#melon migratory patterns

[dancingspirals]

These melons are more watery than most.

[wistfulcynic]

good ships and wood ships and ships that sail the sea

SUMMARY:

Blackbeard has long coveted the Jolly Roger, for her speed and her beauty and her impossible daring. And of course to get her away from his arch enemy Captain Hook. But when the finest ship in all the realms is finally his, he soon discovers that there is more to the story of Hook and the Jolly than he could ever have imagined--and possibly more than he can handle.

(Canon compliant up to the end of S3, divergent from S4 and completely ignores 6)

AO3

Happy New Year!! 🤞🤞🤞 it will be much, MUCH better than the last few have, for all of us. Thanks to @csjanuaryjoy​​ for making these dark days brighter for the past five years! This is my third time participating and it has always been a bright spot in my year ❤️. 

This fic grew out of a head canon that I think many of us share--that the Jolly Roger is truly more than just a ship. That there’s something about her magic that allows Killian to sail her on his own, and a special relationship between them. And for all that many of us have written about how Killian felt giving up his ship for Emma, it wasn’t until @winterbythesea​​‘s latest chapter of Given The Choice that it really sank into my brain how much Killian would have hated knowing that the Jolly was in Blackbeard’s control... and then I thought, but what would she feel about that? What would she do? And thus this fic was born. 

Told from Blackbeard’s POV... just roll with it. 

-

good ships and wood ships and ships that sail the sea: 

The first time Blackbeard tripped on a loose board on the deck of the Jolly Roger, he was annoyed. At himself more than anything, for not watching where he was going and for making a fool of himself in front of Hook’s crew.

His crew. They were his crew now. He was their captain, whether they liked it or not.

He’d had to leave a fair few loyal men back on the Queen Anne’s Revenge—not being fool enough himself to misplace his own ship the way Hook had—which meant the Jolly’s crew was presently comprised of far too many of Hook’s men for his comfort. He’d made them swear an oath of loyalty, of course, but they knew as well as he did that pirate oaths of that sort go only as far as the next change of leadership. True loyalty lies only in men’s hearts.

And possibly, Blackbeard soon began to realise, in the hearts of ships as well.

The second time he tripped he fell flat on his face with a sound that Bones told him later was akin to that of a melon split open on a rock. “I feared fer yer ‘ead so’s I did, Cap’n,” he growled. Bones had been at Blackbeard’s side since they both were barely more than lads—and never once shown so much as a hint of anything resembling humour—so he did not die for that remark.

Young Harry Hannigan, who laughed aloud the third time Blackbeard tripped and went tumbling face-first into a fish-barrel, was not so fortunate. Blackbeard tossed him overboard with both legs in irons, to set an example.

No one laughed when he tripped again. But he kept tripping.

The migratory—predatory—loose board on her deck was far from the only peculiar happening aboard the Jolly Roger. There was also the distinctly determined way she “drifted” off-course if her bearings were not constantly and painstakingly maintained. There were the knots in the sheets that never seemed to hold and the sails that slipped from the rigging at precisely that moment when they were most needed to catch the wind. There were the crates of supplies that went missing and the locks in the brig that wouldn’t latch, the hammocks in the crew’s quarters that loosed themselves from their hitches in the night, snatching the men from their much-needed rest and tumbling them headfirst onto the damp and draughty floor.

Now Blackbeard, despite what Hook was wont to claim, was no fool, and it wasn’t long before he divined a pattern to these occurrences. When Hook’s men were at the helm the ship’s course kept steady and when they were up in the rigging all knots and sails held fast. Their hammocks remained firmly fixed to the wall and once he’d appointed Starkey as quartermaster, the missing crates not only affected a mysterious reappearance but remained thereafter consistently—ostentatiously, he felt—present and accounted for.

Pirates are suspicious beings by nature, and Blackbeard personally credited his success in the field to his complete lack of faith or trust in anyone, with the possible and very tenuous exception of Bones. But suspicions, he reminded himself, are not facts, however compelling they may seem, and so it was not until one afternoon as they slipped into perilous waters in pursuit of a valuable prize that he overheard Starkey murmuring to the mainmast “Steady on, old girl, we need ye t’ take us safely through these shoals,” and comprehension truly began to dawn.

He recalled how Hook had always stood at the helm of this ship, with that smirking arrogance that set Blackbeard’s teeth on edge. How he’d seemed to move with the vessel, as much a part of her as the hull and masts. How they would appear from nowhere and when least expected, a yellow streak across the horizon, cannons blazing even as they moved and never once falling short of their mark, the whole manoeuvre so quick and so deft it seemed nigh on impossible. This was why Blackbeard had coveted the Jolly Roger, why he would have done anything to have her—for her speed, yes, and her elegant form, but more than that for her impossible daring. For her mischievous nature and her staunch loyalty. Her stalwart love.

Twaddle, he told himself sharply. Foolish nonsense. A ship felt no loyalty. A ship did not love.

And yet.

The storm caught them just off the tip of Glowerhaven, swirling out of the farrago of warm winds off the southern seas and icy ones from the north, and the fierce, opposing currents that grappled beneath the water. Blackbeard had been witness to such storms before, had been wrecked in one as a lad when the Moordaunt foundered and sank in a vicious gale off the coast of Coabana. He would never forget the helplessness of standing on the deck as it was rent to shards beneath his feet, torn by the weight of the water and the strength of the wind. He could never forget the iron grip of fear on his heart as he’d scrabbled to catch hold of anything he could cling to, gripping like a limpet to a broken scrap of plank as he was swept out to sea, buffeted by merciless waves with no thought in his head beyond keeping it above water from one breath to the next.

Fear’s chill fingers sank deep in his chest again now as the waves began to swell, higher even than the ones that swallowed the Moordaunt. But Blackbeard was no longer a green cabin boy and he forced the fear away, buried it deep as he stalked along the deck, barking orders to his crew. Orders they needed to hear just as he needed to give them; only discipline and purpose would keep their own fear at bay.  

They rose to the challenge, his men and Hook’s; together they secured the ballast and stowed the sails, and lashed one another to the masts and railings, anything that might hold them fast to the ship when to go overboard meant certain death. They would make it, Blackbeard thought. The ship was steady and the men undaunted, and they would make it through. The fear loosened its grip and he turned to Bones with a look of triumph—only to find the first mate’s eyes wide and stark with terror.

“Cap’n!” he cried out, but the wind whipped the word away before it could reach Blackbeard’s ears. He turned to look where Bones was looking, off the port bow where a wall of water appeared to hang suspended in eerie calm, rising slowly, rising… rising… rising impossibly high until it it broke in a froth of white against the dull grey sky.

The wave arced downward directly towards them with the weight of the ocean’s fury at its back and Blackbeard knew, there in that endless moment he knew that this breath would be his last. The wave would roll the ship—there was no way that it could not—would tear her asunder as the Moordaunt had been torn, and the next day’s dawn would find whatever splinters may remain of her washed up on Glowerhaven’s rocky shores. He felt a flash of outrage—how dare he die like this—then clenched his fists around the wheel and closed his eyes, and offered the tattered remnants of his soul to the gods.

And then.

The wheel spun, whipping him round and flinging him into a heap upon the deck. He grabbed for it again; barely had his fingers closed around the sodden wood when the ship heaved up and swung around in a pinpoint turn—as she had so often done for Hook—then dipped her bow low as the wave began to break over them. The wave broke, Blackbeard was sure of it, but the Jolly paid no heed; she dipped her bow beneath the water’s surface and surged forward, against the wave and through it, slicing that impenetrable wall as a cutlass slices flesh.

Blackbeard clung to the wheel as the breath was snatched from his lungs, as the water fought against them, crashed around them, and still the Jolly pressed on, through the wave and out the back of it, where she bobbed like a child’s bath toy for a moment then swept round, faster than any ship could possibly move, making for the curving point of Glowerhaven’s cape and a large cave that Blackbeard had never known existed, buried deep within the cliffside. There she came to rest with a shudder like a sigh of relief that echoed through the marrow of all their bones.

Blackbeard lay gasping on the quarterdeck with his hand still clutching the wheel, long past the point where he should have risen, should have gone to check the status of his crew. He knew that they were fine, somehow he knew that each and every soul aboard had made it through alive. She would, of course, have made certain of it.

“You—” his voice was weak and croaky; he cleared his throat and tried again. “You saved us.” He would feel foolish later but just then, caught up as he was in an overwhelming rush of relief and gratitude, the idea of speaking to a ship seemed a perfectly sound one. “Thank you.”

The Jolly huffed and a voice whispered through the corners of Blackbeard’s mind.

Don’t mention it, it said. Seriously. Don’t.

The next morning when they ventured from the cave again the skies were clear and the sea calm, and Blackbeard tripped thrice within the space of an hour. The merry sound of laughter echoed through his mind each time.  

-

He’d had the Jolly only a few months, barely enough time to truly learn her nature, when Hook returned to claim her. In typical Hook fashion he came swaggering onto the deck with no plan and no backup, none but that gormless first mate and a lovelorn mermaid princess at his side. Blackbeard longed to teach the picaroon a lesson he’d not soon forget, but he knew—from the way the ship reached out, how she called to Hook before his boot had even touched her planks—that any efforts he might make could only come to naught. He gave them a good fight regardless, watched in seething fury as she all but cradled that one-handed bastard in her rigging, protected him with her sails and with that thrice-damned loose board, and only hoped he held enough cards to escape the cursed vessel with his life.

Fortunately, he had trumps to play on the little mermaid.

Returning to the Queen Anne’s Revenge with his tail between his legs and his every move dogged by whispers of how he’d been saved from an ignominious death by a woman was certainly not Blackbeard’s proudest moment. Determined to assuage his pride and reputation in pillage and plunder, he took his ship out on the seas, where it soon became evident that everywhere they went they were just that little bit too late. Every ship they targeted had already been hit, every village plundered. However fast they moved was never fast enough, and Blackbeard rather suspected that he knew the reason why.

When word reached his ears that his former crewmen remaining on the Jolly had sworn enthusiastic allegiance to Hook and were now vigorously raiding up and down the coast of Agrabah in a ship so thrilled to be back with her true captain that she performed feats of such fantastic daring and skill that they defied belief, he smashed the chair in his cabin in his fury and had three men flogged for insolence when they came to see what all the ruckus was about.

The tales were unbelievable but Blackbeard believed them. He knew what that ship was capable of.

He doubted the Jolly Roger would ever fall into his hands again; now that she and Hook were back together they would not easily be parted. But he dreamed of it nevertheless, dreamed of taking that ship and teaching her manners, dominating her, winning her loyalty to him and him alone, by force if necessary. In his dreams he was her master and Hook lay broken and defeated at his feet, Blackbeard’s sword at his throat, begging for death.

And yet. Not even a year passed by before he had Hook at his mercy, alone in Blackbeard’s tavern and surrounded by Blackbeard’s men, his famous bravado worn threadbare by a raw desperation that was plain to see in his eyes. The Jolly Roger, Hook offered, in exchange for a magic bean, and Blackbeard, to his own surprise as much as anyone’s and though his sword hand itched to do it, did not kill him. He took the trade instead.

“What could be so important that you would trade your ship for a bean?” he asked Hook, on the deck of the ship herself so she would be sure to hear.

“There’s—someone I need to find,” Hook replied.

“A woman,” sneered Blackbeard.

Hook nodded. “Aye.”

Blackbeard was triumphant as he watched Hook disappear into the swirling portal, off into another realm from which, with any luck, he’d not return. The ship must bow to him, now, he thought, she must. Hook had left her, abandoned her, traded her for another woman, and Blackbeard knew as well as any the lengths of spite to which a woman scorned will go.

And yet. Barely had he taken two steps upon her deck than he tripped again, tumbling arse over teakettle down the steps from the quarterdeck with mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

You don’t become a pirate captain though mercy, Hook had once said, and on this point at least, they could agree. Blackbeard was clean out of patience and thoroughly done with being made to look a fool. He took the ship in hand and he forced her into compliance, worked her to exhaustion with her sheets tight and her sails high, dragged her along rocky coasts and across stormy seas all the way to Arendelle. He could sense her emotions now, her hatred and her fury, the bitter resentment and desire to see him dead—but he also learned to sense the shift in the air that came just before she loosened a board in his path and took malicious pleasure in the impotence of her rage when he stepped clear of the danger each time, with a mocking cackle and a supercilious pat upon whichever part of her was closest.

“There there, lass,” he taunted. “There’s no cause for that. You’re mine now and I’ve no intention of letting you go. Best to just get used to it.”

In Arendelle however, he fell foul of another scheming princess, too caught up in goading her to sense the ship’s intent until it was too late and he had tripped again, tumbling this time into his own sea chest and trapped within it by the princess’s quick thinking, then tossed into the sea. It was Bones who saved him that time along with his bosun Stu Jenkins, who leapt in after him and between them managed to haul the chest from the water before Blackbeard could drown and drag it to safety upon a tiny spit of sand and rock. There they three were stranded with naught but coconuts and the shade of a single tree until Anne Bonny—of all the bloody people—happened by and was so delighted by their predicament that she allowed them to negotiate passage on her ship under the tenuous protection of parlay.

“You’ll be some time in living this down, I fear,” she said, with laughter glinting in her eyes.

And with that, the iron entered into Blackbeard’s soul. Never again, he swore to himself. Never again would he sully his boot by stepping foot onto the Jolly Roger. Never again would he covet anything Hook had. The Queen Anne’s Revenge was a fine ship, tough and sturdy and fast and she was enough. Never again. He swore it.

Years passed before he had a chance to test his resolve on the matter.

-

The tavern was noisy and crowded, the air a miasma of ale fumes and smoke and men whose approach to personal hygiene was casual at best. In one corner a game of dice was loudly and hotly contested amongst a group of sailors rowdy and jovial in their drunkenness, whilst in another shady dealings were going down between a pair of bar wenches and a man whose discomfort in his surroundings was palpable. Blackbeard could not sympathise. This was his kind of atmosphere and he revelled in it.

He sat at a table surrounded by his men, cards and dice spread out before him and a buxom wench to sit on his knee and flatter his vanity. He felt like a king holding court, the undisputed master of the seas now that years had passed since either hide or hair was seen of Hook or that wretched scow of his. A toast was raised to his good health and just as he lifted the tankard of ale to his lips—for why should he not drink his own health?—the tavern went abruptly quiet, an unnatural hush that fell like lead and hung in the air more heavily than smoke from a dampered chimney.

Blackbeard lowered the tankard and turned to the door, and his lip curled into a deeply unpleasant sneer. There, framed in the tavern’s crooked doorway was Hook, dressed in a most peculiar manner, with a short, fitted jacket and trousers made of a material Blackbeard could not identify. At his side was a woman, her long legs encased in similar trousers and wearing as well a similar jacket, only hers was a vibrant shade of red. Her hair flowed down her back in waves of an extraordinary golden hue, framing an exquisite face set in an expression that dared him or anyone present to start something with her.

So this was she, Blackbeard thought, the woman Hook loved more than his ship. Skinnier than he tended to prefer them though he supposed he could see the appeal. There was a toughness behind that fair face, a core of steel wrapped up in pretty dressing—not unlike Hook himself. She stood like him as well, deceptively casual but poised for a fight. They stood together, not touching but united, a team, and Blackbeard took one look at them and knew that whatever they were after he wanted no part of it.

“Bugger off,” he spat.

“Now, now.” Hook attempted conciliation. “No need for incivility, mate. We’re here to make a deal.”

“I’ve made my last deal with you.”

“And here the Jolly was finally beginning to warm up to you,” cajoled Hook. “Come on, third time lucky.”

“I want no part of you or your gods-bedamned hulk,” Blackbeard sneered. “Find someone else to be your patsy.”

“But you’re the only patsy I know who has a hoard of magic beans,” quipped Hook, ignoring his blonde when she smacked him on the arm.

“I thought you were going to play nice,” she hissed.

“It’s too late for that, I fear.” Hook tucked his thumb behind his belt buckle and raised an eyebrow. Blackbeard rolled his eyes. Different clothes, same obnoxious swagger. The man would never change. “Look, mate, if you don’t want the ship then name your price,” said Hook, with a note of sincerity in his tone that caught Blackbeard by surprise. “We need a bean to get back to our daughter, and we simply haven’t the time to climb a beanstalk to find one. Not again.”

The woman snorted and Hook flashed her a grin, and though they still weren’t touching the connection they shared simmered in the air between them. Blackbeard watched the exchange, intrigued despite his better judgement. “Tell me the tale of this beanstalk,” he said. “That’s my price. If your story’s good enough then you can have your bean, and you won’t even need to fight your way out of this tavern to use it.”

“Hmm,” murmured Hook, with a glance around the room. “It’s a solid offer. What say you, Swan?”

The woman fixed Blackbeard with an assessing look. Her eyes were green, he observed, the rich shade of tree moss, intelligent and unflinching. Without breaking eye contact she grabbed a chair and swung it round, straddled it and leant her arms on its back. Her lip twitched in an almost-smile. “Throw in a round of drinks and you’ve got yourself a deal,” she said.

Blackbeard stared at her as the tension in the tavern drew unbearably taut, poised on the knife’s edge of his judgement. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

“I like this one, Hook,” he said.

“I’m rather fond of her myself.” Hook pulled up his own chair as voices rose around them again, bright and boisterous, and Blackbeard signalled the barman for more tankards of ale. Ale of which, he was impressed to note, the woman finished every drop.

“Well, lass,” he said to her, once the tale of the beanstalk had been told. “Any woman who can best this blackguard, leave him chained in the lair of a giant and not look back is one I am pleased to do business with. You’ve earned your bean.” From his pocket he withdrew a small leather pouch and from that a magic bean, holding it up to the light for them to see.

“Thank you.” The woman accepted it with a smile and tucked it away into her own pocket.

“Thank you for the entertainment,” replied Blackbeard. “And now you’d best be on your way, before this lot reconsiders that offer of safe exit.”

He imagined they’d have no wish to tarry anyway and indeed they did not. Blackbeard took his tankard over to the window and watched as they proceeded down the alley that led from the tavern and along the dock to where the Jolly Roger was moored, just visible from where he stood. Even from such a distance and with so many years passed since he’d stood on her deck, Blackbeard could still sense the ship’s reaction, her pleasure and relief at their return, and, curiously, a fondness for the woman that very nearly equalled the depth of her love for Hook.

Hook and his two wenches, thought Blackbeard with a chuckle. May the bastard have the pleasure of them both.

“Ye sure as that was wise, Cap’n?” inquired Bones from where he hovered at Blackbeard’s elbow, scowling at the scene. “Lettin’ ‘im go like that, I mean? Ye could at least’ve held ‘im a spell, or ransomed ‘er. I ‘ear tell she’s a princess.”

“I’ve heard that as well,” said Blackbeard, “and frankly I’ve had my fill of princesses, and of Hook. Good riddance to the lot of them.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” said Bones.

“Though it may interest you to hear,” continued Blackbeard, “that their journey home might not turn out to be as quick or as smooth as they’re anticipating. It’s possible that they may find that bean doesn’t quite work the way they expect it to.”

Bones choked on his ale. “Ye gave ‘em the accursed one,” he stated, without a particle of surprise expressed in his flat and affectless tone.

Blackbeard grinned a wicked grin. “I gave them the accursed one.”

Together the pirates watched as the Jolly swept away from her mooring, as a swirling abyss appeared in the water, as the ship dipped into it with a flourish and vanished from sight. Blackbeard was feeling rather pleased with himself and with the subtlety of the manoeuvre that would pay Hook back at least in part for all the slights and humiliations Blackbeard had suffered at his hand in the long years of their acquaintance. The thought of the daughter did give him a twinge—even he drew the line at harming children—but their separation was unlikely to be very long. Hook would find his way home again and far sooner than he should, of that Blackbeard had no doubt. The bastard had always had the devil’s own luck, and with his women at his side there would be very little he couldn’t handle.

Blackbeard tipped his tankard in salute to the now-calm ocean and drank a silent toast, then clapped a hand on Bones’ shoulder and turned back to the tavern to take up his throne again.

-

There are good ships and wood ships and ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships, may they always be!

-Irish proverb

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