Tag: black sails fam

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.”

How Many Megs Are There Anyway?

So – I’ve noticed something, friends. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that the Black Sails fandom has a lot of Megs. I could be imagining things. It could just be that I’ve gotten used to there being a full regiment of people with the same name as me in any given room. But it seems to me that there are a bunch of us, so if you’re in the Black Sails fandom and your name is Meg (or some variation in spelling thereof) I want to hear about it (if you’re comfortable sharing, of course)! Like, reblog, whatever – just let’s have a count of us!

To the Upper Air: Chapter Six

Hey everyone! I’ve finally all but finished Chapter Eight, so, in keeping with practice so far, I’m posting Chapter Six! Here it is on Ao3:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/8200756/chapters/19048180

And here it is for everyone who’s been reading on Tumblr! As always, reviews, comments, kudos, and likes are all loved and cherished!

Just so you know, this chapter requires some headcanon explanations. I’ve made a post that you can find here:

http://flintsredhair.tumblr.com/post/151811259762/so-can-we-talk-about-admiral-hennessey-for-a

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five

Chapter Six: The Sins of the Father

The Boy, Hennessey thought, had changed.

He could not quite pinpoint when the change had begun, although he had an idea. He was reasonably certain that it had started not long after he had been sent as the liaison to Lord Hamilton’s son – a certain something in James’ bearing that had been subtly altered. It was as if some of the awkwardness – some of the tension that had always accompanied his ward – had gone. He stood taller, seemed less uncertain of himself in some ways. Hennessey might have put it down to the increased responsibility. He had observed something similar in other young officers given their first truly important assignment – a certain arrogance that lent them confidence, and which Hennessey despised since it was almost always founded entirely upon perceived power rather than actual wisdom gained. What he now saw in James, though, he would not have called arrogance. The Boy remained as humble as he had ever been (which was to say that he had a sarcastic streak wide as a parade ground and a wicked sense of humor that had a habit of coming out at precisely the wrong moment but that he knew his station) and yet he no longer hesitated to offer his opinions – no longer acted as if he had no right to speak or to stand among men who were, in actuality, his peers, if not in social standing then certainly in rank. Hennessey applauded the change, privately, and yet he worried – worried that his charge was not only growing in confidence but in recklessness, a trait which he could ill-afford, either on a ship or on shore rubbing shoulders with the peerage, many of whom would have eaten him whole as soon as look at him. The conviction was only strengthened by the casual way in which James uttered Lord Hamilton’s Christian name, and the fondness with which his eyes followed the young Governor of New Providence around the room. It was part of the reason he had pulled him out to this exceedingly remote corner of the garden, in all truth, before anyone else could put two and two together and come up with the correct (and entirely inconvenient) sum of four.

His son in all but blood and law walked at his side, utterly silent. There was something new in that, too. There had been a time when the thought of disapproval from Hennessey would have sent James rushing to assure him, to placate. Now, though, he strolled through the garden, his jaw clenched, arms still held at parade rest, acceptably formal and yet quite obviously not jumping out of his skin with trepidation, either. Hennessey was not sure he approved of that particular change, but he was willing to chalk it up to James’ long familiarity with him rather than a general lack of respect for superior officers.

“I can still have you pulled off of this assignment, you know,” he said finally. “It is within my right.” He had stopped walking, finally, settling near a fountain. The June air had acquired a definite chill to it, he found, and ignored the urge to draw his coat tighter around him. He was trying for authority, not the appearance of an old man in need of a lap rug.

“If you do, it will offend Lord Hamilton, undermine confidence in the endeavor, and necessitate weeks or months of delay while you find a suitable replacement and brief him on the challenges he’ll face as the new commander of the garrison and military advisor to the new Governor,” James said calmly. He did not so much as bat an eyelash, and Hennessey paused, startled. It was, he thought, as if James had expected this – as if he had been preparing for it. He stared at the younger man’s face, looking for a trace of nervousness, and found none. The familiar features of the boy he had raised were set as if in stone, his brilliant green eyes staring at a point in the distance, not looking at Hennessey at all, and with a start, Hennessey abruptly realized that James was not calm. He was, in fact, the furthest thing from it, with his jaw clenched, his hands curled into half-fists behind his back, showing every sign of being on the very edge of control – and yet Hennessey could see no sign of it in his expression.

It was beyond startling. For all the years that Hennessey had known him, James had always been something of a powder keg. It was not, he thought, that his ward had no patience – on the contrary, he had a great deal of it, but just say the right words, introduce tension in the wrong place, and James became something else altogether, a wild thing Hennessey hardly recognized as the polite, considerate boy he had watched climb the ranks with such pride. This new James, the one standing here in the garden trying so extraordinarily hard not to speak his mind, not to blow up over some unknown injustice, was a stranger in that regard, and not one that Hennessey was certain he liked. He had preached restraint before, certainly, and yet to see it in action was – unsettling, somehow.

It would not do. If there was one person he did not want James to feel he had to restrain himself around, it was Hennessey himself.

“James,” he started, and then rethought, searching for words. “If there is something you would say to me -”

He trailed off, feeling irritation prickle. This was ridiculous – the entire exchange.  He gave a huff of disgust, suddenly feeling the urge to throw something to the ground that went unanswered as his hands were entirely unoccupied and they were standing in the garden, making his hat a poor candidate. “Oh for – what the devil is the matter with you, boy? We’ve no quarrel between us that I’m aware of and yet you stand there looking as if I’ve spat in your morning oatmeal!”

James turned, and the look in his eyes was enough to bring Hennessey up short. There was anguish there, of a kind that he had never seen before, and towering anger. They were gone again in the blink of an eye as if they had never been, but Hennessey had seen them nonetheless. The anger was out of place but nothing new. The anguish, though, left him frowning, frightened by the intensity of what he saw in James’ eyes.

“Good God, son,” he murmured, coming closer to his ward. “What in the hell has happened to you?”

James started.

“I – nothing,” he tried, swallowing hard. “There’s nothing.”

“Horse manure,” Hennessey said succinctly. “Now, out with it. What in the name of -”

“You asked me to come out here for a reason,” James interrupted abruptly, turning away. “What did you wish to discuss?”

Hennessey stood, staring at his back in shock and not a little dismay. James – was shutting him out. Not dismissing him – he had not gone so far yet, but his posture bore all the hallmarks of a man all but boiling over with anger, and his tone was clipped, formal, as far from warm and friendly as it was possible to be, despite their having exchanged what Hennessey had thought to be a cordial, even warm parting just weeks before.

“If there’s nothing you wish to say, we should turn back,” James said. “The night’s getting cold.”

His tone was still polite and still unimpeachable, and yet Hennessey felt a sudden surge of anger rise in him. Very well. If James wanted to play things this way, he was quite capable of playing the same game.

“I wished to speak to you about your – liaison with Lord Hamilton,” he said, and James froze.

“You have concerns?” He did not turn back, but Hennessey could read the change in his mood in the tension that had suddenly gathered in his shoulders, and in the way his hands twitched where one cradled the other.

“You know them already,” Hennessey answered. “In the past month alone -”

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” James interrupted him. “Perhaps you would like to be more specific, sir.”

“Don’t play innocent, lad!” Hennessey barked. “If it were anyone else, I would already have terminated your assignment and replaced you with someone willing to be less reckless, less selfish, more -”

“More willing to roll over and play at being normal?” James spat. He had turned around again, and taken a step closer to Hennessey, who stood his ground.

“More detached,” he finished sharply. “As it is, my trust in you -”

“Extends only as far as public ignorance of my preferences in bed, obviously!” James sneered. “Tell me – have I always been a monster to you, or was it only since you discovered?”

He was breathing hard, now, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Hennessey gaped.

“For God’s sake, Boy – this isn’t about your… proclivities!” he managed at last. “Is that what you think?”

“Yes! Why the fuck else would you threaten to replace me as liaison?” James demanded, gesturing with one hand, and Hennessey restrained the surge of impatience that welled up within him.

“Do you truly think me so petty? Do you think I would have continued to protect you all these years if I believed you to be some kind of loathsome -”

A small, horrible sound escaped James’ mouth at that word, as if he had been stabbed and were trying to conceal it, and Hennessey stopped, confused and concerned at the same time.

“James -” he tried again. “Dear God, Boy – surely you know better?” His voice softened, and the look that flashed through James’ green eyes, full of suspicion and hurt, cut him to the quick. James shook his head, and Hennessey closed his eyes.

“Christ grant me strength,” he murmured. “James – look at me.” He placed a hand on either of his son’s arms, holding on tightly. “I am not customarily given to vulgarity but on this occasion it appears I must make myself plain. I truly do not give a good goddamn who you fuck. I never have.”

James started. For the first time that night, he looked Hennessey directly in the eye, his gaze full of shock and what Hennessey was ashamed to recognize as disbelief. Ye Gods, when had they come to this pass, where he spoke and James believed him to be lying?

“What?” James asked, his voice shaking. Hennessey sighed.

“I have spent my life in the Navy, lad,” he said wearily. “You would hardly be the first officer under my command that held no particular reverence for the female form. I have known for years.”

James appeared to be undergoing some kind of struggle. Hennessey could see first surprise followed by skepticism and then outright anger pass over his face before he finally settled on a combination of all three.

“You expect me to believe that you truly don’t care?” James asked, and Hennessey nodded.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “I haven’t the faintest idea where you’ve gotten hold of the notion that I would, but -”

James let out a bark of laughter, short and sharp and mirthless.

“Where?” he asked. “From your own lips! And now you would deny it?”

“Yes!” Hennessey insisted. “And I would like to know what in God’s name has happened to make you so wary of me! Have I given you cause to believe that I would betray you?”

James stared.

“More than you could possibly know,” he croaked, and Hennessey felt a dart of mixed horror and utter confusion run through him at the look in his ward’s eyes – one that he had not seen in many years, full of weariness and suspicion and a sort of buried, barely-extant hope that he had not seen since –

November, 1682:

“You there! Boy!”

The flame-haired form of Hennessey’s youngest ship’s boy turned, and the lad’s eyes fixed on him.

“Sir?”

“Hell’s bell’s, lad, what are you doing running around in this weather with no oilskin? Have you no sense?”

He looked up and down the boy’s rather scrawny form. He was, Hennessey realized, quite completely without protection of any kind, from his head to his feet, which he had jammed into a pair of boots that were entirely too small and had to be less than comfortable. His hair, and indeed the rest of him, were soaked, the brine of the sea clinging to him. They had entered this squall yesterday, and to Hennessey’s eyes, it appeared that James had been out in the worst of it, as indeed he probably had.

“No sir,” the boy answered. “None at all. Need something, sir?”

The impertinence of the child!

“What I require,” Hennessey started, “is for you to stop running about like a monkey in this storm attempting to catch your death! Good God, child – where is your father?”

The lad winced, and Hennessey frowned.

“What is it, boy?” he asked.

“He’s dead, sir,” the lad answered. His answer was nearly eaten by the roar of the wind, but Hennessey heard it nonetheless. “Died in the last battle.”

Ah.

“What’s your name, boy?” he enquired.

“James, sir. McGraw.”

It was Hennessey’s turn to wince, now. He remembered the carpenter’s mate now – Edward McGraw, a man he had served with for some years. He had somehow not connected the dead man to the urchin that was currently running about his ship, but was now left with the awkward realization that he had inadvertently put his foot squarely in it.

“You have my condolences,” he said gruffly, and the boy nodded.

“Thank you, sir.”

Another wave crashed over the side of the ship, hitting them both, and James shivered, his teeth clacking together in the cold.

“God’s bones,” Hennessey muttered. It would not do – not aboard his ship. The boy couldn’t be more than eight, for Christ’s sake!  Without another moment’s hesitation, he unfastened his own oilskin, and offered it to James.

“Here. Put it on, boy, before you freeze to death!”

James eyed the garment for a moment, round-eyed.

“Sir -” he started, and Hennessey shook it at him.

“That’s an order, lad. Saints!”

James reached out and took the garment, wrapping it around himself twice to make up for the excess length, and huddled in, burying his face in the treated cloth as if to cover all of himself at once.

“There,” Hennessey said. “Can you feel your hands again?”

“Aye, sir.” The words came out slightly muffled, but still recognizably in a broad, west-country accent, and the boy flushed, embarrassment flashing over his face.

“I mean – yes, Captain,” he corrected himself, raising his chin slightly. The accent smoothed away, replaced by a Londoner’s clipped vowels, and Hennessey blinked. Was that -?

“Are you a Cornishman by any chance, boy?” he asked, and James shook his head.

“No, sir! Irish, sir. Grew up in Padstow with my grandda.”

“I see,” Hennessey said. “I suppose you’ll be going back to him when this voyage is finished, then?”

James shook his head, a forlorn expression flashing over his face briefly.

“No, sir. He’s – he’s dead too. Sir.”

Hennessey stared at the boy. It was a familiar story. The lad had no doubt gone to sea with his father, hoping to learn the man’s trade as a means of making a living. He was small for an apprentice, but no worse than some of the boys Hennessey had seen running errands in London. Edward McGraw had no doubt thought nothing of it until they’d gone into battle not two months earlier and he’d been blown away, doing as Hennessey had ordered, leaving young James to fend for himself. Looking at the lad now, Hennessey was once again struck by the cruelty of the entire situation. Nine. The lad was all of eight or nine, and here he stood, aboard a ship full of men, with no relatives to return to, and nothing more to his name than the clothes on his back, cold and shivering and quite obviously as hungry as any other common tar aboard the ship. Even if he could return to Padstow, he would hardly be in any position to fend for himself. The ship offered some hope of advancement, or at least protection – until the first time that someone took a fancy to him or there was an accident in the galley or he was volunteered for a powder monkey and blown to bits, and looking at the boy’s small, rain-soaked form, Hennessey suddenly found he could not bear the thought. This had happened as a result of his orders. It was up to him to rectify it.

“Well,” he said, almost before his mind knew what his mouth was about to say. “I suppose that makes you my responsibility, doesn’t it?”

“Sir?” The lad was frowning, the expression unnervingly serious for one so young. One side of Hennessey’s mouth quirked upward, and he rubbed both hands up and down his arms, attempting to rub some warmth back into both.

“Come along, lad,” Hennessey offered. “I’ve need of an assistant. You can start your duties by fetching me some coffee and then we’ll talk of other assignments while we both get out of this weather.”

James gave him a look, equal parts disbelief, shock, and a sort of weary suspicion that absolutely did not belong on a boy his age.

“Truly, sir?” he asked, and Hennessey nodded.

“Aye,” he answered. “Come along. We Irishmen must stick together.”

June, 1705:

“James,” Hennessey said softly. “Son -”

James shook his head.

“No,” he insisted. “Don’t. Don’t use that word unless you mean it. I can’t -”

Hennessey shook his head.

“Stubborn boy,” he murmured, fondness taking the edge off of the words. “You’ll hear everything from everyone except words of endearment, which seem to send you running for the hills.”

James frowned, and Hennessey sighed.

“James,” he said at last, “I am not a young man. I know you’ve always suspected it to be true but of late it has become obvious even to me. I have no wife. No great estate, no title. I have nothing be proud of, save my career – and you.  Why on God’s green Earth would I wish to ruin one of the few things I’ve done right by putting my blinders on and turning to religion to ease my woes at this late date?”

The garden was still so quiet, Hennessey thought. He could hear the music emanating from an open door in the distance, and the sounds of laughter coming from that direction, but most of all, he could hear James’ breathing, ragged and short. He stood, stock still, regarding Hennessey, his eyes still a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.

“I -” he started, and Hennessey waited, wondering what on Earth James was about to say that could possibly explain where in the blazes this had come from. “If you don’t care about my – my relationship with Thomas, then why -?”

“James -”

CRASH!

Hennessey turned, the words he had been about to speak forgotten entirely. The horrifying sound had come from the direction of the palace. Shouts sounded from the same direction, and Hennessey saw James go white as a sheet, his green eyes tracking the source of the noise.

“Thomas,” he whispered. “Miranda!”

“Come on,” Hennessey said, and they moved in unison back toward the house, running as fast as their legs would take them.

**********************************************

Fun history fact for the chapter: James as a ship’s boy is a little young. The minimum age for an officer’s servant at the time was eleven, but people often skirted around that by having children come aboard, as in James’ case, as apprentices to someone like Edward McGraw, who was a carpenter’s mate. If James’ grandparents died at the same time, that would have left his father with very little other recourse, since presumably his mother had already died sometime since. For the Navy’s purposes, Hennessey would have had to lie and claim that James was two years older than his actual age to keep him on. On the plus side, serving an officer as a servant meant a chance at advancement to a midshipman’s rank eventually instead of a life on the streets and probably eventual imprisonment in a workhouse or jail, which is where he would have been headed in all likelihood had Hennessey not stepped in.