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thatsthewrongwallcraig · 28 days

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The Candlemaker

Summary: “He might’ve lost it now, Ma’am.” The Quartermaster informed you with a nervous hiccup in his tone, not knowing that he was about to throw oil into the fire.

Pairing: Edward “Ned” Low x afab!Reader

Word Count: - 3.2k

Content Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat 18+!, Canon Compliant Violence, Explicit Descriptions Of Torture (Not Towards Reader!), Talk About Scars/Scarring

A/N: Massive thank you to @ohlookapan for relentlessly listening to my somewhat demented, somewhat horny rambles about musty pirate men from a show you know nothing about.

Tagging: @queer-crusader

When is a monster not a monster?

Oh, when you love it.

Oh, when you used to sing it to sleep.

- Caitlyn Siehl

Although the night had fallen hours ago, the air hung so thick and humid, clinging to your skin just like a thin layer of sweat that always accompanied you, that you felt like you were able to just slice it, cut through it with a fancy, Stirling silver butter knife.

“Why am I doing this to myself?” The rhetorical question dripped from your lips like a spill of oil, slow and laboured, as you hunched your back just slightly, leaning down to submerge your hands into a vat of piss-warm water that had once held the faint idea of being cold in the morning, however, it still brought you a direly needed sense of comfort.

Even warm water felt better to you than sweat, coaxed from your skin by hot and humid air. Regular water didn’t stink, didn’t stick to your fingers and temples in such a displeasing way…it just engulfed you, being kind enough to take the accumulated dirt off your palms simultaneously.

Exhaling a low hum, you gingerly splashed handfuls of wet up to your elbows, careful as to not soak the sleeves of your blouse. The comforting sensation lulled you in enough for you to zone out for a moment, eyes falling out of focus as you watched the surface wave and swap against the basin's brim. You basked in it, the brief moment where not a single thought flitted through your mind and you found yourself perfectly well entertained by the playful splashing of water. The breaking light distorted the image of your hands beneath the surface to the point that made them nearly look normal, painted in a sun-kissed tint just like they should look. However, you were all too aware that they didn’t and although your eyes weren’t fixed on them, you could see the bright welts of old scar tissue snaking along your fingers and wrists in wide lines. A nearly continuous streak of pale and sensitive skin that still told about unimaginable pains you’d been subjected to by a particularly gruesome British officer years before you’d set up shop in Nassau.

Before getting way lost in musings of times long past, you redirected your attention to the nice feeling the water against skin created. Maybe you should just pour yourself an entire tub of water and lie down in there for the night; chances that you found some sleep certainly higher than in your bed surrounded by thin linen blankets and dusty velvet pillows.

What violently pulled you back into your own head was a stern knocking at your workshop's door downstairs. The sudden noise caused you to crinkle your nose and arch your brows in an uncomfortable flinch and at first you didn’t even consider answering it until it got repeated.

“A moment, please!”, You yelled loud enough for it to echo through drawn curtains onto the street before pulling your hands from the puddle of water and shaking the wetness from your wrists, “It’s 2a.m, I reckon you don’t come to buy candles, do you?”

“Mr. Holmes?” The familiar face of a man in his early 30s, features framed with an unkempt copper beard, looked right at you with a faint smile, feigning a modicum of decency and trying to hide the discomfort he was carrying in his chest after you’d swung the wooden door open.

“Mrs. Low, please excuse this disturbance at such an unsavory time. Just hours ago we returned to Port Nassau and I assume the Captain hasn’t been with you yet?” The red-haired man stammered clumsily, his eyes averting yours as politely as he possibly could.

“Correct. So much so, that I wasn't even aware the Fancy was back in the Port, Mr. Holmes. Now, what is there that you need from me at 2 in the morning?” You watched him pursing his lips in an awkward movement.

“We, uhm, we might be having a situation at camp.” The just recently appointed Quartermaster shrugged his shoulders.

“A situation? And what kind of situation might that be, Mr. Homes?” You inquired with spiked curiosity, interest thoroughly peaked by your husband's fellow crewmate showing up at your doorstep at this peculiar time of night.

“He might’ve lost it now, Ma’am.” The Quartermaster’s informal comment came so straightforward that it made you snort out in amusement.

“What’s Ned doing? Dancing naked at the beach?” Words failed to convey the comedic relief you wanted Mr. Holmes to experience since his posture turned more rigid by the second.

“Not exactly, no, Ma’am, I believe you might want to see it with your own eyes.” He pointed his head towards the street that led down to the harbor.

“Sure.”, You sighed, instinctively fastening the heavy leather holsters that dangled from the wide belt resting on your hips, “Please, go ahead.”

Mr. Holmes practically jumped at your request to lead the way, immediately turning to haste down the dirt road with you following suit, wondering what exactly was important or more likely unhinged enough to get you involved in things Edward and you tried to keep as separate as possible.

“Mr. Holmes, do you think it possible to enlighten me a bit about the nature of this nightly endeavor?” You quipped, a sense of amusement and curiosity inspiring your steps to come lightly, feathery almost.

“The Captain appears to be in a particularly foul mood today, Ma’am. We were supposed to anchor sooner, however, some quarrels within the crew delayed very much that.”, The man walking in front of you turned his head over his shoulder to answer to you in a lowered voice.

“Quarrels about what?” You’re brows arched up again, mind still wondering what might’ve pissed Edward off to a degree his crew felt like they couldn’t handle their own Captain anymore.

“The cook.” Mr. Holmes stated, not being able to hide the extensive rolling of his eyes from you.

“The cook?!” He nodded at you, shrugging his shoulders anew.

“Some men wanted to eat before setting course towards the harbor and others did not, impatient about getting to shore as soon as possible… most namely of those Mr. Low.” Both of you slowed down as the path between the houses turned rather steep.

“So? His ship, his crew, his decision, no?”, You couldn’t really fathom how a bicker over dinner could cause an uproar amongst grown men, “Nobody’s going to wither because of a missed meal.”

“Truly not, Mrs. Low, nonetheless, the cook and a not quite insignificant amount of men started cooking, effectively slowing the entire agenda down.” The Quartermaster's explanation pieced the puzzle together, making you sigh into the night.

“The cook’s fucked.”, Knowing the whims of your husband, the harsh statement was easy to utter, “Was his food any good, at least?”

Mr. Holmes shook his head, his upper lip twitching lightly as he briefly mused about the culinary selection on board the Fancy.

“Already hanging on by a thread then, hm?” Getting gradually closer to the shoreline, you picked up your pace, already seeing the torches and fire spots drenching the beach in flaming orange flickers.

“Doomed from the start one might wager.” The Quartermaster’s voice called after you as you passed him by in wide and swift steps, nearly jogging toward a bustling campsite.

The still warm sand creaked and crumpled underneath the thin soles of your sandals, making you wish you’d taken the time to step in a pair of proper boots as the grains got everywhere from between your toes to scratching against the bottom of your feet. However, you tried to ignore the mildly annoying sensation since much more pressing matters awaited right ahead.

“No, no, nonono, please. I beg of you, Mr. Low, Captain, please-” The muffled sobs of the poor soul who must’ve been the cook in question echoed right through the pile of people standing closely jostled in a half-circle.

It needed quite the amount of determination to squeeze yourself through the gathering of sweaty, dirty skin and equally rancid clothes, causing heads to turn to you whilst doing so.

“Mr. Hillock, Blake, can I call you Blake, hm?”, Your stomach did a little flip upon hearing your husband's voice for the first time in weeks, making the corners of your lips tug upwards just as well, “You possessed the audacity to act on your own behalf and against my request, my demand, my authority, Blake.”

In the very moment, you’d pushed yourself up to the first row of spectators, your gaze fell onto Mr. Hillock who cowered in the sand, tears, and snot running down his jaw as he stammered his words and panicked excuses, a truly pathetic display of thrashing regret caused by severely wrong decisions.

“Miss Landrake?” Of course, you’d been noticed right away and it had only been a matter of moments until someone opened up his mouth about it.

Landrake, you flinched a tiny bit upon hearing your maiden name, the one you used to keep the facade alive and the red coats in the utmost literal sense at bay.

“Who?”, One of the crew members spat before another one jumped in to answer, “Miss Landrake the candlemaker, you dense fuck?”

You tried to stifle your own laughter but couldn’t hold it back as you heard quite a few of the men snorting in amusement. Knowing that the overall attention had rapidly shifted toward you now, you couldn’t ride the edge of anticipation any longer for it buzzed away in your stomach with such intensity that you tethered on the threshold of throwing up in excitement; your eyes searched for Edward’s, who was towering above the sobbing and sniffling cook, a scrunched up cut of rope dangling from his hand.

You knew what he was about to do, no need for it to be uttered out aloud, and just the thought of watching this kind of very exquisite spectacle had your lips twitching whilst you tried to keep your expression as neutral as possible. Only very few of his men knew about your much more intimate connection with one another and for the moment, you just exchanged glances; some telling about quiet happiness and some searching for something to find purchase on how to go about this possible, rather brusque outing.

“Mr. Homes requested for my presence.” You explained to the mumbling and whispering crowd.

“And why would my dear Quatermaster do that?” Edward looked right at you, his good eye and the glass one staring right through you alike, as he fought himself to suppress a grin.

“Because…”, Said Mr. Holmes caught up to the scenery, palms pressed to his thighs as he gasped for air, “Be-cause… Ned, this is unreasonable and you know it as well as I do. I believe the highly valued opinion of Mrs. Low might hammer some sense back into your terribly thick skull.”

Immediately, the formerly somewhat quiet whispers broke into widespread murmuring.

“Hold on, he just said that’s Miss Landrake, from the candle shop.”, Jonathan, one of the newer members and presumably a few sandwiches short of a picnic exclaimed his confusion loudly, “That don’t make no sense now!”

“There’s a Mrs. Low?!” Another one hollered and the tall brute right behind you shoved hard enough against your shoulders for you to stumble into the inner circle. Well, there went the already fragile play pretend for good this time.

“Easy now, Mr. Matthews”, The moment your statue had started swaying, Edward pulled his heavy flintlock pistol at the gruff man, “Wouldn’t wan’ta waste a perfectly good bullet on you of all people.”

“Aye…” Mr. Matthews, who you weren't much familiar with, huffed behind you and took a step back, hands raised in a calming gesture.

“Good, now… since Mr. Holmes is so invested in de-escalation, why don’t we leave it to the Missus then?” Your husband waited for a reaction from his crew and after one of the men already had a pistol being pulled on him, nobody dared to boo at the suggestion.

“Ah, yes, the sound of democracy.”, Ned bellowed an erratic laugh into the cooling shore breeze upon putting the gun back into its holster, “Civilization, truly.”

The poor cook’s eyes shot right to you, expression pleading and a mouth that started to run a hundred knots an hour begging unto you for forgiveness.

“Please, please, Madame, you have to hear me out, please, I beg of you this is all just one big misunderstanding.” He rambled in between broken wails and sniffled cries but you paid it no interest.

You knew Mr. Hillock had chosen his fate the very second he’d stoked that tiny stove on board and started cooking against his Captain’s orders. If Edward’s mind was set on one thing, be it arriving at shore on his preferred schedule, he had to realize it without any minuscule alteration, and any change of plan was set to face his wrath, and wrath he dealt plenty.

“Save that breath.” You shushed him sharply, slowly walking over to your husband who traced your every move with his good eye.

He was watching, observing you, pondering whether or not you’d join in on the mayhem, ready to act in understanding for both outcomes. He sure loved when you did and this truly fine opportunity to prove your stand in this hierarchy of violent men practically left you salivating, plated on a silver dish like that.

“My god, Ned, that’s old wax, will hardly do you any good. See how that’s just flaking off!”, Letting your sly grin shine through eventually, you took the cut of rope from his grasp, allowing the rough yet partially greasy material to run through your examining touch a few times, “Let me fix that.”

What kind of incompetent candlemaker would you be without having some of your tools on your person at all times? They certainly came in handy in many a situation.

Eyeing the poorly soaked rope with pursed lips, you pulled a block of softly reddish wax from the leather purse on your wide, corset-imitating belt. The palm-sized pebble of soft-to-the-touch and lightly scented wax hailed freshly from the latest batch, commissioned by Mrs. Mapleton to illuminate and tenderly fragrance the brothel near the Port.

Although you found yourself well aware of the plenty pairs of eyes resting upon you, you took your time with the rope, letting it grate and chafe against the wax until every last fiber clung together, and in-between spaces were closed with a greasy film of rosy red.

“Here we go, that’ll burn proper!” Satisfied with your work, you slipped the wax pebble back into the purse and crouched to be eye-to-eye with Mr. Hillock, who was shaking and trembling in his sweat-stained linen shirt.

“You see, Blake, I’m inconsolable but I can’t help you here.”, You grasped at his already bound hands, starting to wrap the waxed rope around his wrists and through his fingers like your personal work of art, “From time to time, I do treat myself to the delicious thrill of talking back at my husband but you need to understand that I am in the position to do that and you, dearest Blake, are very much not.”

From the corner of your eye, you recognized Ned staring down at you, face beaming in a twisted and delightfully wretched sense of unfiltered adoration. You’d do everything and anything for one another, and scenes like those left no doubt about it.

“If Ned commands you to put down the potato knife because he wants to anchor at the Port, what do you do?” Your stare drilled itself into Mr. Hillock’s watery glazed eyes, fueling the terror thrashing in his ribcage.

“Did… did he do that t’you?”, He sniffled breathlessly, yet, the quiet uttering caught you off guard, “Did he do it? Fucking monster burn’d your pretty hands?”

For a brief moment, the crowd fell dead quiet, only the flames licking at damp wood crackling amongst the tense gathering.

“How dare you look at my hands with your filthy eyes?!” The words left your mouth in a cutting, shrill shriek that had some of Ned’s men flinching in shock, Blake shaking before you, whereas Edward’s demented grin only spread.

“Let’s try that again, Blake, shall we?”, Picking up on your hand gesturing to the side, Ned handed you one of the torches and you allowed the brightly hot flame to dance right onto the prepped rope, the layer of wax fueling it immediately, “What do you do when Ned commands you to put the knife down, hm?!”

At first, Mr. Hillock tried to shake his incapacitated hands vigorously for the rapidly spreading flame to die just as quickly but instead, the movement only fed it with more oxygen, making it all the worse for him. He screamed and wailed as the heat started to eat at the back of his hands first. You heard it; flesh burning, the low sizzle being carried to your ear by the salty breeze of the sea amongst Blake’s broken cries.

“Come on now, stay with me here!”, In an attempt to pull him back to the question you’d asked, you served the entire side of his face a firm smack, “That’ll all be over the very moment you answer to me.”

The slap pulled a wash of tears to gush from Mr. Hillock’s eyes but none of them led you to feel just the slightest hint of remorse or pity for subjecting him to this suffering. He disobeyed, he deserved punishment; the rules were simple, idiot-proof even.

“I.. I-”, Blake brabbled through snod, tears and drool dripping from a quivering bottom lip, “I- hmnnng, I putitdown! Dow’ !”

“There we go!”, You cheered, throwing your arms into the air before standing back up, pulling the brutalized cook with you, “Go on, make a run for it!”

You pushed him towards the shoreline, suggesting him to dash for the saving grace of softly rolling waves.

As you, alongside the crew and Edward, watched Blake stumble through the sand, a yawn slipped past your lips and you let your shoulders hang slack, a rush of exhaustion taking you by storm.

“Now that this matter is settled, I would prefer to excuse myself to the comfort of my own home again, gentlemen.”, You turned your head in the direction of Mr. Holmes, his expression clearly telling you about having lost all his admiration in exchange for gaining future compliance through plain fear.

He nodded quickly and so did the crew.

“And you might want to hurry or I’ll lock the door.” You threw at Ned accompanied by a sly smile before waving the bunch goodbye and turning on your heels to make your way back home, leaving the crowd to stand in in the sand, staring at each other in brutal silence.

#black sails #black sails fanfic #ned low #edward low #edward “ned” low #ned low x reader #ned low x you #tadhg murphy #hello and welcome on another episode of tam being hung up on characters nobody talks about 🥲

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