So – 2016 is almost done. I say this, knowing that this hell year still has 9 hours to go where I am. I say this in the full knowledge that it could yet turn out to be even more of a crapsack for everyone, and yet – this has to be said.

This year has been an absolute disaster in so many ways. We’ve lost good people – far too many, both famous and not. I’ve watched the country I grew up in elect a fascist as president and watched racial and religious tensions skyrocket, and I have no idea how that’s going to play out. I’ve spent the year personally dealing with some health issues I’d rather not have had (nothing to worry about fam – it’s fixable and I have insurance, it won’t even be that much of a hassle). But the one thing that’s been good – so very, very good this year – is that I’ve found the Black Sails fandom. I’ve spent the year writing and writing and writing, and through that, I’ve met so many awesome people, and I wouldn’t take any of that back for the world. So, with the understanding that 2016 still has 9 hours to fuck me up if I say anything too positive about it or too negative – because of all of you, this has been a better year than it ever would have been otherwise. You’ve encouraged me. You’ve given me the strength to keep going and to deal with things instead of giving up out of sheer frustration. You’ve given me things to laugh about and nerded with me. You’ve helped me find the creative bit inside of me that I was beginning to think had quietly died, and for that I’m really, truly grateful. Thank you, all of you, and I’ll see you all in the new year. 

P.S. – Just to tide you over, here’s a sneak peek at my next fic thing. I’m going to finish off To the Upper Air before I start posting this, but I can’t sit on it any longer without showing anyone but Bri!

Prologue:

He has been in the dark for too long.

It’s been hours, he thinks, or maybe days – he can’t be sure, but it’s been too long since he saw sunlight. That much he is sure of. He’s grown used to the sounds down here, now, but some part of him still longs for daylight – for any light at all. He misses it more than he would have credited – even Bedlam had not been so dark.

He’s almost glad when the battle begins. The sound of the guns firing and men screaming breaks the monotony of his cell, giving him something to focus on other than listening for the rats scuttling, and with the danger comes a pleasant thought – perhaps this lot will let him die. Or, he thinks with a twinge of ironic optimism, maybe he will be permitted to join them.

And perhaps, he thinks bitterly, the straw under him will turn to gold, too, while he’s wishing for impossible things.

He banishes the brief spark of hope roughly. If he has learned anything in the past ten years, it is that hope is deadly. It leads to crushed spirits and stupid risks, and if he is going to remain sane, he cannot afford it. He cannot –

He closes his eyes and raises his face toward the ceiling, forbidding himself the tears that want to well up and the lip wobble that accompanies them. God, is it truly so horrible of him to wish desperately for a real bath and a half-decent bed, even one that’s too short, as long as it has a mattress? Is that so much to ask?

A light flashes beneath the door, and he stares at it eagerly. Light means the potential for food and drink, both quantities he is currently without. He can feel his stomach growl, and he swallows hard against the nausea that accompanies the hunger. There are no guarantees, he knows, but he is so hungry, and his throat is so parched. He has long ago given up praying, but he cannot help but hope for some kind of sustenance or any kind of warmth at all, even the small amount carried by the air from the rest of the ship. His clothing is thin, and sitting here in the dark against the cold hull, well beneath the water-line, is torture of a kind.

“Captain – there’s a door here.” The call comes from outside, in a voice that sounds like it belongs to a younger man, and he can’t quite help the thrill of anticipation at the sound of a voice – a real, actual voice saying real words instead of grunting at him. He hears someone’s booted feet come closer, hears the creak of a lantern as it’s opened further to illuminate the darkened hold. It’s night – it has to be, surely, for it to be so dark that they need a lantern.

“Here? Why on Earth would there be a door here?” The voice is light – lighter than he would have expected, and he sits up, frowning.

“It’s been locked from the outside,” another voice says, this one older with a different accent. “You don’t think -?”

There’s a shuffling noise, and he feels his heart start to pound. No. They’re going to turn around, he thinks, the panic hitting him suddenly. They’re going to turn around and leave him here, and he doesn’t want to starve. Die, maybe, but not that way – not here, in the dark with the rats, and the thought makes him brave. He clears his throat. He hasn’t spoken in so long – he’ll sound like a rusty hinge but he doesn’t care, can’t care, not now.

“Hello?” he calls, and hears swearing.

“Son of a bitch,” the younger man says. “A prisoner?”

“None on the manifest.”

“Let me out and I’ll explain,” he calls – and hears the Captain give a short, sharp gasp.

“Captain?” The elder of the two male voices asks.

“Get this door open.” The Captain’s voice again, this time tense, short, almost peremptory. “Now, Billy.”

There’s something familiar in that voice, he thinks – something he should recognize, and in truth, he does, but it’s not possible, for it reminds him of –

The door shudders and he scrambles away from it, getting to his feet to stand in the corner of the cell, huddled against the wall. Someone swears loudly, and then the door shudders again and cracks. Another blow splinters the wood, and then the door is opening, revealing –

He throws his hand up to shield his eyes. The light hurts after so long in the dark, and he blinks over and over again, trying to force his eyes to adjust faster. He can hear the sounds of feet approaching him, and then sees a set of boots stop just in front of him. Someone’s hand touches his arm, and he flinches instinctively, shrinking away. The hand returns, gentle, but insistent, and he allows it to lower his arm, revealing –

“It’s not possible,” the dark-haired woman in front of him whispers. “It can’t be -”

“M-Miranda?” The name escapes his lips in a croak, and Miranda Hamilton’s eyes go wide.  Her lips part in surprise, and he feels his stomach turn over, the shock hitting him. She’s here. She’s here, in front of him, and he –

“It cannot be,” she murmurs again. “You died. They murdered you -”

“Miranda,” he croaks again, and then suddenly there are arms enfolding him, squeezing, wrapped around him so tightly as to almost deny him breath. He raises his arms after a moment, returning the embrace fiercely, holding on as if she might disappear at any moment, but she’s not going to, not this time. She’s real. He can feel the tears welling, can feel his own breath shaking. He can smell her perfume, can feel the roughness of her clothing against his hands. Real. Truly, actually real and alive and here for him at last. The thought is enough to send the tears rolling down his cheeks, his breath coming short and fast, and he shudders, not saying a word, just allowing himself to be held for the first time in ten years.  

“You’re not dead,” Miranda nearly sobs. “My God – you’re not -” She pulls back, staring him full in the face.

“You’re alive,” she breaths. “Thank God.” She pulls him to her again, holding onto him as he begins to sob, begins to break down, and she simply rocks back and forth, holding onto him, pressing kisses into his hair. “You’re safe. You’re safe now.” He cannot quite believe that, but it does not matter, not now. Miranda continues to murmur nonsense words into his ear, and past all the tears, he can hear her whisper his name over and over again.

“James,” she murmurs, like a litany. “I have you. My James – you’re going to be alright.”