“Oh please, lieutenant. You hardly have time enough in the day to hate me every minute of it,” Thomas debuffed, not at all bothered, “Now are you coming along or not?”
I am an enormous and in fact shameless fan of tropes in general so choosing just one is pretty much impossible. I could be asked this a dozen times and still be able to provide a stupid amount of answers – but that said my current top three would have to be:
Endless Arsenal – In which a single member of the party has an inexplicable amount of weapons on their person, which based on sheer weight and volume ought to be impossible for one person to carry, but here we go anyway. Asked to disarm, it takes an impressive amount of time to build up the mountain of what they were holding on to, and in the end after everyone is suitably shocked, they’re reminded of a tiny penknife or other equally small and by-comparison-harmless weapon to add to the pile.
It Is But A Flesh Wound – In which a character has been injured but is either ignorant to that fact or concealing it for the Greater Good because they’re self-sacrificial lamb chops with martyr complexes.
Gods Are Dicks – What it says on the tin. I love it when the gods are involved and the amount of fucks they give amounts to a perfectly rounded 0.
“Immortal.” There were times when Jack said the absolute dumbest shit for a man so fucking intelligent. “He was covered in blood – most of it his own. Never knew an immortal could bleed so much.” Leaning forward, Charles pointed his cheroot at Jack’s nose, his intent clear, “Show me a man who can get in a fight like that – and come out without a scratch – and I’ll believe he’s immortal. Until then,” He slammed the fiery end into the table, crushing the threat as surely as he did the intent to deify any man on this fucking island, “He’s just fucking lucky.” Charles held his gaze steady, daring the other man to argue. “You got that right, Jack?”
She heard the crunch of his boots over the rocks that lead into the shore well before he was near enough to speak. The wind was tugging at her skirts, playing its way through her carefully pulled back hair in an effort to unravel her work and leave evidence of her visit to where the waves crashed at their loudest against the island, where the boats could not make berth and thus, where she was safest from invasion.
Her arms held her legs, less for warmth than to keep the wind from whipping her about too much, and despite the coming storm she found herself quite at ease. When his voice filtered down to her, she leaned back, craning her neck to look up at him as she replied easily, “Neither do you.”
Today held meaning for her – but she knew where she had lost a father and a foundation of trust, he had discovered betrayal, and in that betrayal, had lost a friend. The anniversary of Charlestown was bittersweet – she was glad that Mister Hamilton was alive, and that he and Miss Barlow and Mister McGraw were working through what that all meant – but for her there were no reunions for which to hope for.
And in truth – she didn’t want any. She was quite happy with the life she had made for herself in Nassau. There were times though, like these, when it felt right to acknowledge the shadows inherent in how she had come to be part of the story here.
Reaching up, she offered him her hand. She didn’t know if any part of him mourned for Peter Ashe, after all he had done – but she did know he was her friend, and for whatever reason, he had come to see if she was alright today. “I’m going to watch the storm come in,” She informed him simply, “You’re welcome to join me, if you want.”
“I know,” There is no doubt in her tone as she holds her arm out to him expectantly, “It’s why I came to you about this, Mister McGraw. While I’m sure Mister Hamilton would tell me – I admit that I’ve got some questions only you can answer, where my father’s concerned. And I think it might be best if we didn’t trouble Mister Hamilton with such things in any case – we all have our good and our bad days, but I think he struggles a bit more than most with the other ones.”
“Mister Jack!” Abigail laughed before she could quite catch herself, finding his mild mannered certainty on the subject utterly entertaining, “That’s hardly a kind thing to say,” She turned, so that nobody would see her lips in the main hall as she assured, “I’m certain Satan can hire better than that!”
“Pure luck, I’m sure of it,” Thomas agreed breezily, even as he collapsed rather gracefully alongside the quartermaster, hand still glued to the hilt of his cutlass – whether from sheer adrenaline or a questionable tincture of dirt, sweat and blood, he could not say.
Despite the state of his blade, and the unfortunate mess of the majority of his shirt and upper breeches ( not to mention whatever his boots had squelched through earlier ) Thomas felt revived, and even laughed a little as he let the sun catch against his skin where he rested. “That’ll be one for your stories, eh Jack?”
“Well, you’ve seen for yourselfsome of the tomes at my disposal,” Flint answered, one corner of his mouth twitching a little. He was not surprised to know that Vane had heard of how Flint had won against Singleton- he could only imagine how fucking frustrating that must have been at the time, knowing Flint had survived out of sheer luck. “You think I couldn’t?”
“It wasn’t a question of could,” There was no doubt in him that were matters dire enough, just about anything at this man’s disposal could turn itself into a weapon of convenience. “More a matter of would you – after all, this is all about sentiment for you, is it not?”
“Oh, I am not sure that is entirely true,” Theodore argued thoughtfully, “I think there is a very large difference between worshipping something, and coveting it. I do not doubt that the godless covet many things – but then, that could be said of the god-fearing just as surely. I think there are very few people in this world who truly worship much of anything, honestly. It’s more about fear and power than it is about faith, in my findings.”
“You have forgotten your purpose – that is no injustice unto me, as it is unto yourself,” Graham responded calmly, unaffected by the fury being spat upon him by the redhaired captain whom he remembered only as another of Hennessey’s promising lieutenants. They both shared a history as self-made officers who benefited under that man’s tutelage – that they flourished under different directions was no cause for judgement between them.
In truth, that they both stood here now on the soil of Nassau, pirates for all intents and purposes, said as much to their shared history as it did not, if one wished to analyze it more closely. As it was, Graham had too much at stake to afford any further bad blood between himself and the man before him now.
“Unless the score has changed, and you no longer wish to ascertain Nassau’s stability – in which case, I am afraid we are indeed at odds here, Captain… Flint.”
Ocean Archive 