edrington’s diplomatic manner had not changed in the slightest. Though he supposed that was understandable, considering the time that had passed for him was so much shorter than the time that had travelled for Horatio. Regardless, he had a feeling Edrington would be far from honored to be pestered by any ghost, let alone the one of Horatio Hornblower. Still – a genteel sentiment, if nothing else. 

At the offer of tea and a bath, Horatio could not help but look relieved. “I would greatly appreciate a bath, and some proper attire,” He assured, knowing full well his appearance was a fright. He had no objection to his clothes – in fact he was quite fond of them, and in the Caribbean he would hardly be amiss even now. Here, however, in the height of English gentry, it was best to appear as appalled as he was certain Edrington felt. 

Hospitality proved to be an impressive rule on the Edrington estate, for Horatio found his needs tended to with a sort of strict efficiency that seemed quite suited to Edrington’s no nonsense personality – even in kindness, everything was done with brisk exactitude, as though these courtesies were little more than expectation. Horatio supposed for Edrington, they were just that – acts that were expected of a man of his station to be capable of providing. 

Bathing took a longer time than Horatio might have liked, and he could not help but grimace at the grime his body left in its wake. There was a certain difference between what was acceptable in English society and what passed for good enough in the Caribbean. Horatio remembered all too well the exacting nature of his proper time period and washed up accordingly, which naturally meant a great deal more process than he had needed to bother with in some time. 

He felt strangely ill at ease once all the kohl, paint, ash and other markings of his life had been stripped away, leaving behind a body that bore little sign of its arcane nature once made bare of all such trappings. In the mirror, Horatio could see his age starkly – not just in the length of his hair, but in the wear of his eyes and the fitness of his form. He was fuller than before, more defined than in wiry youth, and it made him glad of the clothes that would conceal a large portion of his truth. 

Once dressed, Horatio carefully concealed his belt’s contents upon his person, and took time to brush his hair out so as to not appear completely wild despite the fine dress. After some consideration, he made use of one of his hair ties to keep it all drawn back at the nape of his neck for some semblance of propriety, and considered that to be well enough before he made his way down to meet with Edrington for tea and doubtless, some manner of discussion. 

This, of course, would be the more difficult portion. Horatio needed to prepare himself for questioning, as doubtless the sensationalized manner of his disappearance and his sudden return were grounds for suspicion of desertion. The obvious matter of time would likely go overlooked – magic was widely dismissed in this era, and that a man could go ten years while barely a single year passed for the rest of the world was too much to bear, Horatio was quite certain. 

But he needed the admiralty and his old position – it would make things ever so much easier – and his best chance at obtaining those things would be convincing Edrington of his tale – and seeking his advice on how to manage something so political as this. The navy and the military were not so different on account of matters such as cowardice and desertion – if he could convince Edrington he possessed no cowardice, and had not chosen to desert, then perhaps he had some manner of hope ahead for an easy path.

Upon reaching the drawing room, Horatio painted on a grateful smile – and it was true, his gratitude, though the smile felt wrong on his face without the tightness of salt and kohl crinkling against his eyes in the action. Some part of him also registered that his old stoic self had smiled so rarely, it was possible the action might make a stranger of him all over again. 

“I cannot begin to thank you enough, my lord,” Horatio professed as he took his seat, the title coming naturally and with due deference – something his old self had railed at, and managed quite often to avoid using at all times ( and always sounding terribly stiff about it, rather than at ease with the social distance between himself and the major ) but Horatio had since spent a decade learning the value of respecting a man’s pride in his title only so far as needed to manipulate him through it. 

“It’s been far too long since I’ve been able to enjoy the comforts of a civilized society,” Honeyed and earnest words came easily to him, and there was truth enough behind them to cast little doubt. “I fear I may be out of my depth with all that has changed,” And here, he offered the window for investigation openly, leaving the power to direct in Edrington’s court, where doubtless it would be most comfortable.

🤒 – caring for them when sick/injured [ for theodore! bc i read shit about the captain taking on the ship’s surgeon’s duties in the absence of a surgeon in emergencies so Here We Are ]

{ Nonverbal Starters }

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Theodore was not brought low by much in life, but not even an indomitable spirit could overcome the grim reality of fever at sea. He had become dreadfully delirious, and had it not been for the quick action of Silver he would surely have fallen to the churning sea, convinced that it was a familiar lagoon in which he so often swam. 

Now he was sequestered in the safest place aboard for a man as sick as himself, and with the fever somewhat breaking he registered the burden he was placing upon Flint by being here. In true fashion, he had gotten up with every intention of making it up to the man by getting right back to work, but the world had lurched and the next thing he knew, he was staring up at his newfound captain’s slightly mismatched eyes with a dim awareness of being held down.

“I suppose I am no good just yet,” He agreed amiably, surrendering easily enough to his position if only because he was too bone tired to argue. “I think the fever is breaking though.” He remarked, unaware in his hopeful reassurance that he sounded like death warmed over. 

“How long have you been out here?” | TF’s William to Horatio

{ Isolation Starters }

Long enough for his absence to be noted, it would seem. Smiling to himself, Horatio drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders and continued to gaze out upon the water, drinking in the familiar sights of a sleeping English port with a strange mixture of warm nostalgia and frank contempt. To think he could miss the time that had torn him from this. 

It would be at least a week before the Hotspur was outfitted and prepared to sail. He had been sharing a room with William Bush for the past two days, with five more yawning ahead as his friend made constant efforts to assure himself that Horatio was real, and had not disappeared again. It was – endearing, though it chipped steadily at Horatio’s resolve to behave appropriately now that he was back in his time, and meant to be a naval captain rather than the true heathen witch he had become – a truth he could no more reveal than his time among pirates, he was rather sure. 

 “Not long,” He assured quietly, once he had drank in the last quiet moment. Turning to William, he considered the man’s expression and felt a pang in his heart as he went over to the man. It was bold and downright scandalous of him, but he opened the blanket and wrapped his arms around the other’s waist, drawing him in to share in his warmth as he assured softer still, “The ocean has not taken me again, my friend. I’m still here.” 

“How long have you been out here?” | TF’s Edward to Charles

{ Isolation Starters } 

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He recognized the voice even as he turned to face it, and sure enough he found himself in the presence of Horatio’s commander, captain Pellew. They’d split off nearly two months ago – Horatio to work on maneuvering the frigate to the south side island without cluing this very man into the fact he was ferrying them to tasks both dangerous and incriminating if the admiralty were to catch wind of it. The intention was for Charles to cross the island and meet up with the ship on the other side, taking care of the job on land in the meanwhile. 

Things had not gone according to plan though, and Charles had known it when the storm struck that his chances of actually being recovered again were damned slim. Still, he’d gone to the area he was supposed to be at and he’d waited. When he became too hungry and cold to wait any longer he had slipped back into the trees and settled in for the long haul. He knew he would not be abandoned indefinitely, but there was no reason to let himself suffer while awaiting Horatio’s inevitable return. 

What he had not anticipated was getting picked up by Pellew – at least, not without Horatio in tow. That told him two things – either Horatio had overestimated Pellew’s goodwill and was now presently hanging at the gallows for witchcraft, or the clever little witch had slipped off to continue their work and Pellew had found him independently in the meanwhile. 

This man was a safety beacon to Horatio – the witch would find his way back to Pellew, so it would be wise to linger with him and make it easier. So he answered semi honestly with, “Lost track – more than a month, to be sure, but less than three.” Which was precisely around the time that the Indefatigable had been in this region, stopping for water and game. “Guess I didn’t get back in time for setting sail.” There was no blame in his tone – he hadn’t meant to be on time for it, after all. “I’m guessing you’re not back for me, though.” This was a common trade stop, after all.  

“Please don’t.” Flint looks–destroyed. Whatever part of him might have been able to form some kind of coherent argument against Thomas’ leaving, it is utterly destroyed by the devastating emotion rushing through him. “Don’t do this.” [ for thomas, alt route II: rescued, because I Love Pain ]

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?”

“No, it’s fine. I can wait until you’re done talking to them.” [ @ hal, because we know james “pay attention to me” flint is a fuckin idiot ]

{ Why is this on a sin meme }

Hal didn’t even pause in his conversation so much as shift himself so that he remained with his back to Flint and his body between the captain and the individuals to whom he was speaking. Some days being the man’s quartermaster was as the job ought to be – companionable, with a hefty weight of respectable responsibility. Other days, it was like dealing with toddlers all over again – and Hal was not in the mood for one of those days.

Once his business was concluded ( and not a moment sooner, and without so much as a hint of a rush, either! ) Hal turned to Flint and smiled, “Ah good, you’re still here,” As if the man breathing down his fucking neck hadn’t been a clue, “We’ve some good business settled with the warehouses now, so we ought to be well stocked this trip.” Considering their weak hauls of late, managing to secure excellent stores was a testament to his own reputation and he bloody well knew it. “Now, what was it you were needing captain?” Aside from attention, went wisely unspoken. 

In his usual silent way, Joji stepped up beside Thomas where the man sat, and tapped the small book in his hand against his shoulder. It was a book of poetry- English, of course, or some other western place, he wasn’t actually sure. The imagery seemed insufficient to him, but he understood that those born to this language liked it well enough- and Thomas liked to read. Joji tapped again.

Thomas was lost in thought often enough that he had become accustomed to the crew drawing him back into reality physically. He no longer jumped at the grips on his shoulder, or even felt offense at the occasional whacks upside the back of his head followed by commands – more often than not those strikes and orders kept him alive in the long run, and he could hardly expect these men to be patient with him when he was barely tolerant of his own behaviour as it was! 

So at first, the tap did not receive immediate response beyond a glance up, an expectation of command shifting to a note of confusion when he saw who it was. The second tap drew his attention to the source, and he realized rather swiftly what was going on. 

Charmed, Thomas accepted the book and examined it. The cover was in fine condition, as were the pages. Inspecting the spine, his lips curved in pleasure as he recognized the author. When was the last time he’d held Chaucer in his hands? 

Looking up, he offered a warm smile. “This is in surprisingly good condition all things considered. Were you looking for an appraisal or – ?” He did not presume the man wished the book read to him – Thomas had seen him with books just enough times to know he was far more literate than he was verbal, so he could only assume the man was checking the worth of keeping this one. It did not yet occur to him it might be a gift.