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I am both worse and better than you thought.

Sylvia Plath, from The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath (via violentwavesofemotion)

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moodboard: pirates

“where there is a sea, there are pirates.”

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MIRIAM SHEPHARD.

                𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒’ 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐒 𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄,  footsteps sounded loud on the wooden floor, yet they did not belong to her.  Instead, Miriam was stood  still,  almost frozen in time if not for her  slight  movement every now and then        blinking her eyes, inhaling or curling her fingers around her elbow when crossing her arms.  Her movement, or  lack  thereof, gave the impression that she was in  no rush  to settle the matter they were discussing ;  as if there was  no threat  of any adversaries to consider.      “      WELL ,                            ”      the other captain spoke, her voice almost  melodic  as she spoke.      “      Depends on the person ,  I suppose .   True  honesty is a rare find ,  these days .      ”

                Miriam allowed for a silence and leaned forward ever so slightly as she narrowed her eyes, before continuing to speak.      “      So ,   with that rhetoric ,   how  arrogant  are  you ?      ”

     “ Like most things, even true honesty has to be earned. ” He returns, and though he currently poses no outward threat, he certainly isn’t the type to let slide a transgression, big or small, having formed his persona and reputation with a meticulous eye for detail. As it stands, piracy ought not to be defined by one’s gender identity — a woman captain deserves her standing and her dues, and he’ll not prove an obstacle when a potential alliance could be brokered in lieu. “ Rarer even than a prized treasure. Though you’ve a crew that stands by you. I’d say that’s a success. ” A pirate who is more than just that, courting the supernatural, a semblance of aberrance in the body language she poses. The latter doesn’t serve to unnerve him so much as it’s something he takes note of, stores away in the deep recesses of his mind.

     “ Me, arrogant? I can be, in spades, should the situation call for it. ” He hums, arms crossing before his chest as he quirks a brow. 

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now we are one, my heart and the sea.

Antonio Machado, from “Lord, what I most loved you tore from me,” Eighty poems of Antonio Machado (Gaetano Massa Las Americas, 1959)

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BILLY BONES.​

He would have fought them had he strength. He’d have died at the end of a pistol or a sword instead of the rope set in the square. A rope they’d let him stare at through the iron bars for three days now. Three days. Three years. So close to the end now as he suspects, they’re really one in the same. Yet even now, feet so solidly placed upon this god forsaken dirt, the sea finds ways to sway his fate. Sway it in that he finds himself pulled from his iron cage along with others. Others like him, and others not. All lined up like cattle, though to a slaughter perhaps not.

A proper gentleman, in so much as Havana could ever afford one. Spanish words Billy doesn’t understand exchanged with the guard that holds the keys to their chains. A pair of eyes Billy already wants to pluck from the man’s skull eyeing each in turn as he passes. Billy knows what this is. He’s not fool enough not to. No matter how dim witted some might have once thought him. And even for all that the pirate has lived through perhaps his stomach still turns when the Spaniard stalls before him.

Stalls and eyes Billy up and down and up again. A kind of curiosity in his gaze the pirate recognizes. And to once bosun’s credit his jaw sets, his chin tilts up by degrees. He dwarfs the other man as easily as he does most. But its not his size that Billy’s projecting but rather his defiance. A short stop and a sudden stop isn’t his first choice but its better than the alternative worse case that this gentleman’s presence hints at.

          “Pirata?”

             “Sí, señor, nos dijeron que lo sacaron de los escombros.” 

A pause that seems to go on forever. A daring hand that poke at an arm. Dares further to grasp it. Test its metal. And for his audacity, Billy wrenches his arm away.  Spits at the man’s feet. Something the guard is only so quick to answer with a flogging. Yet at the last moment a lace framed hand halts the soldier’s advance. Something of a smile creeping onto the Spanish gentleman’s face. A smile that can only mean Billy’s fight was perhaps exactly what he was looking for. 

           “He will do.”

Brows that furrow together both in confusion and anger his action hadn’t deterred the over dressed bastard. Though it takes away none of that defiance in him. Jerking away from the soldiers that come to collect him from the line. That herd and press him towards a laden cart. One he is quite literally hitched to the back of, along with three of the others that are also not entirely dead men. Others that with him are forced to march. Out of the prison and into the busy square to the echoing sound of coin exchange. 

Back where he started. And this time worse for it, as he is led further and further from the coastline. A sensation he’s always been able to feel in his bones. One he could never explain. Not even to the Old Man. A sentiment that grinds teeth together as he does his best to catch himself when the cart lurches and then stops. Hands bracing him against the painfully dry wood of the wagon’s frame. Fingers curling inward over its rough surface. A distinct opposite–a screaming parallel–of where he started what feels like a life time ago. 

Yet even in this it only shores his resolve. Whatever fate finds him at the end of this march it will be only temporary. He will fight his way out or he will die trying. The sentiment straightening his spine. Giving him the strength to drag his gaze up from where it had fallen to the dust. The wherewithal to keep his bearings in so much as he can within a city he hardly knows. And somewhere amid the strangers and the foreign landscape…a singular face comes into view. One that Billy Bones feared to haunt his conscience to the end of his days.

But no sooner does blue squint against the harsh sun, to ensure his eyes do not deceive him,  the cart lurches and pulls him forward. Nearly right of his feet with how little he can move them. And by the time his gate settles into something that can keep up–James Flint is gone amid the dust and sunshine.

     Skeleton Island and its trials and tribulations seemed so long ago, the betrayal endured at the hands of his quartermaster having induced a rage anew, undying, deep beneath his flesh, perhaps mixed in with his very marrow. He bears a deep, vindictive grudge, but keeps his rancor at bay if only so he can blend in. He’d not lasted long at the plantation and had not lasted long knowing who was present there and the ramifications it may have for said person. James McGraw was long dead, only the ghost of him remained in the form of the persona he’d meticulously crafted over the years for himself, a ghoulish phantom that struck fear into the hearts of men everywhere. Flint is all that remains, and he cannot shed this guise, he cannot remain in a place that expects him to work as a laborer when once he was the scourge of the seas. So, one night, he chokes a guard to death and disappears into the shadows, the thicket past the fields, crossing over into freedom. Let them place a bounty on his head; he will lay low until it is removed, until he regains enough power to reclaim what is his.

     He stows away on a cargo ship after tipping the boatswain a small portion of the money stolen during his escape, sailing fuck knows where, thinking only of himself and his survival — once, his closest compatriot had done the same. He doesn’t think of Silver these days, knowing that time between them has ended, and little could be salvaged of it. Not that he has much mind to, for once, wanting only to steer himself into a proper direction going forward, resurrecting his once-renown ( not for glory, not for gold, but simply for want of a worthwhile life! ) It is what he finds he longs for most, to be free of the metaphorical shackles. Little does he know his erstwhile boatswain now finds himself in those very same shackles, though they’re quite physical. As far as he’s aware, Billy Bones is long gone, fallen into the sea, presumably drowned, just as he’d been the first time the crew had lost him.

     A coastal town awaits him, a place where he can get his bearings once more and ascertain the course ahead. It would be a rocky path, and he would bleed as necessary if only to climb his way back to his former position and once again commandeer a crew of his own. He recalls when he’d first been a stranger to Nassau, using his sharp wit to get his way and gain the trust of his lost crew. But the desire to return to that forsaken town was next to nonexistent. A ‘haven for pirates’ had fallen victim to bureaucracy, and despite the downfall of Woodes Rogers, he would find no peace of mind returning to a place that only reminded him of a lost dream. Should he find a way to contact old allies? Perhaps, but currently his means of existing would entail secrecy. Certain people were best off not knowing he still lives and breathes, wanting him dead, and on top of a potential bounty for his whereabouts he won’t risk anything until he’s properly established himself once again. He is an unfamiliar figure among the crowds in the town square, dressed in muted colors and partially concealed with a cloak.

    Through the gaps in the crowds, eyes see eyes, and Flint finds a scowl of displeasure abruptly changing his features. Perhaps he should have obscured his face, that he may not be recognized by the man imprisoned, kept within a cart like he was cattle. Still, despite his antagonism with regards to Billy Bones, seeing another pirate imprisoned leaves a particularly bad taste in his mouth. He says nothing, though resolving to himself that something would be done for Billy’s situation. He turns and disappears, as though he were but a mirage. He would track the cart and its path from afar, keeping a low profile until after dark. He had no reason to assist the supposed enemy, though he understood the worth Billy once held. Perhaps in this new era, he would find something fruitful by changing the outcome of the whole matter and sending a clear message to the Spanish in the process.

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JOHN SILVER.

    He didn’t allow himself to be close to anyone, so he doesn’t allow a simple concept of betrayal to affect him. Even if he was the type to do the betraying in the first place, he doesn’t allow someone else to try and backstab him. He knows that to give this information to Flint, it would be curious to see if he’s truly trusted to explain the situation or to at least come up with a viable plan to rectify it. It would require a bit of finessing but, he’s sure that he could get it done. It seemed that no matter what him or James put their find to, the most incredible things could happen. Now, it was time to see if that could still come true for them once again. The fires of rebellion have been stoked over the last few weeks, it was only a matter of time before everything was caught in its path.

       “Only the gravest, I have my proof.” He heard it himself, plus one of the other men listening as well. “Willingly, says we, or more importantly you, took everything from him and he wants to make the whole lot of us pay.” He remembers the lie Billy told, when he had been the one to carry the actual Urca schedule, but he also knows how badly that lie has ate at Billy.

     “ Neither will we be paying, nor will we fall prey to his misguided notions. ” He tires of rebellion against him, despite his own war tearing apart what he seeks to keep joined together as if by a firm glue: the piracy that remains the greatest threat to British civilization. He will not suffer Billy Bones, nor allow the man to become a permanent thorn in his side. Whatever happens, either the former boatswain would rejoin them, or perish. And it won’t have been his fault should Billy choose death. Half-blinded by his own hubris at times, he fails to understand the gravitas of the toll Hal Gates’ death took upon Billy, perhaps the closest thing his former quartermaster had to a son. Silver is shrewd, a persuasive creature who seeks to remain a mystery; Flint thinks to keep him at arms’ length, only to trust him to grow nearer. Theirs is a complicated dynamic.

     “ What do you suggest? ” He will take into account Silver’s plan, and improve upon it as necessary. He grudgingly accepts that when they put their minds together, miraculous things may come of it, but he remains ever watchful. Should Silver betray him, or go behind his back to consort with a third party, he would have his dues. And it would be most terrible. 

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“I thought, why not live dangerously?” from morgana!

BLACK SAILS PROMPT. ACCEPTING.

     “ You must take care. ” A rarity, outward display of concern that laces his tone thickly as he turns to her, the dim light of the cabin setting his eyes alight with an inner flame that refuses to die out. “ A dangerous life creates monsters of us all. ” Those long years wherein he meticulously crafted the legend that was Flint oft forced him to face his demons; he made of himself a beast in the eyes of men, whether pirates or civilized. He was a walking omen among them all. But he will not profess to anything other than wanting her to be safe, his respect for a woman of her standing, despite familial background, present if only for her personal convictions. She is not like her father, she is her own person, and a force to be reckoned with.

     “ But if you’ve made your choice, I will not squander time and attempt to change it. ” He intones, knowing her to be a woman of her word particularly where Uther Pendragon and his politics are concerned. Her desire to put an end to his ways is welcomed, any ally against the tyranny imposed by British politicians and their dogmatic cruelties upon those who dared not to fit the mold of society. He bears his so-called sins as something precious ( he remembers those memories in the darkness, when alone, when lost. )

     “ I will aid you, if you will aid me. ” He speaks, tone firm and with finality.

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     A debt is to be repaid, but perhaps it no longer stands as a debt: Charles Vane was to be hanged, and with it, the balance of Nassau would tip, just as it would have were he to have been executed that fateful day in Charles Town. Flint cannot abide a favor unreturned, retaining a code despite a less than respectable choice of ‘occupation’. He won’t see the death of a man who chose to become his ally despite the tense encounters they’d had, and given Vane’s reputation within Nassau and on the seas, it stands to be strategic to have him back in his proper place, not as a prisoner facing execution, but as a rightful captain with return to piracy.

     Standing at the back of the crowd before the gallows, turban wrapped about his head to expose nothing but his eyes, he signals with two lifted fingers for his men to slowly close in on the redcoats surrounding the dais, a move that would once again display who was really in power — equal parts political and sentimental, for lack of a better term ( he is deeply entrenched in sentiment, despite his outer exterior! ) He watches as necks are slit, as blood is paid for with blood, a vicious smile concealed by the fabric shielding his face from the glaring sun above. “ — You and I still have work left to do. ” He speaks to himself, advancing like a blade cutting the crowd in twain as carnage ensues, unraveling his turban as those remaining at the dais look on in horror before being shown no mercy.

@diabolicalxlarcenist​

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ABIGAIL ASHE.

It is difficult to meet his eye; she knows this. Hell, he probably knows it as they flicker quickly towards the Captain’s own when his hand met hers, before down to the hands conjoined. Her turned to slip her smaller fingers through his larger ones; palm to palm gently as she sniffled quietly, free arm rising to wipe at her face at the sleeve of her dress. If only her Father could have seen her now; crying over a pirate. He’d have her head in a split moment, of this she knew. But what she didn’t know is why he was telling her these things. Why, in what could’ve been their last moments together - was he more worried for her than himself?  What had he done wrong to deserve this? Usher a girl home? Free her from a pirate demanding ransom for her capture? He and his crew had been kind; as he had been her whole life if memory had served her well and it did. This was the same man who used to chase her through the gardens of the Hamilton estate - playing the monster as she’d scatter away with giggled at the top of her lungs that billowed into music to the adults ears. This was a good man. A man who may have changed his stripes depending on his need to survive in the world - but a good man none the less. “Arrangements?” It was the first time Abigail lifted her head, meeting his visage as he pulled and turned away - shutting himself inside himself once more. 

There was more to this Captain; to her fond memories than met the eyes. “You cannot mean to waste away here.” Her voice broke at the thought, fingers rushing to curl the rotting and grimy bars that separated them - the tears billowing down her cheeks. “You cannot mean to say this is goodbye! Where is the Captain that fights?! Where is the Captain I’ve heard stories about!? Why….why aren’t you fighting?!” Her voice raised, angrily. Knuckles hitting, palms smacking, and flat covered feet kicking as she tried. If he was giving up, she would fight instead. Until every ounce of energy was spent. 

“There is no hope without you! You gave me hope that there is more to this world than all that I’ve known! Mr. Hamilton is gone, Mrs. Hamilton is gone….who will teach me if not you?! Who will show me the truth if not you?!”

     They want a villain, they need a villain, a monster to blame their cruelties upon, the hypocrisy a stench that disgusts him in a way he cannot show unless it’s through righteous violence. But even the strongest gale can become a mere zephyr, and in the wake of Abigail’s tears, Flint means to alleviate, to bring a balm to her sorrow. Who in this world does the girl have left? Peter, who practically abandoned her to the sea and its vicious barbarians, Miranda, who was now dead at his hands? “ If I’m to leave this place it can only be at another’s mercy. And I abhor being in debt to anyone. ” He answers, narrowed eyes glancing out of the singular barred window in the darkened cell. “ It’ll be the first and the last time, if I live through this. But you will not endure any further hardship, not at my expense and not at anyone’s. ”

     She can consider him stubborn, she can consider that he means to waste away in this dank cell, but life brings the unexpected, and somehow he harbours still the feeling that he won’t be facing execution come the morrow. But to affirm such a thought to her with fervor that and perhaps, needlessly raise her expectations of the people of Charles Town, it might make the situation worse. He opts instead to calmly approach once again, separated from freedom by mere bars. Dead, unfeeling things meant to cage a man, they won’t last. 

     A mere prison cannot contain a hurricane. 

     “ If I die, this place will be destroyed. Miranda’s words will come to fruition. Either way, I win. ” He knows this sentiment can hardly replace the knowledge of his freedom, but it’ll have to do in its stead while outside forces, fate itself, determines the outcome of his imprisonment. “ You’ve grown, Abigail. Don’t lose hope so quickly. It’s a precious thing, as are your tears. Save them. ” The words, while not unkind, are quietly resigned: he leaves this up to the choice of others, and it’s not the first time he’s had to place his life in their hands. She’ll have to accept it, for better or worse. 

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“In most cases, a man trying to change the world fails for one simple and unavoidable reason: everyone else.”

BLACK SAILS PROMPT. ACCEPTING.

     All factors considered, he hardly deigns to stop for anyone; brutal and nigh single-minded that he remains in his crusade, a desire for war against the civilized world, championing piracy as a veneer which conceals his true vendetta. He’s yet for Silver to know him in that way, the way in which the truth of him is revealed only for him to know little with regards to the other and his background. Long John Silver and his long memory, from humble beginnings playing at the pretense of a ship’s cook, does well at filling the men’s minds with intentions and beguiling stories ( with a touch of superstition. ) His words, however, do little to faze Flint, who looks at him with a wrinkle of his brow and little more. He allows the omen to hang in the air between them for a while, gathering various papers and journals into a neat stack to tidy his desk. As if to say, ‘And? Will this stop me? No.’

     When he does look up at Silver, it’s with a smile, an almost knowing one. “ You’re attempting to warn me. So eager to see me off to my ruin? ” It’s posed as a rhetorical question but somewhat of a trap nonetheless. The quartermaster who acts as though he has Flint’s best interests at heart is in the very same breath, that same ruin. And he does not suffer liars. “ Or are you, in the end, just like all of us, an agent of chaos? ”

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SILVER.

Knowing that Billy was working for Woodes doesn’t surprise Silver. It doesn’t even phase him that he was still pretending to be loyal, he has played that fence many times as well. Honestly, a man with nothing left to live for would do the unspeakable, betray his long time captain. It’s going to lead to bigger problems if they don’t nip this in the bud as soon as possible. Billy means to split him and Flint up, something that Billy must see as being possible. A shame, it really wasn’t. Not anymore, not when he has James’s trust and he would see this to the end, at least, that’s the intention. He won’t lie to himself and say that he worries, where would this all lead in the end? He’s not sure that he even wants to follow this war forever. It was tiresome, unfulfilling and not what he signed up for so long ago. “We have a problem,” he spoke in a hushed tone, his shoulder brushing against Flint’s arm as he turned and pressed his back against the wall.

They were alone for now, which gave Silver the opportunity to come up with a plan of action for what they should do about Billy. “I have it on good authority that Billy is giving Woodes information on what we’re up to.”

     He’s led his life surrounded by sharks above and below the water’s surface ( betrayal is something he will not tolerate, not for as long as he breathes! ) While it’s unsurprising Billy Bones’ name has been brought into the mix, it’s disappointing nonetheless to hear it, particularly given just who the news is coming from. John Silver, in whom his trust had gradually built over the course of several dangerous, oft finds himself in contention with Flint, who for the life of him cannot truly consider him a non-issue. Perhaps the only other man aside from himself capable of swaying the crew in their entirety, weaving his wicked tales and charming them so expertly, why, it’s a skill nigh-inimitable, a skill that had once won him his own ship and crew while still a fresh face in Nassau, filled with rage and rebellion alike. “ A problem, indeed, ” He responds brusquely, moving to face the other man as he leans against the cabin wall.

     “ A grave accusation, and I assume you’ve proof. Has he been doing so willingly, or coerced in some manner? Circumstances ought to be taken into consideration. ” Of course, only because Billy Bones was once with them, once, having prevented a mutiny, pretending the blank page found on Singleton’s corpse had been the Urca’s schedule as promised.

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like this for a starter, i may or may not approach you for plotting. no cap, will be one-two paragraphs, perhaps three. if you’re a multi-muse please specify your character. verse is dependent on your character’s canon, i may randomize unless you specify otherwise. available verses include: modern, black sails s1-s4, or royal navy/pre-show.

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Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.

Toby Stephens as James Flint in BLACK SAILS: SEASON TWO

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ABIGAIL ASHE.

“It wasn’t your fault, Abigail.” He says; but it falls on deafened ears of an already damaged child, clinging to the bars the male rests behind. Sneaking to the jail to see Flint had been a task in itself, but these bars were another obstacle. At first, Abigail had kicked, had pulled. A plank of loose wood had been pried and pried; giving way to absolutely nothing. The bars were rotten in places, this should have been easy! Instead, she finds herself worn and emotional, tears scoring the curl of porcelain cheeks with heated ferocity. They’re so blinding she had to blink them away too often to see, dirtied hands rubbing steel grease and rust onto her white skin as she fought to clear it away.

“It is my fault, Captain..” Her voice broken. A hauntingly echoed sound mimicking the first nightmare she’d ever had in the Captain’s presence. That night on the ship, in his quarters. Wrapped in a hammock all her own with Barlow - no, Hamilton - beside her. The woman she’d called her mother after the loss of her own was gone. A wound in her head taking her quickly from them; and here...the only family she’d had left locked behind bars. And it was all. Her. Fault. “If only I had stayed in London. If only I had stayed with Captain Vane.” Defeatedly, the toppled bag to rest against the cobblestone, slipping her fingers through the bars to reach for him.

“None of this would have happened.” The sob broke her voice and words in several places, a heavy sniffle following suit as the emotions caught up with the rest of her. “Mrs. Hamilton would never have met such a fate...you wouldn’t be facing people who mean to see you hang..” A rattled sob choked upward, curls falling to hide her broken features; dealing with her turmoil in the only way she knew. By release. “If only I’d stayed in London..If only I’d stayed, Captain...”

     “ No. ” Haunted by his loss, and despite witnessing the disrespect given to Miranda’s corpse, he cannot allow Abigail to suffer in believing she was at fault for this entire mess. His tone is firm, unwavering in spite of being locked away behind bars like a common criminal, and he meets her gaze, piercing, proud. A child won’t bear misgiving. That Abigail has even come to see him surprises him some, but he won’t allow her to notice, shifting in his cell and coming closer. Death is immediate and it will be unkind, perhaps he will be desecrated. Perhaps he will die angry, with regret, his spirit left behind to wander the seas, ghoulish and terrible. Perhaps he’s already become ghoulish, terrible, despite walking among men. But Abigail Ashe won’t see the worst of him. She was innocent. To bear the sins of her father is something Flint will not allow. 

     “ Don’t weep for me, Abigail. This has been a long time coming. ” He attempts at a gentle tone, but it is difficult for a man who’s known war and strife as well as he’s known breathing. His rough, calloused hand reaches through the bars for her, gripping her hand. “ If I hang, there will be repercussions. Severe ones. I’ll have the last laugh in death. But you will be safe. I’ve made arrangements. ” The sight of a woman’s tears always places him at a loss — he soothes her knuckles, before drawing back, weary and burdened with purpose. 

     “ There is more to life than loss. You’ll live a fulfilling one. You’ll find love and be happy, and you will grow and mature and see the world. There is promise, and there is hope. Don’t lose it. ” She is innocent. And he will not see her suffer for his own crimes, for the crimes of those who wish to see him dead. This day was meant to come, he’d prophesied his own fate a long while ago. Perhaps from the moment he’d decided to engage with Miranda and Thomas, fallible, as every man is. But Nassau would survive, others would see to it in his stead. “ You shouldn’t stay here long. ”

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Toby Stephens as Captain James Flint in “Black Sails”.